The girl walks the halls in horror, her eyes wide, skirting around the ash-filled, charred room, never daring to stop and look at something for too long. Burnt chalkboard slabs hang from blackened metal hooks on the crumbling walls, piles of scorched paper lie messily on decaying desks; this place hasn’t been seen in years, she suspects, and her steps leave gaping footprints in the layer of ash and dust that covers the bent wood floor. As if in a dream, she wanders to the gaping hunk of seared wood that used to be a desk at the front of the room. The girl picks up a sheet of paper, reading the title: “Mathematics 2 for the Advanced Student.” She runs her fingers over the sloppy handwriting-
- and Mr. Johnson always told me to improve my handwriting mathematicians don’t have messy handwriting that’s what he said I-
The girl shook her head violently. She could have sworn she had heard a voice, or thought one, anyway; like the old, burnt-down school was talking to her. But she didn’t believe in fairy tales. It was the wind. She glanced down again at the paper, curious but afraid, irrationally believing that if she read this assignment, she would be angering the dead; and that skeletons would jump from around the corner, although she knew in her heart that this was not true.
- yes, it was a play I remember a play and I was the lead I think I remember something bright and hot and I think-
She glanced up again, startled by nothing, jumpy because of the darkness and the rules that she was breaking just by being here. She had only come to gather details for her english essay, not caring about the laws that should have kept her far away, and she knew now that she shouldn’t have come.
- let’s talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs,/ Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes/ Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. The lines were hard to memorize, but easier than last year, last year we had a musical about Beowulf and there was lots and lots of singing, and Shakespeare is not singing so that’s good I guess but it’s still not my favorite, but I do like the way everything fits together and-
The girl’s eyes shoot up from the paper to the walls. She turns in a slow circle, holding the paper out in front of her like a weapon, not so sure she is imagining this anymore.
- so for English we did an analysis, an analysis of my monologue speech, the big one right in the middle where Richard II goes all crazy and sad and rants and I was quite good at English but better at math, yes, Mr. Johnson said I could teach math someday but I wasn’t sure because I really liked so many other things too, I was really good at everything, stock-full of potential my mum says but it’s embarrassing when my friends are there when she says it, said it I guess she won’t anymore, can’t anymore, but-
The girl loses her grip on the paper and stumbles backward out of the classroom and into the hallway. Her breaths come in short, shallow gasps, and she leans forward with her hands on her knees until she can feel her heartbeat, slow and steady. Her imagination was fooling her; placing her into one of those ghost stories that she has to write for AP Composition. She has to get a hold of herself. She shuts her eyes tightly and counts to ten; when she opens them, this will be a building, not a ghost that is out to get her.
Realizing how ridiculous she would sound if she had voiced her thoughts, she lets out a laugh that penetrates the tangible silence in the school. It echoes off the walls, breaking the stillness, the first touch of sound that this forsaken building has heard in years and-
- I thank thee much for coming, your seat is at the rear end of the theatre, and I presume that all newfangled audio-cellular devices will be turned off, I thank thee? My drama teacher his name is Mr. Reed he made me practice doing english with thees and thous so that I would be ready for the play even if it’s a bit silly and more and more now I wonder what would have happened if I decided to stay home that day instead of coming to school, I was feeling kinda sick with a fever and my mum said I could skip it if I wanted to but I didn’t want to miss opening night because we had worked so hard on the play I couldn’t miss it now but maybe if I had we’d still be allowed out of here and nothing would have happened maybe I’d be in college or have a job or a wife maybe Rosemary or someone would be my girlfriend, wouldn’t that be-
The girl’s eyes widen; she’s seen something horrible, she can’t be seeing what she’s seeing, and suddenly she can’t breathe, and her eyes roll back in her head as she falls to the scorched and water-stained floorboards.
-nice and the play was going really well, my speech went awesome and I was being high-fived and I wanted to see Rosemary to congratulate her on her performance as Isabella when I tripped over something, a prop maybe, and I looked and it was it was the lamp that Mr. Reed told us never to leave around but I guess John B. forgot when he was so happy he didn’t drop his one line in this one scene that’s super easy (John B. was never the sharpest knife in the box, least that’s what my mum always said) anyway I knocked it over and it was like a big rope of flame like the ropes that held the scrim up but made of fire and it leapt out of the lantern and flew to the curtain and the curtain was burning and I yelled for Mr. Reed, but I guess he didn’t hear me through the applause so I ran to get him. But by the time I got to the stage the curtains were all burning and people were screaming and running around instead of clapping, and I tried to find Mr. Reed but I couldn’t , there were too many people. So I ran to the outside, but there were too many people; I didn’t know where my mum was, but I knew she came and she was probably looking for me; and that’s what these other grown-ups were doing, looking for their kids, and I tried to get through them all but someone knocked me over, and I fell to the ground, and there was a lot of smoke. And I tried to get up but I couldn’t, there were too many people pushing me down, and the smoke was in my lungs and I could feel it in my heart and I was coughing it up and people were running over me and there was horrible pain and then there was nothing. There was nothing for a long time. And then I was here, alone, and then you came, and I know you’re going to leave again, like the last person who came. After he left, they made it harder for anyone to come and visit me.
So… Goodbye, Olivia. I’ll miss having someone to talk to. The loneliness never fades.
 

The next day, the girl’s face had been plastered on police billboards, her perfect prom portrait leering off of televisions across the country.  Olivia Woods, star of the state debate team, missing for forty-eight hours? Inconceivable.
Tim Rodriguez, head detective for the Cleveland PD, yawns widely into his cheap decaf coffee. He was woken up at three AM for a supposed lead on the latest missing rich girl, who probably just ran off with her boyfriend. What a waste of time.
He climbs into the run-down squad car’s passenger seat. “Rough morning?” Detective Miller smiles knowingly at him from the driver’s seat as she starts the car. Det. Rodriguez grumbles and slumps down in his seat, planning to catch a few minutes of sleep before they arrived.
When he opens his eyes after what seems like only a second, they are stopped in front of a blackened brick building. Det. Miller is standing in front in it in shock, one hand hovering over the weapon clipped to her belt. She is new to the city, recently transferred to the CPD; the burnt school that stands, crumbling, in the center of the city like a bloodstain from the past is strange and shocking to her. Det. Rodriguez walks warily ahead of her to the door, pushing it open with his shoulder. The creaking of the rusted hinges makes Det. Miller jump out of her trance, and she rushes to catch up to her partner.
The door leads to a damp, rotting, and burnt hallway, which seems to reach forever, and suddenly-
-no please don’t leave me alone-
Det. Miller, standing slightly behind Det. Rodriguez, gasps and points at something at the end of the hallway. Olivia Woods, the missing girl, is lying motionless next to the only room
-please-
whose door is standing ajar. Det. Miller rushes to her side, while Rodriguez calls for an ambulance.
There is no pulse. After what seems like an eternity, the ambulance arrives, its sirens screaming out the promise of grief and misery. Olivia Woods is rolled out of the school on a stretcher, a sheet covering her cold, stiff body. Det Miller walks slowly out behind the paramedics, blowing her nose. Det. Rodriguez is the last to leave, counting his steps as he trudges out of the burned schoolhouse and back on to the streets of civilization.
As he closes the creaking doors for the first and last time, Tim Rodriguez knows that he will never forget the look of anguish and horror on the lifeless face of Olivia Woods.