She didn’t make very it far.

  Barely out the cemetery gates, feet dragging, head swimming with adrenaline come down and dirt caked exhaustion, Monique’s knees buckled. Her hands hit the gravel path, then the rest of her followed, collapsing into the frosty grass with a muffled grunt.

  She didn’t pass out. Not really.

  But her body shut down, curling in on itself like a tired, shivering animal.

  “Hey.”

  The sky above was turning gold, the town just beginning to stir.

  “Hey.”

  A rough voice.

  Then a callused hand shook her shoulder; firm, perhaps annoyed, but not unkind.

  “C’mon now, kid. Up. This ain’t the place to be makin’ a habit of faceplantin’.”

  She blinked through crusted lashes and saw him: the groundskeeper. Old, broad-shouldered, wrapped in layers of flannel and denim like bark on a tree. He smelled like oil, fresh earth, and the kind of cigarettes that don’t even come with filters. This face was familiar in a way that made it alien.

  He squinted down at her, unimpressed, not unempathetic.

  “Next time ya just ask for a shovel and a blanket,” he grumbled. “Ain’t no need to go crawlin’ through corpses like a damn raccoon.”

  Monique stared up at him, baffled, her brain still rebooting. How did he know that?

  He helped her up anyway, ignoring her confusion entirely.

  She opened her mouth to ask how he knew but the look he gave her said, plain as anything: I see what I see. I don’t need the details.

  She nodded. Still half dazed. Half drunk on what had just happened.

  And then it hit her.

  “Shit!” she hissed, nearly faceplanting again as she bolted upright. “I’ve got school. I’ve got….I’ve got a chem test… I’ve got blood under my fingernails- shitshitshit!”

  The groundskeeper watched her flail, totally unmoved.

  “You kids are weird as hell.”

  She took off at a run, bag slapping against her side, dirt smearing her sleeves, hair wild. But underneath the panic, the stress, the bruised muscles

  There was something steady. Something lit.

  She’d unburied a man with her own hands last night. And then Buried him again.

  Faced a ghost - Still not processed that, like at all.

  Woke something ancient. Which was probably fine, maybe.

  And survived.

  School? Sure.

  It was probably the sleep deprivation, but Monique was convinced that her shadow was not acting like it was supposed to.

  Or maybe math class was just that boring. Hopefully math class was just that boring. She probably did well on the chem test, or at least what she remembered, and managed to nod along with Tyler when they’d talked about it right after. What was she doing again? Right, trying not to sleep in math class

  It was probably the sleep deprivation. Hopefully the sleep deprivation. Please be the sleep deprivation.

  At least, that’s what Monique kept telling herself as she slouched in her desk, her hoodie pulled up like a cowl, trying not to drool on her notes while Mrs. Kendricks droned on about logarithmic functions like they were the sacred key to exponential happiness.

  But there it was again.

  The shadow.

  Her shadow, specifically. Or what should’ve been her shadow flat and obedient under the sickly white lights of the classroom. Like how shadows are supposed to behave, by which she meant, it didn’t behave , because shadows don’t behave. They’re just there, flat and obedient.

  Only it wasn’t.

  It didn’t move right.

  It lagged. It twitched. When she scratched the back of her neck, it hesitated a second too long before following. Almost, Reluctant. When she turned her head to the left, it shifted a little too far. Not wrong enough to be obvious. Just enough to itch in her brain.

  Monique narrowed her eyes, half-lidded and bloodshot. She glanced around. No one else seemed to notice.

  Naomi was two rows over, stabbing her mechanical pencil into her notebook like it owed her money. Although if someone did actually own Naomi money, she probably wouldn’t stab them. As someone who owed Naomi money, Monique definitely hoped so.

  Tyler was fully asleep behind a propped up textbook. Shane wasn’t present, which was probably for the best. Kellen was in a different class, which was also for the best. the rest of the class might as well have been brainwashed, in various states of self-hypnosis, on the edge of crying or different emotions, which you could also be on the edge of.

  Maybe I’m just tripping, Monique thought. Sleep-deprived. PTSD. Ghost lag. That’s a thing, right? Ghost lag?

  Also Ghosts were a thing. She still wasn’t processing that. At all.

  She looked down again.

  The shadow was still. Perfect.

  Then.

  It blinked.

  Her shadow fucking blinked.

  Monique nearly flipped her desk, but managed to disguise it as a deep, shuddering stretch. Her pulse raced. What the fuck

  The fluorescent lights buzzed louder.

  Her pen trembled in her hand.

  She tested it

  slowly raising her hand.

  The shadow followed.

  Then- just for a heartbeat. it smiled.

  Not her face.

  Not her mouth.

  Just a curve in the shadow where there shouldn’t be.

  Okay, she thought. I hit my head on a grave stone last night. I inhaled some fungal spores and have developed Aunt syndrome.

