The Auction

The Locker

The sun's hanging low as I drive out of town, casting this warm glow across the landscape that feels like it belongs to a memory I've almost forgotten. The colors in the sky look painted on—streaks of orange, pink, and purple blending together like a dream. I roll down the window and let the warm evening air rush in, tugging at my hair. It should be comforting, but it's not. There's a weight in my chest, this gnawing feeling like I'm about to open a door I can never close again.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, drumming my fingers against it as I go over everything I've pieced together in my head. What the hell am I going to find out here? Every possibility feels worse than the last, but I can't stop now. Not when I'm this close.

The road narrows, and I turn off the main stretch onto a gravel drive, kicking up a cloud of dust in my rearview mirror. The gate to the old high school is still there, hanging open like it's waiting for someone. It almost feels like I've been expected. I kill the engine and step out, gravel crunching beneath my boots. The air has shifted; it's cooler now, the breeze carrying a chill that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don't know if it's just nerves, but it feels like the whole place is holding its breath.

The building looms in front of me, a hollow shell of what it used to be. I can see the shattered windows glinting in the dying light, like empty eyes staring out. The flagpole leans sideways, the flag barely a rag flapping in the wind. I push the gates wider and make my way across the cracked concrete courtyard. It's eerie how quiet it is, like the whole place went to sleep and never woke up.

I reach the main entrance and push the double doors open. They creak and groan, loud enough to make me wince. Inside, the smell hits me—mildew and something metallic, almost like blood but not quite. The hallway stretches out in front of me, dim and shadowed. Old spirit banners cling to the walls, their colors faded to muted grays and yellows. *Go Panthers! Class of '95!* It's almost laughable, like they're trying to cheer for a game that's long since over.

I take slow steps down the hall, my flashlight cutting through the dark. I can see papers scattered across the floor—crumpled tests, scribbled notes, and yellowed pages of homework. One looks like an essay on *The Great Gatsby.* It's ripped in half, tossed aside like it didn't matter. I sidestep a desk that's been overturned, the wood splintered and rotting. Rats skitter past, their tiny feet making quick, scratching noises as they disappear into the shadows

The abandoned high school feels like a time capsule, frozen in a moment that was never meant to end. The cracked windows, broken desks, and forgotten textbooks that fill the empty halls. It's a decaying monument to something lost a long time ago.

My breath echoes back at me, mixing with the creaks and groans of the old building. It feels alive in a way that sends a shiver down my spine, like the whole place is aware I'm here, like it's been waiting for someone to walk these halls again.

I keep moving until I reach the old locker row near the gym. The numbers are barely legible now, scratched into the metal, but I know what I'm looking for; Locker #47. I find locker #46 standing side by side with locker 47, the paint peeling off in long strips, rust bleeding down like old scars. I reach out, fingers brushing the cold metal. My heart's pounding in my chest, hard enough that it feels like it's trying to break free.

I take a deep breath and grip the handles. At first, they don't budge, stiff with age, but I yank harder. They screech open, metal grinding against metal, and reveal a cracked concrete wall behind them. For a second, I just stand there, staring at the wall. It looks like a dead end, and I almost laugh—half from frustration, half from disbelief. I've come all this way, worked myself up into a frenzy over nothing but an old, forgotten wall.

But then something makes me pause. It's too clean, too smooth. Everything else in this place is covered in grime and decay, but the wall behind these lockers? It almost looks... untouched. That's when I notice it—there's a seam running vertically down the middle, barely visible, like a faint scar across the surface.