Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work at a School for Monsters. There's a Strange List of RULES | Scary Stories

Episode Date: January 21, 2025

I Work in a school for monsters, there are two rules you must follow. Scary Story exclusively written for the channel by The Lighthouse Horror Team Cover Art from Ninerio More of the artist’s works at ninerioarts       Original YouTube link: I Work at a School for Monsters. There's a Strange List of RULES.        Merch: lighthousehorror.shop For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Darren Curtis Music - YouTube  Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

My name's Jack Mercer, and if you told me 10 years ago I'd be teaching grade school classes to young vampires, werewolves, and other monsters, I'd have laughed in your face, or maybe punched you, depending on how many drinks I'd had. But here we are. I'm not your average grade school teacher. My students can smell fear, some of them breathe fire, and one kid turned his desk into an actual sentient tree monster last semester. Name's Vex. He's cool, now, mostly. So how did I end up here? Well, that's a story. The short version is, I was broke, desperate, and apparently pretty stupid. I'd just quit my last crappy job. My rent was overdue for the third month running, and I was one sad sandwich away from selling my motorcycle to keep the lights on.

And that's when I saw the ad. Substitute needed, patience required, hazard pay including, I thought it was a joke, or maybe a recruitment ad for some sketchy underground military thing. It even had one of those fancy fonts, you know, the curly ones that make you think of fantasy novels. But it had a phone number, so I figured why not? Wasn't exactly swimming in options. Fast forward to me showing up to the interview in my best and only suit, complete with a mustard stain that refused to die. I practiced my I'm totally normal smile in the rearview mirror and walked up to the place.

And let me tell you, this was not your run-of-the-mill school. Wasn't even really a building. It was a damn castle. Picture what Dracula would live in. Gargoyles perched along the walls, their creepy stone faces looking down, like they were judging my life choices. Almost turned around right there, but I was too broke to be. picky, so I walked up the steps and knocked on the enormous double doors. The sound echoed

like I'd just summoned a demon, which, in hindsight, well, let's just say that's not too far off. The doors creaked open, and I swear I saw shadows move where there shouldn't, well, have been shadows. Inside, the place was cavernous. All dark wood, crimson, carpets and flickering candles. The air was heavy, like it was carrying secrets. Before I could talk myself out of it, a figure stepped into view. This guy, he was tall, I mean tall, at least six and a half feet, with a posture so straight he could balance a stack of books on his head. He had dark brown eyes and was the palest man I had ever seen. Own his teeth. They were sharp enough and somehow visible even when he wasn't smiling.

You punctual. He said. And you're tall, I replied. To my surprise, he smiled. Wasn't a nice smile, though. It was the kind of smile that says, I know something you don't, and you're not going to like it. Welcome to Nightshed Institute. The students are dying to Mitchell, he said.

Now, amongst people would have noped out of their right then. But desperate times call for desperate decisions. And my bank account wasn't exactly giving me a pep talk. So instead of running, I kind of just stared at him. My brain doing that thing where it refuses to cooperate. My name is Mortimer. He continued, stepping closer. And I must say, you have beautiful eyes.

Okay, I replied, already regretting every decision that had led me to this moment. They say the eyes of the window to the soul, Mortimer said. Your eyes. They tell me, you're reckless. You are, aren't you? No comment, I replied. Mortimer smiled wider, too wide, and he began to laugh. Ha ha, ha, ha.

And you're honest. That's valak you. Ah, yes, there's good in those eyes. I think the children will like you. And that was it? That's how I got the job. My beautiful brown eyes, I guess. I didn't sign a contract. I didn't negotiate pay. Honestly, I think I blacked out for part of the conversation. One moment I was standing in that creepy place, and the next I was in a classroom, holding a stack of lesson plans labeled instruction to survival skills for beginners. The classroom was, well, let's just say it had character. The walls were lined with books, shelves that seemed to sag under the weight of ancient tomes, their spines cracked and faded,

some with titles, that made my skin crawl just reading them, how to bargain with shadows, 101 curses for intermediate hexers, and my personal favorite, so you accidentally summoned a demon, a beginner's guide. The air smelled faintly of chalk, dust, and blood? I flipped through the lesson plans in my hands. The handwriting was erratic, slashing across the page, like someone wrote them while fleeing for their life. There were diagrams of traps, some looked medieval, survival tips for escaping sentient landscapes, whatever the hell those were, and a note scrolled in the margins. Do not let them eat the brains again.

Brains? again. What kind of school was this? Before I could spiral too far down the rabbit hole of what have I gotten myself into, Mortimer reappeared at the doorway, his long shadow stretching into the room like it had a mind of its own. Follow me, he said. It's time to me to collect. I followed reluctantly as I held the lesson plans. The whole ways twisted. and turned, as if they'd been designed by someone who'd never heard of straight lines. Doors appeared where there shouldn't have been doors. Staircases spiraled up into nothingness.

Once, I swore I saw a window looking out over an endless void filled with shimmering stars, and then it blinked, and I realized it was not a window at all. I started to wonder if I was dreaming. I definitely had to be dreaming. Eventually, we stopped in front of a door that looked no different from any other. A simple wooden thing with a tarnished brass handle. But when Mortimer opened it, I immediately wished he hadn't. The first thing that hit me was the smell.

