Margo waited under its emptiness, holding back her hair as the wind grew cold.
The hallway had nothing in it but the hush of her own breathing. Everyone was out. Everyone except George.
He leaned casually against the stair rail, his hands in his pockets, pretending not to look her way. "Looks like your ride's late," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
She glanced toward the gate. Still no sign of Lindsay.
"Yeah," she murmured. "Guess she's stuck in traffic."
George took a few steps closer, shrugging off his backpack. "So. we're both bored. Wanna talk or something?"
She looked at him warily. He had a sinister arrogance about him, but there was charm he wore as a badge of honor. "Okay. I guess so," she said, gliding down next to her on the bench.
"So what's up with that kid—Gabriel?" George asked, raising one eyebrow. "You and he pals or something?"
Margo blinked. "You know Gabriel?"
George shook his head. "Just. heard rumors. People do say some things about him. That he's not here"
Margo's heart wrenched. "He's nice."
George gave her a look, and his smirk dropped. "Just be careful, okay?"
She nodded gently, her eyes drifting towards the trees. The wind was starting to blow again. It whined through the leaves like a chorus of murmuring voices.
George moved closer, then brushed his hand against hers.
It was a mistake.
The instant his fingers touched her skin, a shiver ran up her spine.
"What are you doing?" she demanded of him, pulling away in alarm.
His smile hiccuped. "Relax. I just—"
"I don't like it," she snarled.
George flung up his hands. "Okay, okay. Didn't mean a thing. Just thought—forget it."
She rose, smoothing out her skirt. "I think you need to go."
He raked the nape of his neck, his face hot with embarrassment. "Okay. I'll just take a pee before I go."
He crept through behind the hedges on the edge of the school grounds.
The sky groaned, as if it had exhausted itself.
Then it arrived.
A scream.
A tearing, rasping noise that had no business being in a climate like this.
Margo leapt and turned towards the trees.
Another scream. Louder. Choking. Sick.
She ran.
"George?!" she screamed.
She came upon him lying flat on the ground beside the bushes, twisting, grasping his stomach. Blood seeped in fat ribbons onto the grass.
His shirt was ripped open.
Cut across his belly—torn into flesh with some crude, cruel instrument—were five rough letters:
K A R M A
Her shriek cut through the dense air.
"HELP!" she yelled. "SOMEBODY HELP!"
Lindsay's car swerved into the parking lot a second later. Her mouth dropped open at the sight.
"Oh my god—Margo!" she screamed, running towards them. "What did they do?!"
"I don't know! He was just—he screamed—I don't know!
They carried George between them, blood dripping down Lindsay's sleeves. The boy grunted, half-alive, speaking something incoherent as they hurried off to the hospital.
They came home in silence.
Dinner went uneaten for an hour.
Margo fiddled with her food, her hands shaking.
Lindsay insisted. "Tell me what happened exactly."
Margo related it all—how George had touched her, how she'd walked away, how he'd screamed.
Lindsay paled at the words of the letters.
"You're certain… it said karma?"
Margo nodded slowly. "Like it was written on him."
Lindsay pushed her plate away, then looked down at it. "From now on. you stay away from the trees."
Margo nodded, but she was thinking elsewhere. Somewhere darker.
She sat on the bed afterwards, doing homework under a paltry lamp. Her pen shook, her concentration faltering. Lindsay stood in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes.
The wind howled like an animal outside.
It scraped against the windows. The bushes swayed in moonlight.
Lindsay stood stock still in the middle of a scrubbing, hands tightening into soap.
That was no wind sound. This was too. deliberate.
She dried her hands, moved quietly to the window, and looked out.
Nothing.
Just the normal shadows.
Then—
A flicker.
Something drifted through the garden. Not walked. Not ran.
Floated.
A shape, dimly glowing, pale and tall like a paper lantern. It floated between the
hedges, then disappeared.
Lindsay opened the back door. The wind slapped her face hard. She went outside.
"Hello?" she yelled, holding tight to her cardigan. "Anyone there?"
Silence.
She stepped again. The grass was damp. The air too still.
Then everything went wrong.
The porch light flashed out. The trees started to twist—not move—but twist, as if they were exhaling.
She spun back toward the house—
The windows… floated.
The walls stretched like rubber.
She stumbled, screamed, but the world around her disintegrated into something not quite right. As if reality had broken and didn't know how to reattach itself.
And then, she clattered against the kitchen floor. Her skull bounced off the porcelain sink.
Blood swept past the tiles.
And the last thing she recalled was her face, staring back at her in the shattered glass—dancing, smiling, when she wasn't.