That night, Rayne crept through the marbled hallways of Maria J. Westwood just before curfew. A crescent moon hung high in the evening sky, tucked between tufts of gray clouds, casting a spectral glow through the windows. Excitement stirred Rayne's breast. Like an addict, she found herself suddenly craving the sweet rush of being near Cole Bradford. The thrill was in the unknown, the uncertainty of his intentions, and the kinship of rebellion. 

On her left-hand side, the hallway branched into a "T," and two stocky guards stood at the end, their figures distorted by the dim light. They seemed enrapt in conversation as Rayne peeked around the corner, so she darted through the open hall when their backs were turned. One of them angled his head toward the passageway, his senses seemingly pricked by the pitter-patter of her shoes, but he must have brushed off the sound. Neither of them pursued her.

Avoiding the cameras, just as Cole had taught her, Rayne quickly hid herself away inside the custodial closet. She was thankful not to have had any strange encounters with shadows in darkness along the way. Her heart pounded as she traveled through the tunnel, up the ladder, and over brushwood. Wearing a black hoodie and bootcut jeans, Rayne galloped faster, tracking mud along the shin of her pant legs. The moon's radiance guided her toward the shack in the distance, which seemed aglow as candlelight seeped through the cracks in the doorframe. 

The boys were already waiting for her inside. Four white candles flickered in each corner, a dazzling display of shadows dancing along the wall. Rayne tried to avoid them. As long as she steered clear of eye contact, she would never have to find out if they were normal shadows or lively ones. Taking a seat next to Cole on a weathered, green-plaid loveseat, Rayne felt a small measure of comfort sink into her shoulders, but the shadows still seemed to buzz with an almost whisper-like quality. 

"Oh, come on, Rayne," Pierce insisted, displaying a tightly-wrapped joint between his fingers. She studied his pointed chin, spiky hair, and black goatee. Paint him red, she thought, and he'd look like the Devil himself. Pierce smiled. "Do you know how hard it was to get this stuff in here? Just one hit."

Rayne waved away the smoke, certain she'd inhaled enough second-hand already. "No thanks. Not really my scene."

"Seriously?" Cole snorted and held out a hand. "Give it here, man."

Rayne surveyed the room. Pierce and David lazed in a pile of blankets on the floor, high as kites and giddy as schoolgirls. Lucas, meanwhile, sat on a pillow in the corner, his posture relaxed yet vigilant. When Cole tried to throw a bottle his way, Lucas caught it effortlessly and rolled it right back. Rayne could feel Cole's chest roll with laughter behind her. "You and Lucas are the world's greatest buzz kills," he murmured in her ear, and she wriggled farther from his embrace, glancing back at Lucas. 

The blonde rubbed his neck. "Sorry, man. Maybe next time."

"Maybe next time," Cole mocked. "Says that every time." He bashed the cap off a new bottle and took a swig. It was his third. Since Pierce and David only had one each, Rayne was beginning to think Cole might finish the whole pack by himself. "Come on, babe"—he tilted the bottle toward her—"at least have a drink."

She shook her head. "Can't."

"Come on. Yes, you can." He nudged her with the tip of the bottle. "Just one sip."

"No, I mean I can't," she snapped. "I'm dead-serious, so don't pull that peer-pressure B.S. on me."

He inhaled softly, the realization striking him. "You're a pill popper."

Giggling, Pierce sat up. "Really?" he asked, eyes wide. "What's wrong with you? Are you, like, schizophrenic or some shit?"

"What's wrong with you?" she shot back. "Are you, like, stupid or some shit?"

Pierce raised his hands, smirking. "Alright, alright. You got me. Fair play."

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Over the course of the evening, Rayne had learned three things: Pierce Harrington, though intimidating, was actually a huge nerd with a deep-rooted obsession for anything high tech; David Sheppard, although built like a musclehead, was incredibly soft-spoken when he wasn't trying to uphold a reputation; and Lucas Abbott . . . Well, Lucas was still a mystery.

Cole nodded to Pierce. "Harrington's been my right hand lately, especially since he help me beat up Spencer Callaghan for sleeping with my girl. Isn't that right, Pierce?"

"Yeah, fool. I'd do it again, too," he replied, smiling.

David slapped his arm. 

"Ow," Pierce groaned. "Well, obviously I wouldn't do it now, David. I just meant, on principle, I would do it again."

Responding to Rayne's raised brow, Cole said, "Oh, you see, it turns out we beat up the wrong kid. Spence wasn't sleeping with Bianca. He was sleeping with David."

Rayne gasped. "Wait, what?"