Formaldehyde mixed with something sweet like rotting fruit. The second thing was the jars. Dozens, no, hundreds of jars lined every available surface in the room. They ranged from tiny vials no bigger than my thumb to massive glass containers, big enough to hold a whole watermelon, and inside each one floated eyeballs. Some were human, or at least they looked human, but there were others that were decidedly not. slit-pupiled reptilian eyes, glowing orbs that seemed to follow my every move, even one jar containing what looked disturbingly like an oversized spider's cluster of eight eyes.

Ah, Mortimer said cheerfully, Aris's N. At first? I didn't see Iris amidst all the clutter, but then she emerged from behind a tall shelf stacked with jars labeled with things like specimen number 47, cyclopean variant. And property of iris do not touch. She was beautiful, intelligent, but she looked completely insane. Her hair was pulled back into a braid so tight it looked painful. She wore thick glasses and a lab coat that was way too big for her. The sleeves rolled up several times to reveal ink-stained fingers. Around her neck hung a magnifying glass on a chain, and her shoes squeaked faintly as she approached. There was something about the way she moved, like she was

gliding more than walking, and her eyes had this sharpness, like they could cut straight through you. She didn't say hello or anything, just walked right up to me, her lips twitching slightly. I tried to step back instinctively, but my heel hit the edge of the desk behind me. Iris stopped when she was just close enough that I could smell the faint chemical tang of formaldehyde clinging to her. Her hand came up suddenly and lightly touched my face. Her fingers were cold. I blanked, frozen in place more out of confusion than fear. She tilted her head slightly.

studying me, like I was some kind of specimen in one of her jars. And then she said it. Not loudly, not dramatically, but softly and with this weird certainty. I want your eyes. Ah, well, they're in my face. For now, she said without missing a beat. And then just like that, she stepped back, turned on her head. heel and started walking toward another door at the far end of the room. That's just Iris.

You'll get used to it, Mortimer said. Somehow I doubted that. Mortimer motioned for me to follow him, his long coat swishing behind him, as he shuffled toward the door Iris had disappeared through. I glanced back at the jars lining the shelves, all filled with cloudy liquid, and things that probably shouldn't still have been floating in there. A large jar near the window caught my eye. A pale wrinkled hand suspended mid-clench,

like it was trying to grab something just out of reach. Yeah, I was definitely not going to get used to this. Mortimer called over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. I hurried after him. The door led into a narrow corridor, dimly lit by flickering torches. The wallpaper was peeling in long strips, exposing patches of cracked plaster beneath it. Mortimer stopped in front of another heavy wooden door and gave me one of those lopsided grins that looked more like he was about to do something terrible than anything reassuring.

He pushed it open without knocking. The classroom beyond was, well, classroom was a bit of a stretch, actually. The place looked less like a learning environment, and more like the aftermath of a very rowdy seance. The desks were mismatched and arranged haphazardly, some missing legs, and propped up with stacks of ancient books that had probably been pulled straight from the walls of overstuffed shelves lining one side of the room. Candles burned low and waxy globs along every window cell. Their light-casting weird, jittery shadows across the cracked blackboard. And at the front of the room stood Fred, if you could call it standing. He was sort of hunched forward in an unnatural angle.

His shoulders twisted, like he'd forgotten how to carry his own weight. His clothes were peeling off him in tattered strips, an old suit jacket over a shirt that might have been white about 50 years ago, but now looked like it had been dunked in mud and left out dry. His head jerked when we entered. A sickening crackle, echoing through the air as he turned too quickly, neck bending just a little too far to be natural. He didn't say anything.

Fred didn't really seem like the type who could say anything. Instead, he picked up a chunk of chalk from the tree, beneath the blackboard, and began scribbling slowly, filling every inch of available space with what could only be described as utter nonsense, strings of letters that didn't form words, symbols that maybe once belonged to some language nobody spoke anymore, or maybe just shapes Fred thought looked nice. One especially aggressive stroke sent half the chalk flying in my direction, Bouncing off my shoe before rolling under one of the desks. Uh, I managed to get out, stepping back instinctively.

Fred froze mid-scribble. His hand hovered just inches from the board, a hand that was mostly bone now. He turned again slower this time, and I swear I felt my stomach drop when his milky eyes landed on me. They weren't lifelike exactly. There was something swirling in there, deep down where light should not have reached. And then they lit up. Literally. Fred's eyes glowed faintly blue for just a moment before he dropped the chalk entirely,

and started shuffling toward me with his arms outstretched. Oh, no, I muttered under my breath. backing up until I bumped into Mortimer. He was leaning casually against one of the desks, like nothing was happening at all. Watching Fred approach, as if this was just another Tuesday in whatever nightmare world we were stuck in,

he tilted his head toward me without looking away from Fred. This is Fred, he said flatly. He's dead. You don't say, I replied. Fred groaned

And kept coming closer Mortimer straightened up lazily And gave a small shrug They should probably go Before I could answer, or scream Fred's bony fingers curled into claws As he lunged forward another step Mortimer grabbed me by the arm

And yanked me backward with surprising strength dragging me toward the door. Fred's a bit clinging, he muttered. You'll get you stood, or not? He didn't wait for my reply, steering me out of the room and into yet another dimly lit hallway. The corridors here

seem to stretch and twist forever. An endless maze. I stumbled along beside Mortimer, still trying to process what had just happened back there with Fred. My head was spinning, but Mortimer didn't seem to care. He moved quickly, boots scuffing against the worn stone floor as he led me deeper into this bizarre, sprawling place. All right, he said finally, stopping so abruptly that I almost crashed into his back. He turned around and gave me a crooked grin that wasn't exactly reassuring.

time to meet another one of your touches. I blinked at him. Another one? Is this going to be like a thing? A parade of nightmare creatures? Ah, ha, ha, ah. No. Valmapa.

