The bus groaned as it rolled over the gravel driveway, tires crunching each stone like brittle bones. Caleb Adams gripped the straps of his backpack until his knuckles ached. Ahead, the dorm loomed: three stories of peeling beige siding, narrow windows dark and blank like eyes that watched him. The surrounding pines shivered in the wind, groaning softly, branches brushing each other as if whispering warnings.
Caleb swallowed and adjusted his jacket. The air was cold and damp, sharp with antiseptic and pine, but beneath that, a faint metallic tang crept into his throat. It didn't make sense, not here, not outside. Yet it made him swallow hard, heart thudding.
No one waited at the curb. No welcoming faces, no words. Only the wind, pressing against him, curling around his jacket, around his body, as if trying to push him back onto the bus.
He stepped down slowly, boots crunching the gravel. Other survivors were already gathered near the entrance, standing stiffly, some leaning against the wall. Adrian Locke, tall and broad, had that effortless confidence that made the rest of them look smaller. His eyes scanned them all like a predator weighing prey. Tyler Bishop's laughter rang out softly, hollow, trying too hard to be casual, scraping against the silence like fingernails on a blackboard.
Mia Torres twisted her bag strap nervously, glancing from one shadow to the next, as if expecting them to leap. Elise Carr hugged herself, shivering, a fragile figure trapped inside a fragile body. Dylan Rowe leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent, eyes sharp, unwavering, as though he could see every secret Caleb had tried to bury.
At the top of the stairs, Dr. Marcus Heller appeared. Calm. Neat. Smile faint but precise. The kind of smile that suggested everything was fine, while his eyes hinted he already knew everything about them. His gaze swept over each survivor, lingering on Caleb just long enough to make him pull in a sharp breath. Heller's presence wasn't comforting. It pressed against him. Weighed him down.
"Welcome," Heller said softly. "You've been through something terrible. Here, you are safe. Here, you will recover. And you will remember."
The words were meant to soothe. Instead, they sank like stones. Safe. Recover. Remember. They pressed on his chest, heavy and sharp. Caleb swallowed, forcing himself to follow the group into the dorm. Each step on the polished floor echoed unnaturally, bouncing back at him like an accusation.
Inside, the dorm smelled stronger: antiseptic, polish, and that faint iron tang that made his stomach twist. The walls were blank, beige, sterile. Brass numbers gleamed under fluorescent lights. Every sound—boots, a cough, a chair scrape—was amplified, reverberating through the narrow hallways. Every corner seemed too dark, every shadow too still. The building didn't just house them—it watched them.
Caleb found his room: 201. Narrow, bare, minimal. A single bed, dresser, desk, cracked window overlooking the swaying pines. He dropped his backpack slowly, as if placing it on the floor might trigger something. The locket around his neck pressed against his chest, Emily's scratched-over face staring at him.
A flash of memory tore through him: fire. Screams. Hands pushing him, someone screaming his name. He forced it away, swallowed it. He didn't want to remember. He couldn't.
A floorboard creaked behind him. Caleb froze. The hallway stretched empty. Then, a whisper brushed his ear:
"Caleb…"
No one. Only the steady hum of the ventilation. Slow. Rhythmic. Like breathing.
He unpacked carefully, checking corners, shadows, ceiling cracks. Every object seemed wrong, out of place. The dorm felt alive, pressing, breathing, watching. Even the dim light from the cracked window didn't reach far enough to calm him.
He sat on the edge of the bed, touching the locket again. Emily's face stared back at him, scratched lines forming scars he didn't remember giving her. His hands shook. Heart hammering. Sweat prickled on his back, though the room was cold.
A sudden, sharp knocking sounded from the end of the hall—soft, deliberate, like someone testing the wood. Caleb held his breath. Footsteps? Or just the building settling? He wanted to call out, to say something, but his mouth was dry. Words wouldn't come.
He climbed onto the bed, drawing the blanket tightly around him. Outside, the wind rustled the pines again, brushing against the window like long fingers. He stared at the ceiling cracks, counting them one by one, trying to ground himself. Just the building. Just the wind. Nothing else.
But in the silence, there was a subtle, unmistakable sense of being watched. Something waiting. Something patient. And Caleb knew—he had survived the fire, but that didn't mean he was safe. Not here. Not anywhere.
The common room was narrow and windowless, lit by frosted panes that let in only muted afternoon light. Caleb stepped in, backpack slung over one shoulder, feeling every step echo in the confined space. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and old wood polish, a smell that pressed against his lungs.
