Chapter 2: Staring Through the Glass.
I'm pressed against the corner of the Principal's office with Nika, wide-eyed, listening to our own ragged breathing echo off the walls. The door is locked behind us—locked with a desperate twist of the Principal's key in the dead of night—but we can still hear it: thumps and scratches on the other side, and the terrible sound of a dead voice struggling to speak. Dead-looking faces peer at us through the narrow glass pane in the door. I recognize the shapes: it's Mr. Ashcroft, our calculus teacher, and Ms. Bien, our art teacher, but their eyes are empty and black, their skin a sickly gray, and Ms. Bien's mouth is slit open in a silent scream. They press their faces against the glass, drooling blood, staring at us as if we're the ones in a cage. I feel Nika trembling behind me, and I know I'm shaking too. My heart feels like it's going to explode out of my chest. I close my eyes and whisper to myself, don't panic. don't panic…
It's eerily quiet in here. Outside in the hall, there were screams and breaking wood, but the office is now completely still. Only the faint humming of the old fluorescent lights fills the space. Even that buzz creeps me out, as if it's an old ghostly whisper trying to tell us something. I wipe sweat from my brow with trembling hands, and I realize Nika is doing the same. I only remember how we got here in flashes: that hideous creature that walked like Mr. Peterson, the night guard—his neck broken and his eyes gone wild—chased us up the stairs. Blood splattered on the walls behind us. We ran as fast as we could. Then we ducked into the first door we saw: the Principal's office. Somehow the door is now locked, and I think we saved ourselves by a hair.
I inhale shakily, trying to focus. The Principal's office is smaller than I remember in daylight. It smells like old books and furniture polish. The main desk sits in front of a wall of bookshelves lined with trophies and pictures. The double doors with glass are at our back. A big leather chair faces the desk, and by the desk there's a small window looking out to the front parking lot, but it's frosted from the cold—I can't see anything through it. Everything is bathed in the dull greenish light of the overhead tube lamp.
I turn slowly to Nika. She looks pale, hand over her mouth, barely breathing. "Nika?" I whisper. "You okay?"
She nods, hair falling over her face. "I… I don't think so." Her voice is quiet, breathless. Her eyes are wide and glossy. "Satrio… those… things outside… is that really Mr. Ashcroft?"
I swallow. I touch the glass with my fingertips. Coldness seeps through. "It has to be," I answer, though my voice cracks. "He's out there… but what… how is he alive?"
Her eyes shift to the glass as Mr. Ashcroft's mouth lazily gapes open, and she starts to cry softly. My throat tightens. I have to stay calm, for both of us.
I press my back against the wall, as far from the door as I can, and squeeze Nika's shoulder lightly. "It's okay," I say, even though I'm terrified, too. "We locked it. We're safe in here, for now." It sounds convincing, even to my own ears.
My mind screams: They're out there. They saw our faces. If they can somehow get in— I shake my head. I must not think that. Focus.
I force myself to breathe deeply: in-out, in-out. The smell of furniture polish and chalk dust is strong now, making me a bit queasy. I peek at the desk. The phone is there—the red emergency phone probably hooked up to the main line. I've never called anyone on that phone.
"My hand is shaking," Nika mumbles. She clutches at a stack of papers, leaning against a filing cabinet. "What do we do, Satrio? We can't just sit here… eventually they'll break in."
I swallow nervously. "First, maybe… if we calm down, we can find something useful here." I force a smile. "Maybe there's something the Principal has in here. Or… or maybe that phone works."
We exchange a look. It's the plan: gather information, plan our next move.
I move carefully so as not to rattle anything too much. The trophy wall has some creepy skull-like crafts from a teacher's art class. On the desk is a red-and-black stapler and an old-fashioned nameplate that reads Principal A. Bradford. The desktop computer is off but plugged in. A small, outdated TV sits in one corner of the bookshelf. I'm curious—if it works, maybe we could hear a news broadcast. It's worth trying.
