Chapter 1 – Sister’s Funeral
Samantha's POV
The first thing I notice isn’t the coffin.
It’s the shoes. Black leather, polished so clean I can see the sky reflected on them, even though the sky today is nothing but clouds. Everyone at my sister’s funeral is wearing the same type of shoes—shiny, expensive, soulless.
They don’t squeak against the grass like mine do. They just… exist. Perfect. Rich. Untouchable.
It makes me sick.
The priest is talking. I don’t hear him. His words are background noise, just a monotone hum floating over the rows of umbrellas. I only hear the rain dripping down my jacket. I only hear the rasp of my own breath because if I don’t focus on that, I’ll scream.
My sister is in that box. And they’re all pretending it was an accident.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. It keeps me from crying. Crying would mean letting them win, and I promised her—I promised her I wouldn’t let them win.
People keep glancing at me like I’m some fragile glass vase that’s about to fall off the table. They whisper things like “poor girl” and “such a tragedy.” I want to claw their perfect faces off. None of them cared when she was alive. Not when she was being whispered about, not when she started skipping meals, not when she came home with bruises she couldn’t explain.
And now they’re here. With their black umbrellas and black dresses and their fake pity.
The priest says her name again. My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe.
I look at the coffin. It’s closed. I hate that. I hate that I didn’t get to see her one last time. I hate that the last image I have is her laughing at something stupid I said, and then the next is… silence. A phone call. A cold voice telling us she was gone.
No answers. Just gone.
The rain comes harder. People shift, annoyed, as if the weather inconveniences them more than death itself.
I press my nails into my palms until half-moon marks form. My sister was seventeen. Seventeen. They don’t care. Nobody cares. The police said there wasn’t enough evidence. The school said it wasn’t their fault. Her so-called friends said they didn’t know anything.
But I know.
I know who did this.
I can see their faces even now, standing across the cemetery like they own the world. Smirking in their expensive suits, sheltered under their expensive umbrellas. The boys from Dorm 9.
Her bullies. Her murderers.
They shouldn’t even be here. What kind of twisted joke is this? Watching the family grieve, pretending to mourn her when they’re the reason she’s in the ground?
My hands are shaking. I curl them into fists and stare at the coffin.
I remember the night she came into my room crying, whispering things I didn’t understand at the time. I remember the way she said, “They won’t stop. They can’t stop.” I remember brushing her hair back and telling her it would be okay. I lied to her. I didn’t know how bad it was. I didn’t know she wouldn’t survive it.
And I will never forgive myself for that.
A shovel scrapes the dirt. People start to leave. They lower the coffin into the ground while polite murmurs rise.
I don’t move.
The world keeps turning, but mine has stopped. I stay rooted to the spot until the last umbrella drifts away and the rain soaks my shoes, my jeans, my hair. I stay until my mother touches my shoulder with her trembling hand, her eyes hollow, her face gray.
“Sam,” she says softly. “It’s time.”
I look at her. She’s broken. She doesn’t have the strength left to fight anyone. She’ll collapse if I tell her what I’m going to do. So I just nod, like a good daughter.
I hug her. She feels so small in my arms. Smaller than I ever realized. She leans on me as we walk back toward the car.
But I don’t get in.
“I’ll come later,” I tell her. “I just need… a minute.”
She hesitates, but she’s too tired to argue. She nods. The driver closes the door. The car disappears down the street, swallowed by fog.
The cemetery is empty now. Just me, the rain, and the fresh pile of dirt where my sister lies.
I crouch down, resting my hand on the cold earth. My throat burns with everything I want to say but can’t. For a long time I just sit there, trembling, until the words claw their way out.
“I swear to you,” I whisper, “I’ll make them pay.”
The promise tastes like iron.
The rain runs into my eyes, but it isn’t rain. It’s tears. Hot, angry, unstoppable.
I slam my fist into the ground. “They won’t get away with this. Not one of them.”
The wind howls, carrying my voice away. My chest heaves, every breath sharp enough to cut.
I close my eyes and picture their faces again. The smirks. The whispers. The laughter.
Dorm 9.
That’s where they live. That’s where they hide.
I’ll go there. I’ll put on the mask. I’ll live among them. And I’ll tear them apart from the inside.
My sister may be gone. But I’m still here.
And I’m not afraid of monsters.
I stand, soaked to the bone, fists clenched so tight my knuckles ache.
Somewhere behind me, I hear footsteps crunch on wet gravel. Slow. Purposeful.
I turn.
Someone’s there. Watching me.