Chapter 1
2681words
Sunlight knifed through the tattered curtains onto my face, harsh enough to make my stomach turn. I groped for the bedside table, hunting for last night's leftover booze. My fingers found an empty bottle—Jack Daniel's, with just a few drops of amber liquid clinging to the bottom. I raised it to my lips and tilted it back, letting those final precious drops slide down my throat.
The taste was bitter, but enough to steady my trembling hands.
412 Oak Street, third floor, no elevator. Home sweet home. Rent's four hundred bucks a month, laughably cheap, but I figured out why real quick. Walls thin as tissue paper—I hear everything. The couple next door screaming at each other every night, the lonely guy downstairs with his porn turned up too loud, kids wailing upstairs. Even now, in the middle of the afternoon, that damn baby is still crying, the sound drilling into my skull like a jackhammer.
I hauled myself upright and surveyed my kingdom. The living room boasted nothing but a broken sofa rescued from a thrift store, a few unopened cardboard boxes, and a coffee table that wobbled with every breath. On the table stood my trophy collection—empty bottles. Whiskey, vodka, rum, crushed beer cans, all lined up like soldiers at inspection, silent witnesses to my six-month descent into hell.
Six months ago, I was living in an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar house. Four bedrooms, three bathrooms, swimming pool, even a study I never bothered to use. Now my entire world has shrunk to this thirty-square-meter box reeking of mold, despair, and bottom-shelf booze.
My stomach churned in protest—not from hunger (I hadn't eaten a proper meal in two days)—but from the hangover clawing at my insides. I needed more alcohol, or at the very least, a cup of coffee. But first, I needed cash.
I fumbled through my bedside drawer where my last worldly possessions resided: a debit card and seventeen crumpled dollars. Seventeen bucks—the entire net worth of Mark Thompson, former Creative Director of Westerly Advertising.
How the hell did I end up here? The question haunts me daily, typically surfacing when the blessed numbness of alcohol begins to fade.
Six months ago, on that rain-soaked night, everything went to shit.
I walked in to find Emily with her personal trainer in our bedroom. Time froze. She didn't even have the decency to look ashamed—just fixed me with those cold eyes and said, "Mark, we need to talk."
The conversation was mercifully brief. She wanted a divorce, and daddy dearest—Richard Westerly—had already decided my career at his company was over. Fifteen years of marriage, ten years climbing the corporate ladder, gone in an instant.
"You'll receive a reasonable severance package," Richard told me in his office, his voice as warm as a morgue freezer. "Considering your contributions to the company, we won't let you leave empty-handed."
A "reasonable" severance package. Thirty grand—apparently that's "reasonable" for someone who pulled down one-fifty a year. But I had no choice. I signed the papers, packed my personal effects into a cardboard box, and walked out of the building where I once thought I'd spend the rest of my career.
The next six months dissolved into a haze of cheap liquor and crushing despair.
I found myself in this dump on the edge of town—412 Oak Street, third floor, no elevator. The rent was a joke at four hundred a month, but the punchline became clear pretty quick. Paper-thin walls meant I was an unwilling audience to the nightly soap opera next door, the sad soundtrack of porn from downstairs, and the constant wailing from the kids above. A perfect symphony of misery.
I cracked open the first bottle of whiskey on moving day. Sitting in my barren living room, surrounded by a few sad boxes and that thrift-store sofa, I nursed a bottle of Jack Daniel's—what Emily used to sneeringly call "the cheap drunk's choice." Now I finally understood what she meant.
I told myself it was just temporary, just to take the edge off. But temporary became habit, and habit became need.
Each morning, if you could call it waking up, my first move was always the same—searching for whatever dregs remained from the night before. Sometimes the bottle was bone dry, sometimes I'd find that blessed last sip. That single swallow was my lifeline, just enough to carry me until noon when I'd make my pilgrimage to the liquor store on the corner.
The owner was a Korean guy, Mr. Kim. At first, he'd chat me up, ask about work, family, the usual small talk. But as my visits became more frequent and my appearance more ragged, our conversations dwindled to the bare essentials.
"Vodka. Cheapest you've got."
"Twelve ninety-five."
"Thanks."
Some days it's whiskey, others vodka, occasionally rum. Brand doesn't matter—only the price-to-alcohol ratio. I've become an expert at calculating alcohol content per dollar, just like I used to optimize ad spend per impression. This twisted efficiency makes me sick, but also gives me a perverse sense of pride—at least I'm approaching my self-destruction with professional standards.
Evening bleeds into morning, morning into evening. Time has lost all meaning. Sometimes I wake at three in the afternoon, sunlight stabbing through those ratty curtains, and I think it's dawn. Other times I jolt awake at 2 AM, convinced I've slept through an entire day.
