The floor suspiciously creaked when I set my foot down, and a tortured shiver went up my spine. My heart pounded in my chest and the sound travelled up to my ears. I debated sitting at the only school desk in the room, but it's broken, rusted legs deterred me. I folded my legs under my body, and sunk to the dusty, unkempt ground. The floor itself looked like it had been an eggshell white, but had faded and stained into the color of a goldenrod. Decrepit books surrounded me from every way, seemingly strewn around from the howling wind. An ancient bookcase lay in ruins against the farthest wall from me. A child’s laugh echoed through the hallway and into the room. It’s not real, it’s not real…. I repeated over and over again. The paint looked like it had been peeled off the walls by the little fingers of the kids that used to attend, but it was just time’s mark. It settled in
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The drawings on the walls had crumpled and deformed, leaving behind harrowing skeletons of what had once been art. Maybe it used to be an art room, maybe a homeroom. I couldn’t tell. The ceiling looked caved in, and that if the slightest creature were to scamper across, it would collapse in a heap. Perhaps something heavy was right above, pushing down and weakening it. A fully intact globe rested against the wall, on it’s side, looking worn out, next to a trashcan that filled with papers. I feared for my life, not only because of the damnable structure, but because of shadows that keep catching my eye. I would catch a glimpse of something, only to find nothing there. Above the door, the abandoned, impaired clock no longer ticked, and it had probably been decades since it last made a noise.
“Why am I here?” I whisper, and it bounces right back at me, repeating itself. “Why am I here?” I say louder, and this time I can hear the echo clearly. Without carpeting, the room was left with nothing to absorb the sound. It bounced right back into my
The drawings on the walls had crumpled and deformed, leaving behind harrowing skeletons of what had once been art. Maybe it used to be an art room, maybe a homeroom. I couldn’t tell. The ceiling looked caved in, and that if the slightest creature were to scamper across, it would collapse in a heap. Perhaps something heavy was right above, pushing down and weakening it. A fully intact globe rested against the wall, on it’s side, looking worn out, next to a trashcan that filled with papers. I feared for my life, not only because of the damnable structure, but because of shadows that keep catching my eye. I would catch a glimpse of something, only to find nothing there. Above the door, the abandoned, impaired clock no longer ticked, and it had probably been decades since it last made a noise.
“Why am I here?” I whisper, and it bounces right back at me, repeating itself. “Why am I here?” I say louder, and this time I can hear the echo clearly. Without carpeting, the room was left with nothing to absorb the sound. It bounced right back into my