Chapter 3
2596words
What had happened during those missing hours? Why couldn't I remember? What were those children, really? And what did Sarah mean when she said "some people never make it out"?
More disturbing still was my realization that I couldn't truly leave—not physically, perhaps, but psychologically. Some invisible tether bound me to this place. Each time I considered fleeing, it tightened around my chest until I could barely breathe.
I checked my watch: 3:15 PM. According to the schedule, we were now in "Special Time"—the nurse's visit was underway.
I recalled rules two and three: no eye contact for fifteen minutes after the nurse returns the children; never attempt to comfort them afterward.
I needed to understand what these rules were protecting me from.
I approached the circular door, once again feeling that unsettling warmth and pulse from the handle. This time the sensation was stronger, almost eager—as if the door recognized me and welcomed my return.
I pushed it open and stepped back into the classroom.
The classroom was silent, all twenty-seven children seated at their desks, but their condition had deteriorated dramatically. If they'd seemed empty before, now they appeared completely hollow—like mannequins arranged in a mockery of a classroom.
Their eyes stared at nothing, their skin had taken on a waxy pallor, and their breathing was so shallow it was barely perceptible. As I moved between the desks, I noticed the temperature around them had plummeted, as if they were radiating cold rather than body heat.
Just then, the door at the back of the classroom swung open.
A towering figure entered, and I knew instinctively this must be Nurse Betty Norris.
She stood well over six feet tall with broad shoulders and powerful arms straining against a white nurse's uniform. The uniform itself was a relic—styled like something from the 1950s, complete with starched cap—and marred with what were unmistakably bloodstains.
Not fresh stains but old ones—deep rusty brown splotches across the front and around the cuffs, so ingrained they seemed part of the fabric's design, as if they'd been there for decades.
Betty's face was utterly expressionless—not merely blank but eerily static, like a porcelain mask. Her eyes held a coldness beyond human indifference, the kind of emptiness you might find in a corpse. Her steel-gray hair was pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch her skin, without a single strand daring to escape.
Most disturbing was the medical bag clutched in her massive hand—ancient black leather cracked with age, its brass fittings green with verdigris. As she moved, metal instruments clinked against each other inside, the sound making my skin crawl with visions of rusted scalpels and bone saws.
The moment Betty entered, all twenty-seven children shuddered in perfect unison—not a conscious reaction but something primal and involuntary, like animals sensing a predator. Their bodies trembled while their faces remained blank, as if their physical forms remembered fear their minds could no longer process.
Betty surveyed the room, her gaze lingering on each child like a butcher appraising cuts of meat. Her eyes held nothing resembling compassion—only cold, clinical assessment.
"Today's selection," she announced, her voice startlingly deep and raspy, as if her vocal cords had rusted from disuse.
She strode to the front row and stopped before Susan. The girl's trembling intensified, but she remained seated, offering no resistance.
"Susan Miller." Betty spoke the name flatly while making a notation in a small leather-bound book.
Next came Tommy. Unlike the others, a spark still lived in him—when Betty loomed over his desk, a flash of defiance mixed with his fear.
"Tommy Johnson."
Finally, she selected Johnny—the most docile of the group. When she called his name, he actually nodded slightly, as if accepting his fate.
"Johnny Smith."
"Follow me," Betty commanded.
The three children rose in unison and fell into line behind Betty. As Susan passed me, she looked up briefly, and in that moment her mask slipped—pure terror and desperate pleading filled her eyes, there and gone in an instant.
But she said nothing, just continued her death march behind the nurse.
The door closed with a soft click, leaving me alone with the remaining twenty-four children.
With the three children gone, the classroom atmosphere grew even heavier. The remaining twenty-four sat motionless, but a palpable tension filled the air. Though their expressions remained vacant, something had changed—a collective anxiety that seemed to vibrate between them.
I checked my watch: 3:35 PM. According to Rule 2, I'd need to avoid eye contact with the children for fifteen minutes after they returned—until 3:50.
I tried to focus on preparing the next lesson, but then I heard it.
Sounds from deep below us.
First came mechanical noises—the grinding of ancient gears, the hiss of pneumatic systems, rhythmic clicking like some antique medical apparatus being operated.
Then came something far worse.
Screams.
Faint and distant but unmistakable—not one voice but three distinct screams overlapping. One high-pitched and desperate (Susan's, I was certain), another deeper and rage-filled (Tommy's), and the third broken and muffled, as if something was preventing the screamer from opening their mouth fully.
