CHAPTER SIX — RUMBLING STORMS

The storm didn’t arrive suddenly.

It rumbled first — low, distant, like the building itself was warning anyone who could feel it.
St. Peter’s had moods. Dante was starting to understand that. Some days the walls buzzed like they held secrets. Today, they felt restless. Hungry.

The morning started too quiet.
The kind of quiet that felt forced.

Kids walked the corridors in tight clusters, whispering. No shouting. No jokes. No random footballs blasting off walls. Just… tension.

Even LD hovered close, shoulders stiff instead of lazy.

“You feel that?” he murmured beside Dante.

“Yeah,” Dante said. “Something’s off.”

They reached the Year Ten corridor, and Dante didn’t even get two steps before a small boy—skinny frame, uniform crumpled, backpack half-open—bumped into him.

“Sorry, sir,” the boy muttered quickly, head low.

Dante frowned. “Slow down, big man. You good?”

The boy nodded too fast. “Yeah. I’m—I’m fine.”

He wasn’t fine.

His eyes were wide, darting. He clutched the straps of his bag like someone was planning to yank it off him.

Dante opened his mouth to ask more—

—when three taller boys turned the corner behind him.

They froze when they saw Dante.

And Dante saw everything instantly.

The way the small boy flinched.
The way the tall boys paused.
The way one of them tucked his hand behind his hoodie pouch — too quickly.

A taxing ring.
Debt collection.
School-style extortion.

Dante hated that he recognised the signs.

He stepped slightly to cover the small boy with his shoulder. “Morning, lads.”

The tallest one forced a smile. “Morning, sir.”

“Where you lot heading?” Dante asked, tone light but dangerous.

“Lesson.”

“Funny,” Dante said. “Looks like you were heading this way.”

Silence.

LD folded his arms, floating behind the tallest boy. “These ones are trouble.”

Dante didn’t move. “Anyone want to explain why my man here looks like he’s running from the Avengers?”

The small boy swallowed hard.

The tallest boy shrugged. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dante stepped forward slowly, the whole corridor watching without watching.

“You sure?” he asked quietly. “You wanna say that again while looking me in the eye?”

The tallest boy hesitated a fraction too long.

That was enough.

“Cool,” Dante said. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You three—classroom. Now. I don’t care which one, as long as it’s away from him.”

One boy scoffed under his breath. “He ain’t even a real teacher.”

The words hit Dante’s chest, but he didn’t show it.

“I’m real enough right now,” he said calmly. “Move.”

It wasn’t the tone of a teacher.
It was the tone of someone who’d survived too much to let kids become versions of the boys he once knew.

The three boys exchanged looks, but they moved. Slowly. Grudgingly. But they moved.

When they turned the corner, LD whistled low. “Man, you still got that presence. Scared ‘em proper.”

Dante looked down at the small boy. “You safe now?”

“Y-yeah,” he whispered.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?”

The boy shook his head violently. “I can’t. They’ll… they’ll…”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Dante’s jaw tightened. “Alright. I won’t push. But you find me again if they bother you. Yeah?”

The boy nodded and practically ran away.

Dante watched him go, heart heavy.

LD watched him too. “This school… it’s worse than you thought.”

“I know,” Dante muttered.

“No,” LD said quietly. “You don’t.”

Aaliyah was pouring coffee when Dante walked in.

She turned at the sound of the door — eyes catching immediately on Dante’s shoulder as he rolled it subconsciously.

“You did it again,” she said.

“Did what?” he replied.

“You’re favouring your shoulder,” she said softly. “Same as yesterday.”

“It’s just stiff.”

“It’s more than stiff. You wince every time you move too fast.”

Dante didn’t respond.

Aaliyah stepped closer. “Dante… what happened to you?”

The question sat between them like heat.

He looked away. “Old life. Old injury. Nothing worth talking about.”

“It’s worth it if it hurts,” she whispered.

