Chapter 2: The Coach's Office

Chapter 2: The Coach's Office

Jacob went first. He was always first. He sucked in his breath, turned sideways, and slipped through the gap in the steel door like a shadow. I hesitated for a half-second, my feet feeling rooted to the sun-warmed concrete outside. The darkness in that sliver of an opening was absolute, a physical presence that seemed to push back against the light.

“You coming or what?” Jacob’s voice was a disembodied whisper from the void.

Taking a shaky breath that did nothing to calm the frantic hummingbird in my chest, I followed him. The moment I crossed the threshold, the world changed. The oppressive summer heat vanished, replaced by a damp, cellar-like chill that seeped through my t-shirt. The air was thick and heavy, tasting of decay. That sickly-sweet odor I’d smelled outside was stronger in here, a cloying mix of spoiled fruit and something metallic that coated the back of my throat. The heavy door swung shut behind me with a soft, final thud, plunging us into near-total blackness. The sound of my own heart was a frantic drumbeat in my ears.

“Flashlights,” Jacob whispered, his voice sounding small and tight.

A click, and his beam of light cut a sharp, trembling cone through the dust-choked air. I fumbled in my backpack, my clumsy fingers finally finding the switch on my own light. My beam joined his, and together they pushed back the suffocating dark, revealing our surroundings.

We were in a narrow service corridor, likely leading from the old kitchen. The concrete floor was slick with something I didn't want to identify, and the plaster on the walls was peeling away in long, leprous strips. We moved forward cautiously, our flashlight beams dancing over the detritus of a forgotten decade. Every footstep seemed to echo endlessly, a declaration of our intrusion.

The corridor opened up into a main hallway. Here, the scale of the decay was staggering. Rows of rusted lockers stood with their doors hanging open like broken teeth. The floor was a carpet of swollen, water-damaged textbooks and yellowed papers. A thick, grey blanket of dust covered everything, so pristine and undisturbed that it felt like a sacrilege to walk on it. Our sneaker prints were the first marks left here in years. It was like stepping onto the surface of a dead moon.

“This is it,” Jacob breathed, his voice a mixture of awe and fear. “This is the West Wing.”

This was the hallway from the video, but no grainy footage could capture the sheer, oppressive silence of the place. It wasn't just quiet; it was a hungry, waiting silence. The kind that feels like it’s listening. We crept down the hall, our lights playing over faded posters warning against truancy and championing school spirit. A desiccated bird lay on the floor, its tiny skeleton a delicate, tragic sculpture in the dust.

My initial terror began to subside, replaced by the familiar thrill of exploration that Jacob always inspired. This was exactly what he’d promised: an epic adventure. We were urban explorers, archeologists of a lost world. We were brave.

We passed a set of double doors with small, wire-meshed windows. Peering through, our lights revealed the cavernous darkness of the gymnasium.

“Let’s check it out,” Jacob said, his voice regaining some of its usual confidence. He pushed on one of the doors, and it groaned open on rusted hinges, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.

The air in the gym was even colder. The massive space swallowed our flashlight beams, the far walls remaining lost in the gloom. We could see the ghostly outlines of retracted bleachers and the faded school mascot—a snarling raven—painted on the center of the wooden floor. The place smelled of old sweat and mildew.

As we swept our lights across the gym, one beam caught something. A single door, tucked away beneath the bleachers, was slightly ajar. A small, brass plaque on it read: ‘COACH’S OFFICE’.

“Jackpot,” Jacob whispered, a grin in his voice.

We crossed the dusty floor, our sense of adventure renewed. This was a secret place, a hidden room. Maybe we’d find old trophies, or a playbook, or confiscated contraband from students long since grown. Jacob pushed the door open the rest of the way, and we stepped inside.

And the adventure ended.

The feeling was immediate and visceral. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. While the rest of the school was a monument to decay, this small, windowless office was… different. A thin layer of dust covered the filing cabinets and the shelves, but it wasn't the thick, settled blanket from the hallway. It was recent. A metal desk was mostly clear, a chair pulled out as if someone had just stood up from it.

My light fell on the desk’s surface, and my blood ran cold.

Sitting there was a cheap ceramic mug, the kind you buy at a gas station. It was a faded blue, with a chipped rim. That wasn't what made my breath catch in my throat. It was the faint, glistening beads of condensation clinging to its side. Hesitantly, my hand shaking, I reached out and touched it. The ceramic was cool. I peered inside. The mug was half-full of water. Clear, fresh water. Not the stagnant, yellowed sludge you’d expect to find after a decade.

“Jake…” I whispered, my voice cracking.

He was already staring, his own flashlight beam frozen on the mug. The color had drained from his face. The fun was gone, vaporized in an instant. This wasn't a dead place. It wasn’t a tomb. Someone had been here. Someone was here. The propped-open door wasn't an accident; the brick wasn't a coincidence. We had walked into someone's home.

Then my light drifted past the desk, into the small space between it and the wall. And I saw the nest.

It was a filthy, rumpled sleeping bag, dark green and stained, bundled with a single, greasy-looking pillow. It wasn't covered in dust. It wasn't rotten. It looked like it had been slept in this morning. The sickly-sweet smell that had haunted us since we’d entered the school was thickest here, emanating from the greasy fabric of the bag. It was the smell of a lair.

We were no longer explorers. We were prey. The legend of the Caretaker, the town boogeyman, slammed into my mind not as a fun, spooky story, but as a terrifying, immediate reality. He wasn't just a ghost who haunted these woods. He lived here. In this office. We were standing in his bedroom.

“We have to go,” Jacob said, his voice barely audible. He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Now, Leo. Quiet.”

We backed out of the office, our movements stiff and jerky with fear. We didn't dare turn our backs on the room. We shuffled out onto the gym floor, the vast, dark space suddenly feeling more like a cage than an open area. Every shadow seemed to writhe. Every distant creak of the old building sounded like a footstep.

We made it to the center of the gym, to the fading raven painted on the floor, when the sound came.

It wasn't a creak. It wasn't the wind.

Thump…

It came from the far end of the school, from the main hallway we had just walked down. The direction of the exit.

We froze, our flashlights pointed down the hall.

Thump…

It was heavy. Deliberate. Unhurried. The sound of a heavy work boot hitting the concrete floor.

Thump…

Someone else was in the school with us. And they were walking toward the gym. They were walking toward us. They were between us and the only way out.