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The math class had been quiet—the usual low hum of pencils scratching against paper, the steady voice of our teacher explaining equations, the occasional sigh of frustration from someone struggling to keep up. The steady rhythm of normalcy, the clatter of desks, the faint rustle of paper—it was a symphony of routine that surrounded us.

But even in that moment, I wasn't really paying attention. My mind was elsewhere, tangled in the events of the past few days, each thought heavy with the weight of uncertainty and dread. The numbers and formulas blurred together on the page in front of me, reduced to meaningless scribbles, like a foreign language I could no longer comprehend. I tapped my pencil against the desk absently, trying—and failing—to shake the unease that had settled in my chest like a stone.

And then—

Bang.

The sound shattered through the air like a lightning strike, sharp and deafening, sending a jolt down my spine. My pencil slipped from my fingers, clattering against the desk. For a second, I thought I had imagined it, that my mind had conjured some terrible trick, a manifestation of my own anxiety. Then—another.

Bang.

And another.

Loud. Sharp. Close.

The classroom fell into an immediate, suffocating silence. My heart clenched, a cold grip of fear coiling around my ribs. For a few stretched-out seconds, nobody moved. Nobody breathed. It felt like the world had turned to glass, frozen in a moment of sheer horror and disbelief.

And then our teacher reacted.

"Everyone, get down!" she whispered harshly, her voice trembling as she motioned for us to move to the back of the room.

There was no hesitation. Desks scraped against the floor as we scrambled, a cacophony of chaos knocking over books and bumping into each other in our frantic desperation. My hands shook violently as I pressed my back against the cold wall, ice creeping into my veins. The air smelled like eraser dust and sweat and something else I couldn't name—fear, maybe. It had a scent, and it clung to everything.

Jasmine and Mia huddled beside me, their faces pale, their eyes wide with terror. I could hear Jasmine's breath hitch, could feel Mia trembling against me as she wrapped her arms around herself, her fingers digging into her sleeves. Someone knocked into my shoulder, muttering a panicked apology that barely registered.

Across the room, someone whispered a prayer under their breath. A soft, rapid murmur—desperate, pleading. I turned just enough to see Eric, usually the class clown, on his knees, his hands clasped, eyes squeezed shut. His lips moved quickly.

"Please, God. Please, God. Please, God."

Next to him, Sarah pulled her hoodie up over her head and ducked low, her mouth barely moving as she whispered Psalm 23 under her breath, her fingers clutching the tiny silver cross around her neck. The words were quiet, but I recognized them anyway. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..."

The lights flickered and then clicked off, plunging the room into darkness so thick it felt alive.

The teacher locked the door with a definitive click that echoed through the air like a gunshot in the suffocating quiet.

A whimper broke the silence. A quiet, muffled sound, quickly swallowed by the weight of the terror that pressed down on all of us like an oppressive fog, wrapping its tendrils around our throats.

Then—the sound of footsteps.

Slow. Methodical. Close.

The heavy thud of boots against the tiled floor sent a fresh wave of panic rippling through my body. My pulse pounded behind my ears, drowning out everything else. I could feel Jasmine gripping my arm, her nails digging into my skin, but I couldn't bring myself to care. My chest tightened as I held my breath, terrified that even the smallest sound would betray us.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door.

A shadow loomed across the window, dark and ominous, a silhouette that seemed to swallow the light.

I stopped breathing.

The doorknob rattled.

My body went rigid. My heart slammed against my ribs, each beat a desperate plea for survival. I could hear the sharp intake of breath from Mia beside me, could feel the way Jasmine's grip tightened like a vice. The room was so silent I swore they could hear my heartbeat, thundering like a war drum in my ears.

The doorknob twisted again—harder this time. A desperate, testing motion.

A pause.

A long, heavy silence stretched between us and whatever was on the other side of that door.

And then—the footsteps moved on.

The breath I had been holding came out in a shaky, near-silent exhale. My fingers clenched into my jeans, my body trembling so hard I thought I might collapse into myself. But I didn't dare move. Didn't dare make a sound.

None of us did.

Minutes passed.

Maybe longer.

Maybe forever.