LD materialised behind her, eyebrows raised. “Tell her, bro. She’s not gonna judge.”

But Dante’s throat tightened. “I’ll be fine.”

“You always say that,” Aaliyah replied. “But you never look fine.”

He forced a half-smile. “Part of my charm.”

“Not funny,” she murmured.

Before she could say more, someone shouted from outside:

“MISS CLARKE! Someone’s fighting in the courtyard!”

Aaliyah sighed heavily. “Duty calls.”

She brushed past Dante—close enough that he felt her warmth—but paused at the door.

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

Then she ran off.

LD watched her leave, then turned to Dante.

“You pushing her away again.”

“I’m protecting her.”

“From what?”

“My past.”

LD stepped closer, voice dropping. “Dante… it ain’t your past you should be worried about anymore.”

Later, as Dante walked the east corridor, the lights flickered again.

The hum returned — that low, uneasy vibration that made the air feel too thick.

He paused at the window of a trophy cabinet, its glass smudged with fingerprints and dust.

His reflection stared back.

Tired eyes.
Scarred shoulder.
A man trying too hard to look calm.

Then LD’s reflection appeared too.

Standing right behind Dante.
Clearer than before.
Sharp-edged.
Defined.

Too defined.

Dante spun around—

No one.

Just empty corridor.

But in the glass, LD was still there.

Smiling sadly.

“You see me, don’t you?” LD said. But not in the air — in the reflection only.

Dante’s lungs tightened. “What is this? Why now?”

LD blinked slowly. “The school woke me up. Or something inside it did.”

Dante stepped closer to the glass. “Why here?”

“I don’t know,” LD said. “But every time that light flickers? Every time the halls go quiet? Every time you feel your chest tighten?”

“What about it?”

“It means I’m closer.”

Dante’s hands curled into fists. “You’re dead, LD. You’re not meant to be anywhere.”

LD’s reflection softened. “I know.”

Dante swallowed.
Hard.

“What do you want from me?” he whispered.

LD leaned his head against the glass.

“You ain’t ready for that answer, big man.”

Then the reflection dissolved.

Gone.

But the cold left behind wasn’t.

It happened during the last period, just before the home bell.

Dante was covering a Year Eight class.
Middle of explaining a poem.
Kids half-listening, half-chatting.

Then one girl — Keisha, loud, always bold — froze mid-sentence.

Her eyes widened.
Her pencil dropped.
Her entire face drained of colour.

“Sir,” she whispered. “Behind you.”

Dante turned.

Nothing.

An empty corner of the classroom.
Coats.
A noticeboard.
A stack of textbooks.

He raised an eyebrow. “Behind me where?”

Keisha shook her head violently. “No—no, no, no, sir, I swear I saw something—”

“What’d you see?”

Her eyes filled with panic. “A man.”

Dante felt his stomach drop.

“What man?”

“A man with a hood up,” she whispered. “Tall. Standing behind you. But when you turned… he just… disappeared.”

The room went silent.

Dead silent.

Kids looked around nervously.

A chair squeaked.
A window rattled in the wind.
The light flickered once.

“Keisha,” Dante said carefully, “it was probably just a shadow.”

“No,” she insisted, voice shaking. “No shadow looks that real.”

One boy muttered, “Nah man, this school’s haunted.”

Another whispered, “Told you something wrong with this place.”

Dante felt heat crawl up his spine.
Not fear.
Recognition.

LD appeared in the corner of the room — distant, flickering, like he wasn’t fully there.

Only Dante saw him.

“We’re running out of time,” LD said softly.

Keisha suddenly shot up from her desk.

“Nope! Nooope! I’m going home!” she shouted, grabbing her bag and running out of the classroom.

“Keisha!” Dante called, but she was already halfway down the hallway.

The rest of the class stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Sir…” one boy whispered, “why did she say the man was standing behind you?”

Dante didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t know the answer himself.