Nika is rummaging in a drawer already. She finds a dusty stapler, some pens, a bar of chocolate (I snatch it gratefully and pass her half), and an old black landline phone with a curly cord. We share the chocolate pieces. Both of us are starving, and adrenaline makes us nauseous, but for a second I taste sweetness and it centers me.
"Check around for anything… a spare key, an emergency kit," I whisper. Nika checks a filing cabinet on the left. I click on the TV. It flickers, hisses with static. A few seconds later, muted visuals appear: a news channel logo and scrolling text underneath. I turn up the volume.
At first it's just white noise. Then a voice:
> "…this is an emergency news bulletin. If you are in Alaska or the surrounding regions, remain indoors. All locals are advised to shelter in place and lock your doors. Strange attacks have been reported in cities… bodies found mutilated… some say accused of witchcraft…"
Then the signal cuts out to static again. My hand nearly falls off the remote. "Did you hear that?" I whisper. "Witchcraft? Witchcraft attacks on towns?" The voice was distant but clear enough.
Nika's eyes widen. "You heard it too, right? It's all over outside!" She starts dialing on the phone. "I'm trying to call emergency, see if it's open…" The line is dead. Just a click of nothing. Not even a dial tone.
She tries again—same result. "Oh God," she swallows. "No line. They must have cut it. The TV cut out… and… I heard them mention bodies, mutilated… witch…" She bursts into tears.
I put an arm around her, twisting the chocolate wrapper between my fingers. Her hair smells like pine. I want to say something reassuring but can't find any words. So I just sit with her.
Quiet falls again, and I stare at the glass door. In the reflection, I see us—two pale faces and wide, frightened eyes. I almost don't recognize myself. My shirt is stained with something (maybe the guard's blood? It smells like it). My hand still holds the phone.
"Here," I murmur, pointing at the computer's monitor. Maybe I should try it. The CPU is on. I flip the switch. It hums to life. The screen glows the login page. Principal Bradford never logged out. There's no password—gone straight to the desktop as it boots.
A "PFD" folder icon blinks. There are documents: .doc files, .txt files. One says Staff List. Another says Finance. Another, Notes. The Notes file catches my eye.
I click it. Text opens:
> "We had the midnight conversation again. It's worse. Something's awakened. I have to explain this somewhere…"
The letters are scrawled and shaky. The Principal's handwriting is unmistakable.
> "It's just like the old stories: patterns, cycles, wolves under moonlight. Town of Kodiak, 1934—a night of mass hysteria. They blamed them, burned the witches. Something responded. God help us, it's happening again."
The text trails off, then another note:
> "If you find this, know that the darkness in these woods isn't a story. It's hungry."
My stomach churns. I read those words to Nika, voice shaking: "the darkness… isn't a story. It's hungry." Nika gasps.
"Maybe… those people out there… they were witches? Or people accused of witchcraft?" She covers her mouth. I shake my head. "No… no, I don't think so. Look, it's like he suspected something." I scroll more:
> "They'll come for the children next. Must seal the room, burn it."
It sounds rambling. Another line:
> "The mirror will show the truth. Do not light the lamp."
There's a photograph pinned to the screen—Principal Bradford shaking hands with an old man under birch trees outside. The old man's eyes… they are pure black.
I close the laptop quickly. Nika's face is chalk-white. "This was the Principal's office," I say. "He knew. Knew about witches? Or something…" Nika starts sobbing quietly. My hands still hover over the keyboard, sweat causing typos. Then the lights flicker.
I jump. "They're coming," I hiss. The overhead light buzzes and flashes off for a second, and the office goes half-dark except for the computer glow. If they've cut electricity, what's powering this? Another flicker. I swear I see something move by the window—a quick shape, like someone outside pressing against the frosted glass. My heart leaps.
