Leah | After School

After the homecoming game, Leah slipped into the girls’ locker room still buzzing with post-performance adrenaline. She dropped onto the bench, scrolled through photos and videos from the night, smiling at the comments flooding in.

One minute she was laughing at a teammate’s goofy halftime clip; the next, the locker room was eerily silent except for the low hum of the overhead vents. The clock on the wall read 10:47 p.m.

“Shit” she muttered, shoving her phone into her bag. The squad had left hours ago. The school was supposed to be locked. She zipped her duffel, slung it over her shoulder, and pushed through the heavy locker-room door. The hallway stretched ahead long, dim, and empty. Only the red emergency lights glowed faintly above each exit sign.

She started walking. Halfway down the corridor the overhead lights flickered once, twice, then settled into a stuttering pulse. Her stomach tightened. She told herself it was just old wiring. Then she heard it.

A slow, deliberate breath soft, almost intimate like someone standing just behind her left ear. Leah froze. Her pulse thudded in her throat. She turned her head slowly. Nothing. Just rows of closed classroom doors

She took another step. Faster this time. Behind her, fabric rustled quietly, but unmistakable. The sound of sleeves brushing against a body, or a shirt shifting as someone leaned forward. It was close. Too close.

Her sneakers squeaked against the tile as she broke into a hurried walk, eyes locked on the double doors at the far end of the hall. The exit sign above blinked.

The breathing followed. Steady. Patient. Leah’s heart slammed against her ribs. She broke into a run, duffel slapping against her hip, breath coming in sharp gasps. The rustling sound multiplied now it came from both sides, soft footsteps padding in rhythm with hers, invisible but undeniable.

She didn’t look back.

She couldn’t.