Chapter Text
The hallway outside Jerome and Alfie’s room is dim, the kind of shadowy that belongs in ghost stories and the tail ends of bad decisions. Patricia walks beside me in her Number 6 t-shirt and grey shorts, yawning and already annoyed — classic. I’m in my pajama pants and long-sleeved shirt, hair down, heart steady. Midnight meetings? Bring it on. I don’t run. Not from teachers, not from secrets, and definitely not from screams in the dark.
Patricia knocks. The door creaks open to reveal Jerome in all black like he’s cosplaying a Hot Topic catalog. Alfie’s inside already, seated at the table, hands hovering over a glowing orb lamp that looks like it cost ten quid and a bad decision. Jerome swings the door shut behind us. Patricia’s face folds immediately into a wince. She turns to go.
Jerome steps in front of her and says, “Wait, wait, wait! It won’t work if you don’t believe.”
Patricia groans. “Yeah, well, the goth-vamp look is a bit last year.”
I scan the setup — orb, black outfits, dramatic energy — then cross my arms. “Seriously? I thought this was going to be Supernatural, but it’s giving off-brand Charmed with a side of Halloween store clearance bin.”
Jerome looks offended. “You both think Joy's dead, yeah?” He gestures dramatically at the orb. “Well, there’s one way to find out.”
Patricia pauses. I don’t. I stare at the lamp like it’s a group project I didn’t sign up for. “You know crystal balls are for fortune telling, right? Not ghost summoning. Unless Joy’s spirit wants to tell us our star signs. Like, I’m Leo. Patricia’s a Sagittarius. Jerome, you’re definitely a Gemini. Alfie’s got Aries energy written all over him.” They don’t argue. Probably because I’m right. We all sit. I drop into the seat like a lawyer at a trial I already know I’m going to win.
Alfie waves his hands over the glowing orb like he’s summoning ancient spirits from a discount spellbook. “Then there was the time Jerome stole Mrs. Andrews’ scarf,” he says, voice full of fake mysticism, “because it smelt of her perfume.” Alfie snorts. “Snuggled up in bed with it because he missed his mum.”
Patricia groans and stands up. “Oh, this is ridiculous. I’m leaving.”
Jerome throws a hand out and gently presses her back into the chair. “All right, all right, relax.”
I lean toward him, smiling with sharp teeth. “Wow. That explains so much. The sarcasm, the need for constant validation, the emotional constipation — textbook mommy issues.” I glance sideways at him with mock sympathy. “I mean, sniffing your teacher’s scarf for comfort? That’s not just Freud knocking, Clarke. That’s him kicking the door down.”
Patricia snorts. “Okay, that’s actually disturbing.”
“And here I thought your weirdness peaked with that pickup line about rearranging the alphabet,” I say, still smirking. “Turns out, you’ve got layers.”
Jerome glares at Alfie. “I’m going to smother you with that scarf one day.”
I nudge him. “Better hope your mum doesn’t find out. She might ground you… again.” He shoots me a look like I just beat him in chess without touching a piece.
Then Jerome shifts. His tone tightens. “Alfonzo, what about Joy?” Alfie leans over the orb, takes a dramatic breath. Jerome lowers his voice. “Joy, can you hear us?”
Alfie adopts a terrible falsetto. “Patricia? I didn’t want you to call me, Patricia. Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?”
I sit up slowly, expression flat. “Wow. Really reaching for that Daytime Emmy, aren’t we?”
And then it happens. A scream. High-pitched. Sharp. Feminine. Real. The kind of sound that slices straight through your bones and leaves you hollow. We all jerk like we’ve been shocked. Patricia bolts upright, eyes wide. “What was that?”
I freeze for half a second. Then I rise. Sharp. Focused. “Okay… that wasn’t Alfie’s bad acting.” I move forward, scanning the room. “That wasn’t the pipes. That wasn’t someone joking. That was a real scream. A girl’s scream.” I lock eyes with both boys. “Tell me that was one of your sound effects. Now.”
Alfie’s face drains. “I... I didn’t do anything!”
