SCREAM

The fluorescent lights of Blackwood High hummed with the tired resignation of a thousand forgotten school days. It was a sound that usually blended into the background, a dull thrum beneath the cacophony of lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and the ceaseless, urgent chatter of teenagers. But today, Friday, October 27th, the hum felt different. It felt... anticipatory. Like the low growl of a distant storm, or the held breath before a scream.

Anya Rhyse, her fingers smudged with charcoal from a hurried art project, navigated the crowded hallway with practiced ease. Her dark, curly hair, usually a wild halo, was pulled back in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame a face that perpetually 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 constant companion. She was heading for the girls' restroom on the second floor, a place usually deserted during the last few minutes of lunch, a small sanctuary for a quick touch-up or, in her case, a moment of quiet before her dreaded AP Lit class.

As she pushed open the heavy door, the usual stale scent of disinfectant and cheap air freshener was overlaid with something else – a faint, metallic tang that prickled at the back of her throat. 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 on the counter. She turned on the cold water, splashing it onto her face, trying to wash away the lingering fatigue of a late night spent wrestling with a particularly stubborn still life.

When she looked up, wiping her face with a paper towel, her gaze drifted to the mirror. And that's when she saw it.

Scrawled across the glass, in what looked like a thick, dark red lipstick – or something far more sinister – were three words. Large, uneven letters that seemed to vibrate with an unseen energy.

"THEY HEAR YOU."

Anya's breath hitched. Her heart, usually a steady drum, began to pound a frantic rhythm against her ribs. It wasn't just the message itself, chilling as it was. It was the color, the unsettling shade of crimson, and the way the letters seemed to 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, preying on those who dared to speak ill of the dead, or those who simply made too much noise. A campfire story, a ghost tale for elementary school sleepovers. But seeing it here, in her high school, felt like a cold hand closing around her throat.

She reached out a trembling finger, almost touching the slick, dark red. It wasn't lipstick. It had a viscous quality, a faint, almost imperceptible sheen. Her mind, usually so rational, raced through possibilities. A prank? A very elaborate, very disturbing prank. But who would do this? And why?

A sudden, sharp clang from the hallway made her jump, her hand flying back as if burned. Her eyes darted to the door, half-expecting to see someone standing there, watching her. But there was nothing. Just the distant echoes of the school bell, signaling the end of lunch.

She needed to tell someone. But who? The principal? Coach Kaelen, the notoriously gruff but fair athletic director? Or maybe just her friends, Solara and Kaelen. Solara, with her pragmatic, no-nonsense approach, would probably dismiss it as a pathetic attempt at edgy humor. Kaelen, ever the conspiracy theorist, would likely launch into a dramatic monologue about the impending apocalypse.

Anya pulled out her phone, her fingers fumbling, and snapped a quick, blurry photo of the mirror. Just in case. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, she grabbed a handful of paper towels, 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. The ease with which it vanished only deepened her unease. Was it meant to be temporary? A fleeting message, designed to instill a moment of terror before disappearing without a trace?

She left the restroom, the metallic tang still lingering in her nostrils, and walked towards her AP Lit class, her mind replaying the image of the words, the unsettling shade of red. The hum of the school lights now seemed to pulse with a low, menacing rhythm.

The afternoon dragged, each minute stretching into an eternity. Anya found it impossible to focus on the intricate symbolism of The Great Gatsby when her own reality felt suddenly 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 to anyone yet. Part of her felt foolish, overreacting to what was probably just a stupid prank. Another part, the part that had felt the cold dread in the restroom, urged caution.

When the final bell shrieked, releasing the students into the chaotic freedom of Friday afternoon, Anya practically bolted from the classroom. She spotted Solara Vespera by the main entrance, 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 kind of girl who seemed to exist in a different dimension of cool, effortless and self-assured. She was also Anya's oldest friend, a bond forged in shared childhood scrapes and whispered secrets.

"Solara!" Anya called, her voice a little too loud, a little too strained.

Solara looked up, her piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly. "Anya. You look like you've seen a ghost. Or, you know, just finished AP Lit."

Anya managed a weak smile. "Worse. I think. Can we talk? Somewhere... private?"

Solara raised an eyebrow, a flicker of concern replacing her usual nonchalance. "Okay, that's new. My car? I'm parked in the back lot, away from the usual Friday afternoon madness."

