Shadows of the Forgotten Kin

The cafeteria was a cacophony of screeching plastic chairs, damp napkins, and the smell of reheated mystery meat. Jovan stared at his tray, his fork trembling just enough to make the tines rattle against the ceramic. He wasn’t looking at his mashed potatoes. He was looking at the woman standing behind the trash bins.

She looked like she had been dead for a week, her skin the color of wet parchment and her hair matted with something dark and viscous. She wasn't bothering anyone, but she was leaning uncomfortably close to a freshman’s ear, whispering things that made the poor boy shiver without knowing why.

“Man, are you even going to eat that?”

Jovan blinked, the ghostly figure flickering out of his peripheral vision as his friend, Leo, nudged his arm.

“Huh? Oh. Nah, I’m not really hungry,” Jovan said, his voice coming out a little too thin.

“You’ve been weird all week, J. You know that, right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“Something like that. I’m just tired, Leo. The history project is killing me.”

“Well, pick it up. You’re scaring me. You’re literally pale as a sheet.”

“I’m fine. I’m just gonna go hit the library. Need to finish that essay.”

“Suit yourself. Don’t fall asleep on a bookshelf, yeah?”

“Yeah. Catch you later.”

Jovan stood up, sliding his tray into the rack with hands that felt clammy and cold. He didn’t look back at the trash bins, even though he felt the sudden, icy draft that signaled the woman was moving closer. He kept his eyes fixed on the exit, weaving through the crowded tables as if he were navigating a minefield.

Outside the cafeteria, the hallway was a stark, sterile transition. Mr. Henderson, the school’s notorious disciplinarian, stood by the lockers with his arms crossed, staring down Thiago. Thiago, who had a reputation for breaking noses and skipping detentions, looked bored, his leather jacket draped over his shoulder despite the dress code policy.

“I’m not kidding, Thiago,” Mr. Henderson barked, his voice booming off the linoleum. “One more stunt, and you’re out of here for good. You think this is a joke?”

“I don’t think anything’s a joke, Mr. Henderson. I just think you’re bored.”

“I’m serious. You want to stay in this school? You take the assignment. You shadow the kid. You make sure he stays out of trouble, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll forget about the incident in the gym.”

“Shadowing some nobody? You’re joking.”

“Do you want to graduate, or do you want to spend your afternoons working at the docks? You’re watching him. That’s the deal.”

Jovan hurried past them, keeping his head down. He felt Thiago’s gaze hit him like a physical blow. He didn't turn back, even when he heard a sharp, mocking laugh behind him.

“Whatever. If that’s what it takes,” Thiago muttered.

Jovan didn’t stop until he reached the library. It was the only place in the school that felt quiet enough to stop his heart from hammering against his ribs. He tucked himself into the back corner, near the dusty archives, and opened his notebook. But the silence didn't last. The air pressure in the room shifted, turning heavy and stagnant.

He didn't hear footsteps, but he felt the presence before he saw the shadow.

“You’re a hard guy to find when you’re trying to look invisible, aren’t you?”

Jovan jumped, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Thiago stood there, looming over the desk. He didn't look like a guy who had been forced into a babysitting gig; he looked like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

“What do you want, Thiago? I’m studying.”

“Studying? Right. Is that what you call it when you’re staring at nothing and talking to the air?”

Jovan’s stomach dropped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play that game with me. I’ve seen you. The way you look at the corners of rooms. The way you flinch when there’s nobody there. You’re seeing them, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jovan repeated, his voice shaking. “Leave me alone.”

Thiago leaned down, bracing his hands on the desk. He smelled like cheap cigarettes and cold rain. “I’m not trying to mess with you, freak. I’m telling you, I see them too. And you’re not the only one who knows what’s going on in this school.”

“You’re crazy,” Jovan breathed, his heart slamming against his chest.

“Maybe. But you’re scared. I can see it in your eyes. You’re scared because they’re getting closer, aren't they? The ones you see in the cafeteria? The ones that follow you home?”

Jovan pushed his chair back, his pulse thundering in his ears. He grabbed his bag, his movements frantic and uncoordinated.

“You’re insane. Leave me out of your twisted games.”

“You can run, but you can’t hide from what’s already latched onto you,” Thiago called out, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm.

Jovan didn’t stay to argue. He bolted from the library, his sneakers squeaking on the tiles as he sprinted toward the main hallway. He didn't care who saw him running. He just needed to get away from that look in Thiago’s eyes—a look of knowing, of recognition, of something far worse than just a school bully.

He made it to the locker room, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The school felt smaller, darker, the shadows stretching longer than they had any right to. He slammed his locker open, his hands trembling so violently he could barely hold the combination dial.

He threw his books inside, wanting nothing more than to leave, to get home, to lock his door. But as he shoved his bag in, his hand brushed against something cold and paper-thin tucked into the corner of the locker.

It was a small, cream-colored envelope. There was no stamp, no return address. Just his name, written in familiar, frantic cursive.

Jovan.

His brother’s handwriting. His brother, who had been missing for six months.

Jovan pulled the note out, his blood running cold as he stared at the ink. The paper felt brittle, almost as if it had been scorched by fire. He looked toward the end of the hallway, wondering if Thiago was still watching, wondering if he was losing his mind, or if the nightmare was only just beginning.

He gripped the note so hard his knuckles turned white. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't look away.

“This isn't real,” he whispered to the empty, quiet locker room. “It can't be real.”

But he knew it w

as. The cold weight of the paper in his hand was the only thing that felt real at all.