Chapter 1: The Reunion Trap

The night before the old school's demolition, all 49 of us were trapped in the classroom on the top floor.

The fluorescent lights buzzed above, washing the cracked ceiling tiles and battered desks in a pale, ghostly glow. The air reeked of old textbooks and dust, tinged with something sharper—bleach and the lingering funk of a thousand sweaty gym classes. A cold draft slipped through the window frame, making everyone huddle deeper into their hoodies and reunion T-shirts. Sneakers scuffed the tile, echoing through the tense hush as people shifted restlessly, caught between nervous laughter and the prickling certainty that something was terribly wrong.

Class president Derek demanded that we reveal who, back then, drove Lillian Carter to her death.

His voice sizzled through the ancient PA system, the words bouncing off cinderblock walls like a verdict from a B-movie judge. Beneath the forced calm, you could hear the tremor of barely-contained fury—like he was about to launch into a pep rally speech, except this time, what hung in the balance was more than school spirit.

"Those who know who did it, stand by the window. If you don't, stand by the door."

Some classmates hesitated, shifting from foot to foot; others moved right away, as if their choice had been made long before tonight.

You could see the old friend groups splitting, fractures running through the familiar faces. Anna brushed past me, her jaw clenched, eyes darting away as if she couldn’t bear to meet my gaze. Every shuffled footstep made the air grow heavier, thick with memories and regrets.

Twenty-one people drifted toward the classroom door.

A tense hush fell over the room as they gathered, hands shoved deep in pockets or gripping dead phones like lifelines. Some faces held a stubborn hope that this was just a sick prank; others looked ready for a final judgment.

Derek’s voice came through, muffled but sharp: "You can leave the classroom now."

I stood by the window, frozen, a wave of panic crashing through my chest.

My breath fogged the glass as I pressed against it, heart pounding so loud I thought it might shatter the silence. The parking lot below—once the stage for homecoming bonfires—looked like a different world now: empty, littered with faded campaign posters and soda cans, utterly lifeless.

Last night’s dream flickered in my mind: "Only honesty can save your life."

Could dreams and reality really be such bitter opposites?

My thoughts spiraled through fragments of the reunion—the sticky taste of boxed wine, the squeak of shoes on the gym floor, laughter that felt more like a dare. My fingers dug into the windowsill, knuckles white, praying for any sign this was just another bad dream.

Suddenly, tortured screams tore through the hallway.

It was the kind of sound that flips your insides to ice. The kind that stays with you forever—voices you know, twisted into something inhuman by fear and pain.

Then a cloud of white smoke, thick and pungent with the stench of blood, billowed down the corridor.

The smell hit first—a metallic tang, sharp and sickening, like pennies and scorched plastic. Someone gagged beside me, and my knees nearly gave way. The classroom wasn’t just a room anymore—it was a trap, and we were all caught inside.