Ghost is the file
Rain whispered against the windows of Salem Cole’s sedan, blurring the city into smudged light and moving shadows. She sat in the driver’s seat outside Lyra Dean’s apartment complex, chewing on a pen cap as her eyes scanned the open case file resting on her lap.
The victim had no living family. No close friends. No boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, or pet. Just a cold, sterile trail of professional contacts and donation receipts. A public do-gooder with a private vacuum for a life.
That, in itself, was suspicious.
Because people like Lyra always had stories ones they hid under clean resumes and charity smiles.
Salem flipped through the file again, looking for something that didn’t match.
There.
Tucked in the back: a printed screenshot of Lyra’s recent bank activity. Two weeks ago, she withdrew exactly $6,666 in cash.
A strange number.
Intentional.
And where had it gone?
She noted the withdrawal location and stuffed the file back into her satchel. The moment she reached for the key in the ignition, her burner phone vibrated beside the gear stick.
Blocked number.
She answered.
Nothing.
Then static again. Then… a whisper, faint and distant, as though it came from underwater.
“You’re looking in the wrong file, Salem.”
She froze.
“You want the truth? Try the archives.”
Click.
She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and exhaled sharply.
It was happening again.
Voices. Hints. Ghosts from a life she buried.
But this time, she wasn’t a child. She had a badge, a gun, and a hell of a lot of reasons to follow the noise.
An hour later, Salem stood in the basement of the precinct, in front of a locked cabinet marked “Closed Juvenile Files: 1993–2005.” Dust clung to the metal. The air smelled like mold and old paper.
She hadn’t been down here since she was a rookie. Not since she first saw that name in a file she pretended not to open.
She took out the small universal lock pick from her coat pocket and got to work. Within seconds, the cabinet clicked open.
Inside: dozens of thick folders. She scanned quickly until she found it Hawthorn Home for Girls 2003.
The foster house.
Her house.
The place where Camille vanished.
She pulled the file, laid it flat on a dusty table, and opened it.
Intake records. Staff rosters. Therapy session notes. Incident reports.
She turned page after page, heart beating faster the deeper she went.
Then she found it: a page stamped “CONFIDENTIAL SEALED BY COURT ORDER.”
Salem hesitated. Then she flipped it open.
Incident Report: June 4th, 2003
Subject: Camille Nwoke
Camille claimed she witnessed "someone" take photos of her and other girls while they slept. Claimed she tried to tell staff, but was punished.
Days later, Camille went missing during a fire evacuation. No body recovered.
No charges filed. Incident ruled accidental.
The page trembled in her hands.
All this time, everyone said Camille died in the fire.
But no body? No follow-up?
And worse: someone was watching them even back then.
Salem’s breath caught.
She turned the page.
Taped inside the folder was a grainy Polaroid.
Five girls in bunk beds. A shadowy figure barely visible in the doorway. The kind of photo you don’t pose for. The kind someone takes when you’re unaware.
Salem’s eyes locked on the youngest girl in the photo herself.
The same silver cross around her neck.
Her stomach twisted. Rage crept in slow. Controlled. Cold.
Someone had been watching them for decades. Documenting them. Stalking them.
And now they were killing them one by one.
Back upstairs, she stormed into her partner’s desk space. Malik Roane was mid-conversation on the phone when he saw her face. He hung up immediately.
“What is it?” he asked, standing.
She tossed the folder onto his desk. It landed with a slap.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Camille?”
His jaw clenched. “Because I didn’t think it mattered anymore.”
“You were in that house,” she snapped. “I found your name in the intake. We were in the same place, same time. Why the silence?”
Malik looked away. “Because I was trying to forget. Just like you.”
“No. I buried it. You lied about it.”
He sat down slowly. The tension between them vibrated like a pulled wire.
“You think it’s her?” he asked. “Camille?”
“I don’t know if she’s alive or if someone’s pretending to be her. But I know this she didn’t die in that fire. Not officially. Not legally. And I’m not letting another name get added to this list.”
Malik stared at the Polaroid. “This picture…”
“I was thirteen,” Salem whispered. “Camille was fifteen. She used to say the walls had eyes. That someone was keeping score.”
Malik shook his head. “You think this is some revenge thing?”
“I think this is personal. And whoever’s behind it isn’t just hunting us. They’re using what happened to us to frame something bigger.”
He stood again, eyes dark. “You sure you want to reopen this door, Salem? Because once you go back, there’s no walking out clean.”
She met his stare.
“I never walked out clean.”
Later that evening, Salem sat at her kitchen table, drinking black coffee and scrolling through news clippings on Camille’s disappearance. None of it added up. There was no memorial. No funeral. Just a single article buried on page six of a community paper.
A knock hit her door three sharp raps.
Her hand hovered over her gun as she stood and moved silently to the peephole.
No one there.
She opened the door slowly.
On the doormat: a manila envelope, sealed with wax. No address. No stamp.
She picked it up, took it inside, and opened it with her blade.
Inside: a USB drive.
She plugged it into her laptop.
A single video file loaded: “June_2003_Reel.”
The video opened on static, then shifted into grainy black-and-white footage of the foster house hallway.
Date-stamp: 06-03-2003 – 3:17AM.
Girls sleep in bunk beds. One by one, doors creak open. A tall figure enters. Wear
ing a mask. Holding something a camera.
The figure walks to Salem’s bed.
Stands over her.
Then turns to the camera.
Whispers:
“She knows what you did.”
Cut to black.
