u/1__action

The Last Night Dream

I still can't accept that it was just a dream.

It's been hours since I woke up, and my left hand still hurts — the same dull, deep ache I felt while it was happening. I didn't injure it yesterday. Nothing happened to it. There's no reason for it to hurt.

But it does.

Let me tell you what happened.

Last night, around 10 PM, I went to bed. Before lying down, I drank a glass of water — just a small habit I have — then settled in.

My wife Olivia wasn't next to me. We'd had an argument the day before and she was still upset, so she was sleeping in the other room. Honestly, I don't mind sleeping alone. I actually prefer it.

My mind drifted to badminton, the way it usually does. It's more than a hobby for me — it's something I'm deeply passionate about. I keep thinking that one day I'll become a truly great player. I was lying there, just thinking about the game, footwork, rallies... and somewhere in all of that, I fell asleep.

Some dreams are so vivid they erase the line between what's real and what isn't.

This was one of those.

My alarm goes off around 4 AM every morning.

I heard it. But my eyes wouldn't open — not the way they normally do when you're just sleepy. It felt like they were glued shut. Like I was trapped somewhere between this world and somewhere else entirely.

And then I noticed the pain in my left arm.

Sharp. Deep. Like a needle had been pushed into the vein and left there. I kept reaching for my arm, grabbing at it — but my eyes still wouldn't open. I didn't know if I was still in this world or somewhere else.

I fought to open my eyes with everything I had.

Finally, slowly, I began to understand what I was seeing.

I was lying on a hospital bed — the metal-framed kind with railings on the sides. My right hand was tied to the frame.

Next to me, on another bed, lay a girl. She had the build and look of an athlete — the kind of person who wakes up before sunrise and doesn't stop until the work is done.

That's when I saw the needle in my left arm.

A tube ran from it directly into her arm. My blood was being drained from my body and pumped into hers — steadily, mechanically, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

A doctor appeared from behind me. He placed his hand gently on my head and said, in a calm voice:

"Only a little has been taken so far. She needs close to a litre of blood to win her match tomorrow."

A litre.

The human body holds around five to six litres of blood. Losing a litre doesn't just weaken you — it can kill you.

My mind stopped working. I had completely forgotten I was in a dream. All I knew was terror.

I started struggling — pulling at the restraint on my right hand, twisting my body, trying to scream. Help! Someone please help me!

But no sound came out. It was like someone had sealed my mouth shut with tape. I was screaming inside my own head and nothing was coming out.

The doctor started laughing. He rubbed my head again, slowly, and said:

"This is not a place where anyone can help you."

I turned toward the girl. Maybe she'd have some humanity in her. Maybe she'd tell him to stop.

She looked at the doctor and said impatiently — "How much longer is this going to take? I have a match tomorrow. I still need to go to practice. Can you hurry this up?"

I went completely still.

The doctor nodded, attached a machine to the setup, and I watched the flow increase — visibly, immediately. The blood started moving faster.

I looked at the girl.

The faster the blood entered her body, the more she laughed. Not nervously — genuinely. Like she was enjoying it. Like something she'd been waiting for was finally happening.

The pain in my left arm became unbearable. I started struggling again — harder, more desperately. That's when the doctor grabbed my throat.

He squeezed. Hard. Brought his face close to mine and said quietly:

"We need your blood. That's the only reason you're still alive right now."

I stopped moving.

I just lay there, still, while the machine hummed and my blood drained and the girl on the next bed smiled to herself like she was having the best night of her life. I wanted to scream so badly. But there was nothing — just silence on my end while everything continued around me.

Then the girl looked over at me.

Something shifted. Not much. But something.

She called out to the doctor: "He shouldn't die. We still need him. You can do that later."

The machines were switched off. The needle was removed. The pain in my left arm slowly started to fade — like heat leaving a room after the fire goes out.

She got up, walked over to me, and stood close. Looked at me with an expression I still can't quite name — not cruel, not kind, something in between.

"I want to become a player like you," she said softly. "You play amazingly."

I couldn't process it. This girl wanted to play like me. And this was how she thought she could get there — through my blood. I didn't even know what to feel. Confused. Horrified. Hollow.

She picked up her badminton racket from beside the bed, gave me one last look — almost gentle — and walked away.

The doctor leaned over me one final time.

"If Princess didn't need you," he said, "you would have been gone a long time ago."

Then he left too.

I was alone. I started struggling again, trying to pull free, trying to get out—

My alarm went off. 5:30 AM.

My eyes still wouldn't open properly. The pain in my left hand was still there — same spot, same depth. My entire body was drenched in sweat. I was clutching my arm without even realizing it.

Olivia came in to wake me. She does that sometimes, even after arguments — she knows my badminton club starts at 6 AM and she never lets me miss it.

She reached out and touched my left hand.

My eyes snapped open.

Without thinking, I grabbed her hand and the only words that came out were:

"Hey — please help."

I sat up and held onto her, repeating it — "Please help. Please help."

She was shaking me, saying my name over and over — "Robert, Robert, what happened, what happened?" — and then: "Hey, it's me. It's Olivia."

And slowly, my eyes focused.

She looked terrified. She kept asking me: "Robert, what happened to you? Who were you asking for help?"

I didn't even remember asking for help. I had to ask her what I'd said.

My left hand still hurts as I write this.