They walked in silence, the usual Friday euphoria of the other students feeling alien to Anya. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke. As they reached Solara's sleek, black sedan, Anya quickly scanned their surroundings. The parking lot was emptying fast, but a few stragglers lingered.

"Alright, spill," Solara said, starting the engine but keeping it in park. "You're radiating 'something's wrong' vibes."

Anya pulled out her phone, navigating to the photo. "Okay, so... I went to the girls' restroom on the second floor at lunch. And I saw this." She handed the phone to Solara.

Solara took it, her expression unreadable as she looked at the blurry image. Her eyes, usually so quick to dismiss, lingered on the crimson words. "'They hear you.' What is this? A bad horror movie prop?"

"I wish," Anya said, her voice barely a whisper. "It was written on the mirror. In... something red. I don't know what. It looked like blood, Solara. And it felt... wrong."

Solara zoomed in on the photo, her brow furrowing. "You think it's... real blood?"

"I don't know," Anya admitted, rubbing her arms. "It was thick, kind of sticky. And it smelled... metallic. I wiped it off. I panicked. I just wanted it gone."

Solara handed the phone back, her gaze distant. "'They hear you.' That's the Woodsman legend, isn't it? The one about him listening in the trees, waiting for people to speak ill or make too much noise."

Anya nodded, relief washing over her that Solara recognized it. "Exactly. That's what freaked me out. It's too specific for just a random prank."

"Or it's because it's specific that it's a prank," Solara countered, though her voice lacked its usual certainty. "Someone's trying to be edgy. Get a rise out of people. Maybe it's one of those senior pranks gone wrong, trying to scare the freshmen."

"But why that specific phrase? And why in the girls' bathroom, where hardly anyone goes during lunch?" Anya pressed. "And the way it looked... it wasn't just a marker. It was... visceral."

Solara sighed, running a hand through her silver hair. "Okay, look. It's creepy, I'll give you that. And if it was blood, that's a whole different level of messed up. Did you tell anyone else? A teacher? Principal Thorne?"

"No. I didn't know who to tell. And I didn't want to be laughed at. What if it is just a stupid prank?"

"Better to be laughed at than to ignore something serious," Solara said, her tone firm. "But... let's think about this. If it's a prank, who would do it? Someone with a twisted sense of humor. Someone who knows the local legends."

"Everyone knows the Woodsman legend," Anya pointed out. "It's practically on the town's welcome sign."

"True," Solara conceded. "But who's got the guts, or the lack of sense, to pull something like this? And the resources to make it look... authentic?" She paused, her eyes scanning the now nearly 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 was a student, decades ago, who disappeared. Just... vanished. And the only thing they found was a message scrawled on the wall of the old gym. 'They hear you.' No one ever knew what happened."

Anya felt a fresh wave of dread. "Solara, you're not helping."

"I'm just saying," Solara shrugged, though her gaze was still troubled. "It's a deep cut. Not something your average prankster would pull out of thin air. This feels... intentional. Like it's meant for someone specific."

"Or everyone," Anya murmured, looking back at the school building. It loomed against the darkening sky, its brick facade suddenly looking less like a place of learning and more like a tomb.

"Okay," Solara said, shifting gears. "Let's go find Kaelen. He'll either have a wild theory that makes us laugh, or he'll take it seriously enough to actually do something. He's usually at the library this time of day, avoiding his parents."

Kaelen Thorne, a distant cousin of Principal Thorne (a fact he both reveled in and despised), was exactly where Solara predicted: hunched over a laptop in a secluded corner of 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 paper clung to him like a second skin. Kaelen was the resident eccentric, brilliant but socially awkward, with a mind that devoured obscure facts and spun elaborate theories.

"Kaelen," Solara announced, tapping his shoulder.

He jumped, nearly knocking over a stack of books, his pale face flushing. "Solara! Anya! You startled me. I was just... delving into the socio-economic impact of the 1893 Panic on rural Midwestern communities."

"Fascinating, I'm sure," Solara said dryly. "But we have something a little more immediate for you to delve into."

Anya pulled out her phone again, showing him the photo. "We need your expert opinion, Kaelen."

Kaelen took the phone, his eyes widening behind his glasses as he focused on the image. He tilted his head, then leaned closer, as if trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphs. "'They hear you.' Ah, the venerable Blackwood Woodsman legend. A classic piece of local folklore. But to see it manifested thus... intriguing."

