And the humming continued.

Usernames of people he’d played with a decade ago. People who hadn’t logged on in years.

As he walked down the hall, he heard a voice. Not a Special Infected screech. A child’s voice, humming. He spun. No one. The humming came from a classroom. Inside, the desks were arranged in a perfect circle. On each desk was a single Polaroid.

The gymnasium doors slammed shut. The ghosts turned to face him. Their faces were his face—older, tired, with bags under the eyes.