All too well

I Knew You Were Trouble

The first thing I notice about Liam, after he leaves our room, is that I can’t stop noticing him.

I see him everywhere. Walking across the quad, casually flipping a football with some guys outside the dorms, leaning against the library doors with that lazy grin of his. He seems to be a magnet for attention, and people orbit around him like he’s the sun.

But he’s not the only thing that’s been nagging at me.

It’s the door. The one at the end of the hallway in Hawthorne Hall.

I didn’t think much of it on my first day—just another locked door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” But as I pass it every morning on my way to class, I notice the subtle details: the scuff marks on the floor where it looks like something heavy has been dragged in or out, the faint smell of damp earth that clings to the air around it. And then there’s the sound—so faint I’m not sure I’m imagining it—a soft hum, almost like whispers.

Today, I’m determined to push it out of my mind.

I hurry across campus, dodging a group of students handing out flyers for a Halloween party. It’s still early September, but the air already has a crispness to it, the kind that makes you pull your jacket tighter and wish for warm coffee.

My first class is Intro to Literature, and as I slide into a seat near the back, I pull out my notebook and try to focus. The professor, a wiry man with round glasses that keep slipping down his nose, launches into a passionate lecture about the Gothic tradition in literature.

“Fear,” he says, pacing in front of the room. “True fear comes from the unknown. From what lies just beneath the surface. It’s not the monster you see—it’s the one you don’t.”

The class murmurs in agreement, but his words stick with me.

When the lecture ends, I head to the library, hoping the quiet will help clear my head. Hawthorne’s library is massive, with floor-to-ceiling shelves and winding staircases that lead to shadowy alcoves. It smells like aged paper and varnished wood, and I immediately feel a sense of calm as I step inside.

I settle into a table near the back, flipping open my notebook to jot down some thoughts from class. But the moment I start to write, the whispers return—not in my head, but faint and distant, like they’re coming from somewhere nearby.

I glance around, expecting to see someone in one of the aisles, but the library is almost empty. The whispers grow louder, and my pulse quickens. They seem to be coming from the direction of the basement stairs, a place I hadn’t even noticed until now.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Just my imagination.

But then I hear my name.

“Elena.”

I freeze, my pen slipping from my fingers. It’s not loud—just a breath, a sigh—but it’s unmistakable. Someone said my name.

I don’t remember standing up, but suddenly I’m moving toward the stairs, drawn by something I can’t explain. Each step creaks under my weight as I descend into the basement, the air growing colder with every step.

The basement is nothing like the rest of the library. The walls are bare stone, and the lighting is dim, casting long shadows that stretch and bend. At the far end of the room, I see it: another door.

This one is different.

It’s old, wooden, and covered in deep scratches, as though someone—or something—has tried to claw their way through it. A rusty padlock hangs loosely from a chain, and as I approach, I see faint carvings in the wood.

Do not open.

My breath catches.

“Elena,” the voice whispers again, clearer this time, and I whirl around.

There’s no one there.

I back away from the door, my heart pounding in my chest. My feet catch on something, and I stumble, my hand brushing against the wall for support.

“Elena?”

This time, the voice is real. I spin around to see Liam standing at the base of the stairs, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“What are you doing down here?” he asks, his voice steady but laced with something I can’t quite place.

“I—” My throat is dry. “I thought I heard something.”

He looks past me, his gaze lingering on the scratched door. For a moment, his confident facade cracks, and I see something flicker in his eyes. Fear.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, stepping closer.

“What is this place?” I ask, gesturing to the door.

Liam hesitates, his jaw tightening. “It’s just storage. Old archives. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“But—”

“Seriously, Elena.” His tone is firm now. “Don’t come back here.”

He grabs my arm gently but firmly, leading me back up the stairs. As we reach the main floor, he lets go, his expression softening.

“Just… trust me on this, okay?” he says, his voice almost pleading.

I nod, but my mind is already racing.

Because in that moment, I realize something: Liam knows exactly what’s behind that door.