The old high school stood at the edge of the town, its windows cracked and its walls stained with ivy that seemed to grow even in the dead of winter. No one knew exactly when it had been abandoned, but the rumor was that it had closed after a series of strange incidents. The students had stopped going there, and the teachers never spoke of it. Still, every year on the first night of October, a group of curious kids would sneak into the building, drawn by the stories they’d heard since childhood. Among them was Lila, a quiet girl with a habit of carrying an old notebook wherever she went. She wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to write down everything she saw, but it had become a ritual. Her friends joked about it, calling her the "ghost whisperer," but she didn’t mind. She believed that stories had power, and that some things were meant to be remembered. That night, as the group entered the crumbling halls, the air turned colder. Dust swirled in the beams of their flashlights, and the silence was so thick it felt like a living thing. They moved slowly, their footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. The lockers creaked as if something had just passed through them, and the floorboards groaned under their weight. Lila paused in front of a classroom door marked 314. It was slightly ajar, as if someone had left it open in a hurry. Inside, the desks were still arranged in rows, and the chalkboard had a single sentence written in faded green chalk: “Don’t stay past midnight.” The words looked fresh, as if they had just been written moments ago. Her friend Jake laughed nervously. “Somebody’s playing tricks,” he said, but his voice wavered. Lila didn’t answer. She stepped inside, her flashlight trembling in her hand. On the desk sat a dusty textbook, and beneath it, a small, silver key. She picked it up, feeling a strange warmth against her palm. As they moved deeper into the school, the lights flickered, and the temperature dropped further. In the library, they found a stack of books stacked in a perfect circle, each one opened to the same page. The text was in a language none of them recognized, but Lila could feel the meaning pressing against her mind, like a whisper just out of reach. They reached the gymnasium, where the ceiling had collapsed in places, letting in slivers of moonlight. At the center stood a single chair, facing a wall covered in faded murals. One of the murals depicted a group of children standing in a circle, their faces blurred. Another showed a shadowy figure watching from the rafters. Lila’s breath caught. “This isn’t just a story,” she whispered. “It’s real.” Jake tried to laugh it off, but his eyes were wide. “We should go. Now.” But before they could leave, the lights went out. In the darkness, they heard a faint sound—like a child’s laughter, soft and distant. Then, a voice, barely audible: “You’re not supposed to be here.” Lila clutched the key tighter. “Who’s there?” No answer. Only the sound of wind rushing through broken windows. They ran, stumbling over debris and knocking over old equipment. As they neared the exit, Lila glanced back. The hallway behind them was gone, replaced by a long, endless corridor that stretched into the distance. The door they had just come through was now sealed shut, and the walls pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. When they finally reached the outside, the sun was rising. The town was quiet, as if nothing had happened. But Lila couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. She opened her notebook and wrote what she had seen, careful to include every detail. Days later, the school was suddenly reopened. No one knew why, but the principal claimed it had been renovated. Students returned, and the rumors faded. But Lila kept the key, and every October, she would return to the school, not to explore, but to listen. She never saw the shadowy figure again, but sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she swore she could hear the laughter of children, and the echo of a voice saying, “You’re not supposed to be here.” And she wondered—if the stories are real, who decides which ones get told?