Codes
The van rumbled down the narrow provincial road, the creaking house far behind them now, hidden behind rows of silent trees and the hush of late afternoon sun. The sky had begun to shift, brushing warm hues of amber and gold against the edges of the clouds. The countryside around them was covered in that strange silence of nearing sunset, where even the birds seemed hesitant to sing.
No one spoke.
Inside the van, tension lingered like fog. The adrenaline of the past hour had begun to wear off, leaving behind only a frazzled silence. Mikha droves steadily, her face expressionless but alert. She kept both hands tight on the wheel, the way one might if the road ahead could break open at any second. Every once in a while, her fingers would twitch on the steering wheel, and her eyes would flick to the rearview mirror, scanning the sleeping forms in the back as if needing to confirm they were still there.
Maloi sat beside her in the passenger seat, unusually quiet, staring out the windshield, her arms crossed tightly. She had not muttered a single complaint since they left the property—not because she wasn’t thinking them, but because even her sarcasm had its limits. But as the minutes dragged and the van rolled steady and slow, her body betrayed her fatigue. Her head leaned against the window, eyes blinking slower and slower until they fluttered closed entirely. The orange glow of the sunset bathed her in warmth, and her breathing soon evened out into the slow rhythm of sleep.
Behind them, the others sat nestled among bags, notebooks, and the two strange boxes they had uncovered. Colet had slumped into the corner seat, knees drawn close and head tipped slightly against the window. Her laptop bag was cradled in her lap like something precious, though her grip on it had loosened. The light made her glasses catch the sun in soft glints before her eyes slipped shut, and sleep claimed her, finally numbing the buzz of questions still churning in her head.
Gwen sat beside her, arms crossed, her back perfectly straight for the first half of the drive. She’d stared out the window like she could read something in the trees they passed, jaw clenched. But exhaustion crept up like ivy—slow, silent, and inescapable. Eventually, her shoulders sagged, and her head tilted gently onto Colet’s without either of them noticing.
Stacey had curled up as much as she could in her seat, hoodie drawn up like armor, mumbling one last sarcastic complaint before nodding off mid-sentence. Her hand, previously gripping the strap of her backpack like it was a lifeline, loosened as her breathing steadied.
Sheena was the last to give in. She fought it with muttered complaints under her breath, occasionally jolting upright at every bump in the road. But eventually, even her nervous energy faded beneath the weight of fatigue. She folded her arms, scooted closer to Stacey, and leaned against her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world—unconscious before she could even realize it.
Aiah, seated nearest to the back doors, stayed awake the longest. Her gaze shifted between the box on the floor and the view outside—sun dipping behind a hill, shadows stretching long across the van. She looked at each of her teammates, one by one, the corners of her mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile. Despite the day, despite the fear, they were here. Tired, frayed at the edges—but here.
Eventually, even Aiah closed her eyes. Just for a second, she told herself. The road ahead was still long, but for now, they were together, and the van rolled on through the last stretch of sunlit road, a small island of safety moving gently through the dusk.
By the time they turned off the highway onto a smaller, tree-lined road, the sun had dropped lower, teetering on the edge of the horizon. It was close to 6 PM.
The van turned into a quieter part of town, where the low buzz of the city softened into the calm of early evening. The streets here were lined with small apartment buildings and dorm complexes, and the golden hue of the setting sun painted everything in warm amber. Shadows stretched long across the pavement, and the occasional chirping of birds marked the slow shift into night. Mikha's dorm came into view: a narrow three-story apartment complex sandwiched between a rusting sari-sari store and a half-finished house. It stood at the edge of a quiet subdivision, surrounded by trees whose branches reached over the rooftops like long, grasping fingers.
Mikha pulled the van into a modest, three-story building with a sign out front that read “Santa Anna Residences.” It wasn’t fancy, but it had character—light blue paint slightly faded by the weather, flower pots lined up by the windowsills, and wind chimes lazily tinkling in the breeze. The lot in front was nearly empty, and as the van came to a gentle stop, the weight of the day seemed to sink further into everyone’s bones.