Jerome, this time, isn’t grinning. “That wasn’t us. I swear.”
I look between them. Cold. Certain. “Then we’ve got a problem. A real one.”
And for one whole second, silence devours the room. Then Jerome laughs. Nervous. Too loud. Alfie joins in, too fast to be genuine.
Jerome jokes, “Well, I think we’ve pestered Joy enough for one night.”
Alfie grins. “Yeah, she did always get grouchy after 10.”
Patricia’s had enough. She stands. “Stop talking about her like she’s… Good night, weasels.” She storms out. The door clicks behind her.
I don’t move. Arms crossed. Eyes fixed. “You both really think that was funny?” They hesitate.
Alfie tries to brush it off. “Come on, V… it was probably nothing. Old house. Creaky wood. Weird acoustics…”
I cut him off. “That wasn’t wood. That was a scream. Human. Terrified.”
I step closer. My voice lowers — quiet, cold, final. “You think if we laugh it off, it goes away? That’s what they’re counting on — Victor, Andrews, maybe even Sweet. That we’ll get scared, roll our eyes, and move on. But I don’t roll. And I sure as hell don’t move on.”
Jerome swallows. “You think it was… her?”
I stare at him, steady as steel. “I think someone wanted us to hear that.” I turn to go. Stop. Look back. “Next time you want to play ghostbusters… bring salt. And maybe a brain.” I walk out. The door creaks shut behind me. And for the first time tonight, silence isn’t funny anymore. It’s warning.
The house is draped in that eerie kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty — it feels loaded. Like the walls are holding their breath, like the moonlight is watching. I shut Jerome and Alfie’s door behind me, slow and silent. My hand hovers over the doorknob for half a second longer than necessary. Just long enough to feel the tension humming in the air.
My bare feet tread lightly on the old wood floor. Each step is careful. Controlled. There’s no room for clumsy tonight. Patricia waits at the base of the stairs, half-swallowed by shadows, her arms tight across her chest. Her eyes are on the top of the staircase. Mine follow.
Victor. He moves across the upper hallway like a storm cloud wrapped in an old man's body. No cane. No limp. Just cold authority with a key ring swinging in his hand. So the limp was for show — another carefully crafted lie in a house built on them.
Patricia sucks in a breath. She doesn’t move. Neither do I. We both watch. Victor turns down the corridor. His steps are light, far too quiet for someone who used to make the floorboards quake with each stomp. I move up next to Patricia, eyes locked on his silhouette. She looks at me for half a heartbeat, and we both know what’s next. We follow.
We move like smoke — thin, silent, present. Every step up the stairs is deliberate. Slow. Not because we’re scared. We’re just not stupid. It’s the kind of silence that gets people answers. Or caught.
The hallway up here is dim, lit only by the weak glow of the sconces and whatever moonlight the stained-glass window offers. Victor’s shadow stretches long across the floor as he reaches the attic door. His keys jingle softly. He fumbles. Patricia catches my eye, then nods toward her room at the end of the hall. Victor’s back is turned. She bolts. And I have to give it to her — she’s quick. Doesn’t even hesitate. Slides past the hallway like a shadow with sneakers and vanishes into her room. No sound. No trace.
Victor doesn’t notice. He selects the right key. Click. The sound of that lock turning could wake the dead. Or maybe that’s the point. He opens the attic door slowly — too slowly — and steps inside. The door closes behind him with a soft but final thud. And I just… watch. The attic. Of course it’s the attic.
The scream wasn’t horizontal. It was vertical. Rising. Echoing down the stairwell like someone wanted to be found and was willing to haunt us to do it. And if anyone’s foolish enough to chase that kind of scream, it’s Nina. Maybe Fabian too. They’re probably up there now, wide-eyed and whispering, hearts pounding like it’s an adventure. Because that’s what they do — they treat danger like an academic elective.
The corridor quiets again. The house holds its breath. I stay hidden for a few more seconds. No movement. No creaking. No Victor. Then I step out. I don’t run. I don’t panic. I walk. Calm, steady, spine straight, toward my bedroom across from the attic door. I glance back once. Just once. Still nothing.
