Avery had never seen Lockridge High after dark.
It shouldn't have been open; the building shut down at 6 p.m. sharp. But when they reached the edge of campus—still shaken from the alley incident—one detail hit them immediately:
The library light was on.
A single rectangular glow cut across the courtyard grass like a blade.
Avery hesitated at the gate. Everything in their body screamed that this was wrong—that the building was too quiet, too still, too aware of them.
But the same pull they'd felt in the alley—
that strange, invisible pressure—
tugged at them again.
Almost like the Dust wanted them inside.
They crossed the courtyard.
The automatic doors hissed open without Avery touching them.
Inside, the library felt frozen in time.
Not abandoned—just paused.
Every chair was neatly tucked.
Every computer screen glowed with the same empty login page.
Every clock had stopped at 7:11.
Avery walked between the bookshelves, hearing only their own footsteps.
Something felt… off.
Not visual.
Not sound.
The smell.
The air carried a faint, dry scent—like old paper left in the sun too long.
Avery had smelled it before.
In the alley.
They followed it deeper into the stacks.
The lights seemed to dim behind them as they walked, the library narrowing to a tunnel of shelves. Avery touched a spine—A History of Lockridge—and nearly jerked back.
The cover was warm.
A whisper drifted from somewhere ahead.
Not words.
Just pressure and vibration, brushing against their ears like the echo of something massive shifting.
Avery turned a corner—
and froze.
A desk light was on at the far end of the archives room.
A figure sat under it.
They were hunched, arms folded over a thick ledger. Long hair spilled across their face, unmoving. The figure didn't react to Avery's footsteps, their breathing slow and unnatural, like someone dreaming deeply.
Avery took a step closer.
"Hello…?"
The figure didn't move.
Avery's throat tightened. A part of them knew—without proof—that this person wasn't supposed to be here. Something about their posture, their stillness, felt staged.
Avery circled slightly, trying to see the person's face.
Just then—
The overhead lights flickered.
The figure's head twitched.
Avery jolted back.
Slowly, painfully slowly, the person lifted their face from their folded arms.
For one terrible moment, Avery thought they had no eyes—
—but then realized their eyelids were just sealed shut with dust.
Fine, gray, powdery dust.
They inhaled sharply.
The figure spoke, voice cracking like dried earth.
"You're… late."
Avery stumbled back. "Who are you?"
The person lifted a finger, pointing to the ledger.
"Read… it."
Avery's heart thudded. The ledger was enormous—cloth bound, frayed, the kind used for old school attendance or census records. But the cover held no title.
"I shouldn't—"
The figure exhaled a sound that wasn't quite a sigh.
More like the shudder of a collapsing sand dune.
"Read it… Avery."
Avery's blood ran cold.
"How do you know my name?"
The person didn't answer.
Avery reached for the ledger anyway, swallowing their fear. Their fingers brushed the cover—warm again—and flipped it open.
The first page was dated:
LOCKRIDGE HIGH – STUDENT RECORDS
YEAR 1974
Avery frowned. The names were written in neat columns, but each had something strange scribbled beside it:
Not grades.
Not attendance.
Not detention marks.
Descriptions.
Emotion states.
Fear patterns.
Nightmares.
"Dreams of walls bending inward."
"Reports hearing books breathing."
"Refuses to use east staircase after dark."
Avery flipped to the next page.
More students.
More nightmare logs.
And next to several names—
A faint smear of gray dust.
They kept turning pages, faster.
The dates jumped forward—1981, 1992, 2004—
and on every page, patterns repeated.
Fear.
Dust.
Disappearance notes written so casually it made Avery sick.
Then they reached the newest entry.
LOCKRIDGE HIGH – STUDENT RECORDS
YEAR 2025
There were only two names.
Jordan Hale.
Avery Quinn.
Avery's breath hitched.
Beside their name, a description:
"Attracts the Dust.
Unclear why."
Avery stumbled back from the desk.
The person's sealed eyes lifted toward them, sensing the panic.
"It remembers you," they whispered.
"It always remembers the ones who hear it."
"What does that mean?" Avery asked. "What does it want from me?"
The figure's voice cracked again.
"It wants what it always wants."
Avery shook their head. "Which is—?"
WHUM—
The library lights shut off.
Total darkness swallowed the room.
Avery froze, breath lodged in their throat.
Something rustled behind the desk.
Not footsteps.
Something dragging.
Avery backed away.
A glow flared to life behind them—the emergency EXIT sign.
Avery bolted.
Their footsteps echoed unnaturally loud, as if the building itself were amplifying them. Shelves seemed to close in, narrowing the path. Papers fluttered down from nowhere, drifting like ash.
Behind them, the dragging sound grew faster.
Avery dashed through the automatic doors—the entire library exhaling a blast of cold air as if pushing them out.
The doors slammed shut.
The courtyard was silent again.
Avery stood trembling, chest heaving, staring at their own reflection in the darkened glass.
Something moved behind the window.
A face?
No.
A smear of gray dust sliding slowly down the inside of the glass…
like fingertips tracing Avery's outline.