Doors creaked open one by one, and the group slowly shuffled out, each of them stiff from the ride and heavy-limbed from exhaustion. Mikha grabbed the keys from the ignition and stretched briefly before circling to the back. Gwen and Aiah carefully lifted the two boxes they’d brought, both still locked, their mysteries intact.
Mikha led them inside. The dorm’s lobby was small but homey, with faint lighting, pale tile floors, and bulletin boards filled with flyers for events that had already passed. They took the stairs up to the second floor, where Mikha’s unit was located at the far end of the hallway.
Inside, her dorm was surprisingly cozy. A soft scent of vanilla lingered in the air, and despite her dramatic tendencies, Mikha kept the place neat—at least neat enough. A single couch sat under the window, a low coffee table at its center, and a pile of throw pillows scattered lazily in the corners. A small shelf of DVDs stood by the television, and a Polaroid photo string dangled above her bed, holding frozen moments of campus life in clothespins. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in the last dregs of sunlight.
Everyone slumped into whatever seat or patch of floor they could find, letting out a collective breath of relief that they were finally somewhere safe. The boxes were set down in front of the coffee table like offerings to some unknown force, untouched but looming.
For a while, no one spoke. They just existed in the quiet hum of Mikha’s dorm, the muffled city outside a welcome contrast to the silence of the house they left behind.
Finally, Aiah sat forward, elbows resting on her knees.
“Okay,” she said, her voice low but steady. “We need to figure out what to do next. We’re not opening anything until we have a plan.”
Gwen nodded. “We don’t know what’s in those envelopes, or what unlocking either of these boxes could mean. We need to be careful.”
Colet, now seated cross-legged on the floor, looked toward the group. “We should document everything. Photos. Notes. If these are connected to Jhoanna or anyone else, we can’t take any chances.”
Mikha leaned her head against a pillow. “Yeah, agreed. But we also need to think about security. We’re not in the clear just because we left the house.”
“Especially if what Celeste said is true,” Aiah added. “We’ll keep the boxes here for now. But we work fast, quietly. No one outside this room hears about this.”
There was a pause, and then—
“I’m sorry,” Maloi groaned, her voice cracking with dramatic flair. She was lying face down on the carpet, arms sprawled. “Can we not talk about ghosts, curses, or boxes with potentially cursed content for five minutes?”
Everyone turned to look at her.
“I love you all,” she continued. “I do. But my brain cells are shriveling up like dried mangoes. Can we, please, for the love of sanity, eat first before doing anything remotely smart or important?”
Sheena let out a laugh she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “God, yes. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I think I saw my soul leave my body back at that doll room.”
Stacey raised a hand weakly. “Seconded. If I don’t get carbs, I will literally start chewing on the couch.”
Colet sighed but grinned. “Fair. Food first, conspiracy board later.”
Aiah hesitated, then gave a quiet chuckle. “Alright. We eat first.”
Mikha stood and stretched. “Okay. I have frozen dumplings, some noodles, and maybe leftover adobo. If we combine it, we might make something that resembles a meal.”
The group began to shuffle to the tiny kitchenette, some stretching, others just groaning. The air felt lighter—if only slightly—and though the questions still hung unspoken in the room like a ticking clock, for now, they were just a group of exhausted students in a dorm, grateful to be far from that cursed house… and within reach of dinner.
-------------
The kitchen of Mikha’s dorm was small—definitely not meant for seven people to squeeze into at once, but that didn’t stop them from trying. Pots clanged. Cabinet doors opened and closed. Maloi held a ladle like a sword. Sheena was balancing two packs of instant noodles in one hand while dramatically sniffing at a jar of unopened sauce. Stacey was fiddling with the stove, twisting the knob with all the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be touching anything flammable.
“I got the garlic!” Colet called out, pulling a bulb from a basket.
“We don’t need garlic!” Stacey argued from the stove. “We’re making instant noodles!”
“You always need garlic,” Colet said, already peeling it.