I've gone through yesterday a dozen times in my head. I didn't strain it. I didn't injure it. There's no mark, no bruise, nothing you can see. Just that same deep internal ache — in the exact place where the needle was.

I spent the whole day trying to accept that it was a dream. My match was at 6 AM and I went, because Olivia made me go, and I played left-handed the way I always do — because I am a left-handed player. My hand hurt the entire time.

But here's the thing I keep coming back to.

Before I fell asleep last night, I was looking at my badminton racket. It was hanging on the wall across from my bed. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes.

The girl walked away carrying that same racket.

I know what the rational explanation is. Dreams pull from your surroundings, your thoughts, your anxieties. The racket was on the wall. Badminton was on my mind. The arm pain was probably just an awkward sleeping position.

I know all of that.

But the pain was there before I woke up. I felt it inside the dream and I felt it the moment I opened my eyes. And I still feel it now.

Tonight, I'm going to sleep again.

I don't know what I'm expecting. Maybe nothing happens and I wake up tomorrow feeling foolish for writing any of this.

But I needed to get it out of my head first.

I'll update if something happens.

Previously: Rob faced the voice in the

darkness — alone — and refused to break.

The headlight is fixed. The bus is moving

again. Marriwood Academy is two hours away.

And Maria is running out of time.

——————————————————————————————

The bus cuts through the dark English

countryside — full speed now —

the single repaired headlight pushing

back the darkness ahead —

Marriwood Academy getting closer

with every passing mile.

The driver glances back:

"We'll be there in just

a few minutes, Miss Clain."

Mrs. Clain turns to face the group —

Sophie, Alex, Jasper, Ethan, Ryan —

all of them exhausted, soaked,

hollow-eyed — held together by

nothing but the desperate need

to keep moving forward:

"All of you — listen to me carefully."

They listen.

"When we arrive — our only priority

is getting Maria safely inside

Marriwood Academy."

She looks at each of them in turn.

"That is the only thing

that matters right now.

Do you understand?"

Sophie's voice is barely audible —

her eyes fixed on Maria

in the seat beside her:

"Mrs. Clain... her breathing

is almost gone."

She reaches out —

touches Maria's hand —

pulls it back immediately.

"Her body is completely cold.

She's fading."

"We are almost there,"

Mrs. Clain says firmly.

"Hold on."

——————————————————————————————

The iron gates of Marriwood Academy

appear through the rain —

tall and dark and ancient —

rising out of the English night

like something that had been

standing in that spot for centuries.

And standing just outside them —

soaked to the bone —

was Professor Fred.

The moment he sees the headlights —

something in his face

breaks completely open.

Relief.

Pure, overwhelming,

barely-holding-together relief.

He rushes toward the bus

as the doors open —

reaching for Mrs. Clain

the moment she steps out:

"Are you all okay?"

"We are now," she says.

"How long have you been waiting?"

"Since we arrived."

He exhales — long and shaking.

"I couldn't go inside

until I knew you were safe."

A pause.

"What took so long?"

"He tried to stop us.

The headlights were destroyed.

But we made it."

Behind them — Ryan steps off the bus.

He doesn't look at Mrs. Clain.

He doesn't look at Fred.

He walks straight through

the open gates — alone —

and disappears into

the dark academy grounds.

Mrs. Clain watches him go.

Then turns to address everyone:

"All students — go directly

to your rooms. No one —

and I mean no one —

leaves the Marriwood grounds tonight."

She looks at the guard

standing at the gate.

"Lock it."

He does.

——————————————————————————————

The grounds of Marriwood Academy

are vast and dark and silent —

old stone paths cutting between

ancient buildings —

ivy-covered walls disappearing

into the darkness on every side.

Mrs. Clain turns to Ethan,

Jasper, Ryan, Sophie, and Alex:

"You five. Follow me."

Sophie and Alex carefully

carry Maria between them —

following Mrs. Clain

across the dark grounds —

deeper into the academy —

further from the gate —

further from the road —

further from everything familiar.

Rob — instead of going to his room —

quietly falls into step

behind the last of them.

Hidden in the shadows.

Watching.

Waiting.

They arrive at the center

of the academy grounds —

and stop.

Because something is there.

Something that Rob —

watching from the shadows —

had absolutely not expected.

A statue.

Enormous. Ancient.

Carved from dark stone

that seemed to absorb

the little light there was

rather than reflect it.

An owl.

Sitting perfectly still —

wings folded —

eyes forward —

perched atop a large iron key

that was itself embedded

in a heavy stone base.

Mrs. Clain and Professor Fred

position themselves

in front of the statue —

facing the group.

"Close your eyes,"

Mrs. Clain says quietly.

Nobody moves.

"All of you. Close your eyes. Now."

Fred adds —

and his voice carries

something that sounds like warning:

"No one opens their eyes

until we tell you to."

One by one — reluctantly —

they close their eyes.

Mrs. Clain and Fred

close theirs too.

And then they begin to speak.

Not in English.

Not in French or Latin

or any language any of them

had ever heard in a classroom.

Something older than that.

Something that felt like it

belonged to the stone

beneath their feet —

to the dark earth

beneath the stone —

to whatever had existed

in this place long before

anyone thought to build a school here.

The words fill the air —

low and rhythmic and strange —

and the ground beneath them

begins to tremble.

Faintly at first.

Then more.

Something groans —

deep and mechanical and ancient —

from somewhere below.

