SCREAM

ed into the background, a dull thrum beneath the cacophony of lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and the ceaseless, urgent chatter of teenager

ally looked a little too thoughtful for a high school senior. She wasn't one of the popular kids, nor was she an outcast. Anya existed in that comfortable, often invisible, middle ground, observing more than participating, her sketchbook a const

hroat. The room was empty, as expected. Three stalls, two sinks, a large mirror reflecting the tired beige tiles. Anya walked to the sink furthest from the door, setting her worn canvas bag

th a paper towel, her gaze drifted to

lipstick – or something far more sinister – were three words. L

HEAR

drip, as if freshly applied. And the words... "They hear you." It was a phrase steeped in local lore, a whispered warning from the old Blackwood legend of the 'Whispering Woodsman,' a spectral figure said to haunt the forests surrounding the town,

a viscous quality, a faint, almost imperceptible sheen. Her mind, usually so rational, raced throu

er eyes darted to the door, half-expecting to see someone standing there, watching her. Bu

her friends, Solara and Kaelen. Solara, with her pragmatic, no-nonsense approach, would probably dismiss it as a pathetic attempt

ls, wet them, and began to scrub at the crimson letters. It came off surprisingly easily, leaving behind only a faint, reddish smear on the glass. As if it had never been there. Th

owards her AP Lit class, her mind replaying the image of the words, the unsettling sha

nly steeped in a far more immediate, chilling symbolism. She glanced at her phone under the desk, the blurry photo of the mirror message a stark reminder. She hadn't shown it t

, her striking silver hair, usually braided, flowing loose around her shoulders as she scrolled through her phone, a small, impatient frown on her perfectly sculpted face. Solara was the kin

er voice a little too lo

wing slightly. "Anya. You look like you've see

"Worse. I think. Can we t

usual nonchalance. "Okay, that's new. My car? I'm parked in

was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke. As they reached Solara's sleek, black se

the engine but keeping it in park. "You'

, so... I went to the girls' restroom on the second floor

y image. Her eyes, usually so quick to dismiss, lingered on the crim

written on the mirror. In... something red. I don't know

to, her brow furrowing. "Yo

was thick, kind of sticky. And it smelled... metallic

hat's the Woodsman legend, isn't it? The one about him listening in

recognized it. "Exactly. That's what freaked me

ce lacked its usual certainty. "Someone's trying to be edgy. Get a rise out of peop

where hardly anyone goes during lunch?" Anya pressed. "And th

reepy, I'll give you that. And if it was blood, that's a whole different l

d I didn't want to be laughed at.

tone firm. "But... let's think about this. If it's a prank, who would do it

d," Anya pointed out. "It's practi

ly empty parking lot. "You know, this reminds me of that old story my grandmother used to tell. About the original Blackwood High. Before they tore it down and built this one. She said there w

ve of dread. "Solara

It's a deep cut. Not something your average prankster would pull out of t

ng. It loomed against the darkening sky, its brick facade sudde

wild theory that makes us laugh, or he'll take it seriously enough to actually d

the Blackwood High library, surrounded by a fortress of history textbooks. His perpetually rumpled clothes, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and a faint smell of old

announced, tapp

ng. "Solara! Anya! You startled me. I was just... delving into the soc

ryly. "But we have something a little

, showing him the photo. "We ne

d, then leaned closer, as if trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphs. "'They hear you.' Ah, the venerable

in what looked like blood in the gir

mused, still staring at the photo. "The viscosity, the apparent saturation... i

s. "Just tell us what

has deeper roots than most realize. It's not just a campfire tale. There are historical accounts, albeit fragme

" Anya p

w unsolved murders, where the only common thread was the appearance of this phrase, or variations of it, often in remote locations, or places of... significant emotional charge. T

. Solara's grandmother's story.