The survivors were already there, seated in a loose circle of worn chairs. Adrian Locke leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes scanning everyone with that calculated intensity that made Caleb's stomach twist. Tyler Bishop slouched back, hands dangling, letting out a short, hollow laugh that scraped against the silence. Mia Torres sat rigid, fingers gripping her bag strap so tightly her knuckles were white. Elise Carr hugged herself, small and fragile, barely lifting her eyes from the floor. Dylan Rowe leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silent, watching Caleb as if he already knew something Caleb hadn't.
Dr. Marcus Heller stood at the head of the circle, notebook open, pen poised. He gave a slow, deliberate smile.
"Welcome," Heller said. "This is your space to begin remembering. To begin… understanding. You've all experienced trauma. Here, you are safe. And here, you will remember."
The words rolled over Caleb, heavy, like a stone sliding across his chest. Remember. He had tried to forget. He didn't want to remember. And yet… Heller's gaze made him feel exposed, as if every thought, every memory, every lie he'd told himself was visible.
"Let's begin," Heller continued, voice calm, almost soothing, but with an undercurrent that made Caleb's skin crawl. "Tell me what you remember from that night."
Adrian Locke spoke first, voice measured, confident. "I pulled two people from the flames. Thought I'd lost them both. We all did what we could." He paused, scanning the others, then added quietly, "I—well, maybe not all of us. Some…" His words trailed off. Adrian's confident posture betrayed a flicker of guilt.
Mia Torres swallowed hard. "I… I remember screaming. And then… I saw someone else moving, doing things… not me. I tried to help, but… it felt like I wasn't myself." She bit her lip, hands twisting nervously.
Tyler Bishop chuckled, short and hollow. "Some of us didn't even make it. Lucky for me, I wasn't there when it mattered. Or… maybe I was. I don't know." His eyes flickered toward Caleb, then away, a challenge in his silent accusation.
Elise Carr stayed silent, fingers tracing the worn edge of her chair. Dylan's arms remained crossed, eyes fixed on Caleb, unreadable but heavy with judgment.
Caleb opened his mouth. Words fought against the lump in his throat, but none came. Flashes flickered through his mind: fire, Emily's screaming face, hands reaching, voices calling his name—his own voice, maybe. Every fragment felt wrong. It wasn't real. Or was it?
Heller scribbled in his notebook, pen scratching softly, echoing in the small room. Then he looked up, gaze sweeping the circle. "Good. That's a start. Remember, sometimes fragments of memory arrive in pieces. Small things at first… then clarity comes."
Adrian scoffed lightly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Clarity? Some of us barely made it out alive. You want clarity? We're lucky to be here at all."
"Luck doesn't erase responsibility," Dylan said, voice low, even, almost a whisper that cut through the room. "Some of us did things… choices. You all know it. Don't lie to yourself."
Mia flinched, Elise shivered, Tyler's smile faltered. Caleb felt the weight of Dylan's stare pressing into him, making his chest tighten. He could feel it in his bones: someone, somewhere, survived because of him—or despite him.
Heller's pen continued moving, jotting words that Caleb couldn't read. "Memory isn't just facts," Heller said softly. "It's perception, trauma, survival. What you remember… isn't always who you were. Sometimes, it's who you needed to be to survive. That is why you are here."
The survivors shifted uncomfortably. Adrian leaned back, brushing his hands down his pants. "And if who you needed to be… isn't someone you recognize?"
"That," Heller said, voice calm, measured, "is what we will explore. Together."
Caleb's stomach knotted. Heller's gaze settled on him, steady and penetrating, and he felt his thoughts unravel. The room seemed smaller, the walls closer. The light dimmer. Shadows stretched across the ceiling, long and thin, as though leaning toward him. Every sound—the scratch of pen on paper, the distant hum of the ventilation, the subtle creak of floorboards—felt amplified, deliberate, judging.
The session ended with Heller's usual calm smile. "Rest. Reflect. The next session will go deeper. You may find… things you don't yet understand."
The survivors left the room slowly, each carrying their own weight, each glancing over their shoulder at shadows Caleb couldn't see. Caleb lingered, heart pounding, stomach tight. He felt the eyes of the building on him, the residual tension from the others pressing into him.
He left the common room last. The hallways were silent. Too silent. The polished floor reflected light like a mirror, but nothing moved. No one was there. And yet… he felt it. The sense of being watched, patient, deliberate, waiting.
Passing a mirror, he froze. His reflection lagged, delayed. Just for a fraction of a second, something behind him moved—shadowy, indistinct, impossible to identify. He blinked. Nothing. Only his pale, tense face staring back.
Caleb's footsteps echoed along the dorm hallway, each tap against the polished floor unnaturally loud in the suffocating silence. He gripped his backpack tighter, the straps digging into his shoulders, heart hammering. Every corner seemed wrong: shadows pooled where they shouldn't, reflections in the narrow windows warped and flickered, as if the building itself were alive.