He raised an eyebrow and pointed down the corridor towards a heavy wooden door that looked like it had seen better centuries. It was covered in deep claw marks, actual gouges that made the wood splinter in jagged patterns, and there were strange muddy footprints leading out from underneath it. Okay. What exactly is behind door number two? I asked. As if an answer.

The door creaked open on its own with an ominous groan, revealing a figure standing just inside the room beyond. At first glance, I thought it was some kind of wild animal. A huge wolf-like creature hunched over slightly, as though it had just barely managed to squeeze itself into the too small space. Its fur was thick and dark, nearly black, except for faint streaks of silver that caught the light when it shifted. Then it turned its head towards.

us, and I realized this wasn't just a wolf. Its face. His face was half human, half beast, with sharp yellow eyes that glowed faintly in the gloom. His mouth curved into what could only be described as a friendly smile, if you ignore the rose of very sharp teeth, and he raised one massive paw hand in greeting. Well, hey there, he said cheerfully, his voice warm and surprisingly normal despite his appearance. You must be the new kid. I stared at him, utterly speechless. Mortimer clapped me on the shoulder again more forcefully this time

and gestured toward the wolfman, as if this whole situation was totally normal. This is Mr. Lyle, he said casually. It touches value of family. that. Mr. Lyle stepped forward into the hallway, towering over both of us, but radiating an odd sense of calm friendliness, despite his intimidating size and monstrous features. Up close, I noticed that his fur was neatly groomed, not exactly salon quality, but definitely cleaner than I'd expected, and there was something almost endearing about the way his ears twitched slightly when he spoke. Well, it's nice to meet you. Let's have lunch later in the calf on me, all right?

Before I could respond, the floor beneath us gave a sudden ominous tremor, like the whole building had woken up in a bad mood. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered once, then studied. A low rumble reverberated through the hallway, rattling the glass trophy cases, and making the lockers shudder against their hinges. It wasn't violent enough to send us stumbling, but it was frightening. Mortimer's cheerful expression dropped in an instant. His eyes darkened, his face becoming unreadable as he tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to hear something just beyond the edge of comprehension. It's trying to get out, he said. Excuse me, I have business.

With that, he spun on his heel and marched off down the hallway without another word, long coat swishing behind him like some kind of dramatic action hero from a movie. His heavy boots echoed against the floor, even as the rumbling began to subside. Uh, I started to say something, anything. But Mr. Lyle cut me off with a lye. lazy wave of one clawed hand. I don't worry about him, he said easily, as if we all hadn't just experienced what felt like a mini-earthquake.

That guy's always got some kind of business. Come on, kid, let's get you situated. Before I could object, or ask literally any of the hundred questions clawing their way into my brain, Mr. Lyle jerked his thumb toward a nearby stairwell, and started walking with long strides that almost felt more animal than human. I hesitated for half a beat before following him. Honestly, I didn't know what else to do. The stairway smelled faintly of dust and disinfectant as we descended into what seemed like the bowels of the school. With every step downwards, it felt less like an ordinary school and more like, well, something else entirely. The walls

became rougher somehow, not quite stone, but definitely not drywall either, and there was this faint hum in the air that made my teeth ache if I thought about it too hard. At last, Mr. Lyle pushed his way through a heavy wooden door at the end of a dimly-lit corridor, marked with a large red six. It creaked loudly on its ancient hinges, as he gestured from me to step inside. The classroom had rose desks, all lined up nice and tidy. Up at the front, the teacher's desk took center stage, shining under a mysterious, soft golden light. Well, here we are, Mr. Lyle said casually, as he leaned against the door for him. Arms crossed over his chest like this was all perfectly normal. I stood there awkwardly in the middle of the room. He grinned. A flash of sharp teeth

that should have been terrifying but somehow wasn't, and wrapped one claw lightly against his temple. Well, your desk awaits. Oh, and by the way, rule number one, always protect the children, he said, this time looking very serious. Then he smiled like before, said, good luck, and walked down into the hallway,

the door closing behind him. The click of the door shutting echoed louder than it had any right to in that dead silent room. I stood there for a second, just me in the rows of pristine desks, and felt like I'd been dropped into one of those weird dreams where nothing makes sense, but everything feels way too real. I took a deep breath, because what else do you do? And started walking toward the front of the room. My sneakers squeaked on the wood floor.

The golden glow coming from the teacher's desk up there looked softer up close, not exactly warm, but kind of mesmerizing. Like candlelight, but there weren't any candles. When I reached the desk, mine apparently, I let my bag slip off my shoulder. It hit the floor with a thud that felt way too final, like slamming a door shut behind you when you don't know if you can open it again. I stared at the desk for a second longer than necessary, half expecting to see my name carved into it, or written in neat letters on a little placard or something.

