Candlelight fell across rust-hued tiles, throwing long, jerking shadows. In the principal's office, repurposed now as a chapel of sorts, Louise placed mugs on a tray in the form of a pentagram. Milk frothed over the rims, but the sweetness smothered over its shadowy purpose. Under that warmth, there clung a bitterness aimed at tempering will, stifling instinct, destroying the stubborn angles of memory.
Across the table, Camila turned pages in a ledger bound in human hair. Each name written in blood, each check beside them a count of obedience or defiance. Her nails, polished obsidian, clicked lightly on the parchment. She paused on one line. Elsie. The quiet one. Restlessness churned behind that girl's eyes, a spark of rebellion that would not flinch.
"Observe her dreams," Camila instructed. Louise nodded and was already reaching for the vial of poppy extract. The intercom groaned overhead. Not with sound. Only the silent thrum of eavesdropping. Unseen ears always listened. Camila leaned forward, hearing what others did not.
A large red gym mat circle was established in the gymnasium. Fluorescent lights overhead flashed in rhythmic beat, imitating a metronome hidden beneath the bleachers. Feet were laid bare by each of the children onto the mats, the faces scrubbed free of any emotion. The boys stood on one side, girls the other, as the line of demarcation between the two disintegrated in the queasy green light.
Beatrice strode into the center, brass ruler aloft. "Tonight," she said, voice low, echoing through the quiet gym, "we test devotion."
Louise wheeled a cart out from behind the curtain. On its surface rested things concealed beneath velvet cloth. The moment Beatrice pulled it back, the air was heavy with the scent of metal. Tools. Implements. Things once mundane, now transformed into instruments of correction.
The children did not move. Did not speak. They had learned the ritual. Beatrice motioned. "Cowboy Ken, forward." A boy stepped forward. His sheriff's badge was crooked. Knees trembled. He couldn't have been older than ten years old.
"Smile," Beatrice told him. He gritted it. Teeth were clenched. Eyes were wide. Louise placed a thin wooden switch into his hand. "Now," Beatrice told the line of girls, "choose one." He hesitated. "Truth exists in pain. Choose."
His hand drifted toward the blonde in the middle. She stepped up, offered wrists without a pause. The hit landed. Once. Twice. Enough to teach but not enough to hurt.
The metronome beat faster. Behind the one-way mirror, Charles Johnson watched. Hiding behind a false wall in the guidance office, he remained still, exhaling through his mouth. The school map had revealed a chain of corridors, once used as part of drills, now integrated into something much worse. He had not meant to learn this.
On the floor next to him, Warinya put a hand to her mouth. No scream this time. Only a contained rage is building. "We can't just tape this," she said.
"We will," Charles said. "But first, we discover who's behind it." Camila materialized on the gym screen. Her face was serious. She mouthed through the speaker: "Repeat." The class went on. The huddle diminished. The game darkened.
In the back of the library, Elsie crawled through a small crevice in the drywall, breathing shallow, fingertips sweeping dust and cobwebs. Her sash caught on a nail. She didn't slow. On the other side of the crawlspace, a tiny room pulsed with candlelight. Art filled every available space not covered by children, not new. Symbols stacked in spirals, painted with bone ash and soot.
At its center was an altar of stacked books. On it sat a porcelain doll staring toward the door. Black-painted eyes. A mouth with stitches sewn shut. Its head is crowned with a wreath of sharpened pencils.
Elsie retreated. A whisper snaked across the floorboards. Her name. Repeated. Male and female voices entwined. They did not threaten. They begged. She scuttled in the opposite direction.
In the staffroom, Louise splashed the tea dregs into mugs. Camila ignited the ceremonial incense, roses scenting something metallic beneath. The last ceremony before the chant at midnight.
The school held its breath. On the top floor, the tempest seethed. Rain drummed against the windows, wind moaning like something in lament. Lightning struck the northern pylon, shattering the outer cameras.
Inside, the children smiled broadly. Outside, Charles raised the signal. It had begun. Candlelight trickled over the burnt-orange tile, shadows casting with the hushed tension of the building. In what was once the principal's office, a chapel of whispers and milk, Louise moved cautiously. Her heels made no sound. The pentagram-shaped tray trembled in her hands, its contents steaming gently. The mugs extended outward, each with a name that no longer belonged to the individual who sipped from it.
The children marched back in, this time more slowly. They carried the weight of things intangible. Lessons carved into flesh, memorized by nerve. Every step echoed obedience rehearsed to the point of being natural. The girls held their wrists as if they had borrowed. The boys did not blink.
Above, light bulbs hissed and grew dim, smothered by the blue flame that still burned in the classroom beyond. A moth circled it, a satellite without a home. Its wings burst into flame while in flight. No one looked up.
Louise set the tray down. They came forward singly. Mugs were raised. Lips brushed against ceramic. Swallowed. Again. No complaint. The drink tasted of almond and rust. Memory drifted sideways in their heads. Someone laughed, high and hollow.
Down the hall, Beatrice fidgeted with her blazer and turned a page in the ledger. Her handwriting replicated the lettering sewn into the dolls. Loops so delicate they might cut. "Attendance," she muttered, not raising her head. "Cowboy Ken," the sunburned-faced boy with his toy pistol in pink vinyl.
"Monarch Ken," said another, readjusting his tie, not the same color as his shirt. "Dealer Ken," panted the third, blinking too slowly.
Elsie's name never came. Her place remained in the music room, next to the broken grand piano, legs curled up under her, writing squigles on her thigh with a melted crayon. The radio hissed again. Polish lullabies in reverse. Amidst the static, a second voice repeated the first, not quite human, words too wet and slow.
Behind her, Camila draped another sheet over the window. No view of the outside was allowed at this point. The girls had finished their dance. Sweat streamed from collars. They did not seem to notice.
Beatrice carried the wooden box a third time, bringing it to the altar. Dolls lined up in rows, stacked on top of one another. Their red-stitched names throbbed in the candlelight, thread growing tight.
She opened the music box again. Its warped tune ripped across the room like a crippled ballerina spinning on corroded mechanisms. Beneath the velvety interior, the tin capsule waited. Camila's eyes focused on it. Her jaw clenched, but she didn't flinch.
Heavy footfalls echoed in the hall, one pair. Not a ceremony. Charles.
He walked past the line of lockers. Something sticky on one, the color of lipstick or dried berries. He did not touch it. The air shifted again, stale and thick, like breath caught in a paper bag. His fingers brushed against the doorframe of the classroom, already open. Hinges groaned against wood. No children filled the room inside. Only dolls.
Dozens of them. Every couple in imitation. Hand in hand. Kneeling. Some go back to the chalkboard, some to the candle. None of them faced him. Until they did.
Their button eyes rotated as a single unit. Their stitched mouths twisted into something resembling a smile. A long, wiry groan unwound from the ceiling. The cracked mirror revealed nothing anymore.
Charles took a step back. Something brushed his ankle. A doll, fallen from the last desk, stared upward. Its tag read "Charles." The thread barely held its arm.
The air dropped. Lights surged and died again. In the darkness, whispers multiplied. Breaths staggered. Not far off, the music box wound down, its last note stretched until silence devoured it.
Louise's voice cut through the dark. Calm. Precise. "You're early, Mr. Johnson."
Behind him, a red glow rolled out from beneath the principal's door. Feet tapped against tiles, small, in step, slow. The children returned. Their faces glowed with the candle's glow. Eyes unfilled. Smiles drawn on.
Charles did not move. Something deeper than fear held him back. Beatrice stepped out of the shadows, the ruler held tightly in her hand. "Sit down," she ordered. A chair scraped behind him, already pushed out.