Becky waited until the halls were quiet.
It was nearly dusk when she slipped away from her friends, making some excuse about needing to meet a professor. Her heart was heavy with something colder than fear
—certainty.
She didn't know what waited for her in Room 27.
Only that she had to return.
The hallway leading to the room felt longer this time. Older. The walls creaked like they remembered her.
She reached the door.
It wasn't locked.
Slowly, she pushed it open.
Same small table.
Same velvet cloth.
Same chill in the air.
But no wine glass this time.
Instead, a small black box sat in the center of the table. Smooth. Wooden. Closed.
Her hands shook as she reached out
—but before she could touch it, the lights flickered, and the air filled with something new:
a sound.
Soft.
Almost like wings.
Butterflies.
They emerged from the corners of the ceiling
—at least a dozen of them
—silent and slow, circling her head like they were waiting.
And then… the box clicked open on its own.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a single white card.
In blood-red ink, it read:
"Too late to refuse."
Becky stepped back, her breath shallow.
But the door slammed shut behind her.
And she wasn't alone anymore.