And then — silence.

"You can open your eyes."

——————————————————————————————

The owl statue has moved.

Not fallen. Not cracked. Not toppled.

Moved.

Shifted — deliberately —

on its stone base —

rotating just enough to reveal

what had been hidden beneath it.

A door.

Set into the ground —

stone steps descending

into darkness below —

leading somewhere beneath

the Marriwood Academy grounds

that had — until this moment —

been completely invisible

to the world above.

An underground chamber.

That no one alive

had ever seen before tonight.

Mrs. Clain looks at the group —

at their stunned, speechless faces —

and simply says:

"Follow me."

And walks down into the dark.

——————————————————————————————

From behind a stone pillar

at the edge of the grounds —

Rob watches every single thing.

His eyes wide.

His breath held.

His mind racing.

And then the voice returns.

Of course it does.

Quiet. Intimate. Mocking —

but with something underneath

the mockery that sounds almost

like excitement:

"You are weak...

you are afraid..."

Rob's fists clench at his sides.

His jaw tightens.

His voice — when it comes —

is barely above a whisper.

Fierce and certain and tired

of having this conversation:

"I am not weak.

I told you before.

And I will keep telling you

for as long as you keep asking."

The voice shifts.

Lower now.

Almost gentle.

Which is somehow worse.

"Then prove it."

——————————————————————————————

The underground chamber is unlike

anything any of them have ever seen.

The ceiling is low —

stone arching overhead —

ancient and damp and covered

in markings that none of them

can read.

The walls are lined with shelves —

floor to ceiling —

packed with objects

that have no names

in any language they know.

Bottles of colored glass —

filled with liquids

that seem to move

on their own.

Books bound in materials

that don't look like leather.

Instruments with no obvious purpose.

Symbols painted directly

onto the stone —

in colors that seem too bright

for how old this place must be.

Everything in this room

feels centuries old.

Everything in this room

feels alive.

Mrs. Clain moves through it

without hesitation —

like someone walking

through their own home —

and reaches a specific shelf —

and lifts a glass bottle —

small and dark and stoppered

with black wax.

She pulls the stopper.

And carefully —

very carefully —

tilts a few drops of liquid

onto Maria's face.

The effect is immediate.

Maria's body convulses —

once — sharply —

like a switch being thrown —

And then she breathes.

Properly.

Steadily.

Deeply.

The color begins returning

to her face —

slowly —

like a tide coming in.

Sophie lets out a sound

that is somewhere between

a sob and a laugh.

"She will regain consciousness soon,"

Mrs. Clain says quietly.

She sets the bottle down carefully —

and turns to Professor Fred —

and in a voice meant for

both of them —

says the words that will

change every single thing

that comes after:

"The time for war has come."

A pause.

"This time —

these people have been chosen."

The silence that follows

is the loudest thing

any of them have ever heard.

Ryan — who has been sitting

apart from everyone —

pressed against the far wall —

burning with a quiet fury

that has been building

since the moment Lily disappeared —

rises slowly to his feet.

"Chosen?"

His voice is dangerously quiet.

"What do you mean chosen?"

He takes one step forward.

"And Lily — you said she's a pawn.

That he can't hurt her."

Another step.

"But where IS she?!"

His voice finally breaks —

just slightly —

on the last word:

"Who even IS he?!"

Mrs. Clain meets his eyes —

steady and unflinching:

"He always chooses

the weakest link."

She doesn't look away.

"Lily was used because

she was vulnerable

in that moment.

But she cannot be truly harmed.

She is a pawn — not a target."

Ryan's hands ball

into fists at his sides.

"Then WHO is the target?"

Mrs. Clain holds his gaze

for a long moment.

Then — quietly:

"Sit down, Ryan."

He doesn't move.

"Sit."

"Down."

Slowly — jaw still tight —

fists still clenched —

he sits.

Mrs. Clain looks around the room —

at all of them —

Sophie and Alex and Jasper

and Ethan and Ryan —

these young people who came

on a college trip —

and ended up here —

in a chamber beneath the earth —

at the beginning of something

none of them asked for

and none of them are ready for.

She takes a breath.

"There is a story," she says.

"A very long one."

"And it is time you heard it."

——————————————————————————————

Who came back?

Who chose Maria — and why?

Why is Rob being tested —

and by whom?

How did Mrs. Clain and

Professor Fred know about

the owl statue and the

chamber beneath it?

And what is the war that has

now officially begun?

Season 1 — Complete.

Season 2 — Coming Soon.

——————————————————————————————

Written by Mohit Rajput

The Story of Maria — Season 1

Glastonbury, England — 1992

© 2026 All Rights Reserved

I don't really know how to write this.

I've been sitting here for a while now, staring at the wall, trying to figure out where to even begin. My past is deeply strange. Painful. Sorrowful. So mysterious that even I don't fully understand it. Some things about my life remain unknown — even to me. I've accepted that. I've had to.

But what happened three nights ago in Glastonbury — that I cannot accept. That I need to write down. Because I need someone, anyone, to know what I experienced. In case something happens to me. In case things get worse.

My name is Maria. I'm 18. And something ancient found me in those ruins.

It was supposed to be our first college trip together.

Eight of us — barely a few weeks into knowing each other — piling onto a bus headed for Glastonbury, England. 1992. The world felt ordinary. Safe. I remember being genuinely happy that night. The nervous, warm kind of happy you feel when you're around new people you actually like.

