Diego hated gym class.

It wasn’t just the mandatory mile run or the smell of sweat-soaked rubber mats. It was the fact that he was back here, at Bramble High, trying to blend into a school where his old friends had either moved away or mutated into strangers over the summer.

But he’d made it. He’d survived summer, survived the isolation. Being back—even in this broken-down, semi-haunted building—was a weird sort of comfort.

Coach Reynolds barked something about timed laps and blew the whistle. Diego jogged around the edge of the track, passing the bleachers that towered like rusted teeth. Most of the kids stayed clear of them. Everyone said they were cursed.

He paused at the halfway mark, pretending to tie his shoe. From the corner of his eye, he saw movement among the bleachers. A flicker—pale and fast, like smoke in reverse.

He shook it off. Probably some other kid skipping laps.

That night, Diego dreamed of cheering. Not the kind from pep rallies, but distorted and low, like voices underwater. And behind it, a high-pitched scream.

He didn’t mention it the next day. Just avoided the bleachers and tried to survive another round of push-ups and sprints. But during cooldown, he wandered too close.

The air grew colder. The shadows under the bleachers thickened unnaturally.

Then he heard it.

Low and distant at first, the wail vibrated through the aluminum seats, rising like steam from a forgotten kettle. Diego froze. Another gust of wind? But the trees were still.

Then came the voice.

“No one ever noticed me…”

Diego spun around. No one. Just rows of silent seats, all shadow and dust.

“I screamed. I fell. No one saw.”

A figure emerged at the top of the bleachers. A girl. Pale, translucent, hair matted and wild, wearing a tattered varsity jacket that shimmered in and out of existence. She stared down at Diego with eyes like wet ashes.

“They only saw him.”

Her voice cracked into a scream that sent Diego stumbling backward. The sound wasn’t just loud—it carried grief, abandonment, fury. The banshee floated down the steps without touching them, each one groaning under her presence.

Diego’s legs wanted to run, but he stayed. Something in him—a thread of whatever had gotten him through those long, empty summer months—told him this wasn’t about fighting.

He clutched his gym bag like a shield and faced her.

“I see you,” he said, voice trembling but firm.

The banshee froze. The wail died in her throat.

“I don’t know what happened to you. But it’s over. You’re not alone anymore.”

She hovered, her flickering form stuttering like static.

“You don’t have to scream anymore,” Diego said, softer now. “I hear you. I hear you.”

A long silence.

Then the banshee’s face—twisted with pain—began to smooth. Her eyes dimmed from fire to mist. Her mouth closed.

And she whispered, “…finally.”

She vanished.

Later, Coach found Diego still standing by the bleachers, eyes wide, body covered in goosebumps. He told the nurse he’d gotten dizzy in the heat.

But that night, the dreams were silent.

No cheering. No screams.

Just wind brushing through empty aluminum seats. Maybe high school wasn’t going to be so bad after all.