We run back to the door, but it's locked; turning the knob only makes it rattle in our hands. Through the window we see nothing but the dark hall now. Footsteps echo faintly away. I hear muffled whispers outside, like four voices trying to stay quiet—voices of those things, maybe.
Nika curls under the desk, trembling. I stay near the door, slowly looking through the frosted pane into the hallway. Nothing—just darkness and the endless corridor. The voices are gone.
"That computer… the Principal…" I say softly, "maybe he left something else." My eyes settle on a red-bound ledger on the desk's far corner. It's labeled School Records, 1950–Present. It might contain old news clippings or notes. I reach for it carefully. It's heavy. Nika helps me drag it on top of the desk and open it.
Inside, lined pages hold attendance, finances, scribbles. At the end, loose papers mark recent years. I flip to the back: a crinkled newspaper clipping taped there. The headline reads: "Kodiak Witch Trials—1912", with a woodcut engraving of people with pitchforks and one woman bound in front of flames. Another clipping from 1984: "Strange Happenings in School Dormitory." A snippet reads: "…several students claimed to see figures at the window, resembling faculty…" My throat constricts.
Behind the ledger I find a small envelope tucked under the desk surface. It says "To the ones who look for answers." Inside is a short handwritten note:
> "If you've found this, it means the darkness has returned. I fear I am beyond saving. They are all around you now. Look at the mirror."
A mirror? There's a full-length mirror leaning against the wall near the bookshelf. I step back and look. My reflection is pale and terrified. Nika stands behind me in the glass—and… her eyes are black. Completely black.
"Nika?" I whisper, noticing first. Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Her hands clutch her robe. She looks at me in the mirror and smiles—but it's wrong: her teeth are sharp and elongated, her lips cracked with dried blood. I spin around to look at her, heart hammering.
She's still sitting under the desk, normal now—young, scared, her eyes the brown I know. It was just my reflection lying to me, tricking me. I realize I'm trembling harder. "Nika?"
She moves closer, trying to hug me. "I'm sorry," she says. "I—I tried the mirror trick but… I thought… I thought this might wake you up…" She trails off, eyes not quite focusing. Something about her seems a little off. A memory at the tip of my tongue: was her face pale when I first opened the laptop? Now it's a little flushed. Did I imagine the black eyes?
"Let's not use the mirror trick again," I say low, and I shut it with a click. This is so unreal.
Suddenly a harsh beep makes me jump. The computer screen glows again, even though I thought it was off. A timer appears:
WARNING: 00:00:01
THIS WINDOW WILL CLOSE.
My stomach drops. Did we trigger something? I grab the mouse. Before I can do anything, a video-file icon flashes on the desktop. I click it, but the countdown closes the window and everything shuts off. The computer goes dark.
I stare at the blank screen. What on Earth was that? Heart pounding, I check the clock on the wall: 3:14 AM. Only twenty minutes since we locked the door. But the throbbing in my head feels much longer.
It's quiet again. We've found clues, but now the only sound is distant dripping somewhere, as if water's leaking. The fluorescent lights go out completely, leaving only moonlight bleeding through the frosted window.
Nika trembles under the desk, hugging her knees. I kneel beside her and hold her hand. "We should try to get out," I whisper. "Nika, we can't stay here forever. We need a plan."
She looks at me with swollen red eyes. "How? The door's locked and they're out there. We're trapped."
I try to think clearly. The office has a small air vent near the ceiling—too high to reach without standing on something tall. The chair is leather and heavy. I slowly climb onto the desk. Sitting on the edge, I can just reach the vent. It's grated metal, a bit rusty. If we have a pen or something, maybe we can remove it. The pen I have is plastic—no good. The stapler might work, or the real phone. I drop down carefully and grab the stapler.
Back up I go. I wedge the stapler's metal tip into the grill and start prying the screws with it. It's stuck. Metal grinds slowly. Nika cringes each time I pry. Finally, one screw pops loose and tumbles down into darkness.