My hands began to shake uncontrollably as my mind conjured images of what might be happening below. Those ancient instruments, the bloodstains on Betty's uniform, the terror in Susan's eyes…
These weren't the sounds of any medical procedure I recognized. The mechanical noises suggested precision equipment, while the screams spoke of agony far beyond anything therapeutic or necessary.
Beneath it all were other sounds—electrical humming, liquid gurgling through tubes, and mechanical whirring I couldn't identify. Together they created the impression not of medical treatment but of some ghastly industrial process.
The screaming continued for ten excruciating minutes before gradually fading to whimpers, then silence. The mechanical sounds wound down shortly after, leaving a deafening quiet in their wake.
At 3:48 PM, the back door swung open.
The three children returned, but they were fundamentally altered.
Susan led the way, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, like a marionette with tangled strings. Her eyes—those same eyes that had silently begged for help minutes earlier—were now completely vacant, like glass marbles set into a doll's face.
Tommy followed, all defiance extinguished. The boy who had shown a spark of resistance now moved like an automaton with dying batteries, each step requiring visible effort, as if he'd forgotten how his limbs were supposed to work.
Johnny came last, appearing least changed of the three—until I noticed the dried blood at the corner of his mouth and the slight vacancy in his formerly alert eyes.
The three children returned to their seats with disturbing synchronicity, as if controlled by a single puppeteer.
I instinctively tried to catch their eyes, to find some clue about what had happened, when I remembered Rule 2: no eye contact for fifteen minutes after they return.
It was only 3:48—I needed to wait two more minutes.
But I couldn't help studying them peripherally, noting disturbing details.
Fresh needle marks dotted their exposed forearms—not single injections but multiple punctures, the surrounding skin angry and swollen. Around some injection sites were small burns that looked like electrode contact points, suggesting they'd been subjected to electrical current.
Their body temperature had plummeted—I could feel the cold radiating from them like open freezers. Their pulses, visible at their necks, had slowed to maybe one beat every few seconds, and their breathing was so shallow I had to stare to detect it at all—as if their vital functions had been deliberately dialed down to the minimum required for survival.
Most disturbing was their complete lack of human vitality. If before they'd resembled hypnotized children, now they were like exquisitely crafted dolls. Yet occasionally their eyeballs would twitch and roll independently of one another—suggesting activity in their brains completely disconnected from conscious control.
3:50 arrived.
I could finally look at them directly. I turned first to Susan, hoping to find some clue in her eyes.
The moment our eyes met, I glimpsed hell itself.
Susan's eyes had no pupils anymore—just bottomless black pools. Yet deep within that darkness, something remained of her—a consciousness drowning in despair, rage, and agony. But there was something else there too, something that didn't belong in a child's eyes—an adult's understanding of hopelessness.
She was screaming silently, begging for help, but her body no longer responded to her will.
Shaken to my core by what I saw, I instinctively reached out to comfort her.
"Susan, are you alright?" I whispered, knowing how foolish the question was even as I asked it.
The moment my fingers touched her shoulder, two impossible sensations struck simultaneously—searing heat that felt like touching molten metal, and bone-deep cold that radiated up my arm. Her skin was literally freezing to the touch, yet it burned like fire.
I yanked my hand back with a strangled cry. My palm bore an angry red mark in the exact shape of her shoulder—a burn that throbbed with each heartbeat.
Susan showed no reaction whatsoever—no acknowledgment that I'd touched her or that she'd caused me pain. She simply continued staring ahead, a perfect porcelain doll.
Rule 3 echoed in my mind: Never attempt to comfort children after the nurse's visits.
Now I understood why.
As I nursed my burned hand, something unexpected shattered the silence.
Tommy suddenly stood up.
The movement was jarring in the tomb-like classroom. While the other children remained perfectly still, Tommy alone had broken formation.
"I don't want to do homework," he declared, his voice quavering but determined.
This was the first genuine expression of will I'd heard from any child all day. But instead of feeling encouraged, I felt a spike of dread. Rule 4: Disobedience must be punished immediately by pressing the button.
"Tommy, please sit down," I said, trying to keep my voice gentle. "Let's continue with our lesson."
"No!" Tommy's voice rose sharply. "I don't want to be here! I want to go home! I want my mom!"
Tears spilled down his cheeks—the first genuine human emotion I'd witnessed all day. But in this sterile, controlled environment, his outburst felt dangerous, like a lit match in a room full of dynamite.
