The Fall(ing) of Dakota | ONC 2026

Chapter One: Wisteria

Do you believe in witches?

Not the ugly kind with green skin or noses so long and pointy they could sniff out Dorothy from a mile away.

I'm talking about young, ordinary girls who've spent the majority of their childhoods learning about herbology and incantation from YouTubers who were probably the same age as them—or the type to write your name in their diaries, over and over again, until something bad happens to you.

Yeah, that kind.

No? Well, I didn't either, until I crossed the wrong one. And by "crossed," I sorta kinda mean "wronged"—but just hear me out, okay? The stakes were a little higher than I ever could've known.

But if I'm going to explain myself properly, I need to get my bearings straight.

It was a day like every other—a Friday. Ricky Cordell and I had just finished eating lunch, and we were headed back to AP Government. The walk from the cafeteria to Mrs. Lancott's classroom should've taken three minutes.

No more, no less.

Halfway between these two points, we typically passed room 13A. Legend has it that no teacher has taught inside that room since 1968. Why? No one knows. But the door to this classroom is always locked, and the lights are always turned off—so I, like everyone else, believed it.

But on this day, for some reason, the light was on.

Ricky took notice, along with some other students, who were on their way back to class from lunch. He left my side to investigate through the window.

"Wisteria Long?" He exclaimed with a light titter.

Wisteria Long. Warner High's most notorious freak.

And when I call someone a freak, I don't mean it lightly. Wisteria's always been aloof, eccentric—strange, sure. One time, she even brought her rabbit to school and carried him around in her backpack. (Apparently, his name is Emrys. Also, I'm not sure why the staff were so okay with this.)

But there was this dark energy that followed her, something that convinced the entire student body that even touching her would bring bad luck.

A few others and I crowded around Ricky to see what he was seeing. Lo and behold, there sat Wisteria at an old, dusty desk in the corner of the cursed room. Her hair was tied up in two braids with dandelions woven into them, and she seemed to be writing in some sort of journal.

At the sound of Ricky's loud voice, she quickly closed it and looked up at the window. She seemed . . . alert.

"Go away, Ricky," she said, just loud enough for us to hear her through the door.

"No," he shook his head. Mischief rang in his voice. "No, this is too good."

"Please. I'm not bothering anyone," she pleaded.

She was right. She wasn't bothering anyone—except that she'd somehow gotten into room 13A.

With a malevolent grin, Ricky tried to open the door, and his face fell almost immediately. Normally, if a door were locked, the doorknob would move slightly until blocked by the latch. But as Ricky tried to jiggle it, forearms bulging through the sleeves of his dry-fit hoodie, it was as though something—or someone—were holding it in place entirely.

"Wha—what the hell?" He chuckled, struggling with the handle some more.

"I said go away," Wisteria grumbled again—but Ricky, like everyone else at this school, would probably rather die than take orders from the freak.