Drip, Drip, Gone

Leah Carter wasn’t the kind of girl people noticed. She liked it that way. Quiet corners, oversized hoodies, and earbuds in—those were her shields from a world that never seemed to understand her. Her locker, 213, was one of the few consistent things in her life. Far from the bustling main halls of Crestwood High, it sat tucked between two support pillars in the neglected west wing—a hallway that smelled faintly of mold and old paint.

She liked it there. Nobody bothered her.

Until Tuesday.

She arrived early, like always, slipping down the side corridor as the janitor’s cart squeaked behind her. But when she pushed her key into the lock, it jammed. She frowned and tried again. Nothing. The metal was cold, unyielding. Her fingers trembled with frustration—this wasn't how she started her mornings.

Glancing around, Leah noticed the locker to the right—214—was slightly ajar. She tapped it out of curiosity, and to her surprise, it opened with ease.

It looked nearly empty inside. A dark hoodie slouched over a single spiral notebook. A dusty burner phone sat beside them, screen cracked. No books. No gym shoes. Definitely not her stuff.

Then a folded piece of paper fluttered from the notebook.

She picked it up.

11:45 PM. Locker 214. Bring it. No mistakes. Or she dies.

Leah’s breath caught. The paper felt heavy, like it pulsed in her fingers. Her mind ran through scenarios: prank, theater script, maybe even an abandoned English project. But there was no name. No context. No clue what “it” was.

And that last line—*or she dies*—wasn't funny.

She shoved the note into her pocket as the first bell rang.

All day, Leah felt like someone was watching her. Not the normal glances she got from curious classmates—this was something else. A weight in the air. Like something had shifted, and she was the only one who noticed.

At lunch, she sat alone, replaying the words in her mind.

11:45 PM.

She wasn’t the adventurous type. She had never snuck out before. But she couldn’t stop wondering—What if it wasn’t a prank? What if someone was in trouble?

When her mom finally went to bed that night, Leah slid out her window and pedaled her bike through empty streets, rain slicking the pavement beneath her tires. The school loomed ahead like a sleeping beast. One of the back doors was loose—held shut by a fraying bungee cord. She slipped in.

The hallways were darker than she remembered, their usual buzzing fluorescents replaced by an oppressive silence. Her footsteps echoed like drumbeats as she made her way to the west wing.

Locker 214 waited.

It was closed now. Locked.

Except—no. She touched the handle and it creaked open, revealing a thick manila envelope labeled PAYMENT in smudged red ink.

Her breath hitched. This was no prank.

She hesitated… and then reached for the envelope.

That’s when the hallway lights flickered—and a soft tap-tap-tap echoed from behind her.

She turned fast, heart hammering.

Nothing.

She turned back—the envelope was gone.

So was the locker door. In its place was smooth, unbroken wall.

Leah gasped, stumbling back. She rubbed her eyes. What the hell?

A whisper, almost inaudible: “Too late.”

She spun again. Still no one.

But now, faint and wet, a trail of small barefoot footprints shimmered on the linoleum, leading away toward the old gym—the one that had been condemned after a fire a decade ago. Everyone said it was haunted, but no one believed that. Not really.

Until now.

Against her better judgment, Leah followed the prints, her breath shallow, ears tuned to every creak and hum of the building. The gym doors were ajar. As she stepped through, the air changed—colder, denser, like she’d stepped underwater.

In the center of the charred gym floor stood a girl.

No older than Leah. Soaked to the bone, water dripping from her hair onto the blackened wood. Her skin was pale, too pale. Her eyes, empty sockets.

She was wearing Leah’s hoodie.

Leah froze.

The girl turned slowly, and smiled—a twisted thing that didn’t reach her eyes.

“You found the wrong locker,” she said.

Then the lights blew out.

Leah screamed.

She tried to run, but her legs buckled. Her mind spiraled, full of static and whispers.

Darkness swallowed her.

---

She woke in the nurse’s office, drenched, shaking. Her mother’s panicked face hovered above her. “Leah? Leah, can you hear me?”

But she couldn’t speak.

Not a word.

Not about the locker.

Not about the girl.

Not about the thing that had followed her home.

---

Three Weeks Later

Leah hadn’t spoken since that night. Not in class. Not to her therapist. Not even to her mom. Her hoodie hung in the back of her closet, untouched.

But something was wrong. She heard things.

Whispers in the vents.

Footsteps behind her.

Dripping sounds in dry rooms.

And the number 214 appeared everywhere: scribbled in textbooks, drawn on the foggy bathroom mirror, etched into the condensation on her water bottle.

One night, she woke to her phone vibrating.

Unknown number.

A text:

You still owe the payment.

She dropped the phone. Her door creaked open by itself.

---

Six Months Later

Leah transferred to a private school in another town. Crestwood High boarded up the west wing after a burst pipe flooded the hall.

They said it was a structural issue.

But students whispered that something else had happened—that a girl had gone into the condemned gym and never came out. That some nights, you could hear water dripping down the hallway, even when everything was bone dry.

Locker 214 was sealed shut.

The janitor said it wasn’t his doing.

And late one night, a substitute teacher swore he heard a girl’s voice whisper:

“Wrong locker. Wrong time.”

---

Epilogue

On a rainy spring afternoon, a freshman named Max missed his bus and took shelter near the west wing.

He didn’t believe in ghost stories.

Until he saw a girl standing at the end of the hallway, soaked, staring at him with hollow eyes.

She pointed to locker 214.

Max ran.

No one believed him.

But they should have.

Because the locker waits.

And it always finds someone new.