Chapter 2: Only Honesty Can Save Your Life

01

I heard that my old high school in Maple Heights was about to be torn down and rebuilt. The class president said I was the only one who hadn't agreed to come back.

Mom had forwarded me the Facebook post weeks ago—the one with a blurry shot of the old brick school and a dozen comments from names I barely remembered. I’d scrolled past it, not planning to return to a place I’d worked so hard to leave behind. But then Derek’s relentless DMs arrived, each one guiltier than the last. He was always the guy who could talk you into one more pizza run or late-night study session. Eventually, I caved.

I knew Derek’s enthusiasm and sense of duty had always been over-the-top. I just couldn’t keep turning him down.

Besides, he had a way of making you feel like you owed him. What harm could a little nostalgia really do?

At the reunion, everyone drank too much—cheap beer and boxed wine, slices of Little Caesars gone cold on the folding tables.

The gym stank of old sweat and spilled Bud Light. People lined up for selfies under the peeling Mustangs banner, joking about the sticky floors and the walls nobody bothered to repaint. Someone had a playlist of 2010s hits blaring from a speaker, and someone else passed around a flask of Fireball. The pizza tasted like cardboard, but nobody cared—we were just glad the janitor hadn’t thrown us out yet.

That night, words flickered through my dreams: "Only honesty can save your life."

When I opened my eyes again, the bite of cold wind shocked me awake.

It seeped through cracked windows, stinging my cheeks. I pulled my hoodie tighter, blinking away confusion. This wasn’t my bed at the Comfort Inn. The air was thick with dust and bleach, the musty smell of old science classrooms.

My classmates were sprawled around me, dazed and groaning.

People clutched their heads, blinking blearily, trying to shake off hangovers—or something far worse. Someone swore, another fumbled for Tylenol. It felt like waking up after a college rager, except now the fear was real and the music was gone.

"Isn't this our old biology lab?"

A girl in the back peered at the chipped green counters, her voice trembling. The formaldehyde stink was unmistakable. A few others nodded, tracing their hands over old ink stains on the lab benches.

"What happened to us?"

Someone else’s voice wavered, the unease in the room growing like a storm about to break.

"Why won't the door open?"

Hands rattled the knob, metal clanging against metal. Panic was rising, thick and fast.

Everyone started shouting at once—panic and helplessness spreading like wildfire. Some girls clung to each other, sobbing and screaming.

The noise became deafening: shouts, questions, a girl wailing uncontrollably. I saw Lindsey squeezing Mariah’s hand so tightly their knuckles blanched. Others just stared, faces sheet-white, too stunned to react.

A few classmates coughed, their throats raw.

"Quiet!" A cold, sharp voice snapped from the intercom.

It was Derek.

His voice sounded almost familiar, but wrong—like someone else was wearing his skin, echoing through the vents. There was a cruel, mechanical edge to it.

"Hey, everyone. We already met last night, so I won't waste time with small talk. After all, this building will—collapse tomorrow morning. Hahaha..."

His laugh was nothing like the goofy one we knew. It was hollow, chilling, gleeful in a way that made my stomach twist.

"Derek, what do you want? Let us out!"

Someone slammed their fist against the wall, voice breaking with fear. I recognized Tyler’s shout from across the room.

"Finally, someone asks the obvious. Let’s give them a round of applause."

The slow, mocking clap echoed through the empty halls, cold and derisive. My skin crawled at the sound.

Some of the more timid girls couldn’t hold back, their hands trembling as they sobbed: "What does the class president want to do?"

"Don’t cry, don’t cry, or the class president might feel guilty."

The once-icy voice shifted, oozing fake concern—Derek sounded like a game show host pretending to care about a losing contestant.

"I just want to know..."

"Which one of you, back then... forced Lillian Carter to her death?"

A gasp rolled through the room, pulling the air out of it. No one had said Lillian’s name in years.