The Red String Effect

Chapter Five -- Part Two: Echoes

The whispers didn't stop when Layla woke up. They followed her through the next day like a shadow only she could hear. Between her classes, down the stairs, even when she ducked into the bathroom stall and clamped her hands over her ears.

Layla...

Please...

It's dark here...

At first, she thought it was all inside her head. Just leftover dream fragments. But when she opened her locker between second and third period, a piece of paper fluttered out. Her stomach dropped. It was one of Peter's sketches. The same jagged lines she'd seen in his notebooks in the attic—threads winding into knots, faceless figures looming behind them. She turned the page over with trembling fingers. Scrawled across the back in messy ink:

Layla. Downstairs. Help.

Her chest seized. She looked around, heart hammering, but the hallway buzzed with ordinary chatter. Students swapped books, slammed locker doors, tugged earbuds into their ears. No one else seemed to notice the paper. Her fingers trembled as she stuffed it into her pocket. Layla skipped her next class. The basement of St. Morwyn was barely used anymore. The janitors kept their supplies there, but most of the classrooms had been abandoned years ago, left with broken desks and peeling paint. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Layla crept down the stairwell, each step groaning beneath her weight. The air grew colder, damp, thick with the smell of mildew.

Her thread pulsed harder. The whispers grew louder. "Layla...you came." Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She turned a corner—and froze. At the end of the hall stood Peter. Or... what looked like him. His face flickered between light and shadow, his skin pale, his body wrapped in threads that writhed like worms beneath his clothes. His eyes found hers, and for a moment – just a moment – she swore they were the same eyes she remembered. "Peter?" Her voice cracked. He lifted a trembling hand. "Layla... help me." Her chest ached so fiercely she staggered forward before she could stop herself. The knot in her ribs pulsed, tugging her closer.

"Don't." Luca's voice cut through the silence.Layla whipped her head around. He stood at the base of the stairwell,half-shadowed, gray eyes sharp. "Layla, that's not him," he said. Her throattightened. "You don't know that." "I do." But Peter's voice broke over hers."Don't listen to him. He doesn't want you to save me. He wants you forhimself." The words slicer her open. She turned back to Peter, tears burningher eyes. "I want to save you. I want to bring you back." His smile was small,broken. "Then come." The threads at his wrist stretched outward, coilingthrough the air toward her. Her thread pulsed. Her feet moved. "Layla!" Luca'sshout cracked like thunder. The black coils shot forward and Layla didn't knowif she was reaching for Peter or being dragged.