The old high school on the edge of town had been abandoned for over thirty years, its rusted gates creaking in the wind like a warning. No one really knew why it closed, only that it was never rebuilt. The students who once walked its halls now whispered about strange occurrences—murmurs in empty classrooms, shadows moving when no one was there, and the faint sound of laughter echoing through the corridors at night. Lila, a quiet girl with a curious mind, had always been fascinated by the stories. She had heard them since childhood, passed down from older siblings and local elders. But unlike others, she wasn’t afraid. She wanted to see the truth for herself. One rainy afternoon, she found an old map tucked inside a book in the library. It showed the layout of the school, but with a note scrawled in faded ink: “Don’t go past the third floor.” Lila traced the words with her finger, feeling a chill run down her spine. She didn’t know why, but something about the message made her heart race. That night, she climbed the rusted fire escape behind the school, her boots crunching against the gravel. The windows were dark, the building silent. When she reached the third floor, the door creaked open as if expecting her. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of old paper. A single flickering bulb overhead cast long shadows across the cracked tiles. She wandered through the empty classrooms, each one frozen in time. Desks were still arranged in rows, books lay scattered on the floor, and a chalkboard in one room had a half-written equation. As she stepped into what looked like a music room, she noticed a small, wooden chair in the corner. It was slightly tilted, as though someone had just left it. Then she heard it—a soft, melodic hum, like a child singing. She turned around, but the room was empty. The sound grew louder, more distinct, and then stopped. She stood still, waiting. Her breath was shallow, her pulse quickening. In the next room, a science lab, she found a journal on a desk. The pages were filled with notes written in a shaky hand. One entry caught her eye: *“They’re not gone. They’re still here, watching. I can hear them. They want to be remembered.”* The date was the same as the year the school closed. Lila’s hands trembled as she flipped through the journal. There were sketches of students, names crossed out, and diagrams of strange symbols. One page described a ritual performed by students who believed they could summon the spirits of those who had died within the school walls. She read the last line with growing unease: *“I don’t know if we did it right. I think we woke something up.”* A sudden gust of wind blew through the broken window, sending papers flying. Lila spun around, but nothing was there. Then, from the far end of the hallway, she heard a soft giggle. Not loud, but clear. It came again, and this time she felt a presence behind her. She turned slowly, her eyes scanning the darkness. In the dim light, she saw a figure standing at the end of the corridor. It was small, maybe a child, but its face was obscured by a shadow. It didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched. Lila backed away, her heart pounding. The figure didn’t follow. It simply stood there, as if waiting. She ran back down the stairs, the sound of the giggles fading behind her. When she emerged into the night, the sky had cleared, and the moon cast silver light over the empty schoolyard. She didn’t tell anyone what she had seen. But in the weeks that followed, she began to notice things—shadows that moved without a source, whispers in the wind, and the feeling of being watched even when alone. The stories of the school had always been tales, but now she wondered if they were warnings. And deep inside, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the school wasn’t finished with her yet.