SPECTRAL.

† T W E N T Y S I X †

     I WISH I COULD TELL YOU THE DAYS AFTER TROY'S DEATH BLURRED INTO SOME KIND OF SOFT FOG—but they didn't. They were sharp, jagged shards of glass, cutting into me with every step I took. The hallways of the school weren't hallways anymore; they were corridors of accusation. It was in the way people parted like water around me, in the hush of whispers that never reached my ears but somehow still landed on my skin like blows. Even the ones who had bullied me before had gone silent, as if their cruelty had burned out and left only cold judgment in its place. The laughter had died. The notes passed behind my back had stopped. In their absence there was only staring, pointing, the silent verdict of their eyes: murderer.

     Brooke would watch me from across the cafeteria sometimes, her eyes two hard stones. She never came close again, not after that day she slapped me and screamed in my face about Troy. But her stare followed me like a shadow. Even the professors had begun to speak to me differently— too polite, cautious, like I might shatter right there at my desk.

     And then there was Laura. She didn't whisper from corners anymore. She didn't sneak up on me at night. Now she simply appeared wherever I went—translucent, blurred at the edges, but solid enough to feel like she was standing on my chest. Her voice wasn't a voice anymore; it was a swarm of bees in my skull, buzzing the same words over and over: this is your fault, this is your fault, this is your fault.

     Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of her reflection in the bathroom mirror while washing my hands. Sometimes I'd see her shadow in the stairwell when no one else was around. Always the same smirk curling across her pale face, eyes like hollows full of glass. She wanted me angry. She wanted me broken. She was patient, and she was winning.

     The cuts on my arms had faded into pale scars, but the itch in my palms to hurt myself still flickered there, like an old wound refusing to heal. I'd started keeping the blinds closed in our dorm room, shutting out sunlight, shutting out McKayla. She hardly came back anymore anyway. When she did, she didn't speak. The silence between us was a new kind of violence.

     I thought maybe prayer would work. Maybe if I folded my hands hard enough and squeezed my eyes shut, God or the universe or whatever had once cared for me might intervene. But my prayers sounded like static in my mouth. Nothing came. No comfort. No Pete. Pete had vanished after our last conversation, like he'd been a mirage.

     So I went hunting for answers on my own. Late nights crouched over the library's computer screens, scrolling through forums full of candle-lit altars and salt circles, pages about spirits, about bonds that couldn't be broken, about girls who'd died and come back wrong. I dug into old books, pages yellow and flaking, hands shaking as I traced the words. I wrote down Latin incantations I didn't understand. I left bowls of salt under my bed, burned sage until the smoke choked me. Nothing stopped her.

     What I didn't know then, what no one had told me, was that there is no ritual for this. No easy exorcism. Not for what had tied Laura to me. Not for what had been seeded in me long before Troy, long before McKayla. If I'd known, maybe I'd have stopped. Maybe I'd have been softer. But I didn't know, and I kept trying.

     And then came that night.

     It was late, the library's overhead lights buzzing like a dying insect. My eyes burned from reading, fingers trembling over the trackpad of a laptop I'd borrowed from the front desk. I was scrolling through another forum thread, someone talking about severance rituals in the woods, when the air changed. You know that feeling you get before a thunderstorm, when everything goes still and the air presses on your lungs? It was like that, but colder.

     When I looked up, she was standing between the shelves.

     Laura.

     Her hair hung wet around her face like she'd just crawled out of a river. Her eyes were black pools now, not even pretending to be human anymore. And she was smiling.

     "I'm done," I said out loud. My voice cracked like a child's. "I'm done with you."

     Her smile widened.

     The lights above flickered and went out, leaving only the emergency glow of a single red bulb at the far end of the aisle. My heart slammed against my ribs. I shoved my books into my bag, swung it over my shoulder, and started walking fast, then running.

     I didn't make it to the door.

     Something—hands that weren't hands—slammed into my back and sent me sprawling to the carpet. My knee hit the floor hard, pain shooting up my leg. I crawled, clawing at the floor, dragging my bag behind me. The emergency light made the walls look like they were bleeding.

     "Stop it!" I screamed. "Stop it! Leave me alone!"

     A whisper in my ear: This is your fault. This is your fault.

     Invisible fingers wrapped around my ankle and yanked. I slid backward, nails tearing at the carpet, bag spilling open. My books scattered like dead birds. I kicked, connected with nothing.

     I don't know how long I ran. Down one hall, then another. Through the staff door. Up a stairwell that smelled like bleach. The whole time she was with me, brushing my hair back with a ghostly hand, laughing low in my skull. My feet were bare; I'd lost my shoes somewhere between the aisles. By the time I burst through the door onto the top floor, the skin on my soles was raw and bleeding, leaving dark prints on the tile.

     I slammed into a maintenance ladder without thinking and climbed. The metal rungs were slick under my hands—maybe sweat, maybe blood. My bag was gone. My books were gone. All I had was the sound of her voice, closer now, like she was inside my chest.

     When I pushed open the hatch at the top, cold night air knifed into my lungs. I was on the roof.

     The sky above me was a black sea with no stars. The wind whipped at my hair, carrying the faint smell of rain. Below, the campus looked like a dollhouse—windows glowing faintly, cars moving like toys.

     She was here too. I could feel her.

     I stumbled forward, knees buckling, blood dripping from my palm where at some point I'd grabbed something sharp—maybe glass, maybe metal. My fingers were sticky with it. I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling it throb.

     I could barely stand. My body was a collection of tremors. My thoughts were not my own anymore. They came in whispers, curling through my head like smoke: It's time. Step closer. Just a little more. You've ruined everything. Let go. End it.

     I swayed. My bare feet left red half-moons on the roof's surface as I moved, slow, hypnotized, toward the edge.

     I wanted to fight, but there was nothing left. I was so tired. My bones felt like they were full of sand. It was almost a relief, the idea of slipping off the edge, of silence. No more whispers. No more stares. No more blood.

     My toes touched the ledge.

     Below was the abyss, a wind tunnel of black.

     Jump, she hissed. Jump, Summer.

     I leaned forward.

     And then, a sound like a gunshot. A door bursting open behind me. A voice, high and ragged: "SUMMER!"

     McKayla.

     Her footsteps were frantic across the roof. "Don't! Please!"

     I didn't turn. I couldn't. Her arms wrapped around my waist just as my knees gave way. She slammed into me with her full weight, pulling me backward, but the momentum tipped us both.

     For one heartbeat I was in her arms, warm and human and real. For one heartbeat I thought maybe I was saved.

     And then we were falling.

     Her scream was in my ear, and the wind roared, and Laura's laughter rolled over it all like thunder.

     Darkness opened its mouth to swallow us whole.