There was Jasper — thoughtful, always the one to ask the questions others were afraid to. Sophie and Alex, already inseparable. Ethan, always steady. Ryan, loud and protective in the way that makes you feel safe. Lily, who laughed at everything. Rob, quieter than the rest.

And me. Maria. The straightforward one. The sensible one. That's what they called me.

I had no idea what I was walking into.

The ruins were ancient. Stone walls crumbling at the edges. Vines crawling across broken arches. We arranged eight camping chairs in a circle around a campfire someone had built in the center. The night sky above us was dark and vast and completely silent.

Everything felt normal.

Until it didn't.

I was sitting in my chair, the fire warm on my face, when Jasper rose from his spot across the circle. He walked toward me — slowly, no urgency — and leaned in slightly. His voice was quiet. Curious.

"Maria… how many people are there in your family?"

And then he held my hand.

The moment his fingers touched mine, I felt it.

A sharp, violent electric shock — shooting through my entire body — as if lightning itself had struck me from the inside. Not a small shock. Not a simple static spark. Something ancient. Something that knew exactly what it was doing.

My eyes went blank.

My body went limp.

And just like that — I collapsed.

The last thing I was aware of was the campfire — still burning. Indifferent. Calm. As if it had already known this was going to happen.

I don't know how long I was unconscious.

When I started coming back, everything was wrong. Sound before sight. Cold before anything else. The hard press of stone against my back. The fire still crackling somewhere above me. Voices — panicked, overlapping — none of them making sense.

Around me, the entire group had frozen in absolute terror.

I could see Jasper from the ground. His face had gone bright red, drenched in sweat, his hands shaking as he stared down at me. He couldn't move. None of them could.

And then — from somewhere behind all of them — a voice spoke.

Heavy. Deep. The kind of voice that could not have come from any normal human being.

"Welcome back, Maria."

It came from the dark beyond the firelight. And the moment those words landed, something in my chest went cold in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature of the night.

Before anyone could react — before anyone could even breathe — I heard footsteps approaching from a different direction. Quick. Purposeful. Our college teacher, Mrs. Clain, appeared from the darkness. She swept the scene with sharp eyes — at my unconscious body on the cold stone ground, at the terrified faces of my friends — and her voice cracked like a whip.

"What are you all doing here in the middle of the night?! What on earth is going on here?!"

She stepped closer, scanning everything.

And then the voice returned. Deeper this time. More deliberate. Like it was enjoying every second of this.

"Oh, Mrs. Clain… so you are here too."

A pause. Long and cruel.

"Welcome. Back. In the past."

I will never forget what happened to Mrs. Clain's face when those words landed.

I could see it from the ground. The color drained from her skin. Her jaw went tight. Her eyes went wide — not with confusion — but with recognition.

As if something she had buried a long time ago had just clawed its way back to the surface.

She had heard that voice before.

Whatever spoke in those ruins knew both of us by name. And it called us back.

I'll write more as soon as I can. I just need a moment.

Previously: Rob stepped off the bus

to repair the broken headlights —

alone in the dark English night.

And then a voice found him.

Low. Deliberate. Personal.

Telling him exactly what he had

always been most afraid of hearing.

——————————————————————————————

Mrs. Clain grips Rob's shoulders —

her voice urgent but controlled:

"Rob. Rob — look at me."

He can't.

"What happened?

Who were you shouting at?"

Before he can find the words —

the sound of footsteps comes

around the back of the bus —

and Alex and the driver appear —

repair kit in hand —

and stop dead the moment

they see Rob's face.

Alex steps forward immediately:

"Rob — what happened?

Are you okay?"

Rob's voice comes out in fragments —

like something that had been

whole a few minutes ago

and wasn't anymore:

"I heard something."

A pause.

"A voice."

He swallows hard.

"Someone was telling me

I was weak — that I was afraid —

that everyone laughs at me..."

He stops.

Stares at the ground.

At the rain falling on the

wet tarmac between his feet.

And then something shifts in him.

Not slowly.

All at once.

He turns — deliberately —

facing the darkness behind the bus —

the stretch of road and trees

and absolute black that stretches

back the way they came —

And he shouts into it

with everything he has:

"WHOEVER YOU ARE —

I HEARD YOU."

His voice tears through the rain.

"AND I AM NOT WEAK."

A breath.

"I HAVE NEVER BEEN WEAK."

The darkness does not answer.

The rain keeps falling.

The trees keep swaying

in the storm wind.

Nothing moves.

Nothing speaks.

Alex and Mrs. Clain exchange

a look over Rob's shoulder —

the kind of look that carries

more meaning than words.

Mrs. Clain steps toward Rob —

her voice gentler now —

the sharpness replaced by

something that sounds almost

like understanding:

"Rob. There is no one there."

She puts a hand on his arm.

"It was your mind.

The fear — the darkness —

the stress of tonight.

It plays tricks.

That's all it was."

Rob says nothing.

Alex puts a hand on his

other shoulder:

"We need to fix the headlight

and get back on the road.

That's how we help Maria.

That's how we fight back —

not by shouting into the dark."

Rob takes a long breath.

And nods.

——————————————————————————————

Together — Rob and Alex work

on the headlight — hands moving

quickly and carefully in the rain —

the driver holding a torch

to give them just enough light

to see what they're doing.