But as he caught his reflection faintly in the classroom window—
just for a blink—
he swore he saw LD’s silhouette behind him again.

Watching.

Waiting.

Closer than ever.

The corridor outside the Behaviour Hub was too quiet.

Last bell had rung. Most kids had fled the building like it was cursed — which, Dante was increasingly convinced, wasn’t far from the truth.

But three shadows lingered at the far end of the hall.

Not shadows.
Three boys.

The same tall Year 11s from earlier — the little taxing ring.
Trying to look invisible.
Trying to act like they weren’t waiting for that same small Year Eight boy to come out of the stairwell.

Dante spotted them instantly.

He didn’t shout.

Didn’t call their names.

He simply said:

“Oi. Step out.”

They froze like shoplifters caught on CCTV.

The tallest one tried to walk off casually.

Dante didn’t raise his voice — he didn’t need to.

“I weren’t asking.”

All three stopped dead.

LD materialised next to Dante, arms folded.
“These man really thought you wouldn’t notice. Clowns.”

The boys turned hesitantly.

“Sir, we’re just—”

“Lurking?” Dante finished.
“Waiting?”
“Hunting?”

The tallest scowled. “No one’s hunting—”

Dante stepped closer with a calmness that scared them more than shouting ever could.

“You think I’m stupid?”

Silence.

“You think I don’t recognise what you’re doing?” Dante said.
“I used to be you.”

That line hit different.

They looked at each other — surprised, wary, almost thrown.

Dante pointed down at the corridor tiles.

“Stand here.”

They shuffled over.

“All three.”

They stood in a crooked line, shoulders hunched, pretending not to be nervous.

Dante walked around them slowly, inspecting them like a drill sergeant with patience issues.

“You want to act like big men?” he said quietly.
“Cool. Then you can handle big-man consequences.”

One boy frowned. “What consequences?”

“Your tax.”

LD grinned. “Here we go…”

The boys blinked at each other.

“Sir, what you mean tax?” the shortest asked.

Dante folded his arms. “You’ve been taxing Year Eights, yeah? Stealing lunch money? Making them carry your bags? Cornering them in stairwells?”

They looked down at their shoes.

“So now,” Dante continued, “you’re gonna work off that tax.”

“How?” the tallest snapped.

Dante stepped right into his space, not aggressive — just real.

“You’re working for me now.”

The boys stared at him like he’d grown wings.

“Work… for you?” one echoed.

“For free?” another hissed.

“For balance,” Dante corrected. “Starting tomorrow morning.”

He listed the tasks like a boss assigning missions:

“You’re setting up chairs for assemblies.”

“Helping PE move equipment.”

“Moving boxes for the caretaker.”

“Picking up litter after lunch.”

“And escorting Year 7s to class if they’re scared of you lot.”

The boys looked horrified.

“That’s child labour!” the short one cried.

“That’s justice,” Dante replied.

The tallest boy glared. “And if we say no?”

Dante smiled faintly — the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Then I tell Hale everything.”

All three sucked in a breath.

“And he’ll call home,” Dante added.
“And you’ll be suspended.”
“And every teacher in this building will watch you like hawks.”

Silence.

“You choose,” Dante said.
“Tax, or trouble.”

The boys didn’t argue.
Couldn’t argue.

“We’ll… do it,” the tallest muttered through clenched teeth.

“Good,” Dante said, stepping back.
“See you 8:00am tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

The boys trudged off down the hall, whispering furiously.

LD laughed. “Man turned the ends’ ops into school janitors. You’re wicked.”

Dante cracked a small smirk.
Only small.

Because when he turned around…

…the corridor lights flickered again.

A chill crawled across his neck.

And down the hall, past the lockers, past the shadows…

…a stick figure with a crown was drawn on a metal locker door.

Fresh.

Not there before.

LD’s expression shifted.
Harder.
Darker.

“Storm’s coming, big man,” LD whispered.

And Dante knew he wasn’t talking about bullies.