RETURN

CHAPTER 6

308 days before my life was caught short

The morning after the dream—or the message, or whatever it had been—arrived in layers of muted light and silence. My body felt weighed down as though I’d lived out the events of the night instead of dreaming them. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying to make sense of the photo, of Lana, of the feeling that something cold had crept into the edges of my life and made a home there.

I didn’t tell anyone. Not yet.

The photo remained tucked in the back of my notebook, hidden beneath a fold of looseleaf paper that had once held my English notes but now seemed to carry the heaviness of a secret. I didn’t dare touch it again that morning. I barely wanted to look at it.

Instead, I pulled myself through the motions of getting ready—pulling on a hoodie, tugging my hair into a bun, skipping breakfast. My mother was in the kitchen humming off-key to a song on the radio, completely unaware that her daughter had woken up with evidence of something sinister in her bedroom. I envied her ignorance.

At school, everything was too bright, too loud, too normal. The hallway buzzed with familiar voices. People shoved past, laughed, checked their phones. I spotted Lana from across the hall. Alive. Talking. Smiling.

I froze.

She was leaning against her locker, earbuds half-dangling, eyes shining in that way they did when she was halfway through telling a story she knew would kill. The same lips. The same dimple on the left cheek. Not a scratch on her. Not a trace of the bruises or ropes or brokenness that stared back at me from the photo.

She looked fine.

But I wasn’t.

“You good?” It was Dre, his hand lightly brushing my elbow. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

I managed a laugh, but it cracked in my throat. “Didn’t sleep well.”

Dre squinted at me, unconvinced. “You sure? You look pale.”

“I’m Black,” I deadpanned, and he chuckled, the concern fading.

“Point taken. You coming to Lit?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in a sec.”

He walked off, and I turned back toward Lana, who had now turned her attention to her phone. I felt my fingers twitch with the urge to reach for the photo again—to compare. But it was buried too deep, and so was my fear.

I watched Lana for another second, trying to decide if I was hallucinating or if the universe was playing a really messed-up trick on me. She glanced up once, and for a flicker of a moment, her eyes locked onto mine. Not just glanced—locked. Like she knew I was watching. Like she was waiting for it.

Then she smiled, not the friendly kind, not the “hey, girl!” kind. This one was thinner. Cautious. Something about it didn’t fit her face.

It vanished before I could figure out what was wrong with it.

And then she turned and walked away, her hair catching the light, bouncing like nothing was broken in her world.

⸻

Literature class dragged. Mr. Ellis was droning on about unreliable narrators and how perspective shapes truth. I sat there in the second row, my head heavy, heart racing, wondering how many versions of Lana existed and whether I could trust any of them.

Across the room, Eli caught my eye. He looked how I felt—exhausted, raw. He didn’t even try to hide it. When the bell rang, he was already packing up.

I caught up to him outside the classroom.

“We need to talk,” I said.

He nodded. “Meet after sixth period?”

“There’s more,” I added. “Stuff I didn’t say yesterday.”

He paused. “Me too.”

⸻

Sixth period came and went in a blur. My thoughts were thick, swimming with images from the bunker. The hatch. The pages nailed to the wall. That symbol—circular, split, almost ritualistic. None of it made sense, and yet it all felt horrifyingly real.

I skipped the bus and walked to the park where we’d agreed to meet. The same bench near the dry fountain. Eli was already there, his hoodie pulled low and his foot tapping against the concrete like he’d been waiting forever.

I sat beside him, close but not too close. “I saw her this morning.”

“Lana?”

I nodded. “Locker hallway. Talking like nothing ever happened.”

His face went pale. “You sure?”

“I’m not losing my mind, Eli. I know what I saw in that photo. I know what we saw in the shelter. And yet she’s here. Walking around.”

He was quiet for a second. Then he pulled something from his backpack. A small, broken Polaroid. “I found this under my pillow this morning.”

I took it carefully.

It was a photo of me.

Sleeping.

Same hoodie. Same bedspread. My eyes closed. Completely unaware.

My stomach flipped. “This—when did—?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t take it. But it was there. No note. No writing. Just the photo.”

Someone had been in his room.

Watching.

I stared at my sleeping face and felt the deep, undeniable crawl of fear slither up my spine. “This means they know we went there. That we saw it.”

