The Coffin Club ©

"Welcome to a new episode of Myth-Buster High. I'm Ivy Vance, and today we're talking about human stupidity in its purest form: the Coffin Club."

I'm sitting on the floor of the restricted section of Blackthorn Academy's library. At midnight. The place smells like a mix of paper slowly rotting and that stale metallic tang of radiators that sound like someone's trapped inside, banging on the pipes to get out. Outside, the Vermont rain hammers against the glass with personal vendetta.

I adjust the microphone on my portable recorder. The red light blinks—the only spot of color in this mausoleum of books nobody reads.

"For those of you who are new to the podcast," I continue, dropping my voice to that conspiratorial tone my listeners love, "the legend says that, since 1973, the most 'promising' students of this nest of vipers meet in secret. Their goal? To be buried alive in the Garden of Sighs to 'rebirth' themselves free from their fears. Because, of course, nothing helps you pass your Calculus exam like spending six hours in a pine box under two meters of dirt. It's the ultimate shock therapy for people with too much money and too few brain cells."

I lick my lips. They taste like my cheap cherry lip balm—sweet and artificial. A ridiculous contrast to the cold seeping through the gaps in the windows.

"I found the original diary. Or at least, a notebook that smells like mold and has handwriting belonging to someone who clearly needed more fiber in their diet. On page twelve, it describes how the coffins have 'symbolic' ventilation shafts. Spoiler alert: in the seventies, symbolism and asphyxiation went hand in hand. If you think this is real, I have a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you and a spot in my 'People Who Don't Believe in Bullshit' club."

I'm about to drop my next punchline when the world decides I've talked too much.

A sharp thud echoes against the solid wood bookshelf, right next to my left ear. The sound of metal against wood is violent, definitive. I jump, but I don't get far. A heavy hand—cold as ice and wrapped in worn leather fingerless gloves—grabs my shoulder and slams me against the books.

The spine of an antique edition of the Encyclopedia of Botany digs into my spine. I grunt. The air leaves my lungs in a choked gasp.

"Delete that file. Now."

The voice is a low growl, a vibration I feel more in my own bones than in my ears. Silas Ashford is so close I can smell him. Not the smell of a normal student. He smells like recent rain, old leather, and something sharp—like rust or dried blood.

I try to catch my breath. My pulse is hammering in my throat, a stupid physiological response my brain is desperately trying to ignore. My palms are slick with cold sweat against the metal of my recorder.

"Wow, wow," I manage to say, though my voice comes out a little higher than I'd like. "The Goth Boy Starter Pack has decided to make a star appearance. Do you practice that entrance in the mirror in your dungeon, or does it come standard with the eyeliner?"

Silas doesn't back off. If anything, he presses his body harder against mine, pinning me in place. The rough fabric of his black wool jacket scrapes against my cheek, irritating my skin. His face is in shadow, but his eyes burn with an intensity that's not quite human. They're dead eyes, hollow, like he's looking through me at something I can't yet see.

He reaches into his jacket pocket. The metallic click of a switchblade echoes in the sepulchral silence. The blade glints faintly, reflecting the red light of my microphone.

"This isn't a joke, Vance," he says, and his voice has lost every trace of patience. He's trembling—but not from fear. It's a vibration of pure, contained rage. "Delete the episode, or your next podcast will be recorded from the bottom of the lake. And I can assure you, the Wi-Fi down there is terrible."

"Is that a death threat, or are you asking me out?" I snap, clenching my teeth. My body is betraying me; I feel a sudden heat creeping up my neck, a mix of panic and an absurd electrical response to his proximity. His knee slots between mine to keep me from moving, and the pressure of his denim against my thigh makes me painfully aware that he's much stronger than me. "Because if it's a date, I usually prefer dinners where I'm not being threatened with a blade. It's a quirk of mine."

Silas lets out a short, dry sigh. I can feel his breath on my face; it doesn't smell like alcohol or tobacco, but something clean and cold, like mountain air before a storm.

"You think you know everything because you have a microphone and an internet connection," he says, lowering the knife but not moving away. His free hand slides from my shoulder to my neck—not to squeeze, but to force me to look at him. His thumb presses against my jaw, right over the spot where my pulse is jumping like a trapped animal. "You think Blackthorn is a playground. You think the diary you found is fiction."

"It's fiction because it's physically impossible for a secret society of teenagers to keep their mouths shut for fifty years," I reply, trying to maintain my sarcastic facade, even though inside I'm falling apart. "Statistics don't lie, Silas. Secrets involving more than three people have a half-life of about five minutes."

He lets out a short, bitter laugh. A sound that makes my hair stand on end more than the knife did.

"Then explain this, genius."

He pulls back a couple of inches—just enough to let me breathe—and pulls a folded, yellowed piece of paper from his inner pocket. He throws it at my chest. The paper hits my Ramones hoodie and falls to the floor, between my combat boots.

I pick it up with trembling fingers. As I unfold it, the smell of a hospital office mixes with the dust of the library. It's an official forensic report from Washington County, Vermont. It has a faded red "CONFIDENTIAL" stamp.

My eyes scan the mechanical lines, the cold data I love so much—but this time the numbers stab into my stomach like shattered glass.

NAME: Rachel V. Miller.

AGE: 17.

STATUS: Missing. Presumed death by asphyxiation.

DATE OF DISAPPEARANCE: October 13th.

NOTES: Body not recovered. Traces of pine wood and black silk found at last known location (The Garden of Sighs).

Rachel.

Rachel Miller wasn't just another student. She was my best friend before she moved dormitories and stopped talking to me last year. I thought she hated me. I thought she'd gotten tired of my cynicism and sharp tongue.

The report says she disappeared a month ago. The school's official version was that she'd transferred to a boarding school in Switzerland for family issues. Nobody asked questions. Nobody asks questions at Blackthorn if the tuition check is big enough.

"Where did you get this?" I whisper. My voice has lost all its venom. It's become small, fragile.

"My brother Elias is on that list too—though his report says 'drowned,'" Silas replies, and now I see the real pain behind his tattooed dark circles. "The diary you found isn't an urban legend, Ivy. It's a guest registry for a slaughterhouse. And your podcast just told them someone's sniffing around the back door."

Silas pockets the switchblade with a practiced move. He leans in one last time, his face millimeters from mine. This time there's no physical threat, but the weight of his words is so much worse.

"You don't believe in ghosts, Vance. Good. Because the ones underground aren't the ones you should be afraid of. It's the ones holding the shovels."

He turns and disappears into the shadows between the shelves before I can formulate my next question. The silence of the library falls back over me, heavy as a marble slab. The red light of my recorder is still blinking.

12:15 AM.

Audio file: Episode 42 – The Coffin Club.

I look at the forensic report. My fingers have left sweat marks on the paper. My heart—that muscle I've always treated as a simple biological pump—hurts. Rachel isn't in Switzerland. Rachel is dead, or worse.

I bring my hand to my mouth. I can still taste the cherry lip balm. A sweet taste for a reality that suddenly tastes like dirt and pine.

I turn off the recorder. The silence is absolute, except for the beat of my own pulse, which seems to scream into the library's emptiness.

Silas is right about one thing. I don't believe in ghosts. But as I stare into the darkness where he disappeared, I realize that true terror isn't what doesn't exist. It's what's always been there, right in plain sight, waiting for someone to make the mistake of turning on the light.

Or opening a microphone.