Chapter 5: The Ledger of a Feeder

Chapter 5: The Ledger of a Feeder

The sky broke open as they reached the back of the gym. A furious, midsummer thunderstorm unleashed a torrent of rain that hammered the asphalt and sent rivers of grimy water swirling around their ankles. Thunder cracked overhead, a sound like the sky splitting apart, and for a moment, the world was bleached white by a flash of lightning. It was the perfect cover.

“Now,” Jason grunted, his voice tight with a mixture of terror and adrenaline.

Together, they put their shoulders against the cold, wet metal of the dumpster. It groaned in protest, its rusted wheels screaming as they forced it through the mud and gravel, inch by agonizing inch, until it scraped against the brick wall beneath the janitor’s window. The noise was horrific, but the storm swallowed it whole.

Climbing was a slippery, disgusting affair. The lid of the dumpster was slick with rain and something foul-smelling, but they scrambled on top, their sneakers finding little purchase. From here, Alex could just reach the window. It was even filthier up close, a cataract of grime obscuring the view. He fumbled with the rusty latch, his fingers numb and clumsy. It was frozen shut.

“It’s stuck,” he hissed, his voice whipped away by the wind.

Jason pulled something from his pocket. A small, sturdy screwdriver he’d swiped from his dad’s toolbox. “Pry it.”

Alex jammed the flat head into the gap between the window and the frame. He put all his weight into it, his muscles screaming. For a heart-stopping second, nothing happened. Then, with a screech of tortured metal and a crackle of dried paint, the latch gave way. The window swung inward an inch.

They worked it open just enough to squeeze through, first Jason, then Alex, dropping with a soft thud onto the dusty linoleum floor inside. They landed in a small, cramped storage closet, not the office itself. The air was thick with the chemical smell of bleach and floor wax. For a moment they stood in the suffocating darkness, their ragged breaths loud in their ears, the storm a muffled drumbeat outside. They were in. They were inside the monster’s lair.

A thin line of light glowed from under the closet door. Silas’s office. Jason reached for the knob, but Alex put a hand on his arm, stopping him. He pulled a bent paperclip from his own pocket, something he’d learned from a video game, and knelt by the lock. It felt flimsy, old. After a few tense, fumbling seconds that felt like an hour, there was a soft click.

They pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The office wasn't what Alex expected. There was no ghoulish disarray, no evidence of a violent killer. It was the opposite. It was impeccably, unnervingly neat. Bottles of cleaning solution were arranged on shelves by size and color, their labels all facing perfectly forward. Mop heads hung on a rack, clean and dry. It was the sanctuary of a man obsessed with order.

But among the mundane cleaning supplies were other, stranger things. On a small, dedicated shelf sat a collection of small, polished river stones. Tucked beside a bottle of ammonia was a single, faded pink hair barrette, the kind a little girl would wear. Hanging from a nail by the door was a rusty, metal dog tag, its inscription long since worn away. They were trophies. Souvenirs.

“Look,” Jason whispered, his voice trembling. He was pointing at the floor, at the corner where Silas’s small metal desk sat. Beneath the desk, a single floorboard looked slightly different from the others. Its edges weren't quite flush.

Using the screwdriver again, they pried it up. Beneath it, nestled in the dark, dusty space, was a small, black floor safe with a combination dial.

A wave of despair washed over Alex. They’d never get it open. It was over. But Jason’s eyes were scanning the room, burning with a desperate intensity. He looked at the shelves, the desk, the walls. His gaze landed on the ring of master keys hanging from a hook by the door, the same keys Silas always carried.

“He’s got a system for everything,” Jason muttered, more to himself than to Alex. He grabbed the keys. One of them, an old brass key, had a series of numbers scratched faintly into its surface. 1-1-6.

Locker 116. The locker right before the numberless one.

Jason’s hands were shaking so badly he could barely work the dial. He spun it carefully. Right to 1. Left past 1 to 1. Right to 6. He pulled the handle. With a low, heavy thunk, the safe’s bolt retracted.

They swung the heavy door open. Inside, there was no weapon. No money. There was only one thing. An old, thick book bound in cracked, dark leather.

Alex lifted it out. It was heavy, its pages yellowed and brittle with age. He laid it on the desk and opened it to the first page. The inside was filled with a neat, spidery script, the ink faded from black to a rusty brown.

The first entry was dated 1958.

October 31st. Samuel R. Offering: Collie (Shep).

They turned the page. And another. And another. It was a ledger. A meticulous, horrifying record spanning decades. Names, dates, and ‘offerings.’ A boy who disappeared on a camping trip in 1967. A woman whose car was found abandoned by the river in 1974. A high school quarterback who vanished after graduation in 1983. Each entry was paired with an offering—a cat, a dog, a stray. Alex felt a cold wave of nausea as he recognized names from the missing pet flyers on the community board. Patches. Copper. They weren't just lost. They were currency. Payments.

They were offerings to keep something fed.

They flipped faster, the rustle of the dry pages a frantic, whispery sound in the small room. They were moving through the history of Havenwood’s sorrows, its unexplained tragedies, all laid bare as a systematic, recurring sacrifice. The handwriting changed a few times over the decades, a grim inheritance passed from one caretaker to the next. Silas’s neat, controlled script began in the early 90s.

Frantically, Jason turned to the final pages. His breath hitched. Alex leaned over his shoulder and saw it. Near the bottom of the page, the ink still a stark, fresh black.

July 28th. Last year.

Junie P. Offering: Midnight Lie.

The air rushed from Jason’s lungs in a pained, silent gasp. The monster knew. It knew his lie. It had been part of the transaction. His guilt wasn’t just in his head; it was recorded here, an ingredient in his sister’s death.

But that wasn’t the last entry.

Their eyes were drawn to the bottom of the page, below Junie’s name. There, written in the same precise, patient hand, was a new date. A future date. A date that was only three days away.

August 12th.

Beside it was a single, terrifying word: Offering. And then a colon, followed by a long, blank line.

A new entry, waiting to be filled. The ledger wasn’t a history book. It was a schedule. The locker was hungry. And the next feeding was already planned.