My Secret Zombie
Mara is the new girl at school, and she’s determined to keep her head down and stay unnoticed. There’s just one problem: Mara is hiding a secret she can’t even explain.
She’s dead.
Or at least, she thinks she is. Mara has no idea how she came back or why she’s still alive. But the closer she gets to discovering the truth, the more dangerous her secret becomes. Then there’s Jake. He’s popular, confident, and seems to have everyone at school wrapped around his finger. But behind the perfect smile is a boy who keeps everyone at a distance. Everyone except Mara. As Jake starts falling for the mysterious new girl, Mara finds herself falling for him too. But Jake doesn’t know what Mara really is, and Mara doesn’t know how long she can keep pretending to be normal. When the truth about Mara finally comes to light, Jake will have to decide whether he can love a girl who was never supposed to be alive in the first place.
Some secrets are meant to stay buried
CHAPTER ONE : FAMILIAR FACES
JAKE
Nothing really changes here.
That’s the first thing I notice most days. Not in a deep way or anything, just in the way everything feels the same, no matter what day it is. Same walk, same people, same conversations that don’t really matter but still happen anyway.
I wake up, throw something on, grab my bag, and head out. There’s no rush. There’s never really a reason to rush.
Outside, the air feels heavier than it should. Not hot, just thick, like it’s sitting there instead of moving. I walk across campus with my hands in my pockets, my backpack hanging loose off one shoulder.
People are already out, mostly in groups, laughing too loud, talking over each other, arguing about things that won’t matter in a few hours. I pass a few faces I recognize and nod. Some nod back. Some don’t notice. It doesn’t really make a difference.
There’s a rhythm to this place. Once you’re used to it, you don’t have to think anymore. You just move with it.
By the time I get inside, the hallway is already loud. Lockers slam, shoes squeak against the floor, someone calls a name from too far away. I move through it without paying much attention.
A couple people call out to me as I pass. I respond without stopping, giving the same short answers I always do. It’s automatic at this point.
My classroom is near the end of the hall. I push the door open and step inside.
Same room. Same layout. Desks in rows, slightly uneven because no one ever lines them up properly. Sunlight peeked in through the windows, but not enough to make anything feel a little dull, just enough to make everything look bright.
I drop into my usual seat in the second row near the window. It’s a good spot close enough to hear if I need to, far enough not to care if I don’t.
I pull out my notebook, flip it open, and grab a pen. I haven’t started writing yet. I just sit there, pushing my brown hair back, leaning back slightly, letting my eyes move around the room.
People trickle in. Some fast, like they’re late even when they’re not. Others slower, dragging their feet like nothing matters. A guy in the back is already asleep, his head resting on his arms. Someone else taps their pen against the desk in a steady rhythm that’s probably going to get annoying soon.
I tap mine too without really thinking about it.
The teacher isn’t here yet, no one seems to care. A few conversations start up quietly at first, then louder when no one tells them to stop.
I don’t join in. I don’t really feel the need to.
The door opens.
I don’t look up right away. It could be anyone, another student, the teacher, or someone late. But something shifts in the room. Not in a big way, just enough that I notice.
I glance up.
A girl is standing near the door.
New.
You can tell right away. Not because of anything obvious, just the way she stands there a second longer than most people would, like she’s figuring something out before she moves.
She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t rush. Just looks around slowly, like she’s taking everything in.
The teacher walks in right after her, already talking about something I’m not paying attention to. He says her name, but I don’t catch it.
“Find a seat,” he says.
Simple.
She nods once and starts walking.
There are plenty of empty desks, but she passes a few of them without stopping. I watch for a second, then look back down at my notebook. It doesn’t really matter.
My pen taps against the page. One, two, three.
Then it stops.
Someone’s standing next to me.
I glance up.
It’s her.
Up close, she looks a little different. Her hair is black, straight, falling just past her shoulders down to her waist without much movement. Her skin is pale, almost lifeless…. like she hasn’t been in the sun in a while.
Her eyes are brown, dark enough that they don’t catch much light. And her lips are glossy, catching the sunlight for a second when she presses them together.
I don’t stare. Just notice.
Then she pulls the chair out and sits down next to me without hesitation.
“Hey,” I say.
It’s automatic.
She looks at me. “Hi.”
Her voice is quiet. Not shy, just controlled.
I nod once and look forward again. That’s the end of it.
Class starts. The teacher begins going over assignments and dates, writing things on the board that we’re supposed to remember later. I write a little, not because I care that much, but because it feels like I should.
Next to me, she barely moves. No pen tapping, no shifting around. Just still.