  And then her phone buzzed. She looked at the display, not really bothering to hide that, since Mrs. Kendricks was in sheer religious ecstasy talking about Napier or Leibniz or some other dead white guys like that.

  Also Monique quite frankly had bigger issues than a hissy fit from a Numberophiliac and an hour of detention.

  Issues like Ghosts being real (Why ? and also How? And also What the fuck do you do about that now?) and the whole Delusional shadow stuff.

  Unknown Number: “You brought something back.”

  The screen went black. She hadn’t turned her phone off, the screen just went black.

  She managed to take a deep breath, and remembered that her screen going black after 15 seconds was perfectly normal.

  Still, Phone′s haunted.

  She looked up , and the shadow was back to normal.

  Maybe. Hopefully. Probably. Please.

  She needed to talk to an adult. She was an adult but not like actually. She didn’t know shit about fuck. Which Adults obviously did.

  So, she had to talk to an adult. Specifically, her brother. But she wasn’t going to be using her haunted ass phone. So as soon as the bell rang, Monique would ask to borrow Naomi's phone.

  The bell rang.

  And so, Monique executed her plan, stomping over to Naomi's desk.

  People all around the classroom began to pack up their stuff.

  Naomi yawned. “You look like shit.”

  Monique barley kept herself form groaning. Insightful observation, Monique had not previously been aware of the fact that she looked like shit. But she didn’t say that, instead she just gave Naomi a look.

  “Yeah well, graveyards aren’t very comfortable. “ Monique snarked.

  “Uhhh touchy… what did you run into a ghost?” Her friend said playfully, entirely unaware of the panic she had inadvertently set off in Monique.

  “Yes. Several.” Monique bit out.

  Naomi giggled “Damn girl, you're way more fun when you sleep less, try doing it more “

  Monique huffed. And gave a small smile. “Anyway, can I borrow your phone?” She asked.

  Naomi gave her a concerned look “Trouble with your Dad again? “ she asked, already handing her phone to Monique.

  Monique didn’t answer, just basked in her friends closeness and understanding, wrong as tho it may be for a moment.

  “I'll give it back after“ She told Naomi quietly. The other girl shrugged, as if to say Obviously, I trust you.

  Quickly Monique threw all of her stuff into her bag and almost ran out of the classroom, practically sprinting toward the south area, where the toilets people only used for smoking were.

  Pretty long way, comparatively.

  “You should delete that number.”

  Monique froze. The voice came from directly behind her, too close. Soft, wry, almost amused. And hers. But not hers. Like hearing a recording of herself that had been filtered through static and sarcasm and something slithering just beneath the words.

  Before she could scream, her mouth was covered. A hand, her own hand, but too cold, too flat. No breath on her neck. Just stillness. And pressure.

  Wide-eyed, Monique stared over her shoulder, and straight into her own face.

  Her own fucking face.

  Only… not quite.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Same features. Same chapped lips, same tired, half-goth eyeliner. But the eyes weren’t hers.

  Too dark.

  Too awake.

  There was no fear in them, no confusion, no doubt, no exhaustion.

  Just a kind of sly, clinical detachment, like someone looking at a museum piece that unexpectedly started twitching. The confusing mixture of seeing your pet run over and then having to poke it with a stick to figure out if it was dead, and thus time to cry now.

  “I’m your shadow, obviously,” the doppelg?nger said, voice calm, reasonable, like this was just a minor scheduling error, like her world wasn’t actively being shattered for the second time.

  Today.

  “Like the thing that follows you around. Not like… Jungian, although that probably wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate.”

  She let go of Monique’s mouth and took a step back, or rather, sank back.

  Into the wall.

  Into the light. Half-there, half-pasted across the linoleum floors and lockers, like a person folded into 2D space.

  “Also,” the shadow added, one ink smudge brow raised, “don’t bite me. That’d be weird. And technically self-harm. Which we promised ourselves we wouldn’t do. ”

  Monique backed up against a locker, breathing too fast, too loud. The hallway was empty. Too empty. Lunch period, she should probably eat. Just in case The Snacks her friends had brought weren’t enough.

  She’d taken the express route from class to the smoking bathroom and now she was apparently trapped in a glitching, existential, horror episode.

  Hopefully just existential horror.

  All of this was way too fuckin’ weird.

  She ran a hand through her hair. dirt still under her nails, and mumbled, “I must’ve hit my head on a gravestone last night. I’m concussed. I’m so concussed. I’m going to bankrupt my family and then still fucking die. ”

  The shadow smirked. “Right? Somehow even the horrors that lurk in the night are nothing compared to the medical system.” The shadow frowned “I feel bad now? I think, you really need to get better at processing your emotions. No, but for real, “ She? it? The shadow, was smirking again “points for denial. Honestly, I expected more screaming. Or tears. Us goth girls usually do better drama.”