Jasmine was crying silently now. I could feel the small jolts of her sobs as she tried to muffle them, pressing her face into her sleeve. Mia reached over and took her hand. I took the other.

And then—
The sound of sirens.

Distant at first, but growing closer. The wailing cry of salvation and fear, a signal that the nightmare might finally be ending. It wasn't over yet—we all knew that—but something in me clung to the sound like a lifeline. A promise. A prayer being answered.

Somewhere beside me, Eric whispered "Amen."

And I found myself silently saying it too.

Another voice boomed through the hallway—not the one we had feared.

"This is the police! Stay where you are!"

The tension cracked like a dam breaking.

Someone sobbed.

Someone gasped for air.

Someone collapsed to their knees with a choked whimper.

My chest ached, my breath still shaky, my heartbeat pounding in my ears like a distant war drum. Jasmine leaned into me, her grip still tight, her face buried in my shoulder. She was trembling, or maybe I was. Maybe we both were. The cold air in the room felt thick and suffocating, like we were all holding onto the same breath, waiting—waiting for what came next.

We were still alive.

The school was in chaos.

Police officers and paramedics swarmed the hallways, their boots heavy against the linoleum floor, their voices a strange mixture of urgency and reassurance. They moved with calculated precision, ushering students out of the building in small, careful groups. Radios crackled with clipped commands. The flashing lights from emergency vehicles cast red and blue pulses across the walls, turning everything into a disorienting blur of motion and color.

Some people were crying. Others were shaking. A few stood there, frozen, as if their bodies hadn't yet caught up to the reality of what had happened. Teachers whispered soothing words they didn't quite believe. Students clung to one another, some with blood on their hands—not always their own. The air was thick with the acrid smell of fear and adrenaline—and something else, something metallic and wrong, something I didn't want to name.

I felt a primal instinct—an urge to flee, to escape this place that now felt like a tomb. The walls, once familiar, now seemed to close in, whispering secrets of horror that echoed in the corners of my mind. The floor, once just scuffed tile, felt unstable beneath my feet.

The scene outside unfolded like a nightmare made real.

The parking lot was a sea of frantic faces. Parents, teachers, and news crews mingled in a disjointed mass, voices rising in desperate whispers, in frantic calls, in cries of relief or terror. Mothers clutched their children, sobbing into their hair. Fathers pulled their kids into tight, crushing embraces, their eyes glassy with tears they refused to let fall. Some parents just stood there, hands shaking, phones clenched in white-knuckled grips as they searched the crowd for the faces of their sons and daughters. Their expressions shifted with every glance—hope, despair, confusion, grief.

Camera crews had already begun to arrive, their vans lining the edges of the blocked-off street. The logos were instantly recognizable.

FOX 9, their boom mic hovering just outside the perimeter.
KSTP 5, a reporter speaking solemnly into the camera, the school building a blurred backdrop behind her.
WCCO 4, broadcasting live, their anchor pacing near the barrier, adjusting his earpiece, his face tight with concern.
KARE 11, their news chopper circling overhead, the dull thump of its blades filling the air like a warning drumbeat.
And even CNN had shown up—national coverage. A satellite truck parked beside the local crews, its dish aimed skyward, reporters with grim expressions already preparing for live updates.

Microphones were pushed forward. Questions were shouted.
"Do we have a name yet?"
"How many victims?"
"Was the shooter a student?"

No one answered. No one could.

The reporters looked for quotes, for statements, for something to fill the silence between updates. But those of us walking out didn't have words—just hollow eyes and shaking limbs. Some students hid their faces from the cameras, ducking into the arms of loved ones. Others stared blankly at the chaos, their expressions unreadable.

I caught sight of a mother collapsing to her knees when she spotted her child, her sobs ripping through the noise like thunder. Another woman was screaming at an officer, begging for answers, desperate to know if her daughter was safe. I couldn't look for long.

The wind had picked up, carrying with it the mingled smells of exhaust fumes, damp pavement, and fear. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Somewhere closer, someone screamed.

And in all of it, I felt myself slipping—disconnected from the moment, watching it unfold like a scene on TV. Except I was in it. And I couldn't turn it off.