He stopped at the end of the hall and looked back. The other survivors' rooms were dark, empty. Not a sound stirred. And yet… he felt them watching, not from the rooms, but from the walls themselves. The dorm breathed around him, heavy and slow, each sigh of the ventilation a reminder that it wasn't empty.
Caleb tried to focus on the mundane: the peeling paint, the faint scuff marks on the floor, the dull hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. But fragments of memory returned unbidden.
A girl's voice, faint and panicked.
Flames licking the walls.
Hands—his hands—pushing, pulling, reaching.
A scream—too close, impossibly close.
He blinked rapidly. The hallway seemed longer than before, the walls stretching, narrowing, pressing closer. Something dark flickered at the edge of his vision. He turned quickly, but nothing was there.
At the end of the hall, the common room's door was slightly ajar. He peered inside. The chairs were empty. Shadows pooled in the corners like spilled ink. The faint metallic smell—the same that had hit him when he arrived—was stronger here. His stomach tightened.
He moved further down the hall, each step careful, deliberate. His mind tried to dismiss the feeling, the whispers at the edge of hearing: Caleb… Caleb…
Passing a mirror, he froze. The reflection was wrong. For a fraction of a second, it wasn't him staring back. The face was pale, eyes wide, expression twisted in fear—or accusation. Then it was gone. Just his reflection.
He stumbled into his room, slamming the door behind him. The locket pressed against his chest. Emily's scratched-over face stared up at him, taunting, accusing. He shook his head, willing the images away.
But the dorm had its own rhythm. Its own heartbeat. Each vent hiss, each creak, each whisper of wind through the pines pressed into his skull. Shadows stretched across the walls, moving when he wasn't looking directly at them.
He crawled onto his narrow bed, blanket pulled tight. Outside, the pines rustled in the wind. The faint metallic smell lingered. He could hear it almost as a voice: cold, patient, deliberate.
And then came the whispers, soft and nearly imperceptible, brushing against his ears:
"Caleb…"
It's here.
Images assaulted him in fragments: fire, screaming, hands reaching, voices calling his name. He couldn't tell if it was memory or hallucination. Was he remembering, or imagining?
He pressed the locket to his chest, heart hammering. The room felt too small, walls too close, shadows too long. Every sound—the hum of ventilation, the distant creak of floorboards, the subtle shift of air—was amplified, deliberate. Watching. Waiting.
Caleb closed his eyes, trying to ground himself. The images continued: a girl's face in flames, his own hands shaking, a man's face smiling in the smoke—Heller's face? Impossible to say. Each flash more vivid than the last, stabbing into his memory.
He gasped, sitting upright, blanket slipping from his shoulders. The air in the room felt thick, almost viscous, pressing down on him. Something moved in the corner of the room—a shadow? His imagination? Or something else? He couldn't be sure.
The whispers returned, soft, sibilant:
"Remember…"
Caleb shivered. The dorm wasn't empty. He wasn't alone. Something had survived the fire, and it had found its way inside. And perhaps… inside him.
He pressed the locket harder, closing his eyes. But sleep wouldn't come. Not tonight. The dorm had begun to remember for him.
The dorm lights clicked off at nine. The automatic locks engaged with a mechanical sigh. The hallways fell into oppressive silence. Caleb lay on his narrow bed, the locket pressing against his chest, and stared at the cracked ceiling.
The room felt smaller in the darkness, walls bending slightly inward, closing in. He could hear every creak of the building: floorboards settling, ventilation humming, pipes groaning. Every sound seemed deliberate, timed, like the building was alive and waiting.
He pressed the blanket tighter around his shoulders. His pulse pounded in his ears. Every shadow stretched too long, moved too subtly. Something brushed the edge of his vision, fleeting, almost invisible, but unmistakable.
Then came the whisper, soft, deliberate, almost a breath:
"Caleb…"
He froze, eyes wide. No one is here, he told himself. It's the wind. The building. Nothing else.
But the metallic tang in the air—stronger now—made his stomach tighten. Memories flared unbidden, jagged and disjointed:
Flames licking the walls, heat searing his skin
Emily's face, screaming, twisting, scratched over and yet alive in memory
Hands—his hands—pushing, pulling, fumbling, shaking
A man's face smiling, calm, detached… Heller?
Each flash stabbed at his mind. He forced his eyes shut, hoping the darkness would protect him, but the images persisted, vivid, intrusive. The whispers multiplied, layered, indistinct:
"Remember…"
"Caleb…"
"It's here…"
He tried to breathe, counting silently. One… two… three… but the counting faltered as the shadows in the corners of the room thickened, deepening, crawling along the walls. Something seemed to move independently of the light, a shifting presence he could not place.
