The next morning, Room 8 woke up to screams.

Not their own. From Room 7.

Adaeze yanked the curtain. A crowd had gathered. The girl from Room 7 — Blessing — was sitting on the floor, wrapper falling off her shoulder, sobbing. Dark, claw-like marks ran down her back and arms. They looked fresh. Angry.

“She say na dream,” someone whispered. “Say something hold her down.”  

“Na her yahoo boyfriend use am,” another girl hissed. “Village people don finally catch am.”

Mrs. Ijeoma arrived, face like stone. She didn’t even look at Blessing’s marks. Her eyes went straight to Room 8’s door.

“Why are you girls still in bed? 7:30! Your punishment for noise last night: library duty. Now.”

Then she grabbed Blessing’s arm, not gently, and marched her toward the school clinic. Blessing looked back once. Her eyes found Zainab’s. And she mouthed something.

_Room 12._

*Library, 8:15 AM*

Dust. Silence. The kind of silence that presses on your ears. The girls split up, brooms scraping, all of them whispering about last night.

“Abeg, those marks no be ordinary,” Tolu muttered. “And that voice calling Zainab name?”  

“Mrs. Ijeoma knew we were awake,” Fatima added. “How?”

Amaka was by the back shelf, sweeping under the bookcase when her broom hit something solid. She bent down. An old magazine, edges eaten by termites. _St. Monica’s Gazette, 1973_.

Her stomach dropped. _1973._ Same year the voice mentioned last night.

This was contraband. Old school property. If Mrs. Ijeoma caught her with it, straight suspension.

Amaka glanced around. The others were distracted, arguing about Blessing’s marks. Quick as lightning, she slid the magazine into her skirt and kept sweeping like nothing happened. Heart beating fast — not from ghosts, but from fear of getting caught with school property.

*Lunch Break, Behind the Dining Hall*

When she was alone, Amaka pulled it out. She remembered what the voice at the door said — _1973_.

Pages yellowed. Brittle. Smelled like the library basement.

She turned to _Page 6: Head Girl’s Address_... and her hand froze.

A black-and-white photo. Six girls. Prefects. And there, second from the left…

_Same face. Same eyes. Same thin scar cutting through the left eyebrow._

Kemi.

Her own roommate Kemi.

But the name under it wasn’t Kemi Adewale. It was _Kemi Bankole_.

1973.

That’s when Amaka started shaking. Because now she had a reason to.

Her eyes dropped to the bottom of the page. _Contact the Head Girl, Folake Ajayi, for alumni matters: 0803-XXX-1973._

A landline converted to GSM. The number was still complete.

Amaka copied it into her Nokia torch, heart hammering. If Kemi Bankole died in 1973… who was sleeping on the bottom bunk?

*Room 8, That Evening*

They’d finished cleaning. The air was too normal. That made it worse.

Amaka cleared her throat. “Kemi… you be only child, abi?”

Kemi looked up from her devotionals. Scar catching the light. “Yes nau. Why?”

“No reason. Just… you no get sister? Cousin wey resemble you well-well?”

Kemi laughed. “If I get twin wey fine like me, I for don post am for TikTok. I’m the only one.”

Amaka’s blood ran cold. She gripped the phone in her skirt.

That night, after lights out, Amaka took a deep breath and pressed send on the text she’d typed to the number from 1973:

_Good evening ma. I saw your contact in a St. Monica’s magazine. I’m in the same school now and I’m also a prefect. I’m creating some content on our school history and I’ve met some of the 1973 prefects already. You are the only prefect I haven’t met. Can we meet up in an outdoor space for a content please?? Just choose a location. Thank you._

Her phone buzzed almost immediately. One new message. Unknown number.

_I will get back to you._

Amaka’s breath caught. She looked up.

Because from Kemi’s bunk, even though Kemi’s breathing was deep and even like she was asleep…

Amaka heard typing too.

_Click… clack… click… clack…_

The same sound as the heel the night before.