I open my door and slip inside, closing it behind me with a muted click. I don’t sigh. I don’t relax. Not yet. Because this house — this beautiful, rotten, whispering house — it never sleeps. And neither do its secrets.
The door clicks shut behind me as I step into the room — soft glow still spilling from Amber’s lamp, the scent of her vanilla hand cream hanging faintly in the air. My hair’s a mess, my steps quiet, and I don’t even bother hiding the exhaustion on my face. The night’s been long. Weird. Typical.
Amber stands in the center of the room like she’s been waiting — pink striped pajamas, arms crossed, a question already cocked like a loaded slingshot. She asks, “Where is Nina?”
I toss out the answer too casually. "Probably in the attic. Spending quality time with Fabian." I throw it like it’s no big deal, but my tone’s just sharp enough to make sure she knows it’s not nothing. Because it’s never nothing when someone’s whispering with Fabian Rutter in the dead of night.
Amber squints, suspicious and curious all at once. “Where were you?”
I sit down at the edge of my bed and sigh. “Jerome and Alfie’s room. They invited Patricia and me to some ridiculous séance. You know, glowing orb, spooky voices, Alfie pretending to be possessed — your standard haunted sleepover.” I say it flat, because even though the night was absurd, the scream wasn’t.
Amber rolls her eyes. “Why am I not surprised? Those two are so annoying. They act like ten-year-olds.”
There’s a beat. Then her expression shifts, eyes glinting with something suspiciously close to admiration. “But… I saw what you did to Jerome’s tie at school. That was pretty cool. And terrifying. Like… you actually locked his confession in your locker.” She grins like she’s just seen her favorite villain win the final act. “I mean, he kinda deserved it. After that whole laundry room thing he tried to spin against me and Mick? That was low. You, Victoria Mars… are our Nancy Drew. Except you bite. And your hair’s way better.”
I smirk, leaning back on my elbows. “Flattery noted. But here’s the real story: Mara cheated. French test. Wrote two papers — one for herself, one for Mick. She trashed his real one. Would’ve gotten away with it, too… if Jerome hadn’t kept the original to blackmail her. He never got the chance. I stopped him. Exposed Mara.”
Amber’s jaw drops. “Wait… Mara cheated for Mick?” Her voice pitches higher, like betrayal tastes personal. “That’s seriously messed up. Like… was she trying to steal him from me?” She drops onto the edge of her bed, rattled but glowing. Amber acts like betrayal is beneath her, but the second someone gets too close to what’s hers, the claws come out. I may have just saved her social empire, and she knows it.
“You’re scary good at this, Mars,” she says, almost breathless. “I mean… scary.”
The hallway coughs up a whisper. Both of us freeze, heads turning like radar.
“I might never sleep again,” Nina murmurs, just outside.
“Same,” Fabian whispers.
Then, Nina whispers, “I can’t believe we got away with it. Night.”
“Night.”
The door creaks open. Nina slips in — pajamaed, wide-eyed, caught mid-step. Her bag swings off her shoulder. She freezes the moment she sees us.
Amber crosses her arms. “Can’t believe you got away with what?”
Nina blinks, smile too bright. “What?” She shuts the door quickly, tone climbing into panic territory. “No, nothing, nothing at all.”
I cross my arms, stare down the closed door behind her. “Yeah. That was definitely ‘nothing.’ Because people always whisper ‘nothing’ in the dark when they’re totally innocent.” I glance at Amber, voice dry as cracked paint. “What do you think? Should we be concerned… or flattered they’re finally joining the shady secrets club?”
Nina dumps her bag and ducks under her covers like a submarine diving for cover. Amber narrows her eyes, amused, and circles like she’s about to pounce. “You’ve been sneaking around with Fabian,” Amber says slowly, “in the middle of the night. Your heart’s pounding, and you think you got away with something.” She plops beside Nina on the bed, then gasps. “Oh! You were having a secret date!”
