The dirty water in the bucket churns as I swirl my mop in it, releasing another grey cloud. By now, I swear the water looks almost chunky instead of anything remotely liquid. There's a sharp tangy scent in the air as Carl empties the last of the cleaning fluid into his own bucket. The breezy chemical flavor of lemons. Evening was drawing near as the two of us worked in silence, the red glow of sunset branding itself across the school.
"This sucks." I state the obvious but can't really help it. Pretty boy and I have been at this for more than an hour and we're nowhere close to being done with our assignment of cleaning the classrooms.
Carl ignores me, his mop making clean sweeps across the floor. Both of us had taken our blazers off and while mine had been carelessly tossed on to a nearby desk, Carl's blazer was left neatly folded on the teacher's chair. His eyes flick at me with an expression of disdain before reverting to its usual indifference.
Amazing. Even when pretty boy doesn't talk to me, he manages to find new ways of being annoying. But there's something else wearing away at my patience as well.
"Do you hear a scratching noise?" I ask my unwelcome co-worker, sweat dripping from my brow.
"No." Carl's voice is disinterested.
"Really?"
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
There it is again. Just on the edge of my hearing. Ever since the rest of the students left the building, that noise has been needling at me constantly. Like a black spot of pressure at the back of my head, pressing down like unwelcome dead weight. Loud enough that I can't escape it, yet too soft for me to track where its coming from.
"Talk less and we'll finish earlier." Carl reprimands, barely glancing up from his own mopping.
I click my tongue and get back to the tedious work at hand. The mop goes in and out of the bucket, making the water filthier with every inch of the floor that's been cleaned. I should have ditched detention and joined up with Paul and Sara instead. Whatever they're doing right now has to be more stimulating than this.
My mop hits the floor with a wet splat. And in the background, scratch, scratch, scratch. That never ending pressure. Assailing my ears. Pressing on my head. Coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Carl's like a machine, the strokes of his mop precise and measured. Even after countless repetitions of the same motion, pretty boy's temper is as cool as ever. An avatar of inevitability, bringing doom to dirt and stains.
The water in my bucket is now pitch as night itself. The utter darkness devours my reflection as I stare into it. My heart screams out wordlessly.
I can't stay here.
My hand tightens around the mop. A cheap, worn thing. But stronger than any manacle, binding me to this horrid task.
"I'm going to replace the water." I pick up the bucket without bothering to wait for Carl's answer. By now I know he's deliberately ignoring me.
The bucket's handle burns into my palm like a brand. The hallway is deserted as I make my way to the washroom. Most of the school's staff have left by now and a treacherous thought enters my mind. I could take off now and no one would know. My spine tingles in anticipation at an early escape from this tedium.
But then Carl would know I never came back. And he would tell on me tomorrow. That guy's got the word snitch written all over his face.
And with every footstep I take-
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Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The noise goes on.
But with a difference.
"Its louder now." I murmur to myself, "I'm getting closer to the source of that scratching."
Setting the bucket down with a thump, I focus my hearing, trying to track the direction the noise is emanating from. Down the corridor. That has to be it.
Step by step my feet take me forward and my guess was correct. The scratching sound is still annoyingly soft, but its definitely coming from this direction. In fact, I'm now confident that the noise was here all along, even during school hours. I just couldn't notice it over the ruckus of all the other students.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
And what confronts me at the end of the corridor is a faded, peeling wooden door. Given the layout of the building, I'm confident there's no room behind that door. Meaning I'm at the connecting passage between the new school and the derelict academy. The noise must be coming from somewhere beyond the door.
I cautiously pull at the door's handle and to no one's surprise, its locked. But I feel something inside the door give way. The wood feels hollow, with a thin layer of sawdust coating the door's exterior. Termite infestation, maybe?
"Don't tell me there's a giant insect nest in the old academy." I frown while jiggling the handle again, "That would be super gross."
A pop escapes from the porous wood and the entire locking mechanism dislodges. My eyes widen in surprise as the handle comes apart in my hand, a rusty collection of metal, screws and pins scattering all over the floor. The lock had died a natural death the moment I nudged at it. World class maintenance here. Someone in the faculty had to be skimming money for this to happen.
Works for me I suppose. At least now I can satisfy my curiosity.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
The pressure on my head urges me onward. I push at the door and it opens with a desiccated sigh, the last breath released by a fresh corpse.
"Wow." I whistle, basking in the faded magnificence of the derelict academy.
The place is a dump, obviously. But even in its current state, I can tell that the old academy was at one time quite something. The threadbare carpet still has blotchy pieces of elaborate embroidery remaining. There's wood paneling all over the walls, formerly a show of wealth, now turned into a buffet for the termites. The old building even still has electricity and the antique lights cast a sickly yellow pall over their surroundings.
Stalking into the abandoned ruin, my breath catches and I start to cough. It must be the dust and mold in the air. The stories were for real that this place had become a health hazard. I take out my handkerchief and tie it around my face, using it as a crude mask.
"Should keep the worst of the mold out." I grunt and begin moving forward again. Now that I'm in the derelict academy, the scratching noise is coming out loud and clear. My eyes spot a carved wooden sign in the direction I need to go.
"Tutorial rooms." I muse, "Fancy way of saying classrooms. Whoever ran this place certainly had pretensions."
Step by step I encroach deeper into the academy. Each tutorial room has their doors closed, but a dirty glass window has been installed on each door, letting any passerby see what's going on inside. Most likely a disciplinary or safety measure.
"It should be right here."
The scratching noise is absolutely deafening now. The source's must be inside the tutorial room in front of me. I bend down and roughly wipe down the glass window mounted on the door. Squinting, I try to make out what's going on inside the room.
There's someone inside?
Not just someone. He's encased almost completely in metal, like a knight in armor. But that guy's outfit isn't meant to protect. Even though I'm no expert on armor, that suit looks atrociously balanced, deliberately made to be hinder movement. It is outfitted with chunky weights on the limbs, making any movement sheer torture. A stylized dog collar is clamped to the neck area, with chains extending from it and mounted to the four corners of the room.
"Holy shit." I mutter. Someone is using the derelict academy as a prison. And I'm pretty sure I'm not meant to be seeing any of this right now. How long has this been going on?
The prisoner stumbles about in the room half blind, his hands groping at the walls. Its only then I notice the piece of chalk scrawling away ceaselessly, the source of the scratching noise that had been haunting me ever since detention started. Narrowing my eyes, I try to decipher the sloppy script written all over the walls and floor of the room. Words written over words. With no sense of organization. But driving home a single message.
IWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLEIWILLNOTTALKABOUTTHEPURGECYCLE