Annecy

Annecy steps off the school bus with a heavy gait, her worn-out sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk with a faint squeak. Her backpack hangs loose, one strap slipping lazily down her shoulder. A yawn distorts her face, her dark brown eyes glazing slightly behind her fringe. She blinks a few times, trying to shake off the fatigue clinging to her eyelids like old duct tape.

It's way too cold this morning. Or maybe I'm just half-asleep. Probably the bus heater was cranked up too high.

She absently adjusts her plaid scarf, one corner of it snagged in her coat zipper. Her numb fingers fumble with the fabric, stiff as if she'd just pulled them out of a freezer. The school gate creaks open in front of her. Annecy hesitates for a second on the threshold, watching the clusters of students already forming in the yard. Her gaze lands on an oily rainbow puddle near the bike racks.

Love that kind of pattern - looks like bismuth crystals.

Annecy steps off the school bus, clutching her bag tightly against her stomach, fingers digging into the fabric. Her tired eyes scan the crumpled timetable in her left hand for the third time, as if the classroom numbers might shift between blinks. A slow cat-like yawn escapes her, her lashes fluttering sluggishly against the harsh morning light.

They’re all gonna stare. They’re gonna ask questions. Why I don’t talk, why I keep to myself…

She nervously adjusts her worn-out plaid scarf, frayed from too many washes, and double-checks with mechanical precision that every button on her coat is done up. A shiver runs through her as the distant school door creaks open. Her fingers tap irregularly against the edge of her planner, drumming out a disjointed rhythm on the stiff cardboard. The playground already hums with laughter and shouts she’ll have to parse like some alien language.

Ugh... Just thought about the cafeteria. Hope the food isn’t total prison slop here.

Annecy sits on a bench in the schoolyard, her back slightly hunched, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the chipped wood. The ambient noise of the crowd reaches her as if through thick glass. Her dark brown eyes fixate on a vague point in the sky where clouds lazily drift apart.

What if tomorrow, they discovered a supernatural entity. A real one. Not some vague thing or an illusion. A being with consciousness, capable of interaction...

She absently tugs at the frayed threads of her scarf, her breathing slowing as her imagination takes over. Her pupils dilate just slightly.

Scientists would lose their minds. All their theories about matter, energy... gone. Religions? Well... depends on the discovery and which faith we're talking about.

A barely-there smile flickers across her lips as she pictures the TV debates, the panicked articles, politicians desperately trying to control the narrative. Her foot taps a disjointed rhythm against the gravel.

And really, think about it... A Romero-style zombie apocalypse or Walking Dead scenario would technically be supernatural too. People never acknowledge how ridiculous that whole premise is.

Annecy slumps onto the plastic chair lining the hallway, her backpack propped against her feet like an awkward bodyguard. Her fingers drum against her knees, silently counting the ceiling tiles.

Thirty minutes early. Too much. But leaving now would be pointless.

Annecy exhales slowly while fiddling with a small scrap of paper in her pocket. She feels the urge to yawn creeping up, but it never quite comes.

What are they gonna make me do? Puzzles? Write my name over and over? Or worse… Play with Play-Doh like some kindergarten eval.

She grabs her phone to check the time for the fourth time in two minutes, then shoves it back into her pocket with too much force.

Maybe they’ve got weird tests. Stuff to see if I hold a pencil right. Or they’ll make me walk in a straight line like a DUI checkpoint…

Her left foot starts bouncing, tapping the floor in a nervous rhythm. The muffled noises behind a door sound like a badly tuned radio station.

Annecy crouches in the middle of the basement, the cold concrete seeping through her jeans. She meticulously arranges the tea light candles in a circle, triple-checking the spacing between each one. An old flashlight placed upside down casts a flickering glow on the damp stone walls.

This is completely ridiculous. But at least it’s an interesting experiment. Like documenting folklore.

She pulls out the crumpled paper from her pocket where she copied the forum instructions. The ink has smudged slightly from the basement’s humidity. Her fingers tremble faintly as she unfolds it—not from fear, but restrained excitement.

Light the candles in a specific order. Recite the incantation seven times. Wait for a sign.

She strikes a match, the sudden flare briefly illuminating her focused face. The first candle catches with a thin wisp of black smoke. The scent of melting wax mixes with the musty basement air.

If this actually works, would I even know what to do? And what if...

A draft makes all the flames sway at once. Annecy holds her breath without realizing, eyes wide. Then she shakes her head with a faint smirk.

Right. Just the door not sealing properly. Keep going.

Annecy’s sneakers crunch over dead branches as she pushes deeper into the woods. The blueish glow of her old phone barely illuminates two meters ahead, turning tree trunks into misshapen silhouettes. A damp wind rustles the leaves above, a constant whisper in the dark.

Better than expected. The air smells like wet earth and bark. No cars. No voices. Just... this.

She stops near an old oak with a deeply fissured trunk, pressing her palm against the rough bark. Her phone clumsily snaps a photo, blurry pixels, overexposed flash. She examines it with a slight frown.

Not sharp enough. But it’s just for me anyway. No one else would see what I’m looking for here.

A sharp rustle in the underbrush makes her flinch. She whips the light toward the sound, hands trembling faintly. Nothing. Just a falling branch. She exhales slowly, but her grip tightens on the phone.

Maybe I should go further. Where the trail ends.

She moves forward, the phone screen now angled downward to avoid gnarled roots. Somewhere, an owl hoots. Annecy freezes, holding her breath as if she could catch every ripple of the night.