  “Why are you talking to me?” she snapped.

  “I mean… you cracked a binding ritual with raw grief and righteous spite, or something I don’t actually know more than you. You woke the graveyard. You gave Josiah peace. And now? There’s a little space inside you that wasn’t there before. I live in that space. Or at least I can now use that space to express myself. ” The smirk somehow got wider “And its not like I have anyone else to talk to. “The shadow gestured to herself, “That’s right Momo, all of this is yours… Take it all in…”

  Monique stared. “Are you… evil?”

  Shadow-Monique gave a dismissive shrug. “Define evil. Do I want to possess you and walk around wearing your skin like a Hot Topic discount rack? No. Do I want to see what happens when you finally admit you like this shit a little too much? Yes. When you snap? When you finally stop suppressing all the interesting parts about yourself? Definitely Yes.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “Obviously. I’m you. Also don’t insult yourself, jokes at your expense are still costly. Which is incidentally while I never make mistakes. You should try that. “

  And then the shadow tilted its head, just slightly, smile fading.

  “But seriously. Delete that number. That wasn’t from me.”

  A chill sliced down Monique’s spine.

  “Who was it from, then?”

  Shadow-Monique leaned in, grin sharp as cracked glass.

  “The one you didn’t bury. The one you left awake.”

  And just like that, gone.

  The lights flickered.

  Monique stood alone in the hallway, her breath fogging in a school that shouldn’t be this cold.

  There were rapid footsteps and she just managed to turn around when

  BANG.

  Monique flinched as the locker beside her rattled, the sound reverberating through the deserted hallway like a gunshot in a church. And then he was there, slouching, grinning, looming, a walking contradiction of smug menace and devastating jawlines.

  He was too close. Way too close. Trapping her between cold metal and a wall of heat and swagger.

  Painfully close.

  Painfully handsome.

  Kellan Bishop.

  He had the kind of name that teachers always said with a sigh, and girls always said with a smirk.

  “Kellan Bishop, late again.”

  “Ugh, Kellan Bishop? He’s so toxic—but like, hot.”

  To Monique, it had always sounded more like a warning label than a real name. Sometimes he looked at her like he knew something, like she made sense to him. Not mockery. Not pity. Just familiarity. Too familiar. To be fair to that, they had known each other for a long time. they had a lot of mutual friends. He hung out with the goth kids when the others got too loud, or when he just wanted to.

  Or maybe he hung out with her and the rest just happened to be there.

  He was One of those guys who looked like he was born in detention, messy blackish curls that never stayed tied back, a crooked smile with the bite of a dare, and eyes that made you feel like you were always just a little bit see through. The kind of hot that made your brain short-circuit and your fists clench. Amongst other things.

  Monique’s heart did that stupid thing, fluttering like it hadn’t just stared death in the face twelve hours ago. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to kiss him, stab him, or sob into his leather jacket while screaming about ancient sleepwalkers and ghosts with no graves. Did you have feelings for him? At least five, sometimes as many as seven.

  “Talking to yourself again, Momo?” he taunted, voice low, teasing, sliding under her skin with practiced ease.

  She rolled her eyes, already exhausted by him. “You wish I was talking to you.”

  He just grinned wider, eyes flicking over her: mud stained sleeves, bruises she hadn’t covered up, dirt still faintly under her nails.

  Silently asking if she was actually hurt.

  “I thought you had friends,” he said, mock hurt. “What happened? Finally weirded them out with all the spooky-dead-girl vibes? Or whatever it is that you do when I'm not there to make things actually interesting.”

  “If you’re trying to bully me,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “you might want to work on your material. That was, like, a D+ attempt.”

  He leaned closer, breath warm, eyes gleaming with that terrible, beautiful, infuriating kind of curiosity. “Then why haven’t you walked away?”

  Monique didn’t have an answer. Maybe because she was tired. Maybe because the hallway still felt wrong and his presence, as maddening as it was, at least felt real. Or maybe it was the way his voice had almost cracked on that last line. Like he wasn’t sure why he was doing this either.

  She scowled. “If you’re so bad at bullying, why are you so committed to doing it?”

  He blinked. Then gave a real smile, brief, crooked, almost vulnerable.

  “…habit,” he said.

  And that was the worst part. The part that made her chest ache and her fists relax.

  Because it sounded true. He said habit, but it sounded like I attack the the perceived shortcomings to prevent people from examining me, since I secretly crave the connection and vulnerability.

  “That’s totally true, I’m sure you can fix him!” A voice in the back of her head said.

  Monique stared at him at the smirk, the proximity, the flicker of something not-quite-malicious in his eyes and for a heartbeat, she almost softened. Almost. But the night clung to her skin like grave dirt, and there was still something in the air, something wrong, and he was in the way. Good in the way or bad the way, she didn't know.

