Hannah Crawford had seen her share of strange assignments in her ten years as a journalist, but this one took the cake. Prom. Her editor had called it “a human-interest piece” that the paper could run to connect with younger readers. Hannah wasn’t thrilled to spend her Saturday night at a high school dance instead of chasing down real stories, but she figured she’d spend an hour interviewing students, grab a couple of photos, and leave. But that was before she stepped inside Croix High School and felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Croix High sat on the outskirts of Cook County, a gothic, black-bricked building that loomed like something out of an old horror flick.
The school was almost a century old, and it looked every bit of it. Gargoyle-like carvings adorned the corners of the roof, their stone eyes glaring down at all who entered. Vines crawled up the exterior walls, and several windows were so caked with dirt that stepping inside felt like entering a time capsule. Hannah had barely stepped through the double doors when she felt it––a sense of unease, like she wasn’t entirely welcome. The air inside was cold, stagnant, and smelled faintly of mold. Despite the outdated architecture, the school was alive with activity. Students milled about in formal wear, laughing and chatting as they headed toward the gymnasium, which buzzed faintly with music. But something about the scene unsettled her. The kids were… off.
At first, Hannah couldn’t quite pinpoint what made her uncomfortable. Was it the way the students moved––too stiff, their strides almost mechanical? Or the way their eyes seemed to linger on her just a second too long before darting away? No one greeted her, not even with the awkward enthusiasm typical of teenagers showing off their clothes on prom night. They simply stared, cold and distant, as though they had been expecting her. Hannah forced herself to smile and approach a small group of students standing near the gym doors. A girl in a flowing blue dress with perfectly styled hair turned to her, smiling a little too wide.
“Hi, I’m Hannah Crawford from the Chicago Chronicle. I’ll just be taking some photos and asking a few questions about how the night’s going,” Hannah said, holding up her camera. The girl’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course,” she said, her tone robotic. “The night is going perfectly. Everyone is having fun.” Hannah resisted the urge to cringe. “Um, great. And, uh, what’s your name?” The girl hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for Hannah to notice. “Bella,” she finally said. “Bella Rogers.” “Okay, Bella. What’s your favorite part of prom so far?” This time, the response came almost too quickly. “Dancing. Everyone loves dancing. It’s the best part of prom.” The words were normal enough, but the flat monotone in Bella’s voice didn’t match the excitement on her face. It was like she was reciting lines she’d been rehearsing.
Hannah glanced at the two boys standing next to Bella, one in a sharp black tuxedo and the other in a white jacket. Both were staring at her, their expressions blank and unblinking. “Right,” Hannah mumbled. “Thanks.” She stepped away, the unease curling tighter in her chest. Something wasn’t right. Deciding to survey the rest of the event, Hannah made her way into the gymnasium. The DJ blasted a generic pop song while colored lights danced across the floor. Students swayed to the music, their movements strangely synchronized, like they were part of some eerie choreographed routine. That was when Hannah noticed something that made her stomach drop. She spotted Bella again, the same girl from earlier, but this time on the opposite side of the room. She was wearing the same blue dress––but now her hair was in a different style.
It was impossible. Hair didn’t change like that in the span of five minutes, not unless––Hannah blinked again, her pulse quickening when she spotted the girl a third time, standing by a table near the entrance. Two identical Bellas, and yet both were acting as though nothing was out of the ordinary. She scanned the room, her reporter’s instinct fully on edge now. Were there duplicates of other students, too? She couldn’t be sure, but the more she looked, the more the faces began to blend together. The students laughed and danced and sipped punch, but it was all… wrong. Too polished. Too perfect. Deciding she needed some fresh air, Hannah slipped out the side door into the school’s courtyard. She leaned against a stone column and took a deep breath, trying to shake the sense of unease that clung to her. That’s when she heard it: a whisper.
Her head snapped toward the sound. It was faint, almost like the rustling of leaves, but there were no trees nearby, just a row of darkened windows. The whisper came again––soft and insistent, like a voice carried on the wind. “Hannah…” Her blood turned to ice. She hadn’t told anyone her name. Hannah whipped around, staring into the courtyard’s shadows. “Who’s there?” she called, her voice more unsteady than she liked. No answer. Just the whisper, growing fainter, as though retreating deeper into the school. Despite every nerve in her body telling her to leave, Hannah found herself stepping back inside. She told herself she was following the story, but deep down, she knew it was more than that. Something about this place had hooked its claws into her, and she couldn’t walk away––not yet.