But nope, just smooth wood and that faint lemony polish smell clinging to it. I glanced around once more to confirm I was still alone, then let my eyes wander upward to the chalkboard behind the teacher's desk. And that's when things got even weirder. The board wasn't blank like I thought it would be. It had symbols drawn all over it in sharp white chalk strokes. They weren't numbers or letters or anything close to normal. They were these twisting, curling shapes that looked almost alive if you look too long.

Some of them spiraled inward like black holes trying to suck you in, while others stretched out spinly limbs like spiders mid-crawl. One of them looked kind of like an eye, just one big staring eye, and I swear it blinked at me. The symbols tugged at something deep in my brain, something ancient and strange, like they were trying to unlock memories I didn't even know I had. And that's when I saw him. Every single desk was full now. kids sat stiff as mannequins in perfect rows. Their faces pale and smooth, like porcelain dolls under flickering lights.

That definitely hadn't been on before. They weren't moving, not even breathing, as far as I could tell, just sitting there with all their empty eyes locked onto mine, like they'd been waiting for me this whole time. Nobody said a word, not a cough, not a shuffle, not even that weird classroom hum of whispers or shifting chairs. Just silence. Where the hell did you all come from?

A little boy's hand shot up immediately. Uh, yeah, go ahead, ghost kid. Fred says that swearing is from the devil, he said. Sorry? I replied. Still trying to figure out where the hell these kids came from. I looked around at their faces, and every single hand shot up at once. I pointed it to the little girl that was closest.

Don't be silly, Mr. Mercer. We never leave this place. We've been waiting for you. Waiting for me, I thought. What in the name of all things weird was not supposed to mean? I glanced around the room again, trying to make sense of it all. The kids, or whatever they were, still hadn't moved. moved from their perfect postures.

A breeze I couldn't place, stirred through the room, tugging at my sleeves, though the windows were sealed shut. It was unsettling, sure, but there was something else, something curious about them. Okay, I said, forcing a casual tone like I wasn't on the verge of bolting out the door. Well, since you've been waiting. waiting so patiently. Guess we should get to know each other, huh? Why don't we go around and introduce ourselves?

The little girl who'd spoken first raised her hand, without hesitation. Her wide eyes sparkled unnaturally under the strange light. I'm Clara, she said with a smile, that seemed just a few teeth too big for her mouth. I look forward to consuming your... She paused as if catching herself mid-sentence. Your curriculum. Right, I replied.

Clara might have looked human at first glance. Freckled cheeks, neat braids, but her skin had this strange sheen, almost like polished stone under candlelight. And her hands, they rested perfectly still on her desk. but they looked too long, with thin fingers that flexed slightly when she noticed me staring. Then there was Nova. Or at least that's what she told me her name was, after slowly peeling off her hood,

to reveal what could only be described as a sentient storm cloud where her head should have been. Instead of features, there were flashes of lightning, illuminating, dark, swirling mist, Every time she spoke in this soft crackling whisper that somehow echoed everywhere, I love art class, she somehow said, even though she didn't seem to have a face. Those two were just the tip of the iceberg. The rest of these so-called students were equally bizarre in ways that defined logic or biology or any other comforting rulebook I could cling to. One kid appeared to be made entirely out of glass, delicate and translucent with liquid swirling inside him like an aquarium on legs. Another had feathers sprouting along their arms and legs,

which they fluffed irritably whenever anyone got too close. There was a girl who seemed perfectly normal at first glance, except for the fact that her shadow moved completely independently of her body. tapping its foot when she got bored, or dramatically rolling its head back in exaggerated yawns when I started talking. And let's not forget the kid who looked like he was permanently drenched. Puddles forming under his chair. Honestly, this class looked less like a group of students and more like the aftermath of a science experiment gone terribly wrong, or maybe terribly right, depending on your definition of success.

their eyes, or whatever approximations they had for eyes, were fixed unmean now. I shuffled my papers nervously. How exactly does one teach a room full of walking impossibilities anything remotely useful? Right, I said. Clopping my hands together, in a way that I hoped conveyed confidence, but probably just made me look desperate. Let's... Okay, okay, let's talk about something practical today, all right? Something you're all going to need to know out there in the real world.

The shadow girl yawned. Her shadow gave me a thumbs down, I think. I charged ahead anyway, because what else could I do? All right, today, let's talk about gambling. That caught their attention. Or at least it stopped the glass kid from swirling this internal liquid around like an edgy lava lamp. All right, so gambling.

I began. Pacing in front of the desks like some kind of wannabe professor. It's all fun in games until it isn't. Trust me on this one. You know, I had this buddy once. Jacks. Yeah, Jacks. Smart guy. Handsome guy.

Could count cards faster than anyone I'd ever met. We're talking borderline genius here. Nova crackled softly. in what might have been laughter or static interference. Anyway, now Jacks. Thought he had it all figured out, I said, leaning casually on a desk that groaned ominously. He'd walk into some dingy casino with that conky grin of his,

you know the time, and start raking it in at that black check table. First few hours, you ask? Boom. Winning left and right. Drinks on him? Everyone loves him and loves him. Life's good. The Feathered Kid leaned forward slightly.

Maybe they're starting to get into it. But then, I said dramatically, lowering my voice like we were swapping secrets around a campfire, he gets greedy, starts thinking Lady Luck owes him something extra, just because he flashed her a wink earlier. You know what I'm talking about, Feathered Kid. Next thing you know,

He's doubling down on every hand like he thinks he's hot shit. There was an audible gasp from the students then. Oh yeah, yeah, sorry. I forgot no swearing. It's from the devil. Then what happened? asked Glassboy. What happened?

