The hallway smelled faintly of waxed floors and old paper. Students drifted into their classrooms, laughter and voices echoing against tiled walls. Ethan kept his head down as he moved up the stairwell, each step feeling heavier than the last. His fingers brushed the cool steel rail, steadying himself.
He reached the top floor—quiet now—and turned toward the classroom at the end of the hall. The door creaked faintly as he slipped in, choosing his seat near the window. His desk felt colder than usual. From his coat pocket, he pulled out the silver pocket watch Mr. Reaves had given him earlier that morning.
7:08.
Ethan stared at it. The ticking was almost imperceptible, but he imagined he could hear it anyway.
"Today, the time is really moving slowly..."
The minutes inched forward until the hand touched the 9. Just then, the door clicked open. Their teacher hurried in, slightly disheveled, adjusting his glasses as he approached the board.
"Apologies, students," he said, out of breath. "I got held up. Now—open your history books to page 45."
The usual rustling followed. Pages turning, zippers unzipping, pencils tapping. Ethan unzipped his bag, pulled out the history textbook, and opened it. His eyes paused.
Lying across the page was a long, rusted nail—thick, iron, and out of place.
A strange chill settled in his spine as he picked it up. It wasn't just any nail... it felt ancient, almost ceremonial. Like an amulet. He blinked, unsure if it was even real.
"Mr. Ethan," the teacher's voice snapped him out of it, "don't space out during class. And... what's that in your hand?"
Ethan quickly set the nail on his desk and tried to smile. "Nothing, sir. Sorry."
The teacher gave him a curious look, but returned to the board.
Ethan tried to focus. He really did. But the numbers on the pages blurred. His thoughts drifted again—back to the vision from this morning. The blood. The light. The look on Anna's face.
"It couldn't be real. Just... hallucinations."
He turned toward the window. Outside, the village moved normally—people walking, carts rolling. Everything should have been fine.
Then the pain struck again.
A sharp, pulsing throb inside his skull.
His vision twisted—colors bleeding into darkness. His body froze in place, yet he felt as though he was sinking into the floor. He couldn't move. Couldn't even call out.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The sound of clocks filled his ears, too loud to be real, too quiet to be ignored.
His eyes flicked open—and the classroom had changed.
The windows were black.
The walls cracked.
Dust hung in the air like fog. Every student sat at their desk, eyes closed, unmoving. Sleeping. The teacher, however, continued to write something on the board. Ethan leaned forward.
The chalk scraped slowly as the letters appeared, one after the other.
L – O – O – K
A sudden spike of pain forced his eyes shut again.
He heard voices—not distant, but right beside him.
"Hey, Ethan, you okay?"
"He doesn't look good."
"Is he shaking?"
His eyes shot open again.
The classroom was normal now. All eyes were on him. The teacher had stopped speaking and approached, concern on his face.
"Ethan," he said gently, "you've been holding your head and shaking for a while now. Are you alright?"
Ethan was breathing hard. Too hard. His chest rose and fell like he'd been running. "Sir... may I go to the bathroom?" His voice trembled.
The teacher nodded. "Yes. But... once you're out, consider taking the rest of the day off. You don't look well."
"I... I will. Thank you."
He stood, his legs feeling like wet sand. Eyes followed him as he stepped into the hallway. The classroom door closed behind him with a dull thud.
Silence followed.
Except for the ticking.
That damned ticking again.
It echoed down the corridor, steady, precise. Ethan passed a mounted hallway clock. It read:
8:54
He kept walking. A chill traced down his spine.
He pushed open the bathroom door. Inside, it was dimly lit, the fluorescent lights above humming faintly. The faint stench of cigarette smoke clung to the tiles.
Ethan moved to the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. His face was pale. Wetting his hands, he splashed cold water on his cheeks, trying to breathe.
Behind him, one of the stall doors creaked open.
Three figures stepped out.
The smell of smoke thickened.
"Look who we've got here," a voice sneered. Ethan recognized it immediately. Marcus.
Ethan didn't turn. He kept staring into the mirror. "Just leave me alone," he said quietly.
Marcus stepped closer, flanked by two other boys. One of them chuckled under his breath.
"What'd you say?" Marcus mocked. "You hear that, boys? Our little hero has something to say."
Ethan said nothing.
Marcus grabbed him by the collar, yanking him back from the sink.
"You think tattling to the teachers makes you brave?" he spat. "You tried to screw us over."
Ethan stared at him coldly. "I did what I had to do."
Marcus' eyes narrowed.
"Fucking bitch," Ethan added under his breath. "Marcus."
That was all it took.
The punch came fast—raw and violent. Ethan staggered, hitting the floor.
The others laughed.
Marcus leaned over him, snarling. "Try being brave now."
Another blow landed—this time to the ribs. Ethan tried to block, but he was dizzy, weak. One of his feet slipped—and the side of his head smashed hard against the sink.
Everything stopped.
No more voices.
Only the ringing of the school bell.
And darkness.
End of Chapter 3