She wandered the empty hallways, the music from the gym growing dimmer with each step. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered ominously, casting long, distorted shadows on the cracked linoleum floor. It was then that she noticed a plaque mounted on the wall near the main staircase. “Croix High School – Established 1926. Dedicated to the Memory of Those Lost.” Hannah scanned the inscription, her journalistic curiosity piqued. Lost? Lost to what? She pulled out her phone and did a quick search. What she found sent a chill racing down her spine. In 1947, a fire had ripped through Croix High during a spring dance. Over a hundred students and teachers had perished, the blaze consuming much of the original structure before firefighters could contain it. The school had been rebuilt on the same site, salvaging some of the previous structure, but whispers of hauntings had persisted for decades. Hannah’s hands trembled as she read accounts of flickering lights, shadowy figures, and disembodied voices. Many of the stories centered around one night in particular––prom.
A sudden noise startled Hannah, and she turned to see a figure dart across the hallway ahead of her. It was quick, almost too quick to be human, but she caught enough of a glimpse to see it was wearing a tattered, outdated prom dress. “Hey!” Hannah called, her voice echoing in the empty hall. Against her better judgment, she followed. The figure led her to a set of stairs descending into the basement. The air grew colder as she descended, and the faint hum of the gym music was replaced with an oppressive silence. The basement was dark, but Hannah flicked on her phone’s flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom. The space was cramped, lined with old lockers and forgotten furniture draped in dusty sheets. At the far end of the room, something shiny caught her eye––a silver tiara resting on top of a scorched podium. As she approached, she realized the podium wasn’t just scorched––it was melted, as though exposed to intense heat.
Her flashlight flickered, and suddenly the room felt smaller. She could feel eyes on her, but when she turned, there was nothing but shadows. “Hannah…” The whisper was louder this time, clawing at her from all directions. Her breath hitched as she swung the flashlight around, desperately searching for the source. That’s when she saw them. Figures began to emerge from the darkness, their faces pale and eyes hollow. They were dressed in 1940s formalwear––charred and tattered, as though they’d walked straight out of the fire. “Leave…” one of them rasped, its voice layered and inhuman. Hannah stumbled backward, her pulse hammering in her ears. “What do you want?” she managed to choke out. “You can’t save them,” another voice said. “Save who?” “The living,” the voice replied. “They are already ours.”
Hannah didn’t remember how she made it out of the basement. Panic propelled her forward, and before she knew it, she was outside, gasping for air beneath the cold, starless sky. She didn’t stop running until she reached her car. Shoving the key into the ignition, she sped away, the school’s looming silhouette disappearing in her rearview mirror. But Hannah knew she couldn’t leave the story unfinished. The next morning, she returned to Croix, now drenched in daylight. The school was deserted, but the front doors were unlocked, as if inviting her in. This time, she wasn’t looking for whispers or ghosts. She went straight to the principal’s office, rifling through files until she found what she was looking for––records of every student enrolled in Croix High. What she discovered made her blood run cold. Every student was listed under the same date of birth: March 5, 2008.
Dozens of kids, all inexplicably the same age. Even stranger, there were no records of any alumni––no graduation photos, no yearbooks. It was as if the students of Croix High simply… disappeared. Hannah left the office with a stolen file in hand, but she wasn’t alone. As she stepped outside, she noticed a group of students standing in the courtyard, watching her with vacant stares. Among them was Bella––or someone who looked like her. “You shouldn’t have come back,” Bella said, her voice no longer robotic but chillingly sinister. Hannah turned and ran to her car, but as she drove away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t escaped. The windows of Croix High seemed to glare at her, as though the school itself was alive––and hungry. And in her rearview mirror, she could see them––the students, standing perfectly still on the edge of the road, their hollow eyes following her until she was out of sight.
Hannah’s story was never published. Weeks later, her editor filed a missing person’s report, but she was never found. Some say she left Chicago to flee the nightmare she had uncovered. Others believe she became part of it.
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