<2 Months Later>
They arrive at the school, a big, beautiful seven-story building with moss all over the walls.
"Looks worse than in the brochure," Clara mutters, rolling her eyes.
"You said something?" her mother asks, her voice saccharine sweet.
"Oh, nothing," Clara replies with a half-smile.
The school is old but not dilapidated, with ancient-looking brick walls, an 80s charm, and poison ivy winding through the cracks. Forest growth surrounds them, wild and lush, with towering evergreens casting long shadows across the courtyard. Clara gulps nervously. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a wire mesh fence barely peeking through the forest growth. She's about to tap her mother when a uniformed woman steps forward.
"Follow me," the woman says in a monotone, not even waiting for them to respond. Her crisp white shirt contrasts sharply with her extremely short skirt and sky-high heels. The steady click-clack of her heels against the spotless marble threatens Clara's sanity. They are ushered into a spacious reception area, immaculately clean and stylishly furnished, complete with a stairwell and a long-broken elevator.
"Elevator's broken," the woman says flatly, heading up the stairs.
They walk a few steps before Clara, already winded, asks breathlessly, "How many more floors is it?"
"Seven," the woman answers nonchalantly, her heels echoing with every step. Clara sighs inwardly. This is going to take a while.
By the time they reach the third floor, the receptionist turns to Clara. "You can drop your baggage there," she says, gesturing to an unmanned trolley. "Meet us on the seventh floor."
Then she turns without another word, continuing upward with Anne close behind.
"Weird," Clara mumbles, dropping her luggage. She glances down the hallway. It's a wide, unlit vacuum, the darkness stretching endlessly. The only light comes from a narrow window on the stairwell.
She stands there, unmoving, squinting into the darkness as her eyes try to adjust. That's when she feels it—
A cold breath on her neck.
Her heart leaps. She spins around. No one. The hallway is still and silent.
You're hallucinating, she tells herself. Lack of sleep. Too much anxiety. She turns to go—
Another breath.
This one longer. Colder. Her spine stiffens.
She turns again, eyes darting, searching the gloom. Nothing.
"Hello?" she calls, voice trembling. "Is anyone th—"
CRASH.
Something shatters nearby. The sharp clatter ricochets through the hall. Clara's breath catches. Every instinct screams one word: Run.
And she does.
She bolts for the stairwell, heart hammering, limbs burning. She reaches for the railing and charges up, taking the steps two at a time.
"Mom?" she calls out, not daring to look back.
Somewhere far behind her, two golden eyes glint. A tall figure looms in the darkness, thin lips curling into a smile filled with mirthless amusement. Then it turns and disappears.
Clara bursts into the seventh-floor hallway. It's startlingly bright and modern, a stark contrast to the darkness below. Beige walls, polished floors, and the low hum of conversation fill the space. Uniformed staff glance at her with mild concern as she collapses onto a bench, gasping for breath.
From the room beside her, voices spill out.
"Yes. You said she was how old again?"
"Fifteen years old. She is very—"
"Date of birth?"
"Eleventh of December," her mother responds, her voice tight with impatience.
Clara gets up and peers through the doorway. Inside is a pristine office: grey walls, marble flooring, and a lingering Earl Grey scent. A bespectacled older woman sits behind a mahogany desk, and a younger woman nearby types diligently.
Above the door, a plaque reads: HR Office.
She knocks.
"Come in," a voice calls.
Clara opens the door, stepping inside. Both women look up, startled. Her mother's eyes bore into her.
The older woman speaks in a deep, rich tone. "Is this your daughter?"
"Yes, she is. Forgive her rudeness," Anne says icily. "You impudent child, how dare you—"
"It's all right," the woman interrupts, her brow arching. "Sit," she says kindly to Clara.
"Thank you, ma'am," Clara whispers, slipping into a seat.
"So," the woman says, sipping her tea, "what did you say was wrong with your daughter?"
"Well, she's failing all her classes, refuses to learn, and walks around with her little camera instead. Constantly disappointing everyone."
The younger woman frowns. "And instead of seeking special education help, you bring her to a rehab school? Hate to say it, but it sounds like you're trying to get rid of her."
Anne stands abruptly and strides toward the young woman, eyes fixed on her ID.
"Stella," she murmurs, fingering the badge.
"Yes?" Stella answers cautiously.
"You know I could get you fired, right?"
"Yes," Stella says again, now visibly shaking.
"Then do your job and stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. Can you do that for me, Stella?"
"Yes, of course."
"Good." Anne turns back to the desk. Picking up the glass nameplate, she smiles. "Mrs. Mason, instead of worrying about what I do with my daughter, why don't you focus on admitting her? That would benefit all of us, don't you think?"
Mrs. Mason sighs, resigned. "Yes, I suppose that would be best. Please take her to the staff room to collect her books and uniform. It's just down the hall. Good luck, Clara."
Outside the office, Anne leans in close.
"Listen. You need to behave and stay out of trouble. Don't embarrass me."
Clara stares at the floor. "Okay."
Anne walks off, her heels clicking like a metronome of tension. Clara stuffs her hands into her pockets and looks toward the silvery, dusty elevator at the end of the hall.
It dings.
The doors open.
She waits. No one steps out. The elevator is empty.
Her heartbeat picks up again.
The doors remain open longer than they should. She hesitates, caught between curiosity and dread. Slowly, she walks toward it, one cautious step at a time.
As she nears, the scent hits her—faint, but there. Metal and mildew. Like wet copper.
She peers inside. The floor is spotless. The light inside flickers once.
And then she sees it.
A handprint. Bloody. On the back wall.
She gasps and steps back instinctively. The doors begin to close.
But not before she sees something else—a single golden eye reflected in the metal.
The doors shut.
She spins around and runs to the staff room.
The corridor is quiet, sterile—too quiet. Her footsteps echo as she hurries past identical wooden doors, each one marked with golden placards: Science, Language Arts, Mathematics. At the very end, she finds the Staff Room.
She knocks. A tired-looking man with a clipboard opens the door. "Ah, you must be the Whitney girl. Come in."
The room is functional and plain. Metal shelves are stacked with textbooks, uniforms folded on wooden benches, and rows of brown filing cabinets line the wall.
"Name?" he asks without looking up.
"Clara Whitney," she replies, voice still shaking.
He hands her a bundle of neatly folded clothes. "Uniform. Room key. Textbooks." He thrusts a plastic bag into her arms. "You'll be in Room 317. Your roommate should be back from gardening duty soon."
"Gardening duty?" Clara asks.
He doesn't answer. He just waves her off and returns to his clipboard.
She steps out into the corridor, hugging the bag tightly. Her hands tremble. The golden eye still flashes in her mind.
Clara makes her way to Room 317. She pauses outside the door, takes a deep breath, and enters. The room is small, with two single beds, two desks, and a single barred window. A corkboard above the bed reads: "Welcome, Clara" in cut-out magazine letters.
For a brief moment, she smiles. Then she sees it: a single word on a blank paper, scrawled in red ink.
Welcome.
She picks up the paper curiously, examining it. Catching a whiff of something metallic, she brings the paper closer to her nose.
Then she smells it.
An unmistakable metallic odor.
Blood.
The color drains from her face as she drops the paper in horror, taking a step back.
The closet door creaks.
Someone's inside.
Steeling herself, she takes a step toward the closet, breathing ragged.
"Hello? Anyone here?"
She approaches cautiously. In front of the cupboard, she braces herself and flings it open.
The closet is empty.
Almost empty, save for another note, written in the same red substance.
I hope we have fun here.