Chase woke with a dull knot of reluctance in his chest, the sort of feeling that had the shape of a question mark. School had been a soft drumbeat of faces and routines for two days now; it had not yet offered him a single anchor. He pulled his hoodie over his head and pretended the knot was nothing more than the weight of a backpack.
Downstairs, the duplex handled the morning with domestic grace. His mother hummed a tune that belonged more to dish soap than any memory. His father rifled through a newspaper and dished out a pattern of little pep talks: "Talk to one person. One person at a time is all you need. Smile. Don't look like you're cataloging them like endangered birds."
Chase smiled in the way he always did — one corner, precise, private. "I'll try for one person," he said, and meant something smaller: observe, note, learn. He had ways of connecting that didn't look like connecting. He thought of friendships as structures — formulas that needed the right equations. He just hadn't found a equation yet.
The school smelled like the same thing it always did but multiplied — polish, paper, adolescent cologne. He moved through the morning on auto-pilot: math, a history lecture on forgotten town founders, biology where Mr. Kline hovered near the back demonstrating a clean cut on a microscope slide. He learned the curves of hallway patterns: which lockers were magnets for clusters, where the whispers liked to sit.
By lunchtime he had practiced two versions of small talk. One was for people with skateboards. One was for people who loved poetry. Both failed gently, politely: nods exchanged, a "cool" dropped like a polite penny. He ate his sandwich on a bench in the courtyard, watching pockets of classmates orbit their own little suns. Students traded gossips like currency; Chase cataloged the denominations.
When Owen — the camera boy who'd greeted him the day before — passed on his way to film an announcement, he tossed, "Hey, man. You alright? You look like you're somewhat... you know distressed. Or are you observing like a seasoned detective?"
"You probably do it better than the yearbook," Chase said. It was the smallest of small talk, and Owen laughed, which felt like a breach in the dam.
"You in for the club meetings tonight?" Owen asked, nodding toward the clock tower that made the courtyard worth looking at.
Chase didn't answer then. He had already decided, privately, to attend. But decisions in his chest were like seeds — they needed an afternoon to root.
---
On Friday
The first half of the day had been a slow accumulation of missed cues and half-start conversations. A classmate — Maya, the girl with paint-splattered jeans — had invited him to sit with her. He almost said yes, because inclusion glinted like a warm light. But when he sat, the conversation moved at a speed that required verbal freefall and he realized he didn't have air for it. He listened, smiled when appropriate, and when she asked about his old school he gave a measured answer and didn't ask anything back. Afterward he felt both guilty and relieved. He'd missed a chance to make an easy friend and had also preserved his reserves.
By the bell that ended the day he felt like an island that hadn't yet learned to float in a current. He closed up his locker with the ritual calm of someone who cataloged small victories. He checked his phone for the time and then for the note he'd left himself: PRC — Friday, 4:00, Room B3. He slid his notebook into his backpack like a talisman and walked toward the auditorium wing where B3's sign swung slightly on its hinges like a metronome.
The stairs down to the basement smelled of dust and the faint, reassuring musk of old books. The door to B3 was metal but not hostile — paint chipped in cheerful patterns. Light leaked under the door in a thin, obliging strip. He paused, knuckles on the wood, and took a breath like someone about to cross a threshold that might rearrange a life.
Inside, the room looked like a museum of things that needed to explain themselves. String lights looped across ceiling beams; maps with pins and yarn crisscrossed; a whiteboard with diagrams, names, and a list of "active cases"; a battered coffee maker kept vigil on a folding table. Shelves held contraptions, old cameras, a stack of audio recorders, a box labeled "EVIDENCE — FRAGILE" in Sharpie. Mismatched chairs waited like an audience. Chase thinks, "Well this is too much for a club like this."
A figure leaned against the far table with a confident slouch and crossed arms — the one Chase had pictured, and then somehow different. Rob Sanders was tall, broad-shouldered, hair cropped short, the kind of presence that made the room seem to tighten around him. He wore a varsity jacket over a black tee, and his smirk was something of a currency. His eyes were sharp and he held Chase like a new recruit that might be interesting or inconvenient.
"Great," Rob said, loud enough for a needle of sarcasm to thread every syllable. "We pick up fresh meat and twenty minutes later they're already pondering the metaphysical. Welcome to the Paranormal Research Club, where we either save souls or get sued."
Rob's voice made a few of the others look up, and a flurry of introductions began in the informal way of people who had been through a few odd nights together.
"Rob, please," said a girl with expressive eyes and layered necklaces — Mira, Chase recognized instantly from class. Her smile was easy, unforced; she stepped forward with an openness that felt like sunlight. "This is Chase. He's new."
Chase's notebook leapt to life: Mira Fernandes — expressive; vintage scarves; polite warmth. He said, "Hi." It was a small word and it carried a real timbre.
Mira's hand settled briefly on his arm, a contact that felt like an anchor. "We're glad you came." she said. "New faces are good. They bring fresh questions."
Kyle Mendoza — a comfortable, ever-hungry presence with a chip bag poking from his pocket — bounded over with the kind of grin that had its own gravitational pull. "Hey, new dude! I'm Kyle. Have a snack? We've got trail mix, stale cookies, and an excellent collection of caffeine." He thrust a granola bar almost in Chase's face as if generosity was a tactile thing.