“I swear, if this ends in food poisoning again…” Mikha muttered, tying up her hair as she made her way to the door. “I’m just going to tell the front desk about you guys being here. No arson while I’m gone.”
“No promises!” Maloi sang out, now dramatically pouring oil into a pan like she was hosting a cooking show. The oil sizzled instantly—too instantly.
Aiah looked up from the corner of the room where she’d retreated with Gwen. “Is it supposed to sound like that?”
“It’s fine,” Maloi said with full fake confidence. “Totally under control.”
Sheena took over the noodle packets, dumping them into a pot of water that had barely started boiling.
“You’re supposed to wait for it to boil first!” Gwen called out.
“We’re saving time!” Sheena countered, poking at the limp noodles like she was mad at them.
Seconds later, a loud sizzle came from the pan—Maloi had thrown in chopped hotdogs, and they’d popped and crackled violently. Oil jumped. Stacey yelped.
“Ow! Ow! Okay maybe too much oil!” Maloi said, backing up as Stacey grabbed a towel and tried to fan the air around it.
“I thought you said it was under control?” Aiah said dryly.
“It was,” Maloi huffed. “Then the hotdogs betrayed me.”
Aiah calmly opened the window. “Should I call the fire department now or later?”
Gwen silently pulled the batteries out of the smoke detector—just in case.
Then came the smell.
Burnt noodles. Overcooked hotdogs. Something… unidentifiably crispy.
“Um,” Sheena sniffed. “Did someone burn the adobo?”
“What adobo?” Colet asked, looking up.
“The adobo I was heating up in that little pan.”
“You were heating up adobo?! On that burner?! That’s not even on!
“Oh my God,” Stacey muttered, waving more smoke away from her face as the fire alarm started to beep ominously.
At that exact moment, the front door clicked open.
Mikha stepped inside and froze mid-step.
The entire dorm was filled with smoke. A thin grey haze hung in the air. Everyone inside was either waving towels around, shouting directions, or trying to convince the fire alarm it was overreacting.
“What. The. Hell.” Mikha blinked.
Seven heads turned to look at her.
“It was Maloi,” Stacey said instantly.
“Hey!” Maloi pointed. “You were in charge of the noodles!”
“She dumped them in cold water!” Gwen chimed in.
“You used half a cup of oil on hotdogs,” Aiah added.
Mikha sighed, dropped her keys on the table. “You had one job.”
There was a moment of silence as they all stared at the battlefield: a scorched frying pan, a sad puddle of oil, half-burnt noodles clumped together, burnt hotdogs and what was now clearly a former container of adobo that had been reduced to charcoal.
“I left for five minutes,” Mikha said, voice cracking with disbelief. “FIVE.”
“We were trying to help,” Maloi said defensively, as if that justified the blackened hotdogs and burning pan.
There was a brief moment of silence. Before Gwen, still looking way too calm for someone surrounded by near-disaster, said. “Can we just order food before one of them sets the sink on fire?”
Aiah groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes. Let’s just order. No more attempts at cooking.”
“I second that,” Colet mumbled, collapsing into a bean bag like she’d aged five years in the last ten minutes.
“Can we still boil water?” Sheena asked weakly, raising her hand.
“No,” everyone said in unison.
That earned a wave of tired laughter—the kind that bubbles up when everything’s gone wrong, but at least no one’s dead. Yet.
They all eventually gathered in the living room. Mikha, still slightly stunned, opened the delivery app on her phone and passed it around. The smoke had mostly cleared, windows wide open, a small electric fan helping push the haze outside. They sprawled on the floor and couch—hair messy, shirts smelling faintly of regret.
“No more cooking,” Aiah said again, her tone final.
“Noted,” Stacey muttered.
“I had no idea hotdogs could be a health hazard,” Colet added.
“Maloi is a health hazard,” Sheena said under her breath.
Maloi didn’t even deny it. She just let her head fall back on the cushion. “If my ancestors were watching that... I’m sorry.”