I glance over once. She’s already looking forward, focused in a way that most people in here aren’t.
It’s a little weird.
Not bad. Just noticeable.
The teacher claps once, cutting through the noise. “Alright, we’re not doing notes all period. Pair up.”
A few people groan. Chairs start moving.
I don’t move. I don’t really care who I end up with.
“Actually,” he adds, glancing around, “just work with the person next to you.”
I pause and look to my right.
Her.
Of course.
She’s already looking down at the paper.
I pull mine closer at the same time she reaches for it. Our hands brush.
Cold.
Not a normal kind of cold. Not like someone who’s just been outside.
Actually cold
cold like her skin didn't belong to a living person
I pull my hand back slightly without thinking.
She doesn’t react at all. Just keeps looking at the paper like nothing happened.
“You can write,” I say. I don’t feel like doing it.
She nods once and picks up the pen.
Her handwriting is neat. Too neat, almost. Like she’s making sure not to mess up at all.
“What are we supposed to do?” she asks quietly.
I glance at the board. “Just answer the questions.”
She nods again. No extra words. No small talk.
I lean back in my chair and let her do most of it.
Every now and then, I look over. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t erase. Doesn’t even pause. She just writes, steady and consistent, like she already knows the answers.
Or like she doesn’t need to think.
I tap my pen lightly against the desk.
“You just transferred?” I ask without really thinking about it.
She stops.
Just for a second.
Then, “Yes.”
That’s it.
No explanation. No follow up.
I wait a moment, like she might say something else.
She doesn’t.
“Alright,” I say.
I don’t ask anything else. There's something about the way she answered, like she cut it off on purpose, that this thought sticks for a second longer than it should.
Then I let it go.
Time passes. People talk, laugh, complain about the work.
She doesn’t.
She finishes the paper and slides it slightly toward me.
“Good?” she asks.
I glance at it. Everything’s filled in.
“Yeah,” I say.
She nods.
That’s it.
The bell rings, and chairs scrape against the floor all at once. Everyone stands, conversations starting up again like they were just paused.
I close my notebook, slide it into my bag, and stand.
She moves more slowly than everyone else, packing her things carefully, as if there’s no reason to rush.
I don’t wait around.
I step out into the hallway, where the noise hits all over again. Lockers slam, voices overlap, people move in every direction.
Someone asks me if I’m coming out later for some dumb hangout by the river. I give a half answer and keep walking.
Same routine.
Same day.
Nothing different.
I move through the crowd like I always do, blending back into everything without really thinking about it.
And for the most part, it feels normal.
But later, when I try to think back on the day, there’s one thing that doesn’t fit.
Not the class.
Not the people.
Just her.
Black hair. Dark eyes. Pale skin.
Cold hands.
Quiet.
Still.
A bit cute actually.
I don’t think about it for long. I don’t let myself
But for some reason, she’s the only part I remember clearly.
Mura
CLOSER
I don’t usually notice people like that, not individually. They blend together most of the time, voices, movement, faces. It’s easier that way, easier to move through things without focusing too much on anyone. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
I step into the classroom and pause just long enough to take it in. Not obvious. Just enough to see where people are sitting, how full the room is, where the empty spaces are. Normal things. There’s nothing different about it at least, that’s what I think at first.
Then I notice it.
It’s faint. Barely there. Something about that scent felt warmer than anything else. I don’t react. It could be nothing. I start walking.
There are empty seats. A lot of them. I pass one, then another. It shouldn’t matter where I sit.
But the closer I get to the middle of the room, the more that very scent gets stronger, clearer, more defined. I slow slightly, just enough to figure out where it’s coming from.
Then I see him. He’s sitting near the window, leaning back in his chair, pen in his hand like he’s not really paying attention to anything. Normal. There’s nothing about him that stands out. Nothing that should. I look away after a second.
I could sit somewhere else. There are other seats.
I don’t.
I walk past two more desks and stop next to him. For a moment, I hesitated, not long enough for it to look strange, just long enough to notice it again. Clearer now.
I sit down. Close enough that I can’t ignore it anymore. I keep my hands still on the desk, my posture steady. Everything has to look right.
“Hey.”
His voice is casual.
I look at him. “Hi.” My voice comes off low. He nods once and looks away again. That helps.
I face forward, focusing on the board as the teacher starts talking. I don’t really listen, I just need something to look at. The smell doesn’t go away. It stays there. Close.
I try not to focus on it. If I don’t focus on it, it should be easier.
The teacher keeps talking. Pens start moving. The room settles. Next to me, he shifts slightly in his seat. The movement is small, but I notice it. I look down at the paper in front of me, even though I’m not reading it.
