Once Upon A Stalker’s Nightmare

Layla’s pov

The ferry ride left me cold all the way through.

Not the kind of cold you fix with a jacket, either. The kind that gets into your bones and sits there, waiting for your body to catch up with what your mind already knows.

I stood by the rail with my suitcase wedged against my leg and the letter folded inside my pocket like a thing that had teeth. Blackwater Hall. The name had been written in my mother’s hand, and that alone had been enough to make my stomach tighten the first time I saw it.

The school sat hidden in the Tasmanian mist like it had been waiting for me to arrive or to disappear, I could not tell which. From the dock, the place already looked too old, too neat, too certain of itself. Stone walls. Iron gates.

Tall windows that stared back at you if you stared too long. It looked less like a school and more like a private world built by people who did not like answering questions.

I dragged my suitcase behind me when we reached the grounds, and the wheel caught on the paving stones twice before I got it under control.

“Need help?” a boy called from behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder. He had a bright red duffel bag, a school badge pinned to his jacket, and the kind of face that said he was used to people smiling at him.

I did not.

“I’m fine,” I replied, almost politely.

He lifted both hands in surrender. “Right. Sorry for trying to be decent.”

“Try less.”

He barked out a laugh and kept walking.

That was my first conversation at Blackwater Hall, and it set the tone better than any welcome speech could have.

The woman at the front gate knew my name before I said it, which bothered me immediately.

“Layla Byrne,” she said, checking a list on a clipboard.

“That’s me.”

“Transfer intake,” she added, though I had not asked.

“Yes.”

She looked at me for a second longer than necessary, then turned and led me through the front doors. The entrance hall was broad and polished, with dark wood, banners, old portraits, and too many family names in gold frames. I kept my face steady, but I noticed everything. The way students stood in little clusters like they already knew where they belonged. The way some of them looked at me and then looked away too quickly. The way the school itself felt like it was holding its breath.

At the registration desk, another woman handed me a folder without smiling.

“Media and reporting track,” she stated. “Your housing key, your schedule, and your access card will all be in here.”

I opened the folder. “That’s a lot for day one.”

“That’s the point.”

I looked up. “You people always talk like that?”

She gave me a flat look. “You’ll get used to it.”

I doubted that heavily.

The induction briefing was already underway when I got there, and the room was full enough that I had to take one of the side seats. The headmistress was at the front, dressed so neatly she looked stitched into her own authority, speaking about discipline, tradition, bloodlines, and the responsibilities of being chosen for Blackwater Hall. I sat there with a straight back and a face that did not give away what I was thinking, which was mostly that the place sounded more like a court than a school.

Then the headmistress mentioned house rankings, and my attention sharpened.

“Lower placements will be monitored carefully for adjustment,” she said.

I heard the word monitored and immediately disliked everything about her.

Tahlia Freeman slid into the chair beside me halfway through the speech, leaned close, and whispered, “You look like you want to argue with the room.”

“I might.”

“Good. It means you’re awake.”

She was younger than I expected someone at this school to be. Quick eyes, easy grin, messy confidence. She looked like she knew all the hidden exits.

“You’re Layla, right?”

“Yes.”

“Tahlia. If you need a guide, a translator, or someone to lie for you while you run, I’m your girl.”

I looked at her. “That sounds suspiciously useful.”

“That’s because I am.”

Before I could answer, the headmistress started talking about student houses and bloodline placements. I caught the words, but not all of them, because I had the strange and irritating sense that someone in the room was watching me rather than listening to the speech.

I looked up.

At the far side of the hall, a boy stood near the wall with one shoulder slightly turned, like he did not need to take up more space than necessary. Dark hair. Clean uniform. Hands tucked into his pockets. Still enough to look dangerous without trying. He was watching the room like he had already counted the exits.

Then his eyes met mine.

Only for a second.

But it was enough to make my pulse do something stupid.

I looked away first, which annoyed me before I even understood why.

Tahlia saw the glance and grinned. “That’s Callum Reid.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

She lowered her voice a little. “It means you’ve already noticed the wrong person.”

“Why is he staring at me?”

“Because that’s what he does.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. Trust me.”

The briefing ended before I could ask her more, and by the time people stood and started collecting their things, I had already decided I did not like Callum Reid on principle. Not because of anything he had done. Mostly because of the way he had stood there like the school was built around him and the way he had looked at me once, as if he had already decided I was a problem.

I followed the registration instructions, picked up my media access card, and headed for housing.

The accommodation block was quieter than the rest of the school. Smaller hallways. Dimmer lights. Clean doors. The woman at the desk handed me a key and a printed room sheet.

“Elite student room,” she spoke with a high pitched tone. An irritating one.

I blinked at the card. “Just one?”

She looked like she might be tired of questions already. “That is what the sheet says.”

I took the key and left before she could change her mind.

The room was up one narrow stairwell, at the end of a corridor that smelled faintly of polish and rain. When I opened the door, I stopped.

It was decent.

Too decent.

White walls. A bed already made. A desk by the window. A wardrobe. Fresh sheets. A quiet kind of space that looked as if someone had already arranged it for a person they expected to arrive. That made me uneasy, but I was too tired to question it properly.

I dragged my suitcase in, set it by the bed, and started unpacking because the fastest way to make a strange room feel less strange was to fill it with your own things. My clothes went into the wardrobe. My books lined up on the desk. My toiletries in the bathroom shelf. My charger near the bed. I was halfway through my bag when the zipper jammed and I had to tug it hard enough to irritate myself.

“Brilliant,” I muttered.

The room stayed silent.

I checked the window. Closed. I checked the lock. Fine. Then I showered, because the ferry, the rain, and the school had all started to feel like one long layer of grime I needed to scrub off. By the time I came out, I was exhausted enough to stop thinking for a little while.

I changed into comfortable clothes, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the letter from my pocket.

I did not open it again.

Not yet.

If I did, I knew I would think about my mother, and I was already doing enough of that without asking for it.

So I put the letter in the drawer, pushed the drawer shut, and told myself I had one night to survive.

That was all.

One night.

Then the quiet shifted.

Not loudly. Just enough for me to feel it. Like a presence moving somewhere beyond the room.

I froze, turning slowly toward the door.

Nothing.

Just hallway silence on the other-side.

But the feeling stayed anyway, curling at the back of my neck while I stood there with one hand still on the drawer and the other against the bed frame.

Blackwater Hall had already started making itself known.

And I had barely unpacked.