I repeated. What always happens? The house cleans him out faster than you can say bad life choices. Guy walked out of there with nothing but lint in his pocket. and a lifetime full of regret. The puddle kid sloshed audibly in his seat, leaning forward, like he couldn't wait for the next twist in the story. Meanwhile, feathered kid had that skeptical eyebrow lift going on, like he was trying to decide

if he liked the story. Now, I continued, letting the tension build for a beat longer than necessary, because, hey, storytelling is an art form. You'd think that'd be enough for our guy to wake up and smell the burnt toast that was his decision-making skills. But no. See, this genius decides he's going to win it all back. How? asked Puddle Kid.

His voice gurgling with honest-to-goodness curiosity. Bless him. How you say? By borrowing money from literally anyone dumb enough to hand it over, I said. shaking my head like I still couldn't believe it. Friends? Strangers. His cousin who thinks carrot card readings are a legitimate retirement plan.

You name it. And you know what happens when you borrow money in a casino, right? Feathered kid visibly perked up. The house breaks your legs? What? No. What kind of casinos you've been hanging out at? No, no leg breaking.

Just good old ferns. fashion humiliation. Our guy gets kicked out before he can even play another hand, because security caught wind of his little loan operation. Can you believe that? Glass boy tilted his head. So, he lost everything and got banned. Exactly, I said. And then he had to make the long walk of shame through the parking lot, with nothing but is knocked over ego, and an empty wallet rattling around in his jacket. Puddle Kid made some kind of sympathetic squelch noise. Might have been applause, hard to tell. And Feathered Kid leaned back like he'd hurt enough to pass judgment. So what happened to him after that? He asked. Oh, you know. He pulled himself together

eventually. Got a job driving a hot dog truck, taco truck. He drove a lot of trucks. But every time he hears the jingle jangle of poker chips, he gets this haunted look in his eyes, and he starts muttering stuff about odds and probability. Real tragic stuff, kids. The room went quiet for half a second, as they all process the tail.

Well, if there's one thing you kids should take away from all this, it's to never mix vodka with sadness. The entire classroom stared up at me in total confusion. And that's it for me today. You kids have a good night. I'm going home and I'm never coming back. But Mr. Mercer, it's only lunchtime, one of the students said. So it is. And then the ground began to... vibrate beneath us. A low, ominous, rumble. And it wasn't an earthquake. The rumbling grew louder, deeper, shaking dust loose from the ceiling tiles overhead. A faint crackling sound reached my ears, something splintering under immense pressure. And before I could locate its source,

it just happened. Right there in front of me, in front of my... In front of a lot of a little bit of a all of us. The floor just split open. It didn't happen with a subtle creek or slow crawl, no, this was violent and abrupt. One second, there was solid linoleum beneath our feet. And the next, there was a jagged, gaping fissure right down the center of the classroom. The desks nearest to it tipped forward precariously, before clattering loudly into the void. below. I stumbled back against the wall, watching in disbelief as something massive and pale emerged from that dark chasm, something that looked distinctly like a hand. No, not just a hand, a giant hand. Its flesh was oddly smooth and human-like, despite its enormous size, veins running faintly beneath its

skin, knuckles bending with an audible creak as it flexed its fingers. For one surreal moment, none of us moved, and then chaos erupted. The hand moved fast and grabbed hold of the nearest group of kids. They barely had time to react before they were lifted into the air like dolls and yanked into the abyss below. Their screams echoed briefly before being. swallowed by whatever lay beneath us. I ran towards them, or at least I think I tried to, but my legs felt disconnected from reality. Another swipe from the monstrous hand claimed a second

cluster of students, pulling them down into the darkness without hesitation or mercy. All I could do was stand there as desk after desk tumbled downward into nothingness, and then just as suddenly as it had begun. It stopped. The hand retreated back into the chasm. The floor snapped shut. And it was over. I stood there, staring at the floor below me with my mouth wide open. This day had to be a dream. I left my bag where it was, and I ran. I ran down the hallway, quickly bumping into Mortimer. The, uh, the kids are gone, I said. Is that so?

He replied calmly. Yes. Yes, it is so. The floor opened up and something grabbed him. You should probably do something about this. Mortimer became much more serious then. Did Mr. Lyle explain the first rule? What?

I mean, always protect the children. He interrupted. Now, I do not know what you saw, Jack, but this type of thing happens often. It is up to you to serve them if you want to keep your position here. What the hell are you talking about? How am I supposed to save him? I have no idea what's going on here. Up until this point, I actually thought I was dreaming.

This is no dream, Jack. Those kids are your responsibility, and seeing how they were taken around lunchtime, whatever took them is probably very, very hungry. He said, beginning to walk away. As he walked down the hallway, he said one last thing over his shoulder. Rule number two.

If your children are taken by an entity on your first day, you may enlist the help of one other teacher to retrieve them. Would you lack assistance? I am unfortunately busy, but you may choose between the help of Mr. Lyle, Iris, or Fred. I stared up at him. Well, if those are my choices, I'm obviously not going with. Ah, Fred. Mortimer interrupted before I could finish. Looking over at Fred, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere,

his arm stretched out in my direction as he let out a slow moan. Perfect timing, as usual, Fred. Assist on Nutica and retrieving his children. Fred looked over at me, with what I can only describe as a zombie smile. drooled a bit and shambled over my way. I stepped back, and before I could protest, Mortimer put his hand on my shoulder and said, This was fat. Fred will surely help. But don't let him bat you.