A scraping sound came from the door. Soft, deliberate, intentional. Not enough to wake anyone else, but enough to make his heart leap into his throat. He wanted to call out. He couldn't.
The locket vibrated against his chest—or maybe it was just his pulse. He pressed it tighter, rocking back and forth, trying to calm himself. The whispers grew louder, layered with the faint metallic tang, turning into almost coherent words:
"You were there…"
"You did this…"
"Caleb… remember…"
His mind spun, trying to discern what was memory and what was imagination. He saw flashes again: the fire, a girl screaming, hands pulling at him, voices calling his name. Each image stabbed at him like a physical blow.
Something shifted beside the bed. A shadow, dense and wrong, moved with purpose. Caleb froze, eyes darting, muscles locked. The air felt thick, heavy, almost viscous, pressing against him, suffocating.
It's not real. It's not real. It's not real…
The whisper returned, faint, near, almost inside his skull:
"Caleb…"
His breath caught. He pressed the locket harder. The shadows recoiled slightly, then returned, stretching, bending, impossibly long. The hum of the ventilation became a slow drum, syncing with his heartbeat.
Caleb realized something with a jolt: the dorm wasn't just a building. It was alive. And it remembered. Every creak, every shadow, every whisper—it had survived the fire, and it had found its way inside. And perhaps, it had found a way inside him.
A final whisper brushed his ear, colder than the wind outside:
"Tomorrow… you will remember."
He didn't respond. He couldn't. And as his eyes fluttered closed, he understood with icy clarity: the dorm had begun to remember for him. And whatever it remembered would not let him rest.
The wind outside rattled the cracked window. Caleb lay on the narrow bed, heart hammering, chest tight. He could still feel the locket pressing into his skin, heavy with memory and guilt. The shadows in the room had grown longer, darker, stretching across walls and ceiling in impossible angles. Every corner seemed to pulse, alive.
The whispers returned, closer, sharper, layered:
"Caleb…"
"You remember now…"
"It's here… inside…"
He sat upright, shaking. The blanket slipped from his shoulders. He could feel the air around him moving, as if something—or someone—was circling, pressing, waiting. His pulse pounded so loud he feared it would give him away.
A flash: fire, roaring, red-orange light reflecting on screaming faces. Caleb's own hands were there—shaking, fumbling, reaching for someone, anyone. A girl's face—Emily?—twisted in terror, scratched over, yet screaming with familiarity.
Another flash: a man's face, calm, precise, smiling—Heller? Or just a trick of memory? Caleb couldn't tell anymore. Each fragment cut into him, jagged, unrelenting.
He tried to control his breathing, to calm himself, but the whispers wouldn't stop. They layered over each other, unintelligible, yet accusing. You did this… You were there… You failed…
Something shifted in the room. The shadow in the corner lengthened, bending toward him, crawling along the wall like a living thing. Caleb's stomach dropped. His breath caught. Every instinct screamed to run, but where could he go?
The locket vibrated against his chest—his pulse? Or something else? He pressed it harder, gripping it like a lifeline.
A scraping came at the door. Slow, deliberate, insistent. Not enough to wake the others, but loud enough to claw at Caleb's nerves. He wanted to scream, but his voice failed him.
Another memory flared: hands reaching for him, pulling, pushing, dragging him into the heat. Screams. His own voice calling… Caleb…
The whispers became a cacophony. He could hear multiple voices now, overlapping, layered in accusation:
"Remember…"
"You were there…"
"It's inside…"
Caleb fell back against the bed, covering his face, rocking. The walls seemed to lean in, closer, bending, stretching impossibly. The shadows were no longer stationary—they moved, alive, reaching toward him.
He pressed the locket to his chest one last time. The whispers surged, louder, sharper, stabbing at his mind. Then, suddenly, they stopped. The room was silent. Too silent.
Caleb's breath came in shallow gasps. The metallic tang in the air lingered, sharp and biting. He forced himself to sit up, trembling. The room looked normal now—or as normal as it ever had.
But he knew the truth: the dorm wasn't safe. None of them were safe. Something had survived the fire. Something had followed them here. And now… it was inside him.
A final whisper, colder than the wind outside, tickled his ear:
"Tomorrow… you will remember."
Caleb's eyes snapped shut. He didn't respond. He couldn't.
And as he lay there, frozen, chest tight, he realized with icy certainty: the dorm had begun to remember for him. And whatever it remembered, whatever it held inside its walls, would not let him rest. Not tonight. Not ever.