The autumn wind rolled through Shizumori High’s halls the night it began. Natsuki Wada, the third-year, always saw the quiet as peace. Peace, until he spotted that white sleeve slip into the old music room.
“Did you see it too, Jun?” he asked his friend, voice barely above a breath as their flashlights trembled. Jun shook his head, but his grip was tight against his notebook. The after-school ghost club had never felt like a real risk. Until tonight.
How many urban legends start at an empty school in October? Why do old floorboards seem to groan for no one? Natsuki couldn’t drop the thought that they weren’t alone. The file cabinets clanked as wind slammed a window. Jun scribbled a note: White, left sleeve, no hand?
Two weeks before this, Mrs. Fujioka—music teacher, glasses sliding down her nose—nagged that no one cleaned Room 2. Naoko, tiny but loud, grinned: “I’d scream if I found a ghost in there!” She wouldn’t be let off so lightly. Would you?
The skip-rhythm footsteps echoed at sunset each Thursday. Local kids joked about the “Imitation Bride,” a spirit mimicking lonely sounds. Natsuki played along with the tales—until he felt the freezing grip wring his right wrist.
“Jun, stop playing—” he snapped, and turned, eyes wide. Jun stood five paces away, pale. Natsuki spun, heart thudding. There it was. Half-girl, half-shadow, all missing face. The world seemed cold, blank.
Next week, curiosity won. “Your turn to lead,” Jun muttered, spooked but stubborn. Natsuki found an old photo in an unfinished drawer. Girl in a clean uniform. White sleeves, empty smile, one hand folded strangely. A lost note on the back: Take care of Kiyo. 
Flashlights in hand, the group gathered at dusk: Natsuki, Jun, Naoko, and glum Satoru (always hated bats). As they sang the mocked wedding song by the rusted grand piano, the spirit appeared. This time, it spoke: “Where is my promise? Did someone forget?” Her voice was just wind against threadbare curtains.
Did you ever forget a promise to the dead?” Natsuki whispered, the old floor pulsing as if the heart of the school was awake. Jun clung to his sleeve. Something in the corner cried. Satoru whispered a weak apology into the cool air, not sure why he felt guilty.
This was no simple haunting. Jun proved it—he recognized the name Kiyo on his injured books. “Mine came from the old annex,” he said. Naoko, teary, begged, “What if she just needs help moving on? Let’s finish the story, or leave something behind.”
All at once, the spirit sobbed: “Don’t turn away—I don’t want to be left.” Shizumori’s windows grated as if the old building shivered. Was it really the ghost of a girl who needed the living to listen? Or had the story grown too old and lonely on its own?
The group made a promise: return each year, sing together, remember Kiyo. The figure faded as dawn neared. Yet as the clock hit six, Naoko’s phone buzzed. Unknown sender: A grainy photo attachment of students—plus one faceless shape, lurking at the back. Their own recent image. Room 2 was closed for “repairs” without warning the next day.
Did they really help the spirit pass on, or did they give it more ties? But deep down, Natsuki knew they’d done something that couldn’t be undone. Could you walk the halls alone now, after what they saw?
Something still echoes there tonight. Each promise brings back a sigh and a shadow. Natsuki can’t shake the feeling the haunting has only just claimed its new turn. But when it returns, whose name will it ask for next?