And then, before I knew what happened, Mortimer was gone, and it was just me and Fred. Hi, Fred. Fred groaned in return, a sound that echoed down the dimly-lit hallway, like an old door creaking open. He smelt faintly of mildew and regret, and I could swear the air around him was colder than the rest of the place. His outstretched hands wobbled in my direction. Right, yeah, well, this is going to be great. Fred's jaw hung open slightly, as though perpetually on the verge of saying, something profound, but never quite getting there. Instead, he moaned again.

A low guttural sound that made me check my exposed neck. He started shuffling down the hallway with a gate that could be best described as, well, like a zombie. I followed reluctantly, muttering under my breath about how Mortimer had clearly lost his mind leaving me with this guy. Fred didn't seem to care or notice because he was too busy shambling toward an ominous black door at the very end of the hall. It stood out starkly against the faded wallpaper. Its surface carved with intricate symbols that writhed in the dim light like they were alive. Above it was a plaque that read, basement, leads to demons' entities, other worlds and worse. Enter at your own peril. Fred reached for the doorknob with an unsettling amount of

enthusiasm for someone who was dead. His fingers curled around it, and for one horrible moment, I thought his hand might just fall off. But no, it stayed attached long enough for him to twist the knob and push the door open with a groan of old hinges. Behind the door was a narrow spiral stair, staircase, descending into what appeared to be infinite darkness, the kind of darkness that feels alive, like it's watching you back. Fred gestured vaguely toward the stairs, then looked back at me. You know, this feels like a bad idea, I said to him, though Fred responded by letting out another moan that sounded suspiciously affirmative. With no real choice, thanks again, Mortimer, I followed Fred under the staircase, and down into what seemed like, another world.

The steps were slick and uneven, each one steep enough to make me question whether OSHA existed in this universe. Fred moved with surprising ease, despite looking like he should have fallen apart several flights ago. We spiraled downward endlessly, or so it felt. The only sounds were our footsteps, mind careful and deliberate, his dragging and crazy, and every so often I'd hear something skittering just beyond where the faint light could reach. About halfway down, the wall started to change at first. I thought it was just my eyes playing tricks on me. But no, definitely not. The rough stone bricks that had barely held themselves together up till now began to shift into something smoother, shinier, almost polished. The faint glow from above dimmed further until it was

just made, fred, and the eerie shimmer of the walls. And then there were carvings, just little ones at first. Lines and dots etched haphazardly into the walls, but as we went deeper, the carvings grew more detailed. Faces twisted and anguish stared out from the slick surface. Their mouths open as if mid-scream. Eyes too large for their faces seemed to follow me as I descended. Some of them were grotesque. Others disturbingly beautiful. But all of them shared one thing in common. They looked alive, like if I lingered too long or stared too hard, they'd blink or worse. I kept my eyes fixed firmly on Fred's lurching back and tried not to think about how creepy he looked. His head tilted slightly to one side every few steps, like he was listening for something.

Once or twice, I caught him glancing over his shoulder at me, but not at my face. No. Fred was looking at something behind me. I didn't dare turn around. Somewhere far below us, there's a sound, a low rumble. It wasn't thunder, wasn't machinery either. It felt alive, like some massive creature shifting in its sleep. Fred, what's that? I said. But he didn't so much as grunt in acknowledgement. His pace actually picked up as we descended further. A speed increase I didn't really appreciate. The air grew colder, the deeper we want. My breath fogged in front of me. Though Fred seemed unaffected, because of course he was, why would an undead guide care about things like body temperature? Fred, where are we going? I asked.

Fred didn't answer, obviously. But this time when he turned his head toward me, well, it wasn't his usual lifeless stare that greeted me. His grimace seemed bigger somehow, wider. I stopped walking for half a second, and then Fred stopped too. He turned fully now, standing crooked on a step a few feet below, like some kind of gargoyle. His head tilted sharply, the vertebrae in his neck letting out.

a sickening crack. Fred, do you know where we're going? He didn't answer. Shocker. Instead, he turned on his heel and resumed his descent down the steps. When we reach the bottom. There they were. Six doors lined up in a neat little row,

like contestants on some nightmarish game show, where the prizes probably included immediate death or eternal torment. They were identical. Except for one thing, their colors, red, blue, green, orange, black, and white, and their weathered surfaces suggested they'd been standing guard here for centuries. The air smelled damp and metallic, and somewhere far off in the darkness, water dripped with a maddening rhythm. Fred shuffled back and forth in front of the door, like a wind-up toy stuck on repeat. His movements grew more frantic with each pass,

and I could hear low growls escaping from what was left of his throat, a sound like gravel being ground underfoot, and it really wasn't helping my nerves. Any chance you know which one we're supposed to pick? I asked. Fred stopped mid-pace, turning to glare at me. He pointed a bony finger

toward the doors, with all the authority of someone who absolutely did not have a clue what he was doing. Great. Super helpful. I watched him pace back and forth as I pulled out a box of tick-tacks from my pocket and shook one out into my palm. And then a sudden rush of wings startled me so badly I nearly swallowed the candy hole. A crow descended from above. It landed on a huge, human skull, sitting atop an old wooden pedestal near the doors. Its glossy black feathers glinted faintly, even in the dim light, and its eyes locked onto mine. The bird let out three sharp claws that echoed off the stone walls.

