Chapter 2
2642words
The classroom stretched far larger than I'd anticipated, its architecture defying all logic. Despite being deep underground, the left wall featured enormous floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a sun-drenched lawn where children played. My mind reeled—how was this possible? We'd descended at least three floors below ground.
Even more unsettling was the stark contrast between the light sources. Outside blazed with warm golden sunshine, while inside hummed with the harsh blue-white of fluorescent tubes. The two light sources created a sharp, unnatural boundary at the window's edge, never bleeding into each other as they should.
As I stood puzzling over this impossibility, a door at the back of the classroom swung open. Twenty-seven children filed in with military precision, their footsteps falling in perfect unison. Each wore an identical uniform—dark blue blazer, crisp white shirt—but the clothes looked unnaturally pristine, as if they'd never been worn before today.
I studied the children as they took their seats. They appeared to be between seven and nine years old, but their eyes… God, their eyes. The emptiness there sent ice down my spine. Not the vacant stare of boredom or daydreaming, but something deeper—as if whatever made them human had been hollowed out. They moved with eerie precision, without the fidgeting, whispering, or restless energy that should animate children this age.
"Good morning, teacher," they chanted in perfect unison, their voices flat and mechanical, like a poorly programmed AI.
I counted quickly—exactly twenty-seven. The same number as those stone markers along the roadside.
On the podium lay a course plan written in meticulous handwriting:
Morning Course Schedule
9:00-10:00 Mathematics Fundamentals
10:00-10:30 Recess
10:30-12:30 Language Arts
12:30-1:30 Lunch
1:30-2:30 Science Exploration
2:30-3:30 Special Time (Nurse Visit)
The words "Special Time" were marked in red ink, the color vivid and jarring against the black text—almost like a warning.
"Hello everyone, I'm your substitute teacher for today, Mr. Thompson." I forced my voice to sound casual despite the dread building in my chest. "Let's start with mathematics."
The children didn't react at all—no shifting in seats, no whispers, not even a blink. Twenty-seven pairs of hollow eyes simply stared at me. This unnatural silence felt more terrifying than any classroom chaos I could imagine.
I turned to the blackboard and wrote a simple addition problem: 15+23=?
As chalk scratched against the board, I felt those twenty-seven gazes boring into my back like hot needles. Then I heard it—a soft, rhythmic breathing, perfectly synchronized among all the children, rising and falling like some ancient ritual chant.
"Who can tell me the answer?" I asked, turning back to face them.
A small blonde girl raised her hand, the movement jerky and mechanical, like a marionette with tangled strings. "Thirty-eight, teacher."
"Very good, Susan." I froze, confused—how did I know her name? The word had simply materialized on my tongue, as if planted there.
Susan nodded once, then resumed her rigid posture, her gaze emptying once more.
For the next hour, I attempted to teach normally, but the children's performance only deepened my unease. They answered every question perfectly, followed every instruction immediately, and maintained absolute discipline. This inhuman perfection was more disturbing than any classroom chaos could ever be.
At precisely 10:00, the bell rang—not the typical electronic chime, but a deep, resonant humming that seemed to vibrate up through the floor, as if originating from somewhere far beneath us.
"Time for recess," I announced.
All twenty-seven children stood in perfect unison, as if pulled by the same string. They formed a line and filed toward the back door without a single word, laugh, or playful shove—none of the chaos that should accompany children heading to recess.
I rushed to the window, curious to see them at play. But the sun-drenched lawn remained empty—not a single child appeared. Where the hell had they gone?
Thirty minutes later, they returned, but something had changed. If they'd seemed hollow before, now they appeared utterly vacant—their movements more mechanical, their eyes completely devoid of light, their breathing so shallow I could barely detect it.
"Let's continue with our language arts lesson," I said, my voice shattering the tomb-like silence like breaking glass.
I turned to write on the blackboard: "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."
Just as I reached the word "fox," I heard it.
Whispering.
Soft as wind through dry leaves, yet unmistakable—and impossible, given we were underground. The sound came from behind me, from the children, but as I strained to listen, I realized it wasn't English. It wasn't any language I recognized.
My hand froze mid-stroke on the blackboard. Rule one echoed in my mind: When the children whisper, never turn your back to them.
But my back was already turned.
The whispers intensified—not a single voice now but a chorus of them. Twenty-seven distinct whispers, each speaking different words in different cadences, none of them sounding remotely human.
I tried to turn around, but my body wouldn't respond.
My muscles had locked solid, completely ignoring my brain's frantic commands. I could feel my heart hammering, cold sweat trickling down my spine, but couldn't move so much as a finger.