"Intriguing? Kaelen, it was written in what looked like blood in the girls' bathroom," Anya said, exasperated.

"Indeed. The medium is, shall we say, unconventional for a mere prank," Kaelen mused, still staring at the photo. "The viscosity, the apparent saturation... it does suggest a biological fluid. Or a highly sophisticated synthetic mimicry."

Solara rolled her eyes. "Just tell us what you think, Sherlock."

Kaelen finally looked up, his gaze intense. "This is not a simple jest. The Woodsman legend, while widely known, has deeper roots than most realize. It's not just a campfire tale. There are historical accounts, albeit fragmented and often dismissed as superstition, of similar messages appearing in Blackwood during times of... unrest."

"Unrest?" Anya prompted.

"Yes. Particularly during the late 19th and early 20th centuries," Kaelen explained, pushing his glasses up his nose. "There were several unexplained disappearances, and even a few 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. The old Blackwood High, for instance. Before it burned down in '78, there were rumors of a student vanishing from the gym, and that phrase was supposedly found scrawled on the wall."

Anya and Solara exchanged a look. Solara's grandmother's story. It wasn't just a family anecdote.

"So you're saying... this isn't just some kid trying to be scary?" Anya asked, her voice tight.

"It is highly improbable," Kaelen declared, handing back the phone. "The precision of the reference, the choice of location – a high school, a place of heightened emotional states, a crucible of adolescent anxieties – and the unsettling medium... no, this is not the work of a casual prankster. This is either someone with a profound, almost obsessive, knowledge of Blackwood's darker history, or... something far more unsettling."

"Like what, Kaelen?" Solara asked, a hint of genuine fear in her voice now.

Kaelen adjusted his glasses again, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of apprehension and intellectual excitement. "Like someone attempting to invoke the legend. Or, perhaps, someone who is the legend. Or, at the very least, someone who believes they are. A copycat, perhaps, of a historical horror. A reenactment."

"A reenactment of what?" Anya whispered.

"The disappearances. The murders," Kaelen said, his voice dropping. "The Woodsman legend isn't just about a specter. It's about a pattern. A pattern of silence, of fear, and of people... vanishing."

The library, usually a sanctuary of quiet study, suddenly felt oppressive. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to intensify, a high-pitched whine in Anya's ears.

"We have to tell someone," Anya insisted. "The principal. The police."

"And what will you tell them, Anya?" Kaelen asked, a note of cynicism in his voice. "That you found a message that looked like blood, but you wiped it away? That it references an old ghost story? They'll dismiss it as a hoax. They always do. Until it's too late."

"So we just... do nothing?" Solara challenged.

"No," Kaelen said, pushing his glasses up. "We investigate. This is a mystery, is it not? And mysteries require deduction. Observation. Perhaps, even, a bit of... bait."

Anya stared at him. "Bait? Kaelen, are you suggesting we try to find out who did this ourselves? What if it's dangerous?"

"All knowledge acquisition carries inherent risks, Anya," Kaelen replied, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "But consider the alternative. To do nothing is to allow this... entity, whatever it may be, to continue its machinations unimpeded. If it is a person, they will escalate. If it is... something else, then we need to understand its nature."

Solara, surprisingly, seemed to be considering it. "He's got a point. If we go to the authorities, they'll probably just sweep it under the rug. And if Kaelen's right, and this is more than just a prank, then we need to be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" Anya asked, feeling a surge of panic. "For someone to get hurt?"

"Precisely," Kaelen said, his eyes serious now. "If we can identify the source, we can prevent further... incidents. My hypothesis is that this message is a prelude. A warning. Or perhaps, a challenge."

"So, what's the plan, then?" Solara asked, her pragmatism kicking in. "We can't just wander around looking for more bloody messages."

"No," Kaelen agreed. "We need to observe. To listen. The Woodsman legend states 'They hear you.' It implies a listener. Someone who is attuned to the whispers of the town. Perhaps our perpetrator is also listening. Listening for fear. For reactions. We need to be subtle. We need to be... quiet."

He paused, then continued, "I propose we form a small, discreet investigative unit. The three of us. Anya, with your artistic eye for detail, you can spot anomalies. Solara, your social connections and ability to blend in will be invaluable for gathering information. And I, with my... encyclopedic knowledge of obscure local history, will provide the intellectual framework."