The room slowly quieted, laughter fading into soft sighs and shifting limbs. They were safe now, full of complaints and failed recipes, but safe. Whatever horrors the house held, whatever mystery was still left in the boxes they brought back—at least for now, food came first—and maybe a fire extinguisher.
-------------
The living room of Mikha’s dorm had quieted down, save for the faint echo of bickering from the kitchen—Maloi, Sheena, and Stacey still blaming one another for the “culinary disaster” they’d just caused. Smoke had only just cleared, thanks to Mikha’s wide-open windows and a mini electric fan whirring on the coffee table. The scent of charred meat and whatever else they tried to cook still clung to the air like guilt.
On the floor, the center rug had become the unofficial command center. Aiah sat cross-legged, posture perfectly straight and focused, while Colet sprawled on her stomach beside her, elbows digging into a pillow, eyes already narrowed with anticipation. Gwen sat back against the couch, legs stretched out, fingers absently tapping her knee. Mikha joined them moments later, shutting the door behind her after informing the lobby about her guests. She dropped onto the floor with a dramatic huff, brushing soot from her shirt.
"Okay," Aiah said, voice steady, as she picked up the envelope from the box Colet had found earlier in the secret library room. The box itself sat in front of them, locked, pristine in its age, mysterious in its weight.
The envelope itself was old, its edges worn soft and a little curled as if it had been thumbed through too many times. The paper had yellowed with age, and there was a light watermark across the surface that was hard to make out. Gwen turned it in her fingers before handing it over to Aiah.
She gently tore open the envelope’s flap and inside was a single slip of paper. The texture was grainy, slightly brittle, and when she unfolded it, it crackled gently like dry leaves. On it, printed in neat block font, was a sequence:
43 - 24 - 31 - 15 - 33 - 13 - 31 – 14
The four of them leaned in as the numbers came into view.
Aiah’s brow furrowed. “Numbers?”
Colet squinted. “That's not helpful. Why numbers? The lock has letters.”
“It could be some kind of code,” Mikha offered, already tilting her head like she was solving a puzzle on stage. “Maybe each number corresponds to a letter in the alphabet?”
“Except the alphabet only has 26 letters,” Colet pointed out flatly, already leaning forward to grab a notebook. “What would 43 be then? An emoji?”
Mikha frowned. “Maybe it's loops? Like… you wrap around?”
“Wrap around sounds like the kind of thing people say when they don’t have an actual answer,” Colet shot back, scribbling something quickly.
Gwen silently tapped her chin, then muttered, “Could be positions in a book. Page numbers. Or coordinates.”
“That’s assuming there’s a book,” Aiah said, holding the paper up to the light as if it might reveal something hidden.
“Could be a cipher,” Mikha said. “Or maybe we’re supposed to decode it with some kind of key?”
Aiah didn’t intervene right away. She held the paper up again and stared at it, almost willing the numbers to make sense. Gwen tapped her fingers against the table softly, clearly lost in her own thoughts.
“Let’s open the second envelope,” Aiah finally said, reaching for the one attached to the box they found upstairs. “Maybe it has something more... direct.”
She picked up the second envelope—the one that came from the box found by her group. This envelope looked newer, but was strangely sealed with a piece of old red wax, cracked slightly down the center. Aiah broke it open, slower this time, the tension thickening in the air like smoke before a storm.
She unfolded the contents with Gwen and Colet leaning in over her shoulder. Another folded paper. Two things were written inside—one in large, slightly messy block letters:
UBLF POF TVFQ CBDL
Below it, typed cleanly and centered, was another line:
12 - 32 - 24 - 52 - 21
The group went quiet, reading the first line.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Colet blinked.
“That’s not even a sentence,” Mikha said flatly. “That’s just keyboard smashing.”
“It’s definitely a code,” Colet said, peering over Aiah’s shoulder. “Or someone had a seizure while typing.”
“It’s probably Latin,” Gwen mumbled.
“Why would a haunted house write us Latin in ALL CAPS?” Mikha asked.
“Maybe it’s a password to something,” Colet replied, ignoring her.
“What if it's a summoning spell?” Gwen added.