The whispers evolved into something more complex and terrifying. Some voices chirped like birds, others rumbled like distant thunder, and some produced sounds no human throat could make—clicking, grinding noises like ancient machinery. Twenty-seven voices wove together into a nightmarish symphony.
Then I caught movement in my peripheral vision.
Shadows.
Shadows stretched across the classroom walls, but they weren't the shadows of seated children. These were twisted, elongated forms that defied human anatomy—some with multiple limbs, others with grotesquely enlarged heads, and some with no fixed shape at all, writhing and pulsing against the plaster.
I tried to scream but my vocal cords were paralyzed. I tried to run but remained frozen in place. All I could do was stand there as primal terror seeped into every cell of my body.
The whispers grew louder, more frantic. I sensed movement behind me—not the shuffling of children but something gliding, floating. The air thickened like syrup, making each breath a struggle.
Then came the most terrifying sight of all.
The shadows began peeling themselves from the wall, transforming into three-dimensional forms. They "stepped" down onto the floor, maintaining their impossible shapes as they approached me. The sound of their movement wasn't footsteps but a wet, sliding friction—like enormous slugs dragging themselves across the floor.
I fought against the invisible force holding me, every fiber of my being straining to turn around. The effort sent white-hot pain lancing through my skull, as if my brain were being seared from the inside.
Finally, just as I was about to surrender, my neck moved a fraction of an inch.
That tiny movement was enough to glimpse what lurked behind me.
They were no longer twenty-seven children but twenty-seven… abominations. They maintained a child-like silhouette, but everything else was wrong. Their skin had turned a sickly yellow, their eyes were bottomless black pits, their mouths stretched impossibly wide, revealing nothing but darkness. Their fingers had elongated into talons, nails gleaming like freshly-honed knives.
But worst of all were their smiles—identical on all twenty-seven faces. Not expressions of joy but rictus grins that no living creature should be capable of forming.
With one final, desperate surge of will, I wrenched my body around.
The whispering cut off instantly.
The classroom fell into silence. The twisted shadows, the monstrous forms—all vanished. Twenty-seven perfectly normal children sat at their desks, expressions blank, as if nothing had happened.
But I knew what I'd seen. This was no hallucination.
I glanced at my watch and felt my stomach drop—2:45 PM.
I'd lost over four hours of my life.
I stared at my watch in disbelief. Moments ago it had been 10:30 AM—how could it suddenly be mid-afternoon? Where had those hours gone?
I racked my brain, but found nothing but darkness. I remembered the whispering, the shadows, those horrific forms, and then… nothing. A complete blank.
"Teacher?" A clear, childish voice broke through my panic.
I turned to see a dark-haired boy with his hand raised. Johnny—the name materialized in my mind without effort.
"Yes, Johnny?"
"The answer to the question on the blackboard is thirty-eight," he said, his voice eerily calm.
I looked at the blackboard where the same math problem from this morning remained: 15+23=?
But this made no sense. If it truly was 2:45 PM, we should be in "Special Time" with the nurse visiting. We should have completed language arts, eaten lunch, and finished science exploration.
Yet I remembered none of it.
"Thank you, Johnny. The answer is indeed thirty-eight." I answered automatically while frantically searching my mind for any fragment of memory.
Johnny nodded and returned to his rigid posture. His face remained expressionless, but something flickered in his eyes—was it sympathy? A warning?
The other children sat in perfect stillness, as if nothing unusual had occurred. Their uniforms remained pristine, their postures perfect, but something had changed. They seemed even more vacant now, as if whatever had happened had drained what little humanity remained in them.
I struggled to recall the missing hours. Had we eaten lunch? The schedule indicated 12:30-1:30 was lunchtime. Where had we gone? What had we eaten? Had I spoken with the children?
Nothing. Complete blankness.
More terrifying still was the question of who—or what—I had been during those lost hours. Had my body continued teaching while my consciousness was elsewhere? Or had something else worn my skin, spoken with my voice, watched through my eyes?
Just then, the bell rang—that same deep, resonant hum rising from somewhere far below us.
All twenty-seven children rose in perfect unison, packed their identical bags, and formed a flawless line at the door.
"See you tomorrow, teacher," they chanted in unison before filing out one by one.
Susan was the last to leave. As she passed me, she paused and looked up, her empty eyes suddenly flickering with genuine emotion—fear, despair, and something more complex I couldn't identify. It was as if she desperately wanted to tell me something but couldn't speak freely.
Then she was gone, leaving me alone in the silent classroom.