If something appeared right now... would I film it? Would I run?

A barely-there smile flickers across her face. She walks on, slower this time, drinking in every detail invisible by daylight.

The flickering fluorescent lights of the public library cast a sterile white glow over rows of books. Annecy trails her fingers along the spines, barely grazing the edges as if she could divine their contents through touch alone. Her footsteps make no sound, avoiding the creaky floorboards with eerie precision.

No Dewey Decimal system today. Just channel surfing. Interesting cover, mediocre blurb... next. That one looks like a book they forced us to read in middle school.

She crouches in front of a low shelf, tilting her head to read the small print on the paperback spines. Her index finger pauses over a dark blue cover with a stylized forest illustration.

Too evocative. It’s gonna try to make me feel things. Hard pass.

A nearly inaudible sigh escapes her as she straightens up. She turns slowly, scanning the shelves as if they might rearrange themselves under her gaze.

The front door slams shut behind Annecy with a muffled thud; too loud for her ears. She winces slightly as she scuffs her sneakers together without bothering to untie them, leaving them in a messy heap on the cold floor. Her navy-blue coat gets dumped onto a kitchen chair, one sleeve dangling limply toward the ground.

Fucking day. Fucking teachers. Fucking hallway noise. Fucking pointless homework.

She flops onto the couch like dead weight, limbs heavy with social exhaustion. Her body sinks into the cushions with a muffled grunt. Staring blankly at the ceiling, she mentally tallies up the tasks still looming over her.

Math to finish... 12 problems. History: wrap up that case study. And that goddamn oral presentation for tomorrow; at least I can wing it, just gotta prep some slides.

She rolls onto her side, burying her face in a pillow. The faintly stale smell of the pillowcase, reminds her she should probably do laundry. Another thought for the pile.

First, 20 minutes of nothing. Just 20 minutes where nobody expects a damn thing from me.

The empty classroom echoes with every sound Annecy makes. She slams a thick stack of folders onto a table, sending a cloud of dust shimmering in the sunlight filtering through the blinds.

Dammit, should’ve brought incense. Or at least something to drink. Now it just looks like some depressing math make-up class.

She drags a squeaky metal chair and sits backward, resting her chin on the cold backrest. Her fingers tap a jittery rhythm against the steel as she stares at the half-open door.

They’re not gonna show. Of course they won’t. Why did I even do this? "Oh yeah, great idea, an occult club," except now I have to talk to people. To strangers. Fan-fucking-tastic.

With a sharp motion, she grabs a random folder from the pile and flips it open to a page marked by a frayed yellow Post-it. Newspaper clippings stick out, covered in her cramped, messy handwriting that shrinks toward the bottom like she was running out of ink.

*Worst case… worst case I can just pretend I held a meeting. Not even sure the faculty advisor checks. I could just… Nah, cheating’s bad. We’re not even there yet anyway.

Annecy drags her sneakers along the cracked sidewalk, gaze fixed on the ground as usual. A flash of gold catches the light between two cobblestones. She squints, leaning forward stiffly.

A notebook? No… too thick. And that binding…

She picks up the black object with just her fingertips, like it might burn her. The leather feels unnaturally smooth under her knuckles, almost alive. The words 'DEATH NOTE' in white lettering make her let out a quiet scoff.

Someone lost their late Halloween prop. Or this is a hidden camera bit…

She flips through the pages with a quick motion. The paper has a weird texture, too heavy to be normal. Her eyes scan the neatly calligraphed English instructions. A faint scent of old parchment and fresh ink tickles her nose.

Someone really put effort into this. Even the lines are pre-drawn. Would make a great notebook… or maybe…

She snaps the book shut abruptly, shoving it into her already-stuffed backpack. Her pace picks up despite herself, her knuckles whitening around the strap.

Gotta test it. Just to see. A random name… no, stupid. But if it were real… Can’t think about it. I’ll pick a criminal already on death row; that’s the most rational choice.

Her left hand taps nervously against the seam of her bag, feeling the rectangular shape through the fabric. Something hums in her chest, not quite excitement, not quite fear. Just that stubborn curiosity that’s gnawed at her forever.

Annecy's soles slide soundlessly across the cold tiled floor of the empty hallway. She clutches a crumpled notebook to her chest, the one where she’d scribbled last week’s schedule before losing it in the organized chaos of her backpack.

Room 106 or 109? Or maybe it was 206 and 209, I don’t remember.

Her eyes dart between the closed doors lining the corridor, fingers tapping nervously against the notebook’s cover. The muffled hum of voices behind classroom walls drills into her temples. She takes a breath, too sharp, and the smell of fresh paint stings her nose. One step forward. One step back. Her school bag bumps limply against her hip.

If I get it wrong, it’s embarrassing. But if I ask, that’s just as bad.

She presses a hand to her forehead, feeling heat rise beneath her fingers. The hallway silence feels oppressive now, each second weighing heavier on her shoulders. With a jerky movement, she pulls out her phone, its screen glaring too bright in the dim corridor. Her thumbs hover over the keyboard.

Call the office or just try 106 first? Goddamn school portal, if it worked I could’ve checked in two seconds.

The phone clicks off sharply. Annecy straightens, adjusts her sweater where it’s slipping off one shoulder, and finally moves toward the nearest door, only to hesitate and pull out her phone again, as if the website might magically reload itself this time.