David, lounging on his pillow, shrugged casually. "Spencer and I have been dating for three years." He laughed at her expression. "Yeah, sorry about the stairwell this morning. You're really not my type—we were just trying to scare you."

Pierce bit his lip to hold back laughter. "But you gotta keep the queer cat in the bag, comprendé? Shep and Spence aren't out yet."

David's smile faltered. "It's not really the place for that, y'know? Especially for me." He glanced around the room, his tone growing more serious. "My mom's hoping I'll settle down with some nice white girl, the perfect picture of what she thinks success should look like in our world." He shook his head. "It's hard enough being a Black man in this world, but being a queer Black man? You don't exactly see a lot of us at the country club, y'know?"

Pierce placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm still sad you felt the need to hide it from us, brother."

Rayne, still processing, turned to Cole. "Wait, so why did you think . . . ?"

David cut in, answering the unfinished question. "Back then, I was the new guy in Cole's crew. And Spencer was jumpy as hell, trying to hide our relationship. Well, it just so happened that Bianca was acting weird around that time too, so . . . Cole put two and three together and got four."

Pierce cracked up. "He really thought she would fool around with a guy like Spence."

"But," Cole began with emphasis, "I was wrong, and I have since apologized for it. See, I'm a reasonable guy." He nudged Rayne. "And like I said, Spence is our guy now. We've got the hookup for pretty much anything," he explained, wiggling the joint between his fingers.

"Poor Lucas here can't handle it though." Pierce chuckled. "Trips way too hard. You'd think it was laced with something."

"Well, it's worse," David began, "because Luke thinks the place is haunted." He gave a spooky little wave of his fingers.

Rayne gripped the cushion beneath her, eyeing the lonely blonde in the corner. "Haunted? Why do you think that?"

"I don't," Lucas responded flatly, leaning his stoic face into the stand of his knuckles. "They're high, and they're morons."

David lifted his head like he wanted to sit up but was too comfortable to make the effort. He exhaled. "Honestly, Rayne, there have been a lot of . . . well, deaths at this place."

Beside her, Cole wrapped an arm around her and tapped her bicep with his beer bottle. "I told you it used to be an insane asylum, right? Well, they didn't just kick out a whole wing of patients to make room for soldiers—the wing burnt down."

Memory of the blazing apparition flickered beneath Rayne's closed eyelids, a scorching arm topped with flames and ash reaching out to her: "Help me."

"Which wing?" she asked.

"I think it's the one we call South Hall now. The one with all the shrinks and stiffs."

Rayne gulped. The voice rang out in her skull again: "Help me."

"There's more." David continued, "Ten years ago, a student was murdered, right here on campus."

Cole interjected, "Well, we don't need to talk about that."

Pierce sat upright. "No, David's right. It was a big deal, and they never caught the guy. All these security cameras, and it was like she was running from a ghost."

"How did she die?" Rayne asked, and she regretted it almost instantly.

"Stabbed."

"Yeah, sliced right through the chest, between her ribs."

"Man, they say he sawed upward and sideways, deep-carving a cross right in the middle."

Rayne wasn't even sure who said what. She just covered her ears. "Okay, nevermind. I don't want to hear any more . . ."

"Aw, come on. We're just getting to the good part." Pierce grabbed one of the candles and held it below his chin, his breath nearly snuffing out the flame. "They say . . . her spirit still haunts these very woods . . ."

"Shut up," said David, grabbing the candle and putting it back on the floor. "Tell her about the other kids."

"Oh. That's too real." Pierce paused to look at Lucas, then lowered his voice, so only Rayne could hear. "Since this place opened, there's been, like, a suicide on campus almost every year."

Now she was certain they were just trying to scare her. "I highly doubt that. You guys messing with me?"

Lucas raised his voice, seeming to have heard them. "Suicide is no fucking joke, Rayne." 

"I didn't say that it was," Rayne replied. Her body stiffened, feeling the scold like a slap to the face.

Pierce shielded his lips from Lucas's view and whispered, "Lucas was dating a girl who bit the bullet last year." He grimaced. "Literally."

"Yeah, she was the last one," David added softly. "Everyone made it out okay last semester. No suicides. I think right now we're all just sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop, y'know?"

As the boys elevated their high, the conversation took a turn for the abstract and the mundane, discussing conspiracy theories and philosophical debates. The night dragged on, and in the end, Rayne felt its presence prickling her skin before she saw it.

An ominous presence that seemed to ripple in the corner of the room, just above Lucas. 