I frantically searched for evidence of the missing hours. Had I written anything else on the blackboard? Were there lunch crumbs on the desks? Used papers in the trash can?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
As if those hours had been surgically removed from reality itself.
I bolted from the classroom and down the corridor, my footsteps echoing in the silence. The portraits lining the walls seemed to mock me, their painted eyes tracking my movement, their lips curled in knowing smirks.
I took the stairs two at a time, desperate to escape this underground nightmare and return to the world of sunlight and sanity. The scratched messages on the walls—"HELP US," "ESCAPE"—no longer seemed like childish vandalism but desperate warnings from those who came before.
The airtight door opened with that same pneumatic hiss, and I stumbled into the entrance hall, gasping for breath.
Sarah sat at the reception desk in exactly the same position as when I'd left her hours ago. She looked up, and for a moment, something flickered across her never-blinking eyes—surprise mixed with what almost looked like… relief?
"You're still alive," she said, her voice carrying an emotion I couldn't quite identify. I noticed her hands trembling slightly as she spoke.
"What do you mean by that?" I demanded, still catching my breath.
"I lost over four hours of my memory," I said bluntly.
Sarah nodded as if this were perfectly normal. "Everyone loses something here. Time, memories, or… other things."
"What exactly do you mean by 'other things'?"
She rose and approached me. Even from several feet away, I could feel a strange coldness radiating from her, as if she were a walking freezer.
"Mr. Thompson," she glanced at the ornate wall clock, "it's only 3 PM. If you leave now, today will only count as half a day's work."
I stared at her, dumbfounded. "What about my pay?"
"According to academy regulations, substitute teachers must complete a full day's work to receive their daily pay." Her voice remained perfectly level, as if discussing something as mundane as a parking policy.
My heart plummeted. Seven hundred dollars—my only chance at making rent this month. My credit card was maxed out, the landlady was threatening eviction. If I walked away without that money…
Sarah's lips curled into a smile that mirrored the children's—too wide, too fixed, never reaching her eyes.
"Some people never make it out," she said softly, her voice suddenly heavy with what sounded like personal pain. "Once you step through these doors, once you accept your first day's pay, you become part of this place."
As she spoke, her gaze drifted somewhere beyond me, as if seeing into the past. I realized with a chill that she wasn't saying "they" but "you"—speaking from personal experience.
I wanted to tell her to keep the damn job, that I could find work elsewhere. But reality crashed down on me—three months unemployed, less than a hundred dollars to my name, and nowhere else to turn.
I needed that money. Desperately.
"The rules aren't just for your protection," Sarah continued, "they protect all of us. When rules are broken, boundaries weaken. When boundaries weaken, things… seep through."
"What things?"
She didn't answer, simply returned to her seat behind the desk.
"According to the schedule, 2:30-3:30 PM is Special Time—the nurse's visit." She glanced at the clock. "If you want today's pay, you must complete the full day, including Special Time."
Her words left me torn. Every rational cell in my brain screamed to run, to escape this nightmare even if it meant leaving empty-handed. But reality anchored me in place—my landlady's threats echoed in my ears, the final eviction notice taped to my door flashed before my eyes.
Besides, I'd already survived most of the day in this hellhole. If I left now, I'd have endured all this terror for nothing—not even a paycheck to show for it.
"The forty-six people before me," I asked, "what choice did they make?"
Sarah raised her head, those gray eyes boring into mine. "They all thought they could control the situation. Some tried to escape, some tried to break the rules, some tried to save the children."
"And what happened to them?"
"They're all still here," she whispered, "in different forms."
I thought about Nurse Betty with her cold eyes and mechanical movements. Had she once stood where I stood now, desperate for that day's pay?
I checked my watch—3:10 PM. Special Time was already underway. I clenched my jaw and made my decision.
"I need this job," I said, the words tasting like ash. "I'll finish today's work."
Sarah nodded as if she'd known my answer before I did. "Of course. Remember, Mr. Thompson, knowledge comes at a price. The more you learn, the harder it becomes to leave."
"Remember rules two and three," she reminded me. "No eye contact for fifteen minutes after the nurse returns the children. Never attempt to comfort them afterward."
I nodded and turned back toward that airtight door. Each step felt heavier than the last, but I couldn't stop now. The battle between self-preservation and financial desperation raged within me, with my empty wallet winning out.
As I descended the stairs once more, I felt Sarah's gaze boring into my back—that same hollow, unblinking stare the children had perfected.
I was already part of whatever sick game this was.
And clearly, we were just getting started.