Eli looked up, eyes heavy. “It means they’re not just watching. They’re choosing what we see. Who we see.”

⸻

That night, I locked my window and pushed a chair under my door handle.

I didn’t sleep.

I stayed up reading the notes I’d copied down from the bunker. I redrew the symbol over and over, trying to trace it into memory. The circle split into three prongs. It reminded me of something I couldn’t quite place—like it was meant to be remembered, not discovered.

Then I did something I hadn’t tried before.

I Googled “symbols that attract entities.” I didn’t expect much. But a few images came close—ancient runes, sigils for summoning, protective marks. All of them had some variation of a split circle. Some cultures believed they kept evil out. Others claimed they invited something in.

I wasn’t sure which we had done.

⸻

The next morning, I skipped the hallway.

I didn’t want to see Lana again. Not because I was scared—but because I didn’t know what I was looking at. Was she a warning? A test? A distraction?

I avoided her until fourth period, where fate decided to be cruel and paired us together for a group project. Just me, her, and Dre. Our names scribbled together on the whiteboard like some cosmic joke.

She sat down beside me like nothing had changed.

“Hey,” she said.

Her voice was soft. Perfect. Untouched.

“Hey,” I managed, watching her too carefully.

Dre grinned at her. “Ready to dominate this presentation or what?”

Lana laughed, and the sound sent chills down my arms.

She turned to me, all warmth. “You okay? You look… tired.”

I blinked. “Just a long night.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Bad dreams?”

I froze.

She shouldn’t know that.

I hadn’t said anything. Not to her. Not to anyone. Unless—

Unless whoever—or whatever—she was now, it wasn’t Lana.

My mouth went dry. “Why would you say that?”

She blinked, then smiled gently. “Just a guess.”

But it wasn’t. It was a warning. A flicker of something behind her eyes. A momentary crack in her perfect act.

And I knew then—I wasn’t talking to my friend anymore.

After class, I practically ran to the bathroom, locking myself into the last stall just to breathe. My hands were shaking, my mind racing. That wasn’t her. It looked like her, sounded like her, smelled like her perfume even—but there was something hollow in her eyes. Like she was playing a part too well.

I pulled out the photo from my notebook—the one of her tied and terrified—and stared at it. Was it even real? Or had I imagined it? Was it planted? Was someone trying to manipulate me?

A knock came at the bathroom door. Three soft taps.

Then silence.

I held my breath, clutching the photo like it could protect me. After a moment, the sound of footsteps faded, and I let myself breathe again.

⸻

That night, I met Eli at the old bike trail near Ridgemont. We didn’t talk at first—just walked side by side, our steps crunching over loose gravel. The wind had a bite to it, and the trees whispered overhead like they were keeping secrets.

“She knew,” I said eventually.

He looked over.

“Lana. In class. She asked if I had bad dreams. She knew.”

Eli didn’t even flinch. “I figured it out.”

I stopped walking. “What?”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a notebook—worn, bent at the corners, covered in old band stickers. “I’ve been keeping track. Everyone who’s seen the shelter… the real shelter… something changes.”

“Changes how?”

“They start acting different. Or they disappear. Or they become someone else entirely. Like Lana. Like maybe even—” he paused, swallowed hard “—like you.”

My heart thudded. “Me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“You’re different too,” he said. “Since that night. You flinch more. You stare off. You used to laugh more.”

I felt like something cracked inside me.

“I’m not possessed if that’s what you’re implying,” I snapped.

“I didn’t say possessed.”

I turned away from him. “I’m scared, Eli. Not stupid. And not gone.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “I just don’t want to lose anyone else.”

⸻

Later that night, I finally opened the back of the photo.

I hadn’t looked before—not closely. But now, with the house dark and silent, and my nerves raw, I saw it: faint pencil marks, nearly invisible.

A time.

3:13 a.m.

And beneath it: a single word, scribbled in rushed, trembling letters.

“Return.”

I sat on my bed, frozen. That same number. The same number that started it all. Three thirteen. The hour the shelter opened. The hour the dream started. The hour I was marked.

And now, an instruction.

Return.

To the shelter? To the photo? To the moment I crossed some invisible line between safety and horror?

I didn’t know what it meant exactly. But I knew this much—it wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

And something—or someone—wanted me back.