Nobody speaks.

The rain fills the silence.

Then — a click.

A hum.

And light floods the wet

road ahead.

The headlight is back.

The driver checks it —

tests it — slaps the side

of the bus once with his palm:

"We're good. Let's move."

Everyone climbs back on.

The doors close.

The engine revs.

The bus pulls back

onto the dark road —

this time with light —

this time able to see

what lies ahead.

Mrs. Clain drops into

the seat behind the driver —

and turns to him immediately:

"Marriwood. As fast as you can.

How long?"

"Fred's bus should already

be there by now."

He checks the dashboard.

"We're about two hours out."

Two hours.

Mrs. Clain nods —

and says nothing more.

——————————————————————————————

Rob sits near the back —

staring out the rain-streaked window —

watching the dark countryside

blur past in the headlight beam.

Alex leans over from the

seat beside him:

"Rob. It's over.

We're going to make it.

You did good out there."

Rob nods slowly.

Doesn't say anything.

Because the words feel true —

and they also feel like

they're missing something.

Because deep down —

in the part of him that he

doesn't talk about and

never has — he knows

that voice was not

his imagination.

It was too specific.

Too personal.

Too familiar.

Like it had been studying him

for a long time.

Like it knew exactly

which words to use.

And as the bus moves through

the dark toward Marriwood —

the voice echoes inside him —

over and over —

like a heartbeat he cannot silence:

"You are weak..."

"You are afraid..."

Rob closes his eyes.

And quietly —

to no one but himself —

he says it one more time.

Just to make sure

he still believes it.

"I am not weak."

——————————————————————————————

To be continued in Part 10:

The Secrets of Marriwood

Written by Mohit Rajput

The Story of Maria — Season 1

Glastonbury, England — 1992

Previously: A shadow appeared on the road —

inhuman, impossibly tall, bent at angles

no human body should bend. Both headlights

shattered the moment it appeared.

The bus is now hurtling forward in

complete darkness — blind — through

the English countryside — with Maria

getting colder by the minute.

——————————————————————————————

The darkness inside the bus feels

like something alive.

Pressing in through the windows.

Filling the spaces between seats.

Sitting on every chest like a weight

that wasn't there an hour ago.

Mrs. Clain's voice cuts through it —

steady and sharp and leaving

absolutely no room for argument:

"Stopping here means putting all

our lives at risk."

She looks at the driver —

who is gripping the steering wheel

so hard his knuckles have gone white:

"Drive without the headlights —

as far as you can — as carefully

as you can. We need to reach

Marriwood Academy."

A beat.

"Until we get there —

none of us are safe."

The bus crawls forward —

slower now — the driver leaning

forward in his seat — squinting

through the rain-streaked windshield

at a road he can barely see.

Ryan sits in silence near the back.

He hasn't said a word since

he got on the bus.

Hasn't looked at anyone.

Hasn't moved.

Just sits — jaw tight —

eyes fixed on the window —

on the darkness outside —

on the empty countryside rushing past.

Mrs. Clain makes her way down

the aisle toward him —

carefully steadying herself

against the seats as the bus

moves through the dark.

She stops beside him.

"Ryan."

He doesn't look at her.

"You cannot do anything for Lily

right now."

Still nothing.

"But Maria is here. She is with us.

And keeping her safe — getting her

to Marriwood — that is the only

thing that matters right now."

Ryan's jaw tightens further —

but he says nothing.

Mrs. Clain moves back toward

the front of the bus.

Ethan, from two rows back,

speaks in barely a whisper:

"That shadow we saw..."

He swallows.

"Was that... him?"

Mrs. Clain doesn't turn around

when she answers.

"Yes."

One word. Quiet. Final.

"He will do anything to stop us.

And he wants to separate Maria

from the rest of us."

Sophie's voice cracks

from the back of the bus:

"Mrs. Clain — Maria's body

is completely cold now.

We need a hospital.

We need one right now."

Mrs. Clain turns.

She looks at Sophie —

at Maria lying still and pale

across the back seat —

and then she says the words

that will stay with everyone

on that bus for the rest

of their lives:

"No hospital in this world

can save Maria."

The silence that follows

is absolute.

"Only Marriwood Academy can."

Nobody speaks.

Nobody moves.

The rain keeps falling.

The bus keeps crawling forward

through the dark.

Then Mrs. Clain addresses

the group — her voice shifting

from statement to urgent request:

"Is there anyone here who can

repair a headlight?

I need help — right now."

Alex speaks up without hesitation:

"Rob and I — we can do it."

All eyes turn to Rob.

He is sitting two rows behind Alex —

completely still — his face pale —

his hands folded tight in his lap.

Rob is terrified.

Not of the dark.

Not of the shadow on the road.

Not even of whatever is out there

hunting them through the English night.

Rob is terrified of being seen.

Of being the one who fails.

Of stepping up — and not being enough.

Alex leans across the aisle

toward him — his voice low

and steady and certain:

"Rob. We have to do this.

All of our lives depend on it."

Rob looks at him.

Then at Maria — pale and still

in the back of the bus.

Then at the darkness

pressed against every window.

And slowly — he nods.

——————————————————————————————

The bus stops.

The doors open.

And the wet English night

rushes in — cold and dark

and smelling of rain and earth

and something older.

Rob steps off the bus.

His feet hit the wet ground —

and immediately —

every instinct in his body

tells him to get back on.

