The old high school on the edge of town had always been a place of hushed whispers and strange occurrences. Its crumbling brick walls and rusted gates stood like sentinels, guarding secrets that time had tried to bury. Most students avoided it, but for those who dared to explore, the stories were endless—of ghostly footsteps in empty halls, shadowy figures in the windows, and the eerie sound of a girl's laughter echoing through the night. Lila was one of them. A curious girl with a fascination for the unknown, she often found herself drawn to the abandoned school during her late-night walks. She wasn’t afraid of ghosts—she believed they were just echoes of the past, lingering where memories had left their mark. But when she stumbled upon an old journal hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the library, her curiosity turned into something more. The journal belonged to a student named Eleanor, who had vanished in 1978. Her entries spoke of strange happenings: flickering lights in the empty classrooms, a whispering voice that called her name, and a recurring dream of a girl with no face standing at the end of the hallway. The final entry was dated the day she disappeared, and it ended with a single line: "She’s still here." That night, Lila returned to the school with a flashlight and a notebook. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and dust, and every creak of the floorboards felt like a warning. She wandered through the silent corridors, her breath visible in the cold air. As she reached the third-floor classroom where Eleanor had last been seen, she noticed a small mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. It reflected not only the room but also a figure behind her—no face, just a silhouette with outstretched hands. Lila turned quickly, but there was nothing there. She pressed a hand to the mirror, and for a moment, she thought she saw a faint outline of a girl staring back at her. The temperature in the room dropped suddenly, and the flashlight flickered before dying. In the darkness, she heard the soft sound of breathing—close, too close. She ran, heart pounding, and didn’t stop until she was back outside, gasping for air. The next day, Lila shared her story with her friends, who laughed it off as the usual school legend. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. The following week, a new rumor spread among the students: someone had seen a girl walking the halls at night, her face hidden behind a curtain of black hair. No one knew who she was, but everyone agreed on one thing—she never stayed long enough to be caught. Weeks passed, and Lila continued to visit the school, searching for answers. She found more clues in the journal, including a map of the building marked with symbols she didn’t recognize. One symbol appeared repeatedly near the old auditorium, where the stage lights had once burned bright. She decided to investigate, despite the warnings from others. Inside the auditorium, the air was heavy with silence. The stage was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the seats were lined up like they had been waiting for a performance that would never come. As Lila stepped onto the stage, the lights flickered, and for a brief moment, she saw a figure standing in the wings—Eleanor, or perhaps another girl entirely. Her eyes were hollow, and her mouth moved without sound. Then, the lights went out completely. Lila ran, but the doors wouldn’t open. She heard the same whispering voice from the journal, calling her name. When she finally managed to escape, she collapsed outside, trembling. The next morning, the school was closed indefinitely, and the principal announced that the building would be demolished. But Lila couldn’t forget what she had seen. She returned one last time, determined to uncover the truth. This time, she brought the journal with her. As she entered the library, she found the mirror still hanging on the wall, now perfectly aligned. She looked into it, and this time, the girl in the reflection smiled. The mirror cracked, and the sound echoed through the empty halls. Lila backed away, but the door slammed shut behind her. The lights flickered again, and for a moment, she saw the girl from the mirror step forward—her face still hidden, but her hands reaching out. The last thing she heard was the whisper, softer this time: “You’re not ready yet.” When the workers arrived the next day, they found the school untouched, as if no one had ever been inside. The mirror was gone, and the journal had vanished without a trace. But some say that on quiet nights, if you listen closely, you can hear the faint sound of a girl’s laughter, echoing through the empty halls, waiting for someone to find her.