I keep moving forward and take my seat beside Shy, fighting to swallow the acid at the back of my throat. My whole body still feels as if I’ve had a fever that just broke. Even my palms are sticky.

Our teacher, Mr. Seth, welcomes the class and begins to take roll. He wears a sweater vest and black-framed glasses. As he calls names, I look toward the door. The spirit’s gone, but I have a feeling she isn’t finished torturing me. The dead never seem to want to leave me alone, even when they don’t seem particularly evil. It’s like they want something from me.

“Miss Silby?” Mr. Seth’s voice reaches me, and my eyes snap to his. “Miss Silby?”

“Yes?” The word comes out breathless.

“Are you all right?”

I press my clammy palm to my forehead, wiping away a thin sheen of perspiration.

“Yes.”

Mr. Seth watches me as if he thinks I’ll change my answer. I sink lower in my chair, and he relents, transitioning into a lecture on pointillism. I open my notebook and go to flip my hair over my shoulder when I notice blood coating the ends and dripping onto my lap. My heart feels like it’s caught in a vise, squeezing until I’ve no ability to breathe. I reach for the matted hair glued to my neck, finding the skin is tender and coated in something sticky. I pull my hand away: more blood.

The nausea building in my stomach threatens to explode.

“Miss Silby, do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”

I clamp my hand around my neck, but I can’t look at Mr. Seth, because everyone in class has turned to stare at me—including Shy. Those eyes freeze me in place—hard and curious, scanning my body like a machine looking for disease. My stomach clenches. The last thing I need is to projectile vomit all over the place.

I stand, swaying on my feet, and stumble out of the classroom.

“Miss Silby!”

I race down the hallway, searching for a bathroom in this unfamiliar place. Turning the corner, I stumble through a door into a yellow-washed restroom that smells like must.

I barely make it to the toilet before releasing the contents of my stomach. I heave a few seconds longer and then get to my feet, shuddering, coated in sweat.

I move to the mirror and find a furrow around my neck in the shape of an inverted V. The marking looks like a deep, bloody moat and appears to be of the same thickness as the rope the dead girl hanged from. Even as I stare at myself, the blood and markings begin to fade.

Like it was all in my imagination.

The anxiety and fear I’ve had since arriving at Nacoma this morning starts to bubble under my skin, transforming into anger, and I tremble with the need to unravel.