The scene felt surreal, like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. I had imagined school evacuations before—fire drills, weather drills, lockdown drills—but never like this. Never with the lingering scent of gunpowder and blood in the air. Never with the knowledge that some of us weren't coming out at all.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry and raw. My fingers dug into Jasmine's jacket as my mind played back every second leading up to this moment. The screams. The gunshots. The silence. The way we had hidden, breathless, waiting for the end. I thought of the ones who hadn't made it out.

And in the chaos, a shadow flickered at the edge of my vision—something dark and sinister that slithered through the crowd like smoke. I blinked, but it was gone, leaving a cold chill in its wake.

Was I losing my mind, or was the darkness still lurking, waiting to claim more?

The weight of what had happened pressed against me like a crushing tide, and as I stood there, trembling in the aftermath, I realized the true horror was far from over. I was still alive, yes, but the scars of this day would haunt us forever. The whispers of fear would echo in our minds, feeding on our anxiety, reminding us that safety was an illusion—a fragile mask that could shatter at any moment.

"Emily!"

I turned just in time to see Mom running toward me, her face tight with fear, her eyes wide and frantic, scanning every inch of me for injuries. Her breaths came fast and shallow, her hair clinging to the sweat on her forehead in wild disarray—like the storm of panic still swirling around us. I barely had time to brace myself before she wrapped me in the tightest hug of my life, her arms trembling as they locked around me like a lifeline, a desperate plea for reassurance.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Her voice cracked, raw with anguish, a sound that clawed at the frayed edges of my nerves and pulled them taut again.

"I'm—I'm okay." My voice sounded distant, hollow, like it didn't belong to me at all. The words came out more as a reflex than a truth. The weight of what had just happened hadn't fully settled—it hovered, heavy and ominous, like a thunderhead ready to break.

Dad was right behind her. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes scanning the crowd, as if still waiting for a second attack. His arms were stiff at his sides, his chest heaving with the effort of restraint. He rested a hand on my back—firm, grounding—but the fury simmering beneath his skin was unmistakable. His eyes burned with the quiet promise of justice, or vengeance. Maybe both.

Nearby, I heard Lily crying, her small voice muffled as she sobbed into Mom's coat. Sam stood beside her, shoulders stiff, his face pale and unreadable. But his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. He looked like he wanted to scream, to break something, anything—his rage barely contained beneath the surface.

And then I saw Uncle David.

He stood a short distance away, slightly turned from us, speaking into his phone. His expression was stone. Dark. Focused. His back was straight, his posture tense with restrained urgency, as if every word he spoke had weight. He wasn't just getting information—he was coordinating. Planning. Preparing for whatever came next.

He knew something.

And the moment his eyes met mine, I knew it too.

Something was wrong.

Something more than this.

I swallowed hard. "What?" My voice was fragile, barely more than a whisper lost in the chaos.

Mom tensed. Her grip on me tightened. Her eyes darted to Uncle David, silently pleading for him to soften the blow. But he didn't. He couldn't. He wouldn't.

Uncle David ended the call and turned toward us. His voice was low, heavy. "They caught the shooter."

A cold wave washed over me. My stomach twisted. My hands started to tremble.

"The shooter?" I echoed, as if I hadn't heard him right. "Who—who was it?"

And then, as if in perfect, horrifying sync, a voice crackled from a nearby news van's speaker. It was FOX 9, broadcasting live from the scene just beyond the police tape. The reporter's voice was tense, urgent:

"We've just received confirmation from law enforcement sources that the shooter has been taken into custody. Authorities are saying the suspect is a female former student of this school. We're working to confirm her identity—early reports suggest her name is—Tasha Caldwell."

Time stopped.

My breath caught in my throat. The world around me fell silent, even as voices screamed and sirens howled. I couldn't hear anything but the rush of blood in my ears.

Tasha?

No.

"No," I whispered, my head shaking slowly, automatically. "No..."

Uncle David didn't move. He didn't flinch.

"It was her," he said, steady but grim. "She used a stolen handgun. And she wasn't working alone."

