The cleaning cart bumps a tile seam and jolts. The plastic trash liner flutters like it's shivering. The hallway feels longer than usual. Like someone stretched it overnight and forgot to tell me.
It’s just a hallway.
Just a library.
Just me.
I’m fine.
I reach the bathroom door and stop.
Something smells… off.
Chemical tang, sure—cleaners and that weird lemon-urinal cake thing. But there’s something underneath it now. Something is wrong. Like burned hair. And meat left out too long.
I squint. There’s a smear near the bottom edge of the door. Greasy. Black.
My heart thumps. Hard.
“Okay. Probably a prank. Probably Booger. Or Burnout. Or… both.”
I raise the mop like a makeshift spear, grip it tight.
The smell is worse now.
It’s not just gross—it’swrong. Something about it bypasses my nose and goes straight to my gut, like my body knows before my brain can process. Rot layered over rot, like meat left out during a blackout heatwave, slathered in cheap cologne and piss. I taste it in the back of my throat. I gag.
The light above the bathroom door buzzes—then flickers.
Once. Twice.
I freeze.
Chittering.
It starts soft, like static in the walls. But then it rises in pitch, an awful clicking rhythm, like teeth snapping in a jaw too wide to belong to anything natural. I squint toward the door. The sound’s coming from the other side.
“Booger?” My voice cracks. “Burnout? This issonot funny.”
Nothing.
I grip the doorknob.
The metal’s cold—freezing cold, like it hasn’t been touched by warm blood in years. I recoil, rub my palm on my jeans, and try again. My heart thuds a warning, but I’m already in it now. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know this is the part where the smart girlleaves—but I’m not smart tonight. I’m just pissed off, alone, and exhausted.
I throw the door open.
And the world detonates.
The door doesn’t swing or creak—itexplodes. It shatters outward in a hail of wood and brass, hitting me like a shotgun blast. I scream, flinging my arms up too late. Splinters rakemy face, my arms, my throat. I hit the ground hard, my spine slamming the tile as pain bursts across my back like fireworks.
Then everything is in shadow.
And breath.
Andchittering.
It looms in the threshold. A thing that should not be. Its shape isroughlyhuman—if you squint, if you ignore every screaming nerve in your body telling you it isn’t. It walks on two legs, but they bend wrong. One is longer than the other. Its gait has a sick twitch, like a marionette pulled by drunk gods.