Well, that's not ominous at all. Fred had stopped pacing now. He was standing completely still and staring at the crow like this was the the craziest thing he'd seen all week. And don't get me wrong, on any other day, a crow appearing out of nowhere and landing on a human skull would be the strangest thing that happened to me. But not today. The bird cawed loudly again, almost impatiently, as if it wanted something. So I gave it the only thing I had. I pulled down the green tic-tacks and tossed one over to it. The Tick-Tac clattered before coming to a rest near the skull.

The crow tilted its heads sharply, first one way, then the other. Studying the tiny candy like it was some ancient artifact whose purpose only it could divine, and then with a quick, purposeful hop and a flick of its wings for balance, it plucked the Tic-Tac up in its sharp beak. For a moment, I thought that was it, that the crow would just take its strange little prize and leave. But no, it held onto the tic-tac for a second longer than seemed necessary, almost contemplatively. And then, with an odd little twist of its head, it stood upright on the skull as though puffing itself up for some monumental task.

Its feathers ruffled slightly before settling back into place, and without so much as a glance in my direction, it gave too soft cause, quieter this time, and launched itself into the air. It flapped steadily upward, in a way that felt almost casual, but no less deliberate. Its wings sent little puffs of dust spiraling off nearby surfaces. I watched as the bird,

circled lazily above us once, before angling itself toward one specific darkened corner of the room. There were three doors there. Massive things made of aged wood and bound and tarnished iron straps, each with an ornate number carved deep into their surface. One, two, three. The crow landed on the handle of door number three, gripping tightly with its talents, and shifting about awkwardly to keep its balance. The tic-tac was still held firmly in its beak as it turned to face me again. And then it cawed,

just once this time. The crow dropped from its perch in one smooth motion and took off again, not flying back toward me or anywhere random, but heading straight for some unseen destination. The door, the third one, was now silent. looming taller somehow.

Its weathered surface looked older than anything else around us, as if time had lingered there longer. Fred finally stirred beside me, but said nothing. I gave him a quick glance, trying to gauge whether he was about to run or worse. Let me walk through this door alone. His knuckles were white around the flashlight he still clutched, and I could practically hear him grinding.

his teeth. But neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved. Well, let's go find the kids, my son. My hand reaching for the tarnished doorknob before my brain could talk me out of it. It was cold, so cold and almost felt wet, and for one second I thought it might be stuck. With a low-grown that sounded vaguely like displeasure, the door gave way and swung inward. What lay beyond froze us. The first thing that hit me was the smell, like rotted fruit. Then came the room itself. It was massive.

The ceiling arched impossibly high, disappearing into flickering shadows, were an ornate chandelier dangled precariously over an equally ornate dining table. This thing looked like it belonged in some kind of twisted fairy tale. It was long enough to fit an army of guests and draped with a blood-red tablecloth embroidered with gold that shimmered every time the light caught it. But it wasn't the table itself that made my stomach drop. It wasn't even the absurd number of things.

chairs lining each side. It was what was on the table, or rather who? All the children from my classroom, each one tied to a different enormous silver plate like the main course of a meal. Their small bodies tied up with ropes so tight they couldn't even wiggle. Their eyes darted wildly beneath blindfolds. Every single one gagged, but clearly trying to scream. Fred? I said, looking over at him. And he was looking at the children on dinner plates and licking his lips.

Fred, you can't eat him, I said, smacking him on the shoulder. We're here to save him, dude, remember? He groaned in protest, but then seemed to nod in agreement. I think. I hoped he wasn't going to try to eat the children, because that would definitely complicate things. That's when the noise started. A faint clicking. Soft at first.

Like fingernails tapping gently against glass. Just faint enough to make you wonder if you'd imagined it. But then it grew louder. A wet, chittering sound now, like bone scraping against stone, but slick was something viscous. My stomach churned. It wasn't a rhythm so much as an erratic pulse coming closer. Fred, I whispered.

My eyes darted to him. He stood frozen in place now. His head cocked to one side like a dog listening for a whistle too high for human ears. The noise escalated sharplight, a terrible skittering crash that seemed to shake the very walls. Whatever was making it was big, heavy, and moving fast. From the far corner of the room, where the darkness was complete, I thought I saw movement, something massive shifting within the shadows,

just out of reach of the dim light. And then I saw it. the largest hand I'd ever seen in my life, not attached to any arm or body, just itself, lurched forward into view through an archway at the far end of the room. Its sheer size was enough to make my brain falter. Each finger was thicker around than a tree trunk, curling inward and outward in grotesque slow motion, like some massive predator flexing its claws. In its center, a gaping mouth split open, right where its palm should have been, jagged rows of needle-sharp teeth glistening wet lay under what little light reached them. It opened once, twice,

snapping shut with audible clicks. Okay, Fred. I... began, giving him an encouraging pat on the back. I'll untie the kids. You can fight that thing, okay? Fred didn't reply. Not that I expected him to. He just gave me this look. His face set like stone. Every ounce of fear or hesitation burned away and replaced with something colder, sharper, as if staring down that horrific hand thing had flipped some kind of switch inside him. Fred started shambling slowly at first, then faster. And then he launched himself at it. Fred soared through the air like some kind of zombie cannonball.

