Chapter 5: The Janitor's Game

Chapter 5: The Janitor's Game

The sound of the ancient deadbolt sliding home was a death sentence. It wasn't one of the modern, Med-Supply locks; it was a sound of old iron, a sound that belonged to Janus Krieg. Leo scrambled to his feet, the image of the floating, skeletal face burned onto the backs of his eyelids, and threw himself at the breakroom door. He fumbled with the knob, wrenched it open, and sprinted back down the dusty corridor toward the stairs.

His plan was simple, desperate, and animalistic: get to the main entrance. Throw his body against it, scream, break a window—anything to get out.

As he hit the bottom of the grated metal staircase, a section of overhead lights fifty feet ahead of him flickered and died, plunging the main aisle into impenetrable blackness. His path was gone. He skidded to a halt, his heart hammering against his ribs. He instinctively flicked on his phone's flashlight, its thin beam a pathetic weapon against the vast darkness.

Another bank of lights buzzed and went out behind him, cutting off his retreat to the second floor. Then another, to his left. Like a sentient disease, the darkness was spreading, systematically erasing every path except for one: a narrow, seldom-used corridor that led into the oldest, most decrepit part of the building, the original Ambrose Ironworks factory floor.

He was being herded. Funneled.

A deep, rhythmic thump… thump… thump… started up from the factory's depths. It was the sound of a massive, long-dormant machine being roused from its slumber. The concrete floor beneath his feet began to vibrate with a low, hungry hum. The scavenger’s words screamed in his mind: He plays games. This was the board. He was the pawn.

Leo stood frozen at the crossroads, caught between the encroaching darkness and the groaning, unseen machinery ahead. The PA system crackled to life again, but this time there were no words. Just a sound. A soft, airy, wheezing sound, like the last breath being drawn from a dying man’s lungs, amplified a thousand times. It was a sound of pure malevolence, and it was coming from everywhere at once.

He chose the machinery. He ran.

The corridor opened into a cavern of rust and shadows. Here, the sterile white shelves of Med-Supply gave way to monolithic iron behemoths: presses, lathes, and furnaces, silent for decades, now coated in a thick shroud of grime. The air was heavy with the smell of cold iron and oil. The rhythmic thumping was louder here, coming from a massive stamping press at the center of the room, its huge metal arm rising and falling with hypnotic, terrifying slowness, slamming into an empty base with enough force to shatter bone. It was moving without power, without a visible operator. It was moving for him.

Janus was showing him what the building could do.

Leo skirted the edge of the room, his phone's light catching on hanging chains and rusted control panels. He was looking for another way out, a fire escape, a window—anything. His light fell upon a small, elevated office built into the factory wall, its windows overlooking the entire floor. The glass was thick with grime, and the nameplate on the door, though tarnished and barely legible, was unmistakable: J. KRIEG - FOREMAN.

He was being led here. This was the destination.

With no other options, he climbed the short flight of iron steps and pushed the door. It swung open with a protracted, mournful shriek of rusted hinges. The office was a time capsule of misery. A single metal desk, a crumbling chair, and a row of rusted lockers. The air was stale, thick with the dust of forty years. It was a place where joy had never set foot.

Driven by a desperate, inexplicable instinct, he began pulling at the locker doors. They were rusted shut, immovable. All except one. The last locker on the end opened with a groan. It was empty, save for a small, leather-bound journal sitting on the top shelf and a single, ornate brass key hanging from a hook.

Leo’s hand trembled as he reached for the journal. Its cover was worn smooth, the leather cracked with age. He opened it to a random page. The handwriting was sharp, precise, and filled with a spidery, arrogant confidence.

October 12, 1974 The night is my true kingdom. The fools who work the day shift, they think they own this place. They are merely guests. When the sun falls, the Ironworks belongs to me. Their whispers and their fears are the sweetest music. Little Martinez from assembly dropped a sheet of steel on his foot today. He tried to hide the tears. I saw them. I made him stay late to re-sort the scrap pile, just to watch him limp. His pain was a quiet, satisfying hum beneath the noise of the machines.

Leo felt sick. He flipped through the pages, a chronology of petty cruelties and escalating sadism. Janus wrote of locking workers in supply closets, of sabotaging equipment to cause minor injuries, of watching from the shadows as they grew more and more afraid of the night shift. He wasn't just a foreman; he was a predator who had turned his workplace into a private hunting preserve.

Then, near the end of the journal, the entries changed. They became more philosophical, more unhinged.

September 3, 1978 The flesh is a cage. My control here is absolute, but it is temporary. Each morning the sun rises and the fools return, undoing my beautiful work, erasing the fear I so carefully cultivate. I need permanence. This building is more than iron and concrete. It has a spirit. A dark, patient heart. I have been listening to it. I believe it has been listening to me. We are of a similar mind.

September 21, 1978 I have found the way. It is a covenant. The building demands a master, a permanent watchman. A genius loci. But a lease of this nature requires a final, binding payment. My own lease on this mortal coil. It is a small price. In return, I will have my game. My board. For eternity.

The final, chilling entries laid out the rules. Leo’s eyes scanned the page, his terror slowly giving way to a dawning, horrifying understanding.

The Rules of the Watch: 1. The building is the board. Its systems are my hands. The doors are mine to open and close. 2. A new game begins when a lone soul is locked within my walls after dusk. 3. My gaze must be fixed upon my chosen player. I cannot divide my attention. The game is an intimate affair, between me and my guest. 4. I cannot lay a hand upon my guest. The breaking of their spirit is the goal. The breaking of their body is a task for the board itself. 5. The Master of the game is the one who holds the Master Key. This building is bound to it. To hold the key is to hold the lease.

Leo looked from the journal to the ornate brass key still hanging in the locker. The Master Key. The one Janus held in his spectral form. He had led Leo here not just to terrorize him, but to show him this. To gloat. To show him the rules of a game he could never win.

But Janus, in his infinite arrogance, had made a mistake. He had revealed a weakness. A loophole. The Master of the game is the one who holds the Master Key.

The rhythmic thump… thump… thump… of the stamping press below suddenly stopped. The abrupt silence was deafening. It was a signal. The exposition was over. Janus knew that Leo had read the journal. He knew that Leo now understood.

A new sound began. The slow, deliberate scrape of a single shoe on the iron walkway, right outside the office door.