Whiskey brings Emily to mind—how she'd nurse a single malt after dinner, taking dainty sips and pontificating about notes of oak and peat like she was some kind of expert. Vodka takes me back to college ragers, where we'd mix it with whatever sugary crap we had on hand and pretend it tasted good. Rum… rum reminds me of our honeymoon, those perfect mojitos on that perfect Caribbean beach when I thought we'd be happy forever.
But now, anything will do as long as it blurs the edges. Blurs Emily's betrayal, Richard's cold dismissal, the way former colleagues suddenly find the floor fascinating when they spot me. Alcohol is the only thing that takes the razor-sharp edges off these memories, makes them dull enough to handle.
I've tried to find work, God knows I have. But advertising is a small world, and Richard's reach is long. Every time I get close to landing something, there's a mysterious "complication." Recommendation letters vanish, interviews get canceled last minute, or I'm simply told the position has "unexpectedly been filled."
In my darkest moments, I've contemplated the final exit. I've stood on my balcony, watching the traffic below, imagining the brief flight and the permanent release. But I couldn't even get that right. Every time I'd grip the railing, ready to swing my leg over, some primal instinct would freeze me in place.
My landlady's on the warpath—three months of missed rent has worn her patience paper-thin. Utility bills stack up like a paper mountain on my counter. My bank account has dwindled to less than fifty bucks.
I need to venture out—for coffee, food, or most importantly, booze. I pull on the least offensive clothes I can find, pocket my debit card and those seventeen pathetic dollars, and head for the corner store.
The card reader spits out a harsh electronic rejection—the sound of financial death. It echoes through the store, sharp enough to make me wince. My hands start to shake, not from withdrawal this time, but from the hot flush of shame.
The other customers turn to stare, their eyes a cocktail of pity and disgust. A middle-aged guy in a Brooks Brothers suit shakes his head slightly—just another loser hitting bottom. The cashier, barely eighteen with eyes too old for her face, has clearly seen this scene play out before.
"Sir, your card…" Her voice is gentle, but it hits me like a thunderclap.
"I know." I snatch back the card and stuff it into my battered wallet—Italian leather, a birthday gift from Emily three years ago, now worn and cracked at the edges.
I turn and bolt, desperate to escape the weight of those stares. But that sound, that damned electronic rejection, keeps echoing in my head. Rock bottom has a basement, and I've found it.
The sunlight outside blinds me, sending a wave of dizziness through my empty stomach. It's not just the hunger—though I haven't eaten a real meal in days—it's the despair. The kind that settles in your marrow and makes it hard to breathe.
Back in my apartment, I collapse onto the sagging sofa. The empty bottles stand at attention on my coffee table, tombstones marking the death of my former life. In the dim light, the black mold creeping across the corner seems to pulse with life, while the air hangs heavy with the stench of failure.
I open my laptop—the last possession worth a damn—and start the familiar ritual of scrolling through job sites. Indeed, Monster, LinkedIn—I've plastered these sites with my resume, but the responses are few and far between. Most are form-letter rejections or desperate spam promising six figures for envelope stuffing.
In desperation, I click over to Craigslist. The digital equivalent of a back-alley job market, mostly sketchy as hell, but beggars can't be choosers. I scroll past the usual suspects: night security guard, minimum wage; restaurant dishwasher, cash under the table; adult store clerk, "open-minded individuals only."
Then I see it.
"Substitute Teacher, Gifted/Special Education. Westlake Academy. $700 per day. Start immediately. No teaching experience required."
I rub my eyes, certain I'm hallucinating. Seven hundred bucks a day? That's more than I made even at Westerly. And Westlake Academy… the name rings a bell. Isn't that the fancy prep school that churned out two VPs and a Speaker of the House?
I click the contact info and dial before I can talk myself out of it.
The phone rings for so long I almost hang up. When someone finally answers, the voice is female but oddly flat—too calm, devoid of any emotional inflection.
"Westlake Academy, hello."
"Uh, hi, I'm calling about the substitute teacher position…"
"Are you Mr. Mark Thompson?"
I freeze. I haven't given my name. How the hell does she know who I am?
"Y-yes, that's me. But I haven't…"
"We've been expecting your call, Mr. Thompson. Could you come in this afternoon?"
"Today? But I haven't sent a resume, and you don't know anything about my background…"
"None of that matters. What matters is that you need this job, and we need you. I'll text you the address. Please arrive on time."
The call ends abruptly, leaving me staring at my phone in confusion. Seconds later, it chimes with an incoming text:
"Westlake Academy, 1923 Blue Ridge Mountain Road. 2 PM. Ask for Sarah."
