Chapter 6: The Next Offering

Chapter 6: The Next Offering

The blank line on the ledger seemed to suck the air from the tiny office. It wasn't just an empty space; it was a void waiting to be filled, a grave waiting for a name. August 12th. Offering: __. The date pulsed in Alex’s vision, a deadline set by an unspeakable evil. Jason stood frozen, his face a bloodless mask of horror, his gaze fixed on the entry that had codified his guilt: Junie P. Offering: Midnight Lie. He had not just led his sister to a monster; he had unwittingly provided the price of admission.

Outside, the storm raged, a clap of thunder shaking the very foundations of the gym. But it was a different sound, a sound from within the building, that snapped them from their trance.

Creeeak… Thump.

It was the heavy, groaning sound of the gym’s main entrance door opening and closing.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized Alex’s heart. His eyes shot to Jason’s. “His truck wasn’t out front,” Alex whispered, his voice a frantic, cracking thing. “His schedule… he shouldn’t be here!”

The carefully constructed map of the monster’s habits, their only defense, had just been torn to shreds. Silas was off-schedule. He was in the building.

For a split second, they were paralyzed. Then survival took over. With clumsy, fumbling hands, they shoved the leather-bound ledger back into the safe, slammed the heavy door, and spun the dial randomly. They didn’t have time to replace the floorboard. They scrambled out of the office, pulling the door shut just as the soft, rhythmic squeak of janitor-issue shoes began to echo from the far end of the main hall.

They were trapped. The window they’d used was in the closet inside the office, and the main doors were in his line of sight.

“The pool,” Jason breathed, his eyes wide with terror. He pointed down a side corridor. “The emergency exit in the back.”

It was their only chance. They bolted, their sneakers slapping against the linoleum. Every sound they made seemed to cannon through the building, a frantic counterpoint to the slow, methodical squeak of Silas’s approach. They burst through the double doors into the pool area. The humid air, thick with the overwhelming scent of chlorine, hit them like a physical blow. The storm outside cast eerie, shifting patterns of light and shadow across the still, black water of the pool through the high windows. The surface of the water was like a dark mirror, reflecting the steel rafters and the terror on their faces.

The emergency exit, a heavy metal bar across a red door, was on the far side of the pool. It felt a mile away. They started to run along the tiled edge, their feet slipping on the damp surface.

A sudden, jarring silence. The squeaking from the hall had stopped.

“Where is he?” Alex gasped, his head whipping around.

A shadow detached itself from the doorway they had just come through. Silas stood there, not moving, not running. He was just watching them, a tall, gaunt silhouette against the dim light of the hall. He held a long-handled pool skimmer, its net trailing on the ground like a fisherman’s snare. And on his thin lips, illuminated for a second by a flash of lightning, was that calm, knowing, utterly chilling smile. He knew they were here. He had known all along.

The chase began.

It wasn't a sprint. It was a horrifying game of cat-and-mouse in a labyrinth they barely knew. They ducked behind a stack of foam kickboards, their hearts hammering. Silas didn't rush. He moved with that silent, predatory grace, his footsteps making no sound on the wet tiles. He was a phantom, his shadow stretching and contracting with each flash of lightning.

They darted from their hiding place, making a break for the exit. Jason fumbled with the panic bar, shoving his whole weight against it. It didn’t budge. A thick chain, almost invisible in the gloom, was padlocked around it.

They were locked in.

“The locker room!” Alex yelled, pulling Jason away from the door. “There’s another way out the back.”

They scrambled back the way they came, but Silas was blocking the main doorway. They veered into the only other exit: the showers that connected the pool to the locker room. They plunged into the tiled, echoing chamber, the smell of chlorine and old mildew filling their lungs. The darkness here was nearly absolute.

They stumbled into the locker room, the rows of metal lockers creating a disorienting maze. And for Jason, it was something much worse. Alex saw him freeze, his back pressed against a row of lockers, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He was in the exact spot where he had hidden a year ago. He was reliving the night Junie was taken.

“Jason, come on!” Alex hissed, grabbing his arm.

A soft scrape echoed from the shower entrance. Shhhh-scrape. It was the sound of the pool skimmer dragging along the tile. The sound Jason had described hearing from inside the numberless door. Silas was toying with them.

That sound broke Jason’s paralysis. A surge of pure, unadulterated terror propelled him forward. They ran, blindly, through the maze of metal. They rounded a corner and skidded to a halt. Silas was there, at the end of the aisle, standing directly in front of the Numberless Locker. He wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at the locker, his head cocked as if listening.

They ducked behind another row, their backs pressed against the cold metal doors. They could hear his soft footsteps approaching, slow, deliberate, unhurried. He was cornering them.

In a desperate, last-ditch move, Alex grabbed an empty aluminum water bottle from the bench and hurled it down the opposite aisle. It clattered and bounced with a deafening racket. The footsteps paused, then moved toward the sound.

It was the opening they needed. They sprinted for the back exit, a fire door leading to the rear parking lot. They slammed into the push bar, and this time, it flew open with a loud groan. They burst out into the storm, the cold, driving rain a shocking but welcome baptism.

They didn’t look back until they were fifty yards away, hidden behind a dumpster. They peered around the edge, their lungs burning. The fire door was still open, a rectangle of darkness against the brick wall. Just as they were about to run, a flash of lightning illuminated the doorway for a split second.

Silas was standing there. And he was looking right at them. There was no anger on his face. No surprise. Only a calm, placid recognition. He had seen them. He knew who they were.

They ran. They didn't stop until they reached their bikes, and they pedaled home with a frantic, desperate energy, the storm chasing them all the way.

The next morning, the world was washed clean. The sun shone brightly, the air smelled of rain-soaked earth, and the storm felt like a distant nightmare. But the fear remained, a cold stone in Alex’s stomach. He hadn't slept. He couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Silas’s face in the doorway.

He had to see Jason. He rode his bike over, his tires leaving tracks on the damp pavement. As he turned onto Jason’s street, he knew immediately that something was wrong.

Jason was standing on his front lawn, staring at his porch. He was as still as a statue. Alex followed his gaze.

Jason’s scuffed-up Mongoose, the bike he’d had since he was ten, was gone.

And in its place, propped carefully against the bottom step of the porch, was a single object. It was made of dark, rusted metal, heavy and cold. An old, pitted handle, the kind that required a padlock. A locker handle.

There was no note. There didn't need to be. The message was as clear as if it had been written in blood on the front door.

We saw you.

We know who you are.

And the locker is hungry.