The old high school on the edge of town had always been a place of hushed whispers. No one knew exactly when it had closed, but the rumors about its history were thick as fog. Some said it was abandoned after a fire, others claimed it was haunted by the ghosts of students who never left. Most people avoided it, but for those who dared to step inside, the stories were endless. Lila had always been curious. She was a quiet girl with a fascination for the unknown, and the school had become her personal playground. Every weekend, she would sneak in through a broken window near the east wing, where the peeling paint and rusted lockers whispered of forgotten days. The air inside was cool, almost unnaturally so, and the silence was heavy, like the weight of something watching from the shadows. One afternoon, she found an old journal tucked beneath a desk in the library. Its pages were yellowed and brittle, and the handwriting was messy, as if written in a hurry. The entries spoke of a girl named Clara, who had died during a school play. "She fell from the stage," the journal read. "No one saw it happen. They just heard the crash and found her broken body below." Lila felt a chill run down her spine. She had heard the story before, but never this detailed. As she turned the pages, she noticed a drawing—a rough sketch of a girl standing at the edge of the stage, arms outstretched, eyes wide with terror. Beneath it, the words were scrawled in red ink: *Don't go near the auditorium after dark.* That night, Lila returned, drawn by an unshakable pull. The moon was full, casting long shadows across the empty hallways. She entered the auditorium, the doors creaking open with a sound that echoed like a sigh. The stage was still there, though the curtains were tattered and covered in dust. She climbed the steps, her breath shallow, heart pounding. As she reached the center of the stage, the temperature dropped. A cold wind swept through the room, though no windows were open. Then, she heard it—a faint whisper, like a voice just beyond hearing. It wasn't loud, but it was there, persistent, as if someone was trying to tell her something. Lila turned around slowly, expecting to see nothing. But there, at the edge of the stage, stood a figure. It was tall and thin, its face obscured by darkness. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then, the figure stepped forward, and the whisper grew louder, clearer. *"You shouldn't be here."* Lila's legs felt like lead. She wanted to run, but her body refused to move. The figure raised a hand, and the lights flickered. In that instant, she saw its face—pale, hollow-eyed, and eerily familiar. It was the same girl from the journal. The whisper came again, softer this time. *"Clara... she's not alone."* Suddenly, the lights went out. Darkness swallowed the room, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic breathing of the figure. Lila stumbled backward, tripping over the edge of the stage. She landed hard on the floor, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs. When she opened her eyes, the figure was gone, and the auditorium was silent once more. She ran out of the school, her feet pounding against the cracked pavement. The night air felt colder than before, and the stars above seemed to blink like watchful eyes. She didn't stop until she reached her house, slamming the door behind her. The next day, she tried to forget what had happened. But the image of Clara's face haunted her. That evening, she returned to the school, determined to find answers. She searched the library again, hoping to find more clues. This time, she discovered another entry in the journal, dated the same day Clara had died. *"They don't want me to speak of it. But I have to. Something is wrong. The others are not what they seem. They follow me. They whisper my name. I think I'm losing my mind."* Lila's hands trembled as she closed the journal. She didn't know what to believe. Was it real? Or was it all in her head? But then she noticed something else. On the back cover of the journal, there was a name written in faded ink: *Lila.* Her own name. She looked up, and for the first time, the school didn't feel like a place of curiosity. It felt like a trap. And somewhere in the dark, the whisper waited.