He turns to Mrs. Clain —

who has followed him to the door:

"You said our lives were in danger."

His voice barely holds together.

"That shadow — what was it?

What did I just see out there?"

Mrs. Clain steps closer —

her voice firm but quiet:

"Rob. We are all right here.

Every single one of us

is watching from this bus.

Nothing will happen to you.

I promise."

The driver appears behind her:

"Alex — come with me.

Spare headlight and repair kit

are at the back of the bus."

Alex claps Rob once on the shoulder

as he passes —

And then they disappear

around the back of the bus.

And Rob is alone.

In the rain.

In the dark.

In the silence of a road

that feels like it goes

nowhere good.

He stands very still —

listening to the rain —

listening to the distant

sound of Alex and the driver

rummaging through the storage

at the back —

And then he hears something else.

Low.

Close.

Meant only for him.

"Rob..."

He goes completely still.

"You are weak."

His hands begin to shake.

"You are afraid."

His jaw tightens.

"Everyone laughs at you.

Everyone already knows

what you really are."

Something snaps inside him —

something that has been held

down and pressed flat and

told to be quiet his entire life —

And Rob's voice tears out of him —

raw and furious and louder

than he has ever been in his life:

"I AM NOT WEAK!"

The rain keeps falling.

The darkness doesn't answer.

Mrs. Clain is off the bus

in seconds — rushing to him —

grabbing his shoulders:

"Rob — what happened?

Who were you talking to?"

Rob can barely speak.

His whole body is shaking —

not from cold — from something

that feels like it goes

all the way down to his bones.

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again.

And says nothing.

——————————————————————————————

To be continued in Part 9: I Am Not Weak

Written by Mohit Rajput

The Story of Maria — Season 1

Glastonbury, England — 1992

Previously: Maria's body is getting colder

with every passing minute. The bus is

speeding toward Marriwood Academy —

200 kilometers away. Lily has vanished

without a trace. And Mrs. Clain refuses

to explain anything until they arrive.

——————————————————————————————

The bus cuts through the dark English

countryside — rain hammering the roof —

windshield wipers struggling against

the storm — headlights barely cutting

through the darkness ahead.

Nobody speaks.

The only sounds are the rain, the engine,

and Maria's slow, shallow breathing

from the back of the bus.

Getting slower.

Getting quieter.

With every mile.

Mrs. Clain stands at the front —

one hand gripping the metal rail —

eyes fixed forward — her expression

unreadable in the dim yellow light

of the bus interior.

Then Ethan's voice breaks the silence —

low and careful — like someone

testing thin ice:

"Mrs. Clain..."

She doesn't turn around.

"I don't understand anything

that's happening tonight."

Still nothing.

"What danger are you talking about?

Why won't you just tell us?"

Jasper speaks up from behind him —

his voice tight with frustration

he has been holding back for hours:

"Please. We deserve to know.

Whatever is happening —

we are already in the middle of it.

So just tell us."

Mrs. Clain is quiet for a long moment.

Then she exhales — steadying herself —

and turns to face them.

"Listen carefully."

Her voice is calm. Controlled.

But her eyes are not.

"Until we reach Marriwood —

we are exposed. Every second

we are on this road —

every second we are out here —

we are vulnerable."

She pauses.

"Once we are inside Marriwood —

I will tell you everything.

Every single thing you want to know."

Another pause.

"But not yet.

Not here.

Not on this road."

Ethan opens his mouth to push back —

And then the driver's voice

cuts through the bus like a blade:

"MRS. CLAIN!"

Everyone lurches forward.

"There is something on the road ahead!"

Through the rain-hammered windshield —

in the weak, struggling reach

of the headlights — something stands

on the road.

Still.

Silent.

Waiting.

A shadow.

Except it isn't shaped like

any shadow any of them had ever seen.

Too tall.

Too thin.

Bent at angles that no human spine

should be capable of bending.

Arms hanging too long —

reaching almost to the ground.

Head tilted at the wrong angle —

as if held there by something

other than a neck.

Nobody breathes.

Nobody moves.

The bus slows — instinctively —

the driver's foot finding the brake

without being told to.

And then —

Both headlights shatter.

Complete darkness.

One second the road was there —

dim and wet and real —

and the next second there was nothing.

Just black. Total, absolute,

impenetrable black.

Several students scream.

Mrs. Clain is on her feet in an instant:

"NO ONE MOVES FROM THEIR SEAT!"

Her voice cuts through the panic

like a command from someone who

has been in situations like this before.

Or worse.

She reaches the driver in three steps —

her hand on his shoulder —

her voice low and fierce:

"Drive. Right now.

As fast as this bus can go.

Do not stop. Do not slow down.

Drive."

"But the lights—"

"Drive."

A flash — somewhere outside —

not lightning — something else —

something that felt electrical

and wrong and deliberate —

And the shadow is gone.

The road ahead — empty.

The darkness — complete.

The bus — hurtling forward — blind.

Mrs. Clain straightens up

and turns back to the students —

all of them pressed against their seats —

pale, shaking, barely breathing.

"How long until Marriwood?"

she demands.

The driver's voice shakes

more than his hands:

"I... I can't drive fast

without the headlights.

There's nothing but darkness ahead.

I can't see the road."

"Fred's bus — how far ahead are they?"

"Long gone by now."

A pause that feels like falling.

