“It’s Garnett. Nothing ever happens here.” Her voice caught. “Or it didn’t, until we came.”
I ignored the guilt in her tone. No time for that now. “Stay behind me. If anything moves, tell me.”
The door swung open with a whisper of rubber against linoleum. The corridor beyond lay in shadows, emergency lights casting a dull red glow along the floor. The air inside felt too cool, almost artificially so, and carried the smell of school—floor cleaner, cafeteria food, crayons, and kid sweat. But something was missing—the sound. Schools were never this quiet, not even after hours.
We stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind us. Our footsteps echoed in the empty hallway despite my attempt to move silently. Classroom doors stood open on both sides, chairs upturned in some, papers scattered across desks. Like everyone had left in a hurry.
The first room we passed was labeled “1st Grade - Ms. Winters.” Inside, small desks were arranged in clusters, half-finished worksheets still on their surfaces. A math problem remained on the whiteboard, the marker that had written it discarded on the floor. A dozen lunch boxes sat in cubbies along the back wall. My stomach tightened. The kids hadn’t even taken their lunch.
“What happened to them?” Evelyn whispered, her face bone-white in the dim light.
I shook my head, flexing my left hand to keep blood flowing. The fingers responded sluggishly. “Keep moving. Sophia’s room is down this way?”
She nodded, leading us deeper into the building. Each classroom we passed told the same story—abandoned mid-lesson, signs of hasty departure. Backpacks still hanging on hooks. A science experiment with leaves in jars still set up on a table, unobserved. A computer still logged into a reading program, the screen saver bouncing between corners.
The silence pressed against my eardrums, broken only by the soft buzz of fluorescent lights and the whisper of our breathing. I kept the gun ready, safety off, finger resting alongside the trigger guard. Not pointing, but prepared. The weight felt wrong in my right hand with my left arm compromised.
“It’s like they all just...vanished,” Evelyn murmured, her voice barely audible.
I thought of the townspeople we’d seen—all wearing those matching clothes, all moving with that same mechanical precision. “Not vanished. Relocated. Question is, where? And why?”
We reached a junction in the hallway. To the left, a corridor led toward what looked like administrative offices. To the right, bright construction paper letters spelled out “Welcome to Kindergarten Country!” The childish whimsy against the unnatural quiet sent a chill through me.
Evelyn’s breath hitched. Her hand found mine, fingers ice-cold as they gripped tight. “Sophia’s room is the second one. The butterfly drawings in the window are hers.”
I squeezed her hand once, then let go to maintain better control of my weapon. Pain shot through my shoulder at the movement. I gritted my teeth. “I go first.”
We moved down the kindergarten hall, passing a water fountain where a small paper cup had been abandoned, water long since evaporated. The wall displayed children’s artwork—handprints in bright colors, wobbly letters, attempts at self-portraits with giant heads and stick limbs. So normal. So at odds with the emptiness.
Evelyn’s breathing grew faster, edging toward hyperventilation. “What if she’s not here? What if they took her somewhere? What if?—“
“One step at a time,” I said quietly. “We find her room. We assess. We adapt.”
She nodded jerkily, struggling to get herself under control. Her hand rose to her throat, touching a spot that I knew held the small half-moon scar she’d gotten from Hope’s Embrace.
The first kindergarten room was empty, alphabet blocks scattered across the reading rug as if dropped mid-play. Tiny jackets still hung on child-height hooks by the door.
We approached the second room. Sophia’s room. The door stood half-open, a sliver of fluorescent light spilling into the hallway. Inside, I could hear movement—subtle, like someone trying to stay quiet. Not the chaotic noise of children. Something else.
Evelyn made a small sound in her throat, something between fear and hope. Her hand reached for the door, but I caught her wrist, shaking my head. First rule of unknown situations: never rush in blind.
I eased forward, positioning myself to see through the narrow opening without being seen. What I glimpsed made my blood run cold.
Two figures in the center of the room. One standing, one sitting. A flash of Sophia’s purple sweater visible at the small table where she sat frozen.
And Beth Morris, her hand clamped around the little girl’s shoulder, standing with unnatural stillness beside her.
Beth stood rigid in the center of her classroom, her body like a statue someone had placed there. Her hand rested on Sophia’s small shoulder, fingers curled into the purple fabric of hersweater, holding her in place. Sophia sat at a tiny table meant for art projects, her back straight, eyes wide with fear, tears silently streaming down her cheeks.
The other children were gone. The classroom showed signs of hasty evacuation, small chairs toppled, crayons scattered across the floor. But Sophia remained, kept behind for reasons I couldn’t yet understand.
“She hasn’t hurt her,” I whispered to Evelyn, feeling her vibrating with fear and fury beside me. “Sophia’s scared but unharmed.”
Beth’s head tilted slightly at the sound of my voice, a predator calculating the location of prey. Her movements weren’t as mechanical as Carol’s or Wade’s had been. There was something different about her, something not quite as complete. Her eyes still held that flat, empty quality, but occasionally they would flicker, like static on an old TV screen. Brief moments where the real Beth fought to surface.
“I’m going in first,” I said, keeping my voice low. “You stay by the door. If anything happens, you grab Sophia and run. Don’t wait for me.”
Evelyn nodded, her face pale but determined. I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her and tell her everything would be okay, but there wasn’t time.
