The notebook sat between them like a warning. Harper couldn't stop looking at the list—her name already crossed out, Jamie's waiting just beneath.
"You said you remember scribbles on the ceiling?" Jamie asked, eyes sharp now. "Symbols?"
Harper nodded slowly. "They looked… old. Like ancient script. But not from any language I've seen. It wasn't just decoration—it felt like it was watching me."
Jamie stood up. "Then we need to decode it. If there's a pattern, a system—maybe it's the key."
"Jamie," Harper said softly. "What if understanding it makes it worse?"
"Then at least we'll know what we're up against."
By midnight, they were back in Room 13A.
Jamie had brought a blacklight and his sketchbook. Harper brought herself—and her fear.
She flicked the switch. The room's dim bulb flickered, then held. Jamie stepped inside first, scanning the ceiling with the blacklight.
Symbols bloomed into view. Dozens. No—hundreds. Hidden in layers. Some faint, some so vivid they almost pulsed.
"Harper," Jamie whispered. "These aren't random. Look—this one's repeating."
He traced the symbol with his finger. A jagged triangle pierced through by a backward S.
She felt dizzy just staring at it.
"It's like… a mirror cracking," she murmured.
Jamie nodded. "What if this is the loop? A broken version of time, repeating until someone breaks the mirror?"
"And if we're the reflections caught in it…"
Harper sat on the bed, the hum beneath her feet louder tonight. Her eyes were drawn to the mirror again. Cracked. Distorted.
She stood and walked toward it. Her reflection looked back—but something was off.
In the glass, Jamie wasn't behind her.
He was gone.
She whirled around. "Jamie?"
Silence.
No Jamie. No sketchbook. No blacklight.
Room 13A was… different.
Faded.
Like time had peeled the color off everything.
Harper backed up, heart thundering. "No no no—"
The notebook she had brought earlier now lay on the floor again.
She picked it up.
The list had changed.
10/9 – Harper Quinn
10/10 – Jamie Lorne
10/11 – Katherine Quinn
She blinked.
Katherine?
The dead girl was next?
A sharp knock echoed from the closet door.
Harper jumped.
One knock.
Pause.
Two knocks.
Pause.
Three fast knocks.
A rhythm. Familiar. Like Morse code.
She approached, hand trembling.
"Jamie?" she whispered.
Another knock.
Then—words. Muffled. Warped by wood and time.
"Don't… fall… asleep."
When she blinked next, she was lying on her dorm bed, sunlight peeking through the blinds.
Was it a dream?
Her notebook sat beside her.
Still open.
Still marked.
Jamie Lorne. October 10.
Today.
Harper bolted upright and grabbed her phone.
No texts from Jamie.
She ran to the West Hall. It was locked. Sealed. No sign of Room 13A.
Back to the library. She scoured the records.
No Jamie Lorne.
No enrollment.
No photos.
It was happening again.
Room 13A wasn't just a prison.
It was erasing them.
One name at a time