Chase accepted the bar, an exchange small and civilized. "Thanks. I'm Chase."
Juniper Vale sat at the whiteboard, tablet open, stylus poised like a scalpel. Her clothing was neat, minimalist, and efficient as if every fabric had a purpose. She looked up only long enough to appraise Chase, then nodded with the kind of reserve that suggested she had run simulations on new-member introductions before. "You can call me Juniper. We were running diagnostics on an EMF reader. If you're into things that beep, you'll fit right in."
Vicky Tran darted in last, ankle jingling with a set of small tools. He looked younger than the rest, wiry and impatient, already halfway through a sentence. "If you're here to sit still, you came to the wrong place. Climbing, scouting, rope — name a thing that will get you hurt in a useful way." He offered Chase a high-five, which Chase returned with mild surprise and careful enthusiasm.
Rob folded his arms and took Chase's measure like a referee choosing teams. "So. You picked us on purpose? Or is this a clerical accident?"
Chase folded the granola wrapper with surgical attention. "Principal Lana recommended clubs," he said. "I thought...the Paranormal Research Club would be interesting."
Rob snorted. "Principal Lana recommends a lot of things. She also recommends warm coats in winter. That doesn't mean you have to like the knitware." He stepped forward, a grin that softened but didn't fully vanish. "I'm Rob. I am the leader of the PRC. We debate, we collect data, that's how we spend our time here."
"Actually," Kyle echoed, feigning a dramatic shiver. "Mostly we solve mysteries like who's been stealing the theater's spotlight bulbs."
Juniper's eyes flicked to the maps and the active cases list. "And sometimes we test acoustics and air currents and logical explanations." Her voice had the clean edge of a scalpel. "The method matters."
Mira's voice threaded through, gentle as an offering. "There's room for other kinds of method. Lore, witness testimony — patterns that aren't strictly measurable. I think both have value."
Vicky's grin flashed. "We're a patchwork. Rob does the heroism. Juniper gives us facts. Mira gives us context. Kyle keeps everyone caffeinated. I climb things and do the errands."
Chase observed them the way he always did: each movement, each inflection an annotation. The room had texture. Rob's sarcasm was a shield; beneath it, Chase sensed the muscle willing to be used for protection. Juniper's intellect was precise and a little austere; she would be the kind to ask for data and then call you out for sloppy hypothesis. Mira's empathy filled gaps that logic couldn't cross — she listened like someone collecting prayers. Kyle's warmth made the group portable; you could carry their mood in your pocket. Vicky's restlessness promised motion and mischief.
"Okay," Rob said, dropping the sarcasm like he was clearing his throat. "New guy gets the first test. We don't tolerate theatrics for theatrics' sake. Show us something useful. You like to do observing, right? Mira told me. So tell me something about this room that none of us would notice if you didn't say it."
Chase's chest narrowed around the question like a rubber band. He had been rehearsing observational notes since he was old enough to start counting. The room seemed to inhale. He let his eyes sweep slowly, registering small particles of difference.
"The string lights aren't purely decorative," he said slowly. "They obscure the ceiling's water stains. The rightmost bulb is dimmer because it's older — the filament's loose — so its warmth index will differ and attract less dust, which means the dust pattern near the bulb will be thinner. Someone left a coffee ring on the map table that's not from the coffee maker; the residue has traces of a floral tea lip — Mrs. Patel's marigold sweet, maybe — so someone who keeps her mug here brought it from home. The EMF reader on the shelf was recently moved slightly to the left; the scratches on the base match the scratches on the box beneath Shelf Three — like they were carried together last week."
He spoke in small, efficient phrases. The club watched with the focused attention of a panel at a science fair whose applause had been muted for skepticism.
Rob's expression shifted from sarcasm to a kind of impressed neutrality. He slapped a hand on his thigh. "Not bad. If this is what being a 'noticer' looks like, we might have a practical member. You have a sharper eye than most rookies."
Juniper's head tilted. "I have to admit, you have indeed some incredible observation. You infer from wear patterns rather than assuming directionality. Good. That's useful. Can you back any of that up? The EMF reader movement — who moved it and when?"
Chase hesitated — not out of lack of answer, but because he'd noticed, not necessarily proved. "I can ask who borrowed the reader. And if someone here bought a floral tea in a labeled mug, we can ask around. Evidence-wise, that's where I'd start."
Mira stepped closer, her voice now cheerful, "Congratulations. You have become a part of this club. You really have a talent that is rare for this age."
Kyle threw an arm around Chase's shoulders in the kind of instant, casual friendship that warmed and flustered at once. "Welcome to the circus," he said. "You'll grow fond of our brand of chaos."
Vicky's eyes were already on the whiteboard where the "active cases" list held a neat, scribbled item: Auditorium tapping — witness accounts (1/3). He pointed with a tool like an arrow. "This. Tonight, we check the east wing and the auditorium doors. Mira had a witness. Juniper will run a sweep for drafts and acoustics. Rob will...be Rob. Kyle will distract any suspicious janitorial staff with snacks. I'll climb the back catwalk and get a vantage. You — Chase — you can observe and log. Be the official eyewitness collector. We need someone who sees things."