WCCO 4 and KARE 11 had joined in now, their reporters echoing the same grim update.

"Again, for those just tuning in, a student named Tasha Caldwell is in custody following a shooting at a local middle school—sources say she may have had help—"

My legs buckled.

The ground beneath me no longer felt solid, like the whole world was tilting sideways. My knees hit the pavement before I realized I was falling. Dad caught me under the arms before I hit all the way, easing me down, but even his strength couldn't hold up the weight crashing down on my chest.

Tasha.

She came here to try to kill me.

A sudden wave of nausea rose in my throat, and I clenched my hands into the gravel to steady myself. My mind raced with images—gunshots, screams, shadows at the door. My heartbeat pounded in my ears like thunder.

CNN's van had arrived now too, and their anchor was speaking solemnly into a camera, her words slicing through the noise like glass.

"We are now hearing that this may have been a targeted attack. Multiple sources confirm the shooter had a known history with one of the students injured in the lockdown—though officials have not yet released names..."

"They're talking about me," I said softly, barely hearing my own words. "She tried to kill me."

Dad dropped to his knees beside me, pulling me into him, wrapping his arms around my shoulders protectively. "You're safe now," he said, though his voice trembled. "She didn't get to you. You're safe."

But I didn't feel safe.

I felt broken.

And something told me this wasn't over.

Not yet.

Memories slammed into me like a wrecking ball—her taunts, her twisted messages, the way she had haunted my every step since that day I stood up to her. It had all been leading to this. She had been toying with me, stalking me from the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And now she had.

Jasmine and Mia stood frozen nearby, their expressions mirroring the horror tightening in my chest. Jasmine looked sick, her face pale, her lips pressed together like she might be fighting back bile. Mia's hands were shaking, her knuckles white as she gripped her phone, the device trembling as if it might shatter under the weight of our reality.

A sharp pain shot through my chest, recalling the chilling text messages.

**Are you scared yet?**

**Nice that you prayed. You're going to need it.**

Mom pulled me closer, her voice whispering reassurances I couldn't process, her breath warm against my ear. My fingers dug into her jacket, my breath coming too fast, too shallow. Panic clawed at my throat, a relentless beast threatening to devour me whole.

Dad spoke for the first time, his voice low and controlled but laced with barely restrained fury. "Where is she now?"

Uncle David's expression darkened, his gaze flickering toward the chaos behind us—the flashing lights, the uniformed officers moving with purpose. "In custody," he said. Then, after a beat, "But it's not over."

My stomach twisted. A fresh wave of terror coiled inside me, squeezing my lungs. "What do you mean?"

Uncle David hesitated, his eyes shadowed with something deeper than frustration—worry. Fear.

"She's already claiming she wasn't alone in this," he said, voice barely above a murmur. "That there's 'unfinished business.'"

My blood turned to ice.

Unfinished business.

The words settled in the air like a death sentence, wrapping around me like a noose.

She wasn't done.

Not yet.

Not with me.

A gust of wind swept through, carrying the distant echoes of sirens, the frantic voices of people still reeling from the horror of the day. But all I could hear was the pounding in my chest, the suffocating weight of impending doom pressing down on me like a vice.

I could feel the shadows closing in. Waiting. Watching.

And I knew this nightmare was far from over.

The drive home was silent.

Mom kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, her eyes filled with worry, the fear etched into her features like a permanent scar. Dad's grip on the steering wheel was too tight, his knuckles bone-white. Uncle David sat next to me, tapping at his phone, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his jaw screamed of unspoken dread.

Lily and Sam were quiet, too.

No one knew what to say.

Because what do you say after finding out someone you used to go to school with tried to kill you?

I pressed my forehead against the cool window, watching the streetlights blur past in streaks of yellow and orange, like fireflies fading into the darkness. My chest felt tight, my hands still shaking, my mind spinning.

Tasha.

Tasha did this.

And she wasn't alone.

"There's unfinished business."

The words rang in my head over and over, an echo I couldn't escape, each repetition tightening the knot in my stomach.

I couldn't breathe.

Even with Tasha locked up—I wasn't safe.

I thought this was the end.

But it wasn't.

