The Thing was that The old library was the kind of place that looked abandoned even when the sun was still up. At night, it didn't just look abandoned — it looked forsaken. It looked like a place where secrets went to rot, where whispers got trapped between bricks and never escaped. A place that belonged to the dark more than it belonged to people.
Susan arrived at 6:59 PM.
She had told Emily she was going to the grocery store. She had told herself she wasn't scared. Both were lies wrapped in casual sentences, spoken too quickly to sound believable.
Cold wind slipped through the shattered windows, slipping in and out like breath, making the building seem alive in the worst possible way — like something that had died long ago but still hadn't learned how to stop moving. The dim streetlight flickered against the cracked steps, casting long, fragile shadows that looked like fingers reaching.
Her phone showed the time change from 6:59 to 7:00.
And then she heard them.
Footsteps.
Slow, even, absolutely unhurried.
Dexter emerged from the darkness as if he had always been there — as if he simply decided to become visible now. His hands were in his pockets, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. He looked like someone who had walked into a café, not a deserted alley behind an abandoned building.
You came, he said.
No warmth. No surprise. Not even satisfaction. His voice made it sound like this moment was inevitable, like the world would have been wrong if she hadn't arrived.
I wanted answers, Susan replied. Her voice was almost steady, but her heartbeat wasn't.
You wanted something, he corrected. Answers? No. People don't want the truth. They want the version of the truth that comforts them.
His words felt like fingers tapping the back of her mind — gentle enough not to hurt, sharp enough not to ignore.
Why did you ask me to come? she asked.
To see what you fear.
Her heart jumped. Fear wasn't what she expected. She quickly tried to find logic. Why would you care about that?
Because fear exposes people, Dexter said. Fear makes them honest.
He stepped closer, and he didn't need to touch her to control the space around her. His proximity was enough. Susan wasn't sure if he was protecting her from the dark or controlling her with it.
What do you think is dangerous about me, Susan?
There was no safe answer. Silence felt like defeat. Speaking felt like a trap.
Nothing, she whispered.
Dexter nodded slightly, and the softness of his voice made the words hit even harder.
That is the most dangerous thought you could ever have.
He walked past her, disappearing deeper behind the library. She hesitated only half a second before following. Curiosity tugged her forward while instinct screamed for her to run. Curiosity won.
The alley behind the library was swallowed in shadows except for a single flickering streetlight. Every sound — a rustle of leaves, a distant dog barking, the shift of gravel under their shoes — felt amplified.
Dexter leaned casually against a brick wall, crossing his arms like this was a normal conversation between classmates. His eyes, however, were anything but casual.
You like observing me, he said. It wasn't a question.
Susan didn't answer. She felt exposed simply standing there.
You stare when you think I'm not looking. You test me in class. You try to understand what I don't say more than what I do say.
How do you know?
I notice everything, he replied. People think I'm not paying attention because I don't react. But that is how one pays the most attention.
His tone was matter-of-fact, not arrogant. Like he wasn't bragging — just reporting the truth.
Silence stretched between them, not awkward but sharp, like a blade held between two people who both knew it was there.
She should have been terrified. A normal girl, a smart girl, would have been.
But the pull she felt was stronger than fear.
Dexter stepped closer, and the world seemed to shrink. She could feel the warmth of his breath but not his touch. He didn't need to touch her to affect her.
I'll give you something, he said quietly. One truth. Since you came.
Her voice was barely audible. Okay.
I don't like people. I don't like noise. I don't like small talk or emotions or fakery. I like control. I like patterns. I like predictability.
There was no apology in his tone. No shame. No pride. It was simply who he was.
And you, he continued, are not predictable.
Her pulse hammered. She had never wanted to be predictable until this moment — and now, unpredictability felt like the only thing giving her power.
Is that good or bad? she asked.
His eyes remained calm, unreadable, almost unfathomable.
Both.
That single word felt like a promise and a threat tangled together.
Something rustled nearby — a trash can, maybe a stray cat — but Dexter didn't even turn his head. Nothing startled him. Nothing caught him off guard. It was like the world could try to surprise him and would always fail.
Why did you really call me here? she whispered.
He didn't hesitate.
For this.
He reached into his pocket. For half a second, panic froze her body. He wasn't smiling, and he wasn't trying to reassure her. He didn't soften the moment. He let her feel the fear.
Then he pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
Her relief was so sudden it hurt.
He handed it to her. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it.
A printed news article.
Missing Girl, Age 19. Last seen near Brookside.
Her stomach dropped. Her eyes scanned the lines again and again, trying to make the words change.
Why are you showing me this?
Dexter didn't blink.
Because she sat in your exact seat three years ago.
Every sound vanished — the wind, the streetlight buzzing, even her heartbeat. Her veins felt like ice water.
And because, Dexter added quietly, you're smarter than she was.
Before she could speak, a voice trembled through the night.
Susan?
Emily.
She stood a few feet away, breathing hard, eyes wide with fear. She must have followed Susan, must have been hiding behind the corner, watching long enough to panic.
Emily, go home, Susan whispered, but her voice cracked.
Emily didn't move. She didn't understand the situation — she just saw her friend with a boy in a dark alley behind a decaying library. From her perspective, Susan was in danger.
But Susan wasn't sure she was wrong.
Dexter did not turn around. Didn't tense. Didn't even blink.
That's a problem, he said.
Not angry. Not startled. His tone was worse than anger — it sounded like someone analyzing a chessboard, deciding which piece to sacrifice.
For the first time since the moment she met him, Susan saw emotion flicker in his eyes.
Calculation.
Not passion. Not irritation. Calculation.
He was deciding what to do with an unexpected witness.
And in his mind, there were multiple possibilities — and none of them were good.
The air thickened. Susan's lungs felt too tight to work. Emily stepped back, instinctively sensing danger even if she didn't understand it.
Dexter still didn't move, but something in the atmosphere shifted — like the quiet before a predator springs.
For the first time, Susan realized something terrifying:
She wasn't afraid of the dark anymore.
She was afraid of what stood inside it.
And she had no idea whether she had come here tonight to save herself…
…or destroy herself.