I glance at the clock—11 AM. I have three hours to decide whether this is legitimate or some elaborate scam.
Every rational cell in my brain is screaming that this is wrong. No interview, no background check, and $700 a day is absurd for a substitute teacher. But desperation drowns out reason. I need this job, need this money. Rent, food, basic survival—all require cash I don't have.
I haul myself up and head to the bedroom, digging through the pile of clothes for something that doesn't reek of failure. I'm going to Westlake Academy.
Blue Ridge Mountain Road winds deeper into isolation than I expected. My GPS craps out completely, leaving me to navigate by sporadic road signs. The forest presses in from both sides, unnaturally quiet—no birds calling, no insects buzzing, just the sound of my tires on asphalt.
As I round a bend through a particularly dark stretch, I spot them—27 small stone markers lined up like miniature tombstones along the roadside. Each bears a different year: 1925, 1934, 1967… the most recent dated 2019. A withered flower lies at the base of each one.
This can't be a cemetery, can it?
Westlake Academy, established 1923.
The Gothic architecture looms before me, the red sandstone taking on an almost bloody hue in the afternoon light. Stone angels guard the entrance, their faces contorted in what looks disturbingly like agony rather than divine ecstasy. When I glance away, I could swear they shift position slightly.
The parking lot holds 46 luxury vehicles, all coated in dust, some with what look like handprints smeared on the inside of the windows—as if someone desperately tried to get out. Their license plates read "TEACHER-1," "TEACHER-2"…
Though the air is still, the branches of ancient oaks sway overhead, creating a sound like urgent whispers. As I approach the entrance, I notice deep gouges in the ground, running from the main gate toward the parking lot, as if something heavy was dragged—or something desperate tried to claw its way to freedom.
Strange runes are carved into the massive main gate, and as I push it open, a cold draft rushes past me, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and something metallic.
The entrance hall is frigid and dim, with ancient chandeliers flickering overhead, casting twisted shadows across the marble floor. The walls display 46 framed photos labeled "Outstanding Substitute Teacher of the Year," each bearing a different date. Despite spanning nearly a century, all share the same vacant stare. Five circular stains mark the floor, dark against the white marble, looking suspiciously like blood that no amount of cleaning could remove.
Sarah sits behind the reception desk, her skin so pale it's nearly translucent, blue veins visible beneath. She doesn't blink—not once—and when she speaks, her lips barely move.
"You are Mr. Mark Thompson."
She rises to her full height—at least six feet tall—and glides around the desk without making a sound, as if her feet never quite touch the ground.
The corridor stretches before us in perfect silence, not even our footsteps making a sound. Classroom doors bear unusual notices: "Nurse Visiting Hours 2:30-3:30" and "Press Red Button for Defiant Behavior."
An ancient photograph hangs on one wall: 27 children arranged in three neat rows, all wearing identical expressions—or rather, identical lack of expression. The plaque reads "Special Education Class, established 1923 to present." Most disturbing is how the children in this century-old photo look exactly like modern children—their clothes the only indication of the era.
We stop before a massive steel door that looks more appropriate for a bank vault than a school. Sarah punches in a code—at least fifteen digits—and the door hisses open, revealing a staircase descending into darkness.
"You're the 47th," Sarah says, a flicker of something—perhaps emotion—crossing her face for the first time. "I hope you last longer than the others."
As we descend, I notice the stairwell walls are covered with scratched messages: "HELP US," "RUN WHILE YOU CAN," "ESCAPE." The air grows thicker with each step, a nauseating blend of hospital disinfectant and something rotten underneath.
Sarah hands me seven hundred-dollar bills that feel unnaturally warm, almost body temperature, with strange reddish marks along the edges. "You can only take these after the job is done—that's the fifth rule. The previous 46 all thought they could change something. They were all wrong."
The door seals shut behind us with a pneumatic hiss that sounds disturbingly final, as if marking the point of no return.
At the bottom of the stairs stands a circular wooden door that sends a jolt through my fingers when I touch it. Beside it, a small compartment contains a yellowed paper with rules written in elegant script:
RULES
1. When the children whisper, never turn your back to them.
2. After the nurse returns a child, avoid eye contact for 15 minutes.
3. Never attempt to comfort children after the nurse's visits.
4. Disobedience must be punished immediately by pressing the button.
5. Payment can only be collected after the job is completed.
——Dr. William Blake, Founder of Westlake Academy
I push open the circular door and am hit by a wave of cold air carrying the sterile smell of a hospital mixed with something else—something ancient and wrong.
Inside is a classroom, but unlike any I've ever seen.