“Oh great, let’s read it out loud again, see if we get possessed,” Mikha deadpanned.
From the kitchen, the faint sound of an argument filtered through:
“—You lit it on both sides, Stacey!”
“I was trying to fix your mistake!”
“Maybe it’s the ghost’s fault!”
“Okay,” Colet said quickly. “Before the three musketeers set the dorm on fire again, we should—”
“WE HEARD THAT!” Stacey yelled.
The kitchen trio marched into the living room, all looking slightly offended. Maloi flopped on the couch and groaned, “We just wanted food. Real food. Is that too much to ask?”
“You burned hotdog,” Mikha deadpanned.
“There were circumstances!” Sheena threw up her hands.
“Like you being banned from using the stove,” Colet muttered.
Stacey crossed her arms. “We have ideas too, you know.”
“Oh, do share,” Gwen said with a smirk, holding up the paper.
Sheena squinted at the code. “UBL... uh... UFO? No, wait. That's a trap. It’s a trap.”
Stacey pointed at the numbers. “Maybe it’s a date? 12-32-24—oh wait, no. That’s not even real.”
“And 52?” Maloi chimed in. “That’s just how old I feel now.”
Before anyone could reply, the sharp ring of the doorbell sliced through the room.
The food had arrived.
They all paused, heads turning slowly toward the door like characters in a horror movie—except instead of fear, it was hunger driving them.
“I’ll get it,” Mikha sighed, already halfway up.
“Thank God,” Maloi whispered. “My soul is crying.”
“Well,” Aiah said with a small smile, watching the three scramble for the front door like survivors of a natural disaster, “at least we’re not solving this on an empty stomach.”
--------------
Mikha returned to the living room holding three boxes of pizza stacked in her arms, a plastic bag of sodas hooked around her wrist. The scent wafted into the room instantly—cheesy, garlicky, comforting—and before she could even set them down on the table, Sheena was already hovering like a ghost who smelled life for the first time.
“Oh my God, it’s finally here,” Sheena gasped like she’d been through a war.
“I might cry,” Maloi said, dramatically placing a hand on her chest. “This is what salvation looks like.”
“Thank you for your sacrifice, Domino’s delivery guy,” Stacey muttered, already grabbing paper plates from Mikha’s stash of mismatched party supplies.
The food was laid out on the coffee table—three large pizzas, one overloaded with meat, another draped with vegetables, and a third with an unhealthy amount of cheese. The group huddled around it, sitting cross-legged on the floor or leaning against the couch. Paper towels doubled as napkins. No one bothered with decorum—Stacey already had sauce on her cheek even before the first slice was finished.
“We really need to start bringing food with us on missions,” Maloi mumbled between bites. “Or at least not let us cook again. I still smell like burnt oil.”
“You are burnt oil,” Sheena muttered through a mouthful of crust. “My soul left my body when the garlic turned black in under thirty seconds.”
“I think that was the rice,” Stacey corrected. “And it wasn’t garlic. It was… whatever that shriveled thing was.”
“Guys,” Mikha laughed, holding her paper plate in one hand and a slice in the other, “we’re eating now. Can we not revisit the tragic tale of our failed dinner?”
Colet, balancing her plate on her knee, wiped her hands clean and reached back for the papers again. “Alright. While we’re feeding our stomachs, let’s also feed our brains.”
“No thanks,” Sheena groaned dramatically. “My brain is currently buffering.”
The laughter faded into thoughtful silence as the group turned their attention once again to the papers they had pulled from the two boxes.
“I still don’t get it,” Mikha said through a mouthful of pizza. “Like, if the locks need words, why give us numbers?”
“Hear me out,” Colet said through a mouthful of crust. “What if the numbers are actually dates? Like, historical events?”
“Yeah,” Gwen said dryly, “because 43 clearly stands for that historic year when pizza was invented.”
“Okay, okay, then what if it’s a math thing?” Colet continued, undeterred. “Like a formula. We subtract, or divide—”
“I already feel attacked,” Sheena cut in. “I didn’t sign up for equations.”