It was just beginning.

In a flash of headlights, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window—a ghostly figure, pale and haunted, eyes wide with terror. My heart raced, fueled by the knowledge that Tasha had not only escaped justice, but had also left behind a darkness that had seeped into my very bones. An image of her—a twisted smirk on her lips as she fired the gun—flashed through my mind, and I shuddered.

And then I remembered the news report from earlier. The police had shot Tasha. She was dead, but her wrath still loomed over me like a specter, a reminder that though her body was gone, her rage could still find a way to haunt me.

Her accomplices were still out there—she had claimed not to be alone, and the dread of the unknown settled heavily on my shoulders.

What if they were watching? Waiting?

Every shadow felt like a threat, every flicker of movement made my skin crawl. The world outside blurred into an indistinct smear, a nightmarish landscape where danger lurked behind every corner, and I was just a pawn in a twisted game I couldn't comprehend.

The silence in the car was suffocating, a tangible entity that pressed down on me, squeezing the breath from my lungs. I could feel the weight of my family's fear, their worry wrapping around me like a shroud.

And I knew, deep down, that Tasha's legacy would not die with her. She had left her mark, a dark stain on my life that would never wash away.

As the car rolled to a stop, the distant wail of sirens faded into an eerie quiet, a haunting reminder that the real horror was still out there, lurking and waiting for its moment to strike again.

As I sat in the car, the weight of the day's events pressed heavily upon me, but a new thought crept into my mind, twisting like a knife: Did anyone else get hurt in the incident?

With every passing moment, the gravity of the chaos unfolded in my mind like a terrible tapestry. I remembered the fear etched on the faces of my classmates, the screams that had pierced the air like shards of glass, and the frantic movements of the police as they rushed through the hallways.

My heart raced as I recalled the sounds of panic—the slamming of doors, the echoing footsteps of officers, and the cries of students caught in the crossfire of a nightmare that had shattered our world.

How many had been injured? How many had been caught in Tasha's madness?

I glanced at my family, their faces drawn and pale, but I knew they were grappling with the same questions, the same fears. The news reports had been scarce, but the murmurs had swept through the crowd like wildfire—some students had been taken to the hospital. But how many? And were they okay?

As we drove further from the school, the reality of the situation settled in like a heavy fog. I thought of Mia and Jasmine, still frozen in shock when I last saw them. Had they made it out unscathed? What about the others? The names began to swirl in my mind—friends, acquaintances, even those I had never spoken to but recognized from the halls.

The thought that someone might have been hurt, someone I knew, sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. What if they were suffering right now, alone in a hospital room, haunted by the same terror that had gripped us all?

The car turned down a familiar street, but everything felt different now. Each house we passed seemed like a reminder of the normalcy we had lost. The world outside felt like a cruel joke, a façade of safety that had been shattered in an instant.

"Emily," Mom's voice broke through my thoughts, soft yet trembling. "We'll get through this. We have to find out what happened—who got hurt. We'll make sure everyone is okay."

Her words were meant to comfort, but they only deepened the pit in my stomach. I wished I could believe her, wished I could wrap myself in the belief that this was just a nightmare from which we would soon awaken. But deep down, I knew we were standing on the precipice of something darker.

Tasha's actions had consequences far beyond our understanding, rippling through the lives of everyone who had been there that day. And there was no escaping the reality that someone, maybe many, were still in the grip of fear and pain.

The drive home felt interminable, each moment dragging like an eternity. I thought of the sirens that had echoed through the air, the chaos that had erupted around us, and the children—my friends—who might still be trapped in that nightmare.

As we pulled into our driveway, I made a silent vow to myself. I would find out what happened. I would know who had been hurt, who had suffered at the hands of someone I once thought I knew.

Because even if Tasha was gone, her legacy of terror had only just begun to unravel, and I had to face it head-on.

The door creaked as we stepped inside, the familiar sound now carrying an unsettling weight. The silence of our home felt heavy, a stark contrast to the chaos of the outside world, and I realized then that we were all just trying to find our bearings in a reality that had been irrevocably altered.

And in the back of my mind, the haunting question lingered: Who else had been hurt?