"Got one," I hiss. Sweat drips down my face even in the cold air. After a few tries I have two screws undone, but the third one is stripped. Then I hear a squealing—tiny fingernails scratching the desk. I freeze. Nika is on the desk now, finishing the job. "Almost…" she whispers. Her eyes narrow with effort.
Then the door shakes. A loud bang! I almost fall off the desk. The air gets colder, and I really hear voices again—whispers. Outside, the knob jiggles violently. Something's trying to open it.
I look at Nika, and she looks at me, terror in her eyes. "Hurry," I hiss. The vent cover finally comes off with a sigh and falls to the floor.
We stand back-to-back. I grab a chair and a table leg from under the desk to barricade the door. Nika stacks more drawers and papers on top. The metal crashes on the floor. In the hallway, a disappointed groan.
The door window is frosted, but for a moment I swear I see a pale, clawed hand disappear behind it.
"There!" I point. Nika and I watch as a nasty crack appears on the glass. It spiderwebs outward.
"Shit," Nika hisses. "What do we do? What do we—"
A voice whispers from the other side: "Open the dooor…" It drips, drawn-out, creaking.
I pull Nika low behind the desk. "We can't get out!" she sobs. I rub her back gently.
The glass shatters. Splinters skitter on the floor. I duck down. Nika and I press against the far wall. Through the hole, a long bony arm snakes in. It's ash-gray, with twisted knuckles. The sleeve of Principal Bradford's suit covers it—he's here, or something that looks like him. The creature's fingers trace our shapes on the wall.
It laughs—a rattling, dry sound like bones clattering. It knows we're here.
I swallow. "Nika…" I clutch her hand. "We need to go. Now."
Nika breathes loud in my ear. The thing pushes further through—only the arm at first, then a head. Its face is exactly the Principal's, but stretched thin over hollow eyes that swallow light. The grin is too wide, teeth sharpened. The rest of its body remains outside.
It can't fit through the doorway, but its arm grabs our barricade's hem. Chairs and tables scrape toward us.
Panic rises, but I force my legs to move. I spot the Principal's red stapler on the floor. Heavy enough, pointed enough. I grab it and stand as quietly as I can. The monster's jaw is broken, hanging wide as it moans. Through the shattered doorframe, I see the twisted head of Principal Bradford shaped by something unstoppable.
Summoning courage, I lunge and swing the stapler through the gap, hitting the creature's hand. It screams a sound no human could make. The arm spasms and recoils. I strike again, more from fear than aim. The creature's face twists—either in pain or something alien.
It hisses at us: "They are hungry."
Nika shoves me away from the doorframe. The arm retracts fully. Through every classroom window down the hall, dead faces press against the glass, all grinning. We're caught in a corridor of monsters. They stare blankly, unmoving, waiting.
The creature in the doorway steps back, but its eyes meet mine once more. "Be at peace," it croaks. Then it dissolves into the floor with a wet splatter, melting into a pool of black liquid that smells of sulfur and blood.
I cough, heart nearly bursting. Silence returns, heavier than before.
Nika looks at me, tears on her cheeks. "What… what was that?"
I brush hair from her face. "I… I don't know." My mouth is dry. My arms feel numb. My legs might not even move. I'm not sure if I'm still breathing.
We both turn toward the door. The charred outline of Principal Bradford's face lingers on the tiles where the thing stood.
Now the office is quiet again. The trophies sparkle white in the moonlight, eerily untouched. Only broken glass and that dark puddle remain.
I think of the note: "They are all around you now." I stare at the broken door and ruined barricade. We are trapped.
Nika finally speaks. "What do we do now?"
A million thoughts swirl. The magic words from the note: "Look at the mirror." Did we do that right? She's still sitting, and her eyes look fine. But something inside me knows it's not over.
A faint metallic clink comes from the next room—maybe the bathroom or a locker closet.
We have to choose: stay hidden or escape through the vent.
For now, I can't move. I can't even think. But one thing is certain:
This nightmare has only just begun.