Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The basement reeked of old mold, rusted metal, and dried blood that never seemed to fully dry. Dana and Jace stumbled through darkness lit only by the flicker of a faulty emergency bulb hanging by a single wire from the ceiling.

"Where are we?" Dana whispered, pressing her palm to the cracked concrete wall.

The wall pulsed.

She recoiled. "Jace… it's warm."

Jace brought the flashlight to it. Veins. Beneath the plaster. Moving. Like something alive.

Then, without warning, the wall bled.

A slow ooze of thick, black-red liquid seeped down the concrete, the smell metallic and ancient, like a wound reopened after years of healing. Words formed in the blood as it spread:

"YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE."

The flashlight died.

A moment of silence.

Then the whispering began.

Dozens of voices, circling, coming from every direction—yet from nowhere. Children. Adults. Some screamed. Others wept. A lullaby echoed through the halls, twisted and off-key.

"If you bleed upon the stone, the school will call you home…"

Dana gripped Jace's sleeve. "That's not a song. That's a summoning."

They ran, deeper into the belly of Halberd High, where the walls narrowed and the air turned wet. Blood dripped steadily from the ceiling now, tapping like claws against the floor. And with every drop, more writing smeared across the walls:

"SAY YOUR SINS."

"YOU'VE BEEN WATCHED."

"THE WALLS REMEMBER."

Jace stumbled upon an old janitor's closet and kicked it open. Inside: rusted mops, soaked rags, and a cracked mirror. As they entered, the door slammed behind them.

The mirror shimmered—then showed not their reflections, but scenes from the past.

Dana saw herself: a young girl, laughing as she carved her name into a school desk. Behind her, a teacher punished another student for the act. Wrong person. Wrong blame.

"That's not possible," Dana whispered.

Jace saw his own memory—watching his brother get dragged into a school bus during the outbreak. He had run. He had never gone back. Until now.

Suddenly, the walls of the closet shuddered, and the blood covering them burst into faces. Screaming faces. Their mouths moved in unison:

"MAKE IT RIGHT."

The closet door vanished. Gone. In its place: a narrow corridor of bleeding brick, lit by flickering exit signs that led—somewhere.

They had no choice but to walk it.

Every few feet, they passed scenes burned into the stone—classrooms filled with undead teachers, fire alarms spraying acid, rows of students repeating "I AM NOT ALIVE" over and over.

Finally, the corridor opened into the old auditorium.

The seats were filled.

Rotting corpses clapped, their hands falling off with each motion. On stage stood a wall-sized canvas. A mural.

Painted in blood.

Their names were at the top.

"DANA WELLS. JACE MARROW."

Below: a painting of them both.

Dead.

The walls pulsed one last time. Then the lights died.