The other children began to stir restlessly. Though their expressions remained blank, tension crackled through the air. Tommy's rebellion had disrupted some delicate equilibrium, threatening whatever system kept these children docile.
"Tommy, please calm down." I approached slowly, hands outstretched in what I hoped was a calming gesture.
But Tommy backed away, shaking his head violently. "You're not a real teacher! This isn't a real school! We're all dead, aren't we? WE'RE ALL DEAD!"
His words sent ice through my veins. Dead? What did he mean, they were all dead?
Just then, I noticed something on the podium I'd completely overlooked before.
In the lower right corner was a red button.
Small, about the size of a quarter, but its red was unnaturally vivid—the exact shade of arterial blood. More disturbing still, it seemed to pulse gently, like a tiny exposed heart.
Surrounding it were strange symbols carved into the wood, similar to those on the main gate. They emitted a faint crimson glow that pulsed in rhythm with the button itself.
I knew what I had to do. Rule 4 was explicit: disobedience must be punished immediately by pressing the button.
But everything in me resisted. Tommy was just a child—a traumatized, terrified child. He had every right to cry for his mother, to want to go home. How could I punish him for that?
"Tommy, please," I tried one final time. "Sit down."
"NO! I WANT TO LEAVE!" Tommy bolted for the classroom door, desperate for escape.
But it was locked. He yanked frantically at the handle, then pounded his small fists against the wood, but the door remained immovable.
"LET ME OUT! PLEASE, LET ME OUT!" he screamed, his voice breaking with desperation.
The other children's agitation grew visible. Though they remained seated, their bodies began to tremble in unison, as if Tommy's rebellion was contagious.
I knew I had no choice.
I approached the podium and reached for the button. Its surface felt warm and alive, pulsing gently against my fingertip. The moment I touched it, an electric current shot up my arm and through my entire body.
"I'm sorry, Tommy," I whispered, and pressed down.
Tommy's scream split the air—a sound of pure agony that would haunt my dreams forever.
This wasn't a child's cry of pain or fear but something deeper—a sound torn from his very soul. His small body contorted impossibly, back arching, limbs twisting at unnatural angles, head snapping backward until I feared his neck would break.
More horrifying still was the reaction of the other children. All twenty-six began to convulse in perfect synchronization with Tommy's movements—not from fear but from some sympathetic connection, as if they were all controlled by the same unseen force.
Tommy's screaming lasted exactly ten seconds before cutting off mid-cry. His body stopped convulsing and straightened mechanically. When he turned to face me, I saw the transformation.
His eyes had changed completely.
The last spark of defiance, of humanity, had been extinguished. Now they matched the others—empty vessels, perfect puppets.
"I'm sorry, teacher," he said in a flat, emotionless tone. "I will do my homework now."
He walked mechanically back to his desk, sat down with perfect posture, and became as still as the others.
I stood frozen at the podium, staring at twenty-seven identical vacant expressions, my heart heavy with guilt and horror.
What had I just done? I'd extinguished a child's final spark of humanity, transforming him into another empty shell.
But what terrified me most was my own reaction—I didn't feel the overwhelming remorse I should have. Instead, a strange coldness spread through me, as if this place was already changing me, numbing me to horrors that should have broken me.
I checked my watch: 3:50 PM. According to the schedule, the day would end soon. But I realized the true lesson was only beginning.
Just then, Susan slowly raised her head.
Her eyes were no longer vacant but filled with an emotion I couldn't decipher. Her lips parted, and what emerged wasn't a child's voice but the measured tones of an adult woman:
"Mr. Thompson, do you want to know what we really are?"
My blood turned to ice. This wasn't Susan speaking—this was a grown woman's voice, rich with pain and desperation.
"Do you want to know what really happens here?" she continued as all twenty-six other children turned to face me in perfect unison. "Do you want to know what became of the forty-six teachers before you?"
I tried to respond, but my voice had abandoned me.
Susan rose from her seat with fluid grace that no child could possess.
"Tonight, when everyone is asleep," she said, her eyes flickering with something both desperate and dangerous, "go deeper underground. We will show you everything."
Then she sat down, her posture perfect once more, her eyes instantly emptying as if a switch had been flipped.
But I knew what I'd heard wasn't hallucination. It was both invitation and warning.
The dismissal bell rang—that same deep, resonant hum.
I stood rooted in place, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Tonight, I would find answers.
But did I truly want them?