Nina flounders. “No, not exactly…”
My head tilts. Voice bone-dry. “Wow, Amber. Not everything’s fairy lights and kissing behind bookcases.” I step forward, studying Nina’s expression like it’s a cipher. “And ‘not exactly’ isn’t a denial. It’s what people say right before the truth spills out and lights the curtains on fire.”
Amber beams. “This is so exciting. You, me, Victoria, Mick, Fabian, and… Jerome? Definitely Jerome. Triple dates. I can see it already.”
I deadpan. “Triple dates? With Jerome? What is this — matchmaking or psychological warfare?”
Amber giggles. “Come on, the banter! The bickering! It’s so Kat and Patrick from 10 Things I Hate About You. It’s practically fate.”
I scoff, arms still folded. “Real life isn’t a romcom. Sometimes when a girl and a boy hate each other, it’s because one of them is a manipulative con artist with abandonment issues, and the other has functioning standards.”
Nina muffles a laugh. “Ouch.”
I add, a little softer, “Besides… I’m not the ‘date night and milkshakes’ type. I do late-night investigations, trust issues, and sarcasm sharp enough to cut through steel. I’m not ready for… all that relationship stuff. Not now.”
Amber quiets. “You’re allowed to want soft things too, you know.”
I meet her eyes. “Maybe. But right now? I want the truth more than I want a boyfriend.” I crawl into bed, flipping the covers over myself like armor. My voice drifts out from under them.
Amber turns to Nina, practically glowing. “I can’t wait to tell everyone about you and Fabian!”
“No! No one,” Nina yelps. “You tell absolutely no one. Promise?”
Amber’s smile spreads like spilled glitter. “Oh, I get it. Secret love. So romantic. Your secret is safe with me.” She hops off Nina’s bed and flops into hers dramatically.
From under my blanket, I say, muffled but flat, “Great. We’ve officially entered soap opera territory. What’s next, love triangles and dramatic hallway kisses?” I peek out just enough to stare at Nina. “Just make sure your ‘secret love’ doesn’t get the rest of us caught. One wrong move and Victor will mount our heads like house trophies.”
Amber chirps, “You’re so dramatic, Tori.”
I smirk faintly, pulling the blanket back over my head. “I’m not the one hiding Romeo under a floorboard.”
The drama room smells like old velvet and forgotten scripts. The kind of scent that clings to shadows and echoing voices. They’ve pushed all the furniture onto the stage — couches, armchairs, even the little glass coffee table with a crack down the side. What’s left is an open space by the windows, filled with murmurs, paired-off students, and that pre-rehearsal kind of tension. Everyone’s in uniform, ties crooked, sweaters half-on, like no one had the energy for full effort today.
I stand near the tall windows with Patricia, Jerome, and Alfie, our voices low. The room buzzes behind us, but here, it’s just the four of us — and the memory of that scream from last night.
Patricia’s arms are folded tightly. “I couldn’t sleep. What if we’ve woken some sort of evil spirit?”
Jerome grins and curls his fingers like claws at her. “Yeah, and what if it comes and possesses you in the night?”
I fold my arms tighter, unimpressed. “Right. Because clearly the logical explanation for a scream in the night is demonic possession.” Midnight horror logic — if in doubt, summon Satan. Just another day at Amun Academy.
Jerome leans closer, ever the drama king. “Aw, c’mon, Mars. You mean you weren’t even a little bit scared last night? Not even when the ghost screamed your name from the underworld?” He wiggles his fingers in front of my face. “Viiictoriaaa… give me your case files… and your last shred of joy…”
Alfie cuts him off with a wave. “Okay, as far out as this may be, Trixie, Tori, I was making it up.”
Patricia doesn’t even blink. “Er, I know. Your acting stinks.”
Alfie’s grin slips. I smirk and tilt my head. “She’s not wrong, Alfie. I’ve seen better performances in toothpaste commercials.” My voice drops, dry as sandpaper. “If last night was your audition for Ghost of Joy Past, consider yourself ghosted.”
Patricia sobers, her gaze sharpening. “But you didn’t make up that screeching noise, did you?”
