They say the old campus changes after midnight, its halls no longer echo with laughter or footsteps, only whispers that sound too close to your ear. The air grows colder, the lights dim for no reason, and shadows stretch where no one walks. Some claim it’s just the wind, or the age of the building, but those who’ve seen what moves in the basement know better. Because when the night is at its stillest, you can hear them, the headless ones, dragging their feet through the dark, searching for what was taken from them long ago.
The rain had already drowned the courtyard by the time Iskaela realized she was alone. Everyone else had gone home after their night shoot, but she stayed behind to return the borrowed camera. The equipment room was in the basement, that basement, the one students joked about but never stayed in long enough to test the stories.
The power flickered as she descended. The hallway lights buzzed, casting sickly yellow light over cracked tiles. It smelled of rust and something older, something like rot trapped beneath wet concrete.
Halfway down, she heard footsteps. Not hers.
They were slow, uneven, dragging.
“Hello?” she called, her voice trembling slightly. “Sir, is that you?”
No answer. Only the faint sound of water dripping and the distant groan of metal chains being pulled somewhere deep within the dark.
Her flashlight flickered once, then caught movement at the end of the hall. A silhouette stood there, motionless, dressed in what looked like a student’s uniform, shirt stained dark at the collar.
She lifted the flashlight higher.
The beam landed on its shoulders.
And stopped.
There was no head.
Iskaela stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat. The figure twitched, turning slightly toward her. Then she saw another one step out of the shadow behind it. And another.
Four. Maybe five.
All headless. All moving with that sick, puppet-like gait.
They didn’t walk so much as sway, like they were being pulled by strings. Something glistened down their necks, dripping onto the floor—thick, black, and slow.
Her flashlight went out.
She ran.
But the sound followed, footsteps pounding, echoing, closing in. She didn’t dare look back. She burst through the stairwell door, sprinted up the steps, and slammed into the ground floor corridor.
Then she heard a whisper.
Right beside her ear.
A voice that didn’t come from a mouth.
“You shouldn’t have looked at us.”
Iskaela froze. Her reflection in the glass door stared back at her—and in that reflection, she wasn’t alone.
Behind her, just inches away, stood one of them.
And in its hands, it held something round, dripping.
A head.
Her head.
The world tilted, her vision warping into darkness.
They found Iskaela’s phone the next morning on the basement stairs. The last video she recorded showed her flashlight beam shaking wildly, catching brief glimpses of motion, headless figures closing in, and then a single, whispered word before the camera cut to black:
“Here.”
Now, students say if you pass by that basement after midnight, you can sometimes hear wet footsteps following behind you.
And if you turn too quickly, you might see a girl standing in the dark, small, barefoot, still holding something cradled in her arms.
A face that looks just like yours.
