The last play of the game was a Hail Mary.

Slippery Rock, down by four, had one shot left. The quarterback—sweaty, mud-streaked, and limping—hurled the ball like he was throwing a curse. It hung in the air, wobbling end over end as if uncertain whether it should obey gravity or something darker.

Number 87 leapt.

The crowd gasped.

And then came the silence.

Not the usual hush of disbelief, but a vacuum. As if the whole field held its breath.

Then: touchdown.

A roar. Cheers. The marching band launched into fight song glory as the scoreboard blinked its final score. But some folks swore they saw fog rolling in from the edge of the bleachers. Not weather-fog—something older. Something waiting.

Three hours later, the gymnasium smelled of sweat, punch, and borrowed cologne. The Homecoming Dance was in full sway. Streamers hung like vines from jungle rafters. The disco ball spun like a scrying stone. A local DJ pumped out power ballads, and couples clung to each other like their bodies remembered something their minds had forgotten.

Jenna, in a borrowed black dress and borrowed silver heels, stood alone near the refreshment table. Her eyes kept drifting toward the far end of the gym where shadows gathered just a little too thickly.

She felt him before she saw him.

Jake Peterman. Wide receiver. Deceased three years.

He moved like a reel of film playing half-speed, just enough off to feel wrong. His tux looked like it came from a thrift store’s ghost section—dated lapels, faded boutonniere. But his eyes, sea-glass green, still held that twinkle. Like senior year never ended.

They danced.

No one stopped them. Maybe no one saw.

Jenna remembered the crash—Jake’s car, a post-game party, black ice on the hill. She remembered mourning. Grieving. Healing. But dancing now, in his cool embrace, she also remembered the promises they whispered once on this very floor.

Around them, the air grew colder. The music warped like a vinyl record left in the sun. Streamers twisted in a wind that came from nowhere.

Jake leaned in, lips close to her ear. “You could stay.”

Her breath caught.

And then—just as suddenly—he was gone.

She stood alone, the slow song fading. Her dress clung to her like a funeral shroud. She felt the cold on her skin but deeper too—in her bones, in her memory.

Later, students would claim the gym lights flickered, that the air smelled like old sweat and roses, that a girl danced with no one. But Jenna never said a word. Not about the dance. Not about the kiss she still felt on her cheek.

Every homecoming since, she came alone.

And always left just a little colder.

You can still hear the roar of the crowd if you stand on the fifty-yard line after midnight. But don’t stay too long. Not every player on that field ever left it. And some dances… never end.