Gwen leaned over, eyeing the paper again. “Maybe it’s a date? Or—like—coordinates?”
“But coordinates to where?” Colet scoffed. “It’s not even the right format. These are just plain numbers. No degrees, no directions. Just... numbers.”
“Or maybe… locker numbers?” Mikha said, chewing as she stared.
“With two digits? In what school?” Gwen said, raising an eyebrow.
Colet leaned over it, tapping the numbers gently. “They don’t line up like a standard cipher either. I tried matching them to the alphabet but it doesn't make sense. Unless it’s some weird custom rule.”
“Maybe it’s a code from an alien civilization,” Maloi suggested, completely deadpan. “We need to decode it using the power of friendship and cheese.”
“Or maybe it’s the winning lotto numbers from the past? Maybe the box belongs to a time traveler.” Sheena added.
Maloi nodded enthusiastically with greasy fingers mid-air. “Or aliens. Definitely aliens. Maybe that’s their language. You know, secret Earth base type of thing.”
Colet blinked at them, holding her fork mid-air like it betrayed her. “Time travelers and aliens? Seriously?”
“I’m just saying!” Maloi shrugged. “Don’t knock it till it abducts you.”
Mikha furrowed her brows and pointed at the numbers on their first slip: “43 - 24 - 31 - 15 - 33 - 13 - 31 - 14.”
“What if it’s the alphabet?” she said. “Like A is 1, B is 2, Z is 26, and so on? Could be a simple substitution.”
Colet shook her head. “That makes no sense—most of these are way past 26. Unless there’s some Martian alphabet you’re referring to?”
“You said no aliens!” Maloi shouted, waving her spoon like a gavel.
Aiah leaned forward, quiet until now. She stared at the string of numbers, and then at the other slip, reading the odd phrase aloud under her breath. “UBLF POF TVFQ CBDL.”
“That one’s weirder,” Maloi muttered.
“Looks like gibberish,” Stacey said through a mouthful of pizza. “Maybe it’s code. Like pig latin?”
“Maybe it’s... backwards,” Sheena suggested. “Like... ‘lkaT eno peqS kcalB’? Wait. That’s not it.”
“I still say it has something to do with ghosts,” Maloi mumbled between bites, licking cheese off her fingers. “Like coordinates to a haunted graveyard.”
“Or!” Sheena suddenly piped up, pointing a half-eaten slice toward the boxes. “A treasure map. But instead of gold, it leads us to... the truth.”
Mikha blinked. “Okay, Nicolas Cage.”
Stacey giggled into her soda while Aiah, sitting at the edge of the table, leaned forward, her plate nearly untouched. Her fingers absently tapped the edge of the box as her mind ticked through their earlier discovery. “We know the passwords are letters,” she said slowly. “And some of the clues are numbers... but what if they’re not supposed to stay numbers?”
“You mean like... alphabetic substitution?” Gwen asked, sitting straighter.
Aiah nodded. “Maybe. Remember Nico’s case? When his girlfriend left that encrypted letter? That one used a cipher.”
Everyone quieted a little. The memory hung in the air for a moment, thoughtful and a bit solemn, before Sheena, ever the mood ruiner, said, “Well, if Nico’s girlfriend was a genius, that doesn’t help us. We’ve got... this group.”
“We’re literally the University underground detective!” Maloi snapped, defensive. “We’re not clueless!”
“You burned noodles earlier,” Stacey pointed out.
“That was Sheena’s fault!”
“I was sabotaged!” Sheena cried dramatically.
“By what? The stove?” Gwen deadpanned.
The teasing escalated into more snorting laughter and sarcastic one-liners while they passed slices of pizza around like sacred offerings. The envelopes and boxes sat close, mysterious and quiet amidst the chaos—but for now, pizza reigned supreme.
Outside, the last traces of sunlight faded from the sky, casting the room in gold and shadow. Inside Mikha’s dorm, between the mess of takeout boxes and the absurd theories, a mystery simmered on their table—waiting to be solved.