Anya looked from Kaelen's earnest, slightly manic face to Solara's thoughtful, determined one. She was terrified. But a part of her, the part that had felt the cold dread in the restroom, the part that had seen the unsettling crimson words, knew they couldn't just ignore it. What if Kaelen was right? What if this was just the beginning?

"Okay," Anya said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Okay, but if anything feels too dangerous, we go straight to the police. Promise?"

Solara nodded. "Promise. We're not heroes, Anya. Just... curious. And maybe a little bit scared."

Kaelen beamed, a rare, almost childlike smile breaking through his usual solemnity. "Excellent! Our first task, then, is to disseminate the information subtly. Observe reactions. See who seems to know more than they let on. And, of course, keep an eye out for any further... communications."

He then pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen. "Now, for our codenames. For security, of course. Anya, you shall be... 'The Observer.' Solara, 'The Networker.' And I, naturally, will be 'The Archivist.'"

Anya and Solara exchanged another look, a mix of amusement and lingering apprehension. This was Kaelen, after all. But beneath the eccentricities, there was a sharp mind, and a genuine concern.

As they left the library, the last rays of the setting sun cast long, skeletal shadows across the school grounds. The hum of the fluorescent lights inside seemed to follow them, a low, persistent whisper in the 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 terrifying hunt. The first whisper had been heard. And Anya had a chilling feeling it wouldn't be the last. The game had begun, and Blackwood High, once a symbol of normalcy, was now a potential hunting ground.

Saturday morning dawned grey and damp, mirroring Anya's mood. She tried to lose herself in her art, sketching furiously in her notebook, but the image of the crimson words kept bleeding into her landscapes and portraits. "They hear you." The phrase echoed in her mind, a constant, unsettling drumbeat.

Her phone buzzed. It was a group chat Kaelen had created, predictably named 'The Blackwood Anomaly Collective.'

The Archivist: Good morning, operatives. Any unusual occurrences to report from the nocturnal hours? I, myself, dreamt of ancient texts and a distinct lack of proper indexing.

The Networker: Seriously, Kaelen? It's 8 AM on a Saturday. I was dreaming of actual sleep. But no, nothing. My social feeds are blissfully free of blood-written bathroom messages.

The Observer: Same. Just... a lot of thinking. I keep wondering who could have done it. And why.

The Archivist: Precisely the questions we must endeavor to answer. My initial research suggests a possible connection to the upcoming Halloween dance. Historically, periods of heightened emotional energy or communal gatherings have been... conducive to such manifestations.

The Networker: You think someone's going to pull another stunt at the dance? That's next Friday.

The Archivist: A logical progression, would you not agree? The initial message serves as a prelude. A declaration of intent. The dance provides a stage. A large audience.

The Observer: So we need to be extra careful next week. And maybe keep an eye out for anyone acting weird.

The Networker: Everyone acts weird at Blackwood High, Kaelen. That's not exactly narrowing it down.

The Archivist: True. We must focus on those whose 'weirdness' aligns with a potential motive. Someone with a grudge. Someone obsessed with local history. Someone with a flair for the dramatic, and a disturbing sense of humor.

Anya closed the chat. Kaelen had a point. The Halloween dance. It was the biggest event of the fall semester, a chaotic, crowded affair held in the transformed gym. The perfect place for something to happen.

Later that afternoon, Anya decided to take a walk through the town. Blackwood was a picturesque New England town, all quaint Victorian houses and tree-lined streets, especially beautiful in the autumn. But today, the charm 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 yesterday, but she stood at the treeline, gazing into the dense canopy of ancient oaks and pines. The air grew colder here, the silence deeper. It was easy to imagine the Woodsman, lurking just beyond the visible, listening.

As she turned to leave, her eyes caught something glinting in the undergrowth just off the path. Curiosity, a dangerous trait in horror stories, tugged at her. She pushed aside a curtain 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 figure, but with disproportionately long, spindly limbs and a featureless, unsettlingly smooth head. Around its neck, tied with a piece of rough twine, was a small, tarnished silver locket.

Anya's heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn't just a random piece of trash. This felt... deliberate. Like an offering. Or a warning. She knelt down, her fingers hovering over the effigy. The locket was old, tarnished with age, but she could still make out faint, intricate carvings on its surface. A single, stylized eye, weeping a tear.

She hesitated, then, with a deep breath, she reached out and gently picked up the locket. It was cold to the touch, and surprisingly heavy. She tried to open it, but it was stuck fast, sealed shut by time and corrosion. As she held it, a faint, almost imperceptible whisper seemed to brush against her ear, like the rustle of dry leaves.