Before Alfie can answer, Winkler’s voice cuts across the room. “Patricia, Alfie, Jerome, and Victoria. Pairs, please.”
Alfie doesn’t hesitate. He sticks with Patricia. Jerome falls into step beside me, grinning like we’re about to win an award for Most Dysfunctional Duo. Across the room, I clock Mick and Fabian — standing closer than usual, exchanging one of those glances. Yeah. Brokeback Boarding School. Not judging. Just observing.
Winkler plants himself at the front of the room like a stage director about to drop a twist. “Three little words: I love you.” I turn just in time to catch Mick and Fabian take a synchronized, flustered step back from each other. Well. That escalated quickly.
Winkler continues, his voice rich with teacher-theatre enthusiasm. “It’s not what you say — it’s how you say it. I want each pair to tell a story using only those three words. I love you. That’s it.”
Jerome turns to me with a gleam in his eye like he’s already planning his Oscar speech. I don’t wait. I start, syrupy sweet: “Smile for the cameras, darling. They’re watching.”
Jerome plays along. “Of course, sugarpuss. Wouldn’t want your ex to think you’re still emotionally available.”
My tone goes darker, muttering: “You’re not even emotionally available to yourself, Clarke. You keep more walls up than a castle.”
Jerome keeps his cool. “And you? You keep more knives behind your back than friends in your corner.”
I tilt my head, smile razor-thin. “That’s because friends don’t blackmail each other. I love you.”
He mock-gasps. “You what?”
I say it again, deadpan. “I love you. In the same way I love dental surgery and slow Wi-Fi.”
Jerome clutches his chest. “I love you too. Like a rash I can’t get rid of. Infectious. Itchy. Publicly embarrassing.”
I chuckle, low and dry. “We make such a believable couple. Almost makes me forget I want to shove you down the stairs.”
He leans in. “And I want to frame you for murder. But here we are. Holding hands. Saying I love you.”
My tone drips honey and arsenic. “I love you. Like arsenic in my tea.”
Jerome swoons dramatically. “I love you too. Like nightmares love the dark.”
I narrow my eyes. “You know what, Clarke? For someone so annoying, you do clean up well.”
He grins. “Careful, Mars. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Almost.” I grin back — venomous and deliberate. Then: “I love you.”
Jerome says it, this time quieter. “I love you. I hate how much I mean that.”
And then I drop my voice flat. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t blink. “Too late.”
Winkler claps once. “Now that… that was scorching. Jerome, Victoria — I don’t know whether to hand you a script or a fire extinguisher.” He beams at the rest of the class. “Class, this is what I’m talking about. Emotion. Subtext. Tension. Beatrice and Benedick, anyone? Much Ado About Nothing?”
Behind us, Alfie tries the exercise with Patricia. He’s sincere. “I love you!” She doesn’t respond. He tries again. “I love you.” Still nothing. “Hey, Patricia! I said I love you!”
She spins around, pale and rattled. “Did anyone see that?” She’s pointing out the window.
Winkler frowns. “What?”
Everyone rushes to the window. I follow too, instincts kicking in. Outside, there’s nothing. Just bushes. Wind. The soft kind of creepy. Patricia’s eyes are wide. “He was staring at me. That man. Right there.” No one’s there now. No figure. No face. Students begin to drift back, shaking their heads.
But not me. I step in closer, my voice low. “What did he look like?”
Patricia hesitates. “What?”
“The man. You saw something. I believe you. Describe him — face, clothes, anything. After class.”
She looks stunned. Soft, but sure. “Okay. Yeah… yeah, I will.”
I turn back from the window. But my gaze stays sharp. Because something’s coming. I can feel it, sitting heavy in my chest like a storm held back by a single, fraying thread. And this time, it’s not just whispers in the night. It’s someone watching back.
The sunlight hits the blinds at the perfect slant — that kind of gold that makes everything look deceptively peaceful. It stripes across the desks like bars, a cage of light we’re pretending not to be in. The room’s empty except for me and Patricia, and the only sound is the scratch of my pencil moving fast over the page. The history posters peeling off the walls, the faded map of ancient Egypt — all of it watches us like quiet witnesses.