just some kid trying to be sca

place of heightened emotional states, a crucible of adolescent anxieties – and the unsettling medium... no, this is not the work of a casual pr

ra asked, a hint of genui

itement. "Like someone attempting to invoke the legend. Or, perhaps, someone who is the legend. Or, at t

t of what?" A

. "The Woodsman legend isn't just about a specter. It's about a pa

ly felt oppressive. The hum of the fluorescent lights s

e," Anya insisted. "The

at you found a message that looked like blood, but you wiped it away? That it reference

do nothing?" So

te. This is a mystery, is it not? And mysteries require

ou suggesting we try to find out who did

s lips. "But consider the alternative. To do nothing is to allow this... entity, whatever it may be, to continue its machin

o to the authorities, they'll probably just sweep it under the rug. And if Ka

ked, feeling a surge of pani

the source, we can prevent further... incidents. My hypothesis is

er pragmatism kicking in. "We can't just wan

t implies a listener. Someone who is attuned to the whispers of the town. Perhaps our perpetrator

eye for detail, you can spot anomalies. Solara, your social connections and ability to blend in will be invaluable for gathe

. But a part of her, the part that had felt the cold dread in the restroom, the part that had seen the unsettlin

hisper. "Okay, but if anything feels too dang

ot heroes, Anya. Just... curious

ur first task, then, is to disseminate the information subtly. Observe reactions. See who seems t

, for our codenames. For security, of course. Anya, you shall be... 'The Ob

ingering apprehension. This was Kaelen, after all. But beneath t

e gathering dusk. The weekend stretched before them, usually a time for relaxation and freedom. But now, for Anya, Solara, and Kaelen, it felt less like a break and more like the beginning of a very long, very

sketching furiously in her notebook, but the image of the crimson words kept bleeding into her lands

Kaelen had created, predictably name

rences to report from the nocturnal hours? I, myself, drea

I was dreaming of actual sleep. But no, nothing. My social

t of thinking. I keep wondering

ests a possible connection to the upcoming Halloween dance. Historically, periods of height

's going to pull another stunt a

e? The initial message serves as a prelude. A declaratio

a careful next week. And maybe keep

d at Blackwood High, Kaelen. That

potential motive. Someone with a grudge. Someone obsessed with local histo

the biggest event of the fall semester, a chaotic, crowded affair he

felt fragile, a thin veneer over something darker. She found herself drawn towards the edge of town, where the paved roads gave way to dirt paths leading into the infamous Blackwood Woods. She didn't dare go in, not after y

tain of thorny bushes, revealing a small, almost hidden clearing. In the center, half-buried in fallen leaves, was a small, crudely carved wooden effigy. It looked like a stick figur

offering. Or a warning. She knelt down, her fingers hovering over the effigy. The locket was old, tarnished with

ch, and surprisingly heavy. She tried to open it, but it was stuck fast, sealed shut by time and corrosion. As s

hear y

he effigy. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Had she imagined it? The wh

of old jewelry. But the effigy, the location, the whisper... it all felt con

age on a mirror anymore. This was something tangible. Some

m the woods, her footsteps echoing too loudly in the sudden, profound silence. The game, she realized w

len the effigy and the locket. Solara, for once, was speechless, her usual composure crackin

ing eye is an ancient motif, often associated with mourning, but also with hidden knowledge, or even a curse. And the effigy... a classi

voice strained. "Kaelen, are you s

ackwood's history. The Woodsman legend, as I mentioned, has ties to older, more pagan beliefs. The i

omeone is trying to m

as its agent. This locket... it's old. Very old. The craftsmanship sugges

the old logging trail," Anya replied, st

their tomb." He paused, then looked at the locket again. "This locket... it feels familiar. I've seen a sketch of something similar in one of the historical society's archived journals. A locket supposedly owned

ion to the principal's family. And the same message. This was no longer just a

Solara asked, her voice quiet. "And they'r

o ensure that it does." He looked at them, his usual academic detachment replaced by a genuine fear. "This is no longer a game, m

even wrapped in tissue, felt heavy in her pocket

Anya asked, her voi

to determine who could be behind this. Someone with access to the school, someone with an intimate know

ween dance?" S

e. A perfect stage for a dramatic escalation. We need to be vigil

is no longer about solving a mystery for int

was over. Monday morning, Blackwood High would open its doors again. And the masked figure, the one who whispered in the