The dark orb loomed, folding and twisting over itself like a piece of pliable black clay. Lucas looked up. The mass reached down, an arm-like tendril extending toward him, almost as if to stroke his cheek. For a fraction of a second, his icy composure cracked—he flinched so intensely, it seemed to reverberate somewhere deep inside his bones. But Lucas closed his eyes, his expression slowly easing into a mask of calm, his body settling, too. The faceless shadows writhed and stretched toward him, seemingly anchored to the darkness above. Lucas exhaled smoothly and lowered his head, letting his forearm rest casually over one knee, the flicker of candlelight dancing over the bruises on his skin. 

Rayne's pulse quickened as she realized with absolute certainty: He can see it! And that revelation was exhilarating.

When Lucas opened his eyes again, their gazes collided. And Rayne didn't bother to pretend she hadn't been watching him; he seemed unfazed by her scrutiny, his expression barren. Maddeningly enigmatic. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly, as if acknowledging the shadowy figures above him was beneath him. But he could see them. Rayne knew that he could.

Cole's sudden intrusion shattered her focus. 

"So why are you here?" he asked, wrapping his arm around her.

She tried to shrug him off, and her eyes never left Lucas as she mumbled, "You dragged me here, remember?"

"No, I mean why are you here? At Maria J. Westwood?"

She broke her stare and fixed her eyes on Cole's disheveled hair. Then his lips, moist with alcohol. "That's a little personal, don't you think?" she murmured, her voice soft but firm. "Hey, your friend over there still doesn't like me. Mind if I try to make nice?"

Cole followed her gaze to Lucas. His lip twitched. "Uh . . . No, I think that's a good idea," he announced after a minute. "Go for it."

Rayne stood, excusing herself with a curt nod. As she approached Lucas, she felt a chill from the dark mass above, intensifying with each step. "Mind if I sit here?" she asked, managing to maintain a steady tone despite the unease that gripped her.

Lucas looked to Cole, almost as if to ask permission. Or maybe he was saying, Do I really have to? 

"Girl wants to talk," said Cole, slurring his words. "Don't be rude. Talk."

"Fine." Lucas grabbed another pillow and positioned it beside him. "Have a seat."

Rayne sank into the cushion, feeling a tingling wave of coldness emanating from the dark mass above them. She tried to ignore the sensation, focusing instead on Lucas's rigid posture and the flicker of discomfort in his eyes.

"Thanks," she said quietly, settling beside him. "You don't seem like you're enjoying this much."

Lucas offered a half-hearted shrug, his gaze avoiding the shadows above. "Just not really into it tonight, that's all."

In the dim light, Rayne studied his profile—there was a fragile undercurrent to him, something quietly vulnerable beneath the calm. The candlelight caught the edge of his bruises, but she forced herself to look forward, heart thudding as cold, shadowy fingers grazed her shoulder. She shuddered but kept her voice steady. "You know it's there, don't you?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. The shadow people." Rayne met his eyes. "They're above you right now. And I can see them, too."

Lucas's reaction was visceral—a deer before headlights. His shoulders tensed, and for a split second, the world around them seemed to shrink. "Wh-what? You mean you—?"

Cole staggered over, forcibly squeezing himself in the small space between them with a graceless thud. Lucas dropped his gaze to the floor, trying to mask his surprise.

"Babe," said Cole, throwing that arm around her once more. "Why'd you make me come all the way over here and sit on the floor?"

"I didn't make you do anything," said Rayne, but his hold around her tightened as he planted a wet one on her lips. 

She would have been lying if she said she hadn't been curious about the feel of his kiss. Cole was crude, and quite frankly, a bit of a jerk, but there was also a charm to their banter that she really enjoyed. None of that mattered, however, because right now, Cole tasted of beer and marijuana. And she hadn't given him permission.

She pushed him and wiped the slobber from her mouth. "What the hell, Cole!"

"What?" His face reddened as he stumbled backward. "I can't kiss my girlfriend?"

"I am not your girlfriend."

"Yet," he replied with a slack-jawed grin. His weight crashed into her as he lost balance. "I'm still working on it," he slurred, adjusting himself and kissing her cheek at the same time.

She stated the obvious: "You're drunk." And as Cole lay his weary head on her shoulder, Rayne tried to catch Lucas's eye once more.

It took several minutes, but after steadying his breath, Lucas finally returned her gaze. In that shared glance, something shifted. They both looked up; the strange shadows seemed less frightening now that Rayne knew someone else could see it too.

Their brown eyes connected once more.

As the shadow people morphed and twisted above them, Rayne and Lucas found themselves lost in a moment—a moment of raw, unfiltered connection. Complete vulnerability. Like an abstract painting of naked bodies twirling in a sacred dance. The fear, the sorrow, and the isolation they endured was suddenly the paint, and their canvas was this newfound kinship, bred from a mutual understanding of the impossible and the enchanting, foreign feeling of no longer being so alone.