  So she didn’t soften.

  She shoved him.

  Not hard. Just enough to reclaim her space.

  “Get a new hobby,” she said, shouldering past.

  He let her go, surprisingly. No snarky comeback. No playful tug at her sleeve. Just silence behind her, like he wasn’t sure what had just happened, like maybe he had expected more, too. She didn’t look back. Not until she hit the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Then she finally let herself breathe.

  Only… the mirror showed two of her.

  Her reflection was delayed by a full second. It blinked after she did. Smiled. Slow and off. she stood frozen. She wasn't the one smiling, just the mirror image.

  And from her phone, still in her hoodie pocket, came another buzz.

  Another message.

  Unknown Number: “We are all wearing masks. Yours is slipping.”

  Then another.

  Unknown Number: “Careful what you find.”

  And her blood turned to ice.

  Because she hadn’t told anyone about the grave. Not even in texts.

  Outside, in the hallway, she heard the faint echo of footsteps retreating, the boy’s, maybe. Or maybe not. The rhythm was wrong. The sound was wet.

  She backed away from the mirror, heart thundering.

  Then her reflection moved again.

  This time, first.

  It reached out, palm flat to the glass.

  And smiled like it had plans.

  Monique’s shadow sighed, long, theatrical, and entirely inappropriate for the moment.

  “I want to jump him so badly,” it murmured, voice oozing through her like oil through silk. “All that brooding post-trauma energy? It’s like he was hand-crafted by horny witches for emotionally compromised girls with unresolved grief, kinks. And we have known him for so long…”

  Monique growled, at herself.

  No, worse.

  At her shadow self.

  “Shut the fuck up,” she hissed, spinning toward the mirror like she could reach through it and slap some sense into her own dark tinted reflection.

  The shadow leaned casually against the inside of the glass, twirling invisible hair around one finger, lips curled into a smug little smirk.

  “Oh, come on,” it purred, “you saw the way he looked at you. All snark and subtext. He probably dreams about you showing up at his door with eyeliner running and a shovel over your shoulder. P-please Kellan… hold me”

  Monique jabbed a finger toward the mirror. “This is why no one listens to you.”

  The shadow raised an eyebrow, rolling her eyes. “Again. They can’t listen to me, Momo. I’m you. The part you keep duct taped under your cute spooky aesthetic and casual misanthropy. I live in your subconscious, right between your ghost trauma and your borderline affection for emotionally unavailable assholes. And that one time when you stared at Naomi too long in the shower. And all of the other things you pretend like you don’t feel , would you like a list?”

  Monique clenched her fists. “You’re not real.”

  “You bled for a ghost , buried a forgotten soul with your bare hands. Don’t talk to me about what’s real.”

  She flinched.

  The mirror flickered.

  The shadow’s face softened for a moment, just a breath.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” it said. “But you need to stop pretending that last night didn’t change you. You’re a door now, Momo. And doors? They open both ways.”

  Monique groaned like her soul was trying to leave her body through her eyeballs.

  “Oh my god,” she muttered, pressing both palms into her face. “Stop talking.”

  Outside, the hallway had gone quiet.

  Monique stepped back, her pulse pounding. The bathroom felt too small. Too loud with silence.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  Another message.

  Unknown Number: “Your shadow isn’t the only thing watching.”

  The mirror rippled once, like breath fogging up glass, and stilled.

  “Also,” her shadow hissed, voice sharp now, like nails tapping glass from the inside, “I told you to delete that number.”

  Monique looked up just in time to see her reflection leaning forward, face almost flush with the other side of the mirror, eyes gleaming with that familiar I-know-you-better-than-you-wish-I-did sparkle.

  “And if you do delete it,” the shadow whispered, venom sweet as syrup, “I’ll do you a solid. I’ll stop your subconscious from giving you that wet dream you’re going to have tonight.”

  Monique squinted, full of dread. “What dream.”

  “The one where you bang Kellan,” the shadow said, grinning now, cruel and delighted. “On your grandma’s grave.”

  Monique gagged on air. “WHAT-”

  “You’re gonna be into it. Like embarrassingly into it. It’ll start with you crying and then, well, I won’t spoil it.”

  “Shut the fuck UP!” she shrieked at the mirror.

  The door to the bathroom creaked open behind her, and a freshman girl peeked in wide-eyed, terrified.

  Monique locked eyes with her.

  “Occupied,” she snapped.The girl fled.

  The mirror chuckled.

  “You’re such a mess,” it cooed. “And it’s delicious.”

  Monique stared at herself-herselves and then, reluctantly, pulled out her phone.

  That text was still there.Her finger hovered over Delete. But deleting it felt like snipping a fuse you couldn’t see. So you couldn't really tell if you were going to be fine , or going to boom.