I haven’t drawn like this in ages. Not since before everything got complicated. Before the lies stacked up. Before this school turned into a labyrinth of secrets. Funny how solving mysteries made me forget the thing that used to make sense — lines, shadows, motion turned still.
Patricia sits next to me, hunched close, her voice low and careful. “His eyes were… big. Grey, maybe green? Not brown. Definitely not brown.”
I keep my focus on the sketchpad. “Big how? Wide, bulging?”
“Kind of… intense. Like he was staring straight into me. And his eyebrows — thick. Real close to his eyes, like they were trying to smother them.” I nod slightly, pencil moving. Eyes first, but the nose comes next — always the nose. That’s the anchor. People forget everything else, but never the nose.
“His nose was long. Big. The tip kind of dipped down — like it drooped. But the nostrils were raised, flared up almost.” My pencil darkens the bridge, softens the slope. I don’t ask what he felt like to look at. That part’s already in her voice.
“Lips were thin. His face was round — full, like… puffy. He had a double chin, I think. Hair was brown, but greying. And his ears — they were big. Pointed, almost elf-y, but not in a cute way.” My hand doesn’t slow. Shadows under the chin. Weight in the jaw. Lines by the eyes. It comes together faster than I expect — like I already saw him too, in some dark corner of my brain.
“Age?” I ask.
“Late forties, probably. And he was wearing all black. Turtleneck, leather blazer, pants. Like some sort of spy in a bad movie.”
I give the sketch one last sweep, shading under the eyes, roughing the blazer’s shoulder. Then I turn the sketchpad toward her. “Is this him?”
Patricia stares. Her throat moves. She nods. “That’s him.” Her voice drops, quieter now. “That’s exactly him.” I look at the face once more. This stranger. This not-ghost. Then I close the sketchbook gently like sealing a deal. We’ve got him now. A face. That’s where it starts.
Patricia’s voice picks up, urgency rising. “We need to find someone to help us. Maybe Mr. Winkler — he’s new, right? He doesn’t know the whole... Joy cover-up. He could help find the original photo. Maybe he’s not involved like the others.”
“No.”
She frowns, confused. “Why not?”
“Because he’s still staff. That’s the problem. You tell Winkler, he gets involved. You think he won’t go to Sweet? And Sweet’ll tell him to talk to Victor. And Victor…” I don’t have to finish the sentence. Patricia already knows. “Victor’s the one who sold Joy’s parents that fake story. The same way he made Roebuck back off. The same way your mom suddenly thinks Joy just… transferred to some international school.”
Patricia’s face tightens. “He brainwashed them…”
I nod. “He doesn’t even need hypnosis. Just authority, tone of voice, and an office that smells like formaldehyde and fascism.”
She glances down, voice quieter but still panicked. “But Winkler…”
“…will fold.” I cut in, voice even. “The minute Victor gets to him. He’ll think we’re paranoid. Or worse — he’ll want to believe the safe version.” She exhales slowly, jaw clenched. That look in her eyes — not fear, not yet. Just something sharper. A crack opening.
“There’s one adult we can trust,” I say, voice low, steady. “One who’s not under Victor’s thumb. One who doesn’t believe in the propaganda.”
Patricia blinks. “Your dad.”
I nod. “We go to Mars Investigations. After class. I show him the sketch. You tell him what you saw. We tell him everything.” Not a teacher. Not a cop. A private investigator. Which means he doesn’t take things on faith. He doesn’t trust — he checks.
“He can find the photographer who took that class picture,” I explain. “The real one. The one with Joy still in it. He’ll get the original. Not through Winkler. Not through staff. Through him.”
Patricia’s voice is softer, almost hopeful. “And he’ll believe us?”
“He always does.” We sit there for a moment. Quiet. The sketchbook between us like a loaded weapon. The ghosts are real. But we’re done waiting for them to come to us. This time, we chase the living.