"And without lights — driving

through this stretch of road —

it's not possible, Mrs. Clain.

I'm sorry. It's just not possible."

The rain keeps hammering.

The darkness keeps pressing in.

And somewhere in the back of the bus —

Maria's breathing gets

a little bit slower.

——————————————————————————————

To be continued in Part 8: The Weakest Link

Written by Mohit Rajput

The Story of Maria — Season 1

Glastonbury, England — 1992

Previously: Everyone made it to the buses —

except Lily. One moment she was there.

The next — she was simply gone.

No trace. No explanation. Just rain

falling on the spot where she had stood.

——————————————————————————————

Ryan stands at the bus door —

one foot inside, one foot still

on the wet ground — looking back

at the darkness one last time.

Jasper appears beside him —

his voice low but firm:

"Ryan."

Ryan doesn't move.

"Ryan — look at me."

Slowly, Ryan turns.

Jasper's face is soaked —

his long curly hair plastered

against his face — but his eyes

are steady and serious.

"You need to listen to Mrs. Clain.

I know how you feel right now.

I know. But your stubbornness

could get all of us killed."

He puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder.

"Tomorrow morning — we come back.

We find Lily. Together.

All of us — together."

Ryan says nothing.

But he gets on the bus.

——————————————————————————————

Mrs. Clain's bus pulls away from

the ruins of Glastonbury —

headlights cutting through the

storm — heading toward Marriwood

Academy — approximately 200

kilometers away.

She leans toward the driver —

her voice leaving absolutely

no room for argument:

"Lock every door on this bus.

Do not stop for anything.

Do not slow down for anything.

We do not stop — for any reason —

until Marriwood."

The driver nods without a word.

She turns to address the students

behind her — soaked, shaking,

wide-eyed — all of them staring

at her like she has answers

they desperately need.

"Until we reach Marriwood —

no one asks questions.

No one speaks about what happened.

Am I understood?"

Silence.

The bus moves through the

dark countryside — rain hammering

the roof — windshield wipers

struggling against the storm.

Then Sophie's voice — small

and scared — breaks through

the quiet:

"Mrs. Clain..."

Mrs. Clain looks at her.

Sophie glances down at Maria —

lying across the back seat,

pale and completely still.

"Her body is getting colder.

Her breathing is slowing down."

She looks up — her green eyes

filled with a fear she is

trying very hard to hide.

"It's getting slower every minute."

Mrs. Clain moves to Maria immediately —

pressing two fingers to her wrist —

checking her pulse — her expression

giving nothing away.

When she finally speaks —

her voice is quieter than

anyone has heard it all night:

"We have to save her."

Ethan leans forward from

across the aisle — his voice

barely above a whisper:

"Save her from what?"

Nobody answers.

Outside the windows — the dark

English countryside rushes past

in the rain.

And Maria keeps getting colder.

——————————————————————————————

To be continued in Part 7: Unseen Shadow

Written by Mohit Rajput

The Story of Maria — Season 1

Glastonbury, England — 1992

Previously: A violent thunderstorm broke

out over the ruins as everyone rushed

toward the buses. Mrs. Clain told Fred

there was no more time to talk —

and the group had no choice but to run.

——————————————————————————————

Everyone rushes toward the buses —

rain hammering down — lightning splitting

the sky above — feet splashing through

puddles that hadn't existed ten minutes ago.

Almost everyone is on.

Almost safe.

Almost out.

And then — Maria's body jerks.

Not a gentle movement.

Not a simple twitch.

A violent tremor — as if something

inside her is fighting — clawing —

desperate to be heard.

And in a voice barely her own —

fragile and terrified and somehow

coming from somewhere very far away —

she whispers:

"Who are you?"

A breath.

"Please..."

Another.

"...let me go."

The words stop everyone cold.

Mid-step.

Mid-breath.

Mid-thought.

Professor Fred freezes — his foot

still raised from his last step —

and turns slowly.

His eyes find Mrs. Clain's across

the chaos of the storm.

Nobody moves.

Nobody speaks.

The rain keeps falling.

The lightning keeps flashing.

The thunder keeps rolling across

the dark English sky.

But for one impossible moment —

everything feels completely still.

And then — from somewhere behind them —

Lily screams.

One sharp, sudden, horrifying scream —

and then silence.

Ryan spins around — his eyes cutting

through the rain and the dark —

scanning the ground where Lily

had been standing just seconds ago.

She was right there.

He had seen her.

She was right behind him.

His voice comes out in barely

a whisper at first:

"That was Lily."

Then louder — panic rising fast:

"She was just behind me —

she was right there —"

He turns in a full circle —

rain soaking him to the bone —

eyes desperately searching.

"Where is she?!"

Nothing.

No Lily.

No shadow.

No footprints in the wet ground.

Just rain falling on the spot

where she had been standing.

As if she had simply...

stopped existing.

"WHERE DID SHE GO?!"

Mrs. Clain is already moving —

grabbing arms, pushing shoulders,

gesturing urgently at the buses:

"Everyone on — NOW — move — GO!"

Ryan grabs her arm — his grip

so tight it stops her mid-step:

"Mrs. Clain — where is Lily?!

What happened to her?!"

Professor Fred steps between them —

his voice firm despite the fear

written all over his face:

"Lily will be fine, Ryan.

But right now we all need to leave.

There is no time."

Ryan refuses to move.