The teacher claps once. “Pair up.” I don’t react. Then “Work with the person next to you.” I reach for the paper at the same time he does. Our hands touch. His skin is warm. Mine isn’t. He pulls his hand back like touching me sent shock waves. I notice it. I don’t know why he did. I don’t react. I just picked up the pen.
“You can write.”
I nod once. “What are we supposed to do?” I ask.
“Just answer the questions.” I glance at the board, then back down. I start writing. The questions are simple. I answer them one by one, keeping my pace steady. Not too fast. Not too slow. I try to focus on that. But it’s harder now. Sitting this close, whatever I noticed before is still there. It doesn’t go away. It stays in the same place, steady, like it’s right beside me. I grip the pen a little tighter. Ignore it.
“You just transferred?”
I stop. I think about the question for a second. “Yes.” I don’t add anything else. He doesn’t ask anything else. That should make it easier. It doesn’t.
I finish the last question and slide the paper slightly toward him.
“Good?”
He looks at it. “Yeah.”
I nod once. I don’t look at him again after that. But I’m still aware of him, the way he taps his pen, the way he leans back like none of this matters, the way he doesn’t try to keep the conversation going. Most people would.
The bell rings. Everyone stands at once. Chairs scrape, voices rise, people start moving. I stay seated for a moment, letting them leave first. It’s easier that way. By the time I stand, he’s already gone. I don’t look for him.
I gather my things slowly and step into the hallway. It’s louder out here, too many people, too close. I move through it without stopping. But even with everything around me, I still notice it. Or maybe I just remember the difference, the way it got clearer the closer I got.
The air feels quieter. For a second, everything settles. Then I think about it again. About him. I shouldn’t have sat there. I didn’t need to. There were other seats, other places. I could avoid him. That would be easier. I look back at the building for a second, then away. I’ll sit somewhere else tomorrow. That’s better. That’s what I should do.
I rest my hand on the cool metal of my locker, pretending to rearrange my books.
The hallway is crowded. Students jostle past, voices overlapping in a messy chorus. I tune most of it out. Faces blur. Words become a dull roar.
And then I hear it.
A small cluster of students by the water fountain, laughing. Their words are casual, but they cut through the noise.
“…we’re all meeting at the river tonight,” one says, tossing her backpack onto the floor.
“Yeah, everyone’s going,” another replies, grinning. “It’s gonna be fun.”
“I hope it doesn’t rain,” a third adds, and the first one rolls her eyes.
I freeze.
Not because of the plan itself, not because I want to be there.
It’s because of the feeling that hits me as I hear the word river. The soft murmur of water. The quiet space away from crowds. The isolation.
My stomach tightens not in hunger as most people know it, but in that low, restless ache I can never seem to ignore. It coils beneath my ribs and stretches outward, a quiet whisper telling me I should be there.
I shouldn’t care.
I tell myself that.
I can’t.
I shift slightly to the side, letting my back brush the locker, pretending to look through my books. My fingers tremble just a little, not enough for anyone to notice, just enough for me to feel it.
The laughter continues behind me, the casual chatter about the hangout. I hear names I don’t know. Plans I have no reason to follow.
And yet… I find myself listening.
The way they talk about being together, the way the air smells faintly of sweat and sun, the crisp edges of the hallway noises, all of it calls to me. My senses sharpen. The pull grows stronger. I feel saliva pooling in my mouth.
I glance at the river in my mind. Quiet, shadowed by trees, water moving softly in the darkness.
I shouldn’t go, but the pull doesn’t let me ignore it.
I let my hand drop to the floor, brushing against my bag. My fingers linger on the strap. I can feel my dysfunctional week pulse in my wrists.
I take a slow, controlled breath. I tell myself just stay. Just observe. Don’t follow. Don’t do anything rash.
I glance back at the group. They’re still talking, still laughing. I step a little closer under the guise of checking a locker two doors down.
I can hear them more clearly now. I can feel the pull sharper, stronger, threading through me like electricity under my skin.
I stay like that for a few long moments, half hidden by the line of lockers, pretending to be preoccupied. My stomach twists again with that ache, that urge, and I realize something unsettling
Even if I wanted to resist, I wouldn’t be able to ignore it tonight. I'm starving.
The hallway bell rings, I'm late to my next class. Students shove past me, the laughter fades, the group disappears out of sight. I adjust my bag on my shoulder, straighten, and step into the current of moving students, but the pull lingers, slow, insistent, waiting.
I don’t question it, I know exactly what this feeling of rush is.
I’ll be there tonight.