"They hear you..."

Anya dropped the locket as if it had burned her, scrambling back from the effigy. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Had she imagined it? The whisper? Or was it just the wind, playing tricks on her fear-addled mind?

She stared at the locket, lying innocently on the ground. It was just a piece of old jewelry. But the effigy, the location, the whisper... it all felt connected. A chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air prickled her skin.

She had to tell Solara and Kaelen. This wasn't just a message on a mirror anymore. This was something tangible. Something that felt like it was reaching out from the shadows.

She carefully picked up the locket again, wrapping it in a tissue from her pocket, and hurried away from the woods, her footsteps echoing too loudly in the sudden, profound silence. The game, she realized with a fresh wave of terror, wasn't just beginning. It had already started. And they were already players.

Sunday was a flurry of hushed conversations and frantic research. Anya showed Solara and Kaelen the effigy and the locket. Solara, for once, was speechless, her usual composure cracking. Kaelen, however, was practically vibrating with a mixture of fear and academic excitement.

"Remarkable!" he exclaimed, examining the locket with a magnifying glass from his personal 'investigative kit.' "The symbolism! The weeping eye is an ancient motif, often associated with mourning, but also with hidden knowledge, or even a curse. And the effigy... a classic representation of a 'poppet,' a doll used in sympathetic magic. This is far beyond a simple prank, my friends. This is... ritualistic."

"Ritualistic?" Solara repeated, her voice strained. "Kaelen, are you saying someone's doing... witchcraft?"

"Or attempting to," Kaelen clarified. "More likely, someone is drawing upon the darker aspects of Blackwood's history. The Woodsman legend, as I mentioned, has ties to older, more pagan beliefs. The idea of the forest listening, of the earth holding secrets, of the dead being disturbed by the living."

Anya shivered. "So, someone is trying to make the legend real?"

"Or they believe it already is," Kaelen said gravely. "And they are acting as its agent. This locket... it's old. Very old. The craftsmanship suggests late 18th or early 19th century. Where did you say you found it, Anya?"

"At the edge of the Blackwood Woods, near the old logging trail," Anya replied, still feeling the phantom whisper on her ear.

Kaelen's eyes gleamed. "The logging trail! That's significant. The Woodsman legend is intrinsically linked to the old logging industry that founded Blackwood. The forest was both their livelihood and, for some, 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 by a young woman named Lyra Thorne. She was one of the first to disappear, back in 1898. Her body was never found. Only a single, cryptic message scrawled on a tree near where she was last seen: 'They hear you.'"

Anya felt a cold dread spread through her veins. Lyra Thorne. A direct connection to the principal's family. And the same message. This was no longer just a creepy prank. This was a direct, terrifying link to Blackwood's darkest past.

"So, someone found Lyra Thorne's locket?" Solara asked, her voice quiet. "And they're using it to... what? Scare us? Or worse?"

"To invoke," Kaelen corrected, his voice hushed. "To draw a parallel. To suggest that history is repeating itself. Or, perhaps, to ensure that it does." He looked at them, his usual academic detachment replaced by a genuine fear. "This is no longer a game, my friends. This is a very real, very dangerous situation. Someone is trying to bring the Woodsman back. Or they are the Woodsman."

Anya clutched her arms. The weight of the locket, even wrapped in tissue, felt heavy in her pocket. It was a tangible link to a century-old horror.

"What do we do now?" Anya asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Kaelen took a deep breath, his glasses fogging slightly. "We proceed with extreme caution. We must try to determine who could be behind this. Someone with access to the school, someone with an intimate knowledge of the Woodsman legend and Blackwood's forgotten history. Someone who wants to scare us. Or worse."

"And the Halloween dance?" Solara prompted.

"It remains a prime target," Kaelen confirmed. "A public spectacle. A perfect stage for a dramatic escalation. We need to be vigilant. We need to watch everyone. And we need to protect ourselves."

He looked at them, his gaze unwavering. "This is no longer about solving a mystery for intellectual curiosity. This is about survival."

Anya nodded slowly, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Survival. The word hung in the air, heavy and ominous. The weekend was over. Monday morning, Blackwood High would open its doors again. And the masked figure, the one who whispered in the woods and scrawled messages in crimson, would be waiting. The game had truly begun. And the stakes were terrifyingly real.