He looks back one more time —

into the darkness — into the rain —

into the empty space where his

friend had been standing.

"I am NOT leaving without Lily."

Mrs. Clain turns to face him —

her voice cutting through the storm

like something sharper than thunder:

"Ryan."

She steps close — close enough

that only he can hear her above

the noise of the rain:

"Lily will not be harmed.

I promise you that.

But if you stay here —

none of us will make it out."

She holds his gaze.

"Do you understand me?"

Ryan looks back one last time.

Into the nothing that stares back.

And then — slowly — he gets on the bus.

The doors close.

The engine starts.

And the place where Lily stood

fills quietly — completely —

with rain.

——————————————————————————————

To be continued in Part 6: Marriwood Academy

Written by Mohit Rajput

The Story of Maria — Season 1

Glastonbury, England — 1992

Previously: Mrs. Clain appeared at the ruins

and heard the same mysterious voice that

had spoken to the group. She told Professor

Fred — "I think he has come back" — and

Fred's face said he already knew exactly

who she meant.

——————————————————————————————

Professor Fred straightens himself —

trying to hold onto logic — and speaks

in a low, serious voice:

"Clain. This is not the time for jokes."

Mrs. Clain looks at him — directly —

with an intensity that silences him

immediately.

"Fred."

She steps closer.

"I could never forget that voice."

A pause.

"And you know it too."

Her eyes don't leave his.

"You know exactly whose voice that was."

There is nothing he can say to that.

Nothing at all.

Because she is right.

Maria is still unconscious on the ground.

Growing paler by the minute. Her breathing

slow and shallow — each breath coming

a little harder than the last.

"We need to move," Mrs. Clain says.

"Get all the students on the buses — now."

Fred, his voice barely holding together:

"Clain... what is going to happen?"

Before she can answer — Sophie and Alex

emerge from the deeper part of the ruins —

carefully carrying Maria between them —

her arms draped over their shoulders,

her feet barely touching the ground.

The moment the other students see Maria's

unconscious body — pale, limp, barely

breathing — panic ripples through

the entire crowd instantly.

Questions fly through the rain-heavy air:

"What happened to her?"

"Is she okay?"

"What's going on?"

"Why isn't she waking up?"

Nobody has answers.

And then — the sky decides to answer

for them.

Without warning — the clouds above

turn black.

Not the natural dark of a night sky.

Something heavier. Something angrier.

A thunderstorm tears open above them —

lightning splitting the sky in half —

and rain begins hammering down —

violent, relentless, like something

with a purpose.

Like something that did not want

them to leave.

Students scatter — running for the

buses — slipping on the wet ground —

bags and jackets flying everywhere.

Mrs. Clain raises her voice above

the roar of the storm — above the

thunder and the rain and the chaos:

"EVERYONE LISTEN TO ME."

The group freezes.

"Something very bad is about to happen

here. We need to leave — right now —

all of you — get on the buses — MOVE!"

She turns to grab Fred one last time —

rain already plastering her hair

against her face — her blazer soaked

through in seconds:

"Fred. We go. Now."

She looks at him with an expression

he has never seen on her face before.

"There is no more time to talk."

——————————————————————————————

To be continued in Part 5: She Was Here

Written by Mohit Rajput

The Story of Maria — Season 1

Glastonbury, England — 1992

Previously: Maria collapsed after Jasper

held her hand inside the ancient ruins.

A mysterious voice said "Welcome back, Maria"

— and Mrs. Clain arrived, only to hear

the same voice call out to her too.

——————————————————————————————

And then — without warning — the words

escape Mrs. Clain's lips.

"Please... forgive me. It wasn't my fault."

Jasper, barely holding himself together,

shouts at her:

"Mrs. Clain! What mistake are you talking

about?! What is happening here?!"

Ethan, his voice trembling, steps forward:

"Miss... what was that voice?

Who is out there?"

Mrs. Clain's voice, when it finally comes,

is barely above a whisper — shaking with

a fear that has no name:

"He is back."

A pause.

"We need to get out of here. Right now."

She turns to the group — all pretense

of control completely gone — and the

students realize something in that moment

that they will never forget.

Their teacher — the woman who had never

once shown weakness — was terrified.

"Pick Maria up. NOW. Move!"

She rushes outside and screams at the

remaining students scattered across

the ruins:

"This trip is over. We are leaving.

Everyone — on the buses — immediately!"

Professor Fred, who had been waiting

near the entrance, looks completely

blindsided:

"But the trip just started—"

Mrs. Clain grabs his arm — pulling him

away from the students — her voice

dropping to a frightened, urgent hiss:

"Fred... I think he has come back."

Professor Fred goes very still.

The rain outside has started —

just a few drops at first — but

growing heavier by the second.

His voice, when he finally speaks,

is barely audible above the sound

of the students rushing past them:

"What are you talking about?"

He shakes his head slowly.

"He... he can't come back."

His eyes search her face —

looking for any sign that she

is wrong — that this is a mistake —

that the voice they both clearly

recognized belonged to someone else.

He finds no such sign.

"That's impossible."

He swallows hard.

"Who are you talking about?"

But deep down — in the part of him

that he had spent years trying to forget —

Fred already knew.

——————————————————————————————

To be continued in Part 4: Before The Storm

Written by Mohit Rajput

The Story of Maria — Season 1

Glastonbury, England — 1992