In the quiet town of Hollowbrook, where fog clung to the streets like a forgotten memory, there was an old school building that had long since been abandoned. Its windows were cracked, its doors creaked in the wind, and the grass around it grew in strange, uneven patches. No one knew exactly when the school had closed, but the stories about it never stopped. Every year, on the eve of the autumn equinox, students would gather near the school’s rusted gate, whispering tales of the ghost who wandered the halls. They said she wore a tattered dress, her face always hidden beneath a heavy hood. Some claimed she was a former teacher who died in a fire, others that she was a student who never left after the final bell rang. Lila, a curious high schooler with a fascination for the supernatural, had heard these stories all her life. But this year, she decided to find out for herself. She had a notebook filled with sketches of the school, notes from old classmates, and a flashlight that flickered like a dying heartbeat. On the night of the equinox, Lila arrived at the school just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The sky turned an eerie shade of violet, and the air felt thick with something unseen. She pushed open the creaking gate, the sound echoing like a warning. The courtyard was silent, save for the distant chirp of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves. Inside, the hallway was dark, the light from her flashlight barely cutting through the gloom. The walls were lined with faded portraits of teachers, their eyes following her as she passed. She reached the classroom where the stories said the ghost had last been seen. The door was slightly ajar, and as she stepped inside, a chill ran down her spine. The room was untouched, as if time had frozen. A desk sat in the center, covered in dust, and the chalkboard still held the remnants of a lesson that had never been finished. Lila moved closer, her breath shallow. Then she saw it—a shadow moving at the edge of her vision. She turned quickly, but there was nothing there. Her flashlight flickered again, and for a moment, the room seemed to pulse with a faint, greenish glow. She heard a soft, melodic hum, like a lullaby sung by a child who had never grown up. Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind her. Lila’s heart pounded. She tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. The hum grew louder, more distinct, and she realized it wasn’t just a sound—it was a voice, low and sorrowful, singing in a language she didn’t understand. She pressed her ear against the door, trying to listen. The voice spoke in fragments, words that slipped away before she could grasp them. Then, without warning, the lights in the room flared to life, casting long shadows across the walls. The temperature dropped, and the air felt heavy, as if the very atmosphere was holding its breath. Lila stumbled back, her flashlight falling from her hand. It hit the floor with a dull thud, and the beam of light flickered once before going out completely. In the darkness, she heard the whispering again, this time closer. It wasn’t just a voice—it was a presence, brushing against her mind like a breeze through dead leaves. Then, suddenly, the door opened. Not by her hand, but as if something had let her go. She ran out into the courtyard, gasping for air, her legs trembling. The moon had risen, casting silver light over the broken pavement. She looked back at the school, but it was silent now, as if it had never been alive at all. The next morning, Lila told no one what she had seen. But that night, she found a single sheet of paper on her desk, written in a shaky, looping script: *“You are not the first.”* She never went back to the school, but sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, she would hear the lullaby again, carried on the wind like a secret waiting to be uncovered. And she wondered—was the ghost truly alone, or was she just another story in a long line of forgotten voices, waiting for someone to listen?