Chase felt something like permission bloom. It was the small, specific kind — the kind you get when a group assigns you a place at their table. It wasn't friendship yet; it was an invitation to prove yourself useful, and that suited him fine.
Rob's smirk softened into something almost like a plan. "You in, kiddo?" he asked.
Chase weighed the options — stay an island, continue cataloguing alone, or step into the current and risk being noticed. He pictured the auditorium doors tapping in the dark, imagined footprints backward in dust, imagined the hysterical thrill of being part of an experiment that might either expose a prank or find something stubbornly true.
He nodded. "I'm in."
Mira's smile was immediate and warm. "Good. We'll go tonight at nine. Meet at the east staircase. And don't forget to bring a flashlight. It will be needed in dark."
Juniper added, clipped and efficient: "Bring a pen too. And don't touch anything without gloves."
Kyle cheered. "Gloves are sexy."
Vicky bounded around the chairs like a comet. "I'll scout routes. If anything needs shimmying, I'll do the shimmy. If anything bites, uh, Kyle will hand out snacks as negotiation."
Rob returned to his perch at the table, relaxed in the way of a captain who'd found a crew. "All right. Tonight's a simple sweep. We test doors, air currents, acoustics, and witness bias. If we find something anomalous, we document. If we find nothing, we find out who's doing it and why."
Mr. Kline — who doubled as a stern but permissive advisor —p oked his head in before they dispersed. "Don't break anything important. And Rob? No trespassing in the old boiler room. It's literal asbestos and figurative bad idea."
Rob saluted, sonorous with mock obedience. "Yes, sir. We'll behave like responsible teenagers who are totally serious about not touching reactive substances."
When the meeting thinned out, Chase lingered by the whiteboard where Juniper had scribbled notes. Mira came up beside him, idly adjusting a necklace that trembled like a pendulum.
"You... okay? Or overwhelmed by all of this." she asked.
Chase looked at the list of active cases, the names pinned to the map with red thread, the footprint note. He had never expected to have a thread attached to him so quickly.
"I'm okay," he said. "It's...easier to be noticed when you have a reason."
Mira's eyes softened. "People are sometimes afraid of the wrong kind of noticer. The kind that wants to pry for gossip." She tapped the map with a fingertip. "We like people who want to help make sense."
Chase thought about his notebook, the small orderly lists he had kept since middle school, and felt a sudden impulse to share something more than observation. He found his voice like a new chord. "If we find footprints that go backwards, what's our first hypothesis?"
Juniper's replies were precise. "Test for a drag. Test for wind patterns. Check for an animal route. Take photos; note shoe size. Look for inconsistencies in depth. If the prints are human but backward, that requires either staged reversal or an explanation in heel wear. But we won't jump to mysticism."
Mira's answer was layered. "Listen to witness accounts and understand that memory is an interpretive lens. People tell stories with emotion; we must translate emotion into useful information."
Kyle offered the practical. "Also — bring snacks. If things get tense, snacks save proceedings."
Vicky chimed, earnest as ever: "And bring rope. Not for anything dramatic — just in case someone needs a hand."
Chase smiled, genuinely, for the first time that week. The room felt like a place he could map and then navigate. The club's dynamic was a living diagram: logic, lore, muscle, mischief, humor, and a network of sensory attention. He'd come seeking something to observe; he'd found, suddenly, a mechanism for action.
They filed out into the fall air like a small convoy, each member already slipping into the role they played best. Rob's shoulders relaxed as he jogged to the far lot to retrieve a bucket of gadgets. Juniper checked her tablet as if double-checking reality; Mira archived details in a soft notebook; Kyle negotiated for more snacks from a vending machine; Vicky practiced a short rope knot with the kind of delight that suggested a future problem-solver.
Chase walked home under maple trees that had started to turn. Each leaf looked like a small decision, a piece of a pattern. He tucked his notebook deeper into his bag and felt the bolder knot in his chest — this one threaded with anticipation, not reluctance.
That night, he made one more careful list: PRC: Rob (leader/protector), Mira (believer/empathy), Juniper (skeptic/science), Kyle (heart/morale), Vicky (runner/rogue). Meet tonight for auditorium sweep. My role: observer/log. Tools: pen, flashlight, gloves. Hypotheses to test: tap source, footprints — staged vs. natural.
He put the notebook aside and lay awake for a while, imagining how the east wing's shadows would behave under the club's headlamps. He imagined the awkward half of his week fading like old chalk. He'd spent days skimming the surface; tonight, he would learn whether the town's stories were the kind of currents he could navigate — and possibly, whether he liked the feel of being pulled into something that might change him.
Outside, somewhere in Ridgeway, a pair of doors tapped once against each other like a punctuation mark. Chase didn't hear it — he was safe in the small orbit of his home — but the town had already started arranging its sentences. The next line would be written under lamplight, in shoes that creaked and in breath that fogged in the cold.
Chase slept with his pen on the nightstand, ready.