Chapter 3: What I Left in the Closet

Chapter 3: What I Left in the Closet

Thump…

The sound vibrated through the warped floorboards of the gym, a heavy, patient beat that felt like the world’s slowest, most terrifying heart.

Thump…

My own heart was trying to hammer its way out of my ribcage. We were trapped. The sound was coming from the main hall, from the direction of our only exit. The owner of the sleeping bag and the fresh mug of water was home.

“Hide!” Jacob’s whisper was sharp, cutting through my paralysis. He grabbed my t-shirt and yanked me toward the bleachers. For a horrifying second, I thought he meant to crawl under them, a hiding spot so obvious we might as well have waved and shouted.

But he pointed past them, his hand shaking, toward a small, unmarked wooden door I hadn’t noticed before. A supply closet. It was our only chance.

We scrambled across the floor, our sneakers making soft, panicked sounds against the wood. Every step felt like a drumbeat announcing our position. Jacob reached the door first and twisted the old brass knob. It was stiff with age and rust. He put his shoulder into it, and with a low, groaning shriek of metal, it opened.

The smell that billowed out was eye-wateringly sharp—a chemical stench of old bleach and ammonia, layered over a century of dust. We tumbled inside, pulling the heavy door shut behind us.

And the world disappeared.

The darkness was absolute, a thick, smothering blanket. I couldn’t see Jacob, couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face. The only reality was the sound of our ragged, terrified breathing and the cold, oppressive dark. And the footsteps.

Thump… thump…

They were closer now, just outside the gym. Then, the loud, agonizing groan of the main gym doors being pushed open. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a whimper. He was in the gym with us. He was hunting.

Silence. A deep, profound silence that was somehow worse than the footsteps. I could feel him in that vast, open space, standing perfectly still, listening. Could he hear my heart? It felt loud enough to shake the walls. The seconds stretched into an eternity. I imagined a pair of eyes scanning the darkness, imagined him sniffing the air.

In my panic, my sweaty hand slipped, and my flashlight fell from my grasp. It hit the concrete floor of the closet with a clatter that sounded like a gunshot in the silence.

Jacob let out a choked gasp next to me. We held our breath, frozen.

Outside, in the gym, a soft, scraping sound. The sound of a boot turning on the dusty floor. He’d heard it. He knew we were here.

My mind was a screaming void of pure terror. The flashlight. I need the flashlight. I dropped to my knees, my hands scrabbling blindly across the filthy floor. My fingers brushed against rough concrete, cobwebs, and something slick and cold. I swept my hands in frantic arcs, praying to feel the cool, familiar metal cylinder.

Thump…

He was walking toward the closet.

My desperation escalated. My questing fingers brushed past something soft, like a bundled pile of old rags. I ignored it, continuing my search. Where was it? Where was the damn light?

Thump…

He was right outside the door. I could feel his presence through the wood.

My fingers closed around the flashlight. A wave of relief, so powerful it was nauseating, washed over me. I fumbled for the switch, my thumb slipping on the plastic.

Then, my other hand, still resting on the floor, registered what it was touching. The pile of rags. It wasn't rags. The fabric felt like old, worn denim. And beneath it, there was something hard. Something unnervingly shaped. It was small, too small. Brittle. I could feel the distinct, delicate curve of a ribcage.

My blood turned to ice. A cold dread, far deeper and more profound than the fear of the man outside, seeped into my bones. No. It couldn't be.

With a trembling hand, I aimed the flashlight and clicked it on.

The narrow beam cut through the blackness, illuminating the thing I had been touching. It was a child. Or what was left of one. He was curled in a fetal position, tucked into the back corner of the closet. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. His body was desiccated, mummified by the dry, chemical-laced air. His skin was like brown parchment stretched tight over a tiny skeleton. He wore a faded pair of jeans and a striped t-shirt. His eye sockets were two dark, empty pits staring at nothing. And from the remains, that sickly-sweet, metallic smell—the smell from the coach's office—rose in an invisible, choking cloud. This was its source. This was the Caretaker’s trophy.

A scream tore itself from my throat, raw and unrestrained. It was a sound of pure, sanity-shattering horror.

The closet door didn't open. It exploded inward, ripped from its hinges as if it were cardboard. A monstrous silhouette filled the doorway, blocking the faint light from the gym. He was impossibly tall, gaunt and skeletal, yet he moved with a horrifying, unnatural strength. He wore the tattered, grease-stained remains of a janitor’s uniform.

But it was his face, what I could see of it in the wild dance of my flashlight beam, that burned itself into my memory forever. His skin was pale and waxy, his grey hair long and stringy. And his eyes. They were the true horror. They were flat, black, and dead. There was no anger, no malice, no emotion at all. They were the eyes of a shark, the eyes of a thing that had never been human.

The thing lunged. Not at me, but at Jacob, who was closer to the door.

“Get back!” Jacob yelled, shoving me behind him in a final, futile act of friendship. He raised his own flashlight like a club.

The Caretaker swatted it aside with contemptuous ease. He grabbed Jacob by the arm. I heard a wet, sickening snap, and Jacob screamed—a sharp, piercing cry of agony that was a thousand times worse than my own. His leg was bent at an angle it shouldn’t be.

The monster began to drag him out of the closet. Jacob’s fingernails scraped against the concrete floor, trying to find purchase. His eyes, wide with pain and terror, found mine.

“Leo!” he cried, his voice pleading. “Help me!”

I stood there, frozen. My flashlight was still on, its beam painting the horrific scene on the closet wall. The dead boy in the corner. The monster in the doorway. My best friend, my only friend, being dragged to his death. Every part of my brain screamed do something, fight, run, anything!

But my body wouldn’t obey. My limbs were locked, filled with lead. The world narrowed to the Caretaker’s dead, black eyes. He looked at me for a fraction of a second, not with threat, but with a flat, chilling indifference. I was nothing. An insect. He had his prize.

And then, a primal instinct, older and more powerful than friendship, than loyalty, than love, took over. My legs, which had been frozen solid, unlocked.

I ran.

I scrambled past him, out of the closet of horrors, and into the cavernous gym. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Behind me, I heard Jacob scream my name again, but this time it was cut short with a sickening thud.

Tears streamed down my face, blurring the decaying school into a nightmare landscape. I sprinted down the main hall, past the rows of gaping lockers, my lungs burning, a single, repeating word pounding in my head with every footfall. Coward. Coward. Coward.

I burst through the propped-open service door and into the blinding light of the afternoon sun. The sudden heat was a physical blow. I didn't stop. I plunged into the woods, thorns and branches tearing at my skin and clothes, not caring, not feeling anything but the all-consuming need to get away.

I ran until my legs gave out, until my lungs felt like they were on fire, and I collapsed at the edge of the familiar school playground, gasping for air on the hot asphalt. The world spun around me, a vortex of green leaves and blue sky. But all I could see were those dead, black eyes. And all I could hear, echoing in the ruins of my soul, was Jacob screaming my name.