For a brief dazzling moment, I thought maybe, just maybe. He had this under control. That confidence on his face wasn't for nothing, right? He'd done something like this before. Fred was built to win. Fred knew what he was doing. And then he landed directly in the thing's mouth. Ah, shit.

I mean, shoot, ah, shoot, I muttered. Looking back over at Fred. Now let me tell you something. There are a few sites in life that will ever be be as horrifying or absurd as watching your friend, yeah, I think we're friends now, jump into the gaping mouth of a hand creature with teeth. The thing reared back slightly, like it hadn't expected this massive snack to just deliver itself. Its mouth closed around Fred with a sickening crunch. Well, that's not good.

My hands went to work on the nearest ropes as fast as they could, while my brain split itself between panic and irrational hope that Fred would somehow be fine. The first kid, a little girl with big tear-streaked eyes, stumbled free once I got her ties undone. She clung to me for half a second before I gently nudged her toward the cavern's edge. Go, I said to her in my best, please don't argue with me, voice. She hesitated only for a blink before scrambling off, her tiny feet barely making a sound over the rocky floor. One by one, I quickly untied the monster children and pointed them towards the exit. Meanwhile, behind me, came this wet gnashing noise,

the kind you hear when someone chews a whole pack of gum at once, but way louder and way worse, because it wasn't gum. It was Fred. The thing's jaw flexed, again and again, trying really hard to turn him into an afternoon snack. But, well, it didn't seem to be working. Fred was still intact somehow. The creature made this guttural huffing noise. Frustration, annoyance, I don't know, and it shook its head violently, like a dog trying to dislodge peanut butter. I didn't have time to watch, though. The kids, there were too many of them, bound and whimpering in the

shadows, their small hands tugging uselessly at the thick ropes that held them. I moved fast. My fingers were clumsy and slick with sweat, but I worked through each knot like my life and theirs depended on it, which, you know, it did. The next kid squirmed free as I yanked on the last loop of rope. He bolted before I could even tell him to go. His tiny frame darting towards the cavern's edge like a startled rabbit. Good. That's what I needed them to do. Run, no questions asked. The third knot was tighter than the others, and my hand started cramping from the effort. Come on, I muttered under my breath, gritting my teeth. Behind me. Fred made this awful groaning sound.

The gnashing noise stopped for a second, replaced by a deep guttural growl. Almost there, I whispered to myself. or maybe the kid who I was helping. The knot finally gave way with a sharp snap, and I grabbed the kid's arm gently but firm. Go, I urged, shoving him towards safety. Then I turned to the next one, and then the next. Then the next.

My knee scraped raw against the jagged floor as I crawled between all of them, untying ropes that seemed endless and impossibly nodded. The air in the cavern felt heavier every second, hot and humid. But I couldn't stop. A set of bright eyes blinked at me from behind a gag made out of someone's torn shirt. I yanked it down first before attacking the ropes around their wrists. Behind me came another wet crunch, a noise so awful that bile rose in my throat. But still, Fred kept groaning.

Low and steady. Finally, I got to the last kid, a little boy who couldn't have been older than five or six. His lips quivered as he stared up at me. But he didn't make a sound. Not even when I accidentally nicked his skin with my thumbnail while tearing through his bonds. It's all right, I told him softly. You're going to be fine. As soon as his hands were free, he took off sprinting for the exit like all the others,

disappearing into the dark mouth of freedom beyond this nightmarish cave. All right, that was all of them. All the kids safe and gone. And when I turned back towards Fred, well, he was still there, still alive. In fact, he looked perfectly fine. Fred lifted his arm and pointed slowly to the exit. He moaned something that sounded like, go.

At least I think it was. And I wasn't going to argue. I had to get the kids back to the school, and Fred did look okay. I backed up a step. Then another. Fred was currently stuck, but at this point he seemed indestructible. What mattered was getting out of here, getting these kids out of here. The whole way back to the stairwell felt longer than it should have been.

I kept turning back over my shoulder. And when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I found all of them. All the kids were there. All right, my son. Trying to keep my voice steady, even though my hands were shaken bad. We're going up now. Everybody stick together, okay? Don't stop until we're all outside.

None of them spoke. They just nodded silent light. We started climbing. The steps far steeper than I remembered them being on the way. down. The kid's small feet scuffled against the stone as we ascended, their little hands gripping the rusty railing. I kept glancing over my shoulder, half expecting Fred, or whatever was left of him, to come lunging up the stairs behind us. But all I could hear was the faint scrape of our shoes. When we finally reached the top of the stairs, I nearly collapsed against the wall from relief.

The old door leading out into the main hallway stood there like a promise. It groaned when I shoved it open, but it gave way, spilling us into the school beyond. Out, out, keep moving, I urged, waving them through. They filed past me quickly, silent little ghost, wide-eyed and pale, but none of them needed much encouragement to get as far away from that basement as possible. The last kid hesitated for just a second. Their tiny hand brushing against mine before they darted through the doorway

with a speed that surprised me. Without thinking too hard about it, I slammed the door shut behind us with both hands and leaned against it like that alone could keep everything down there from crawling up after us. I let out a shaky breath. Okay. We're good. The kids had something else.

not far down the hallway, some slumping against the peeling wallpaper, while others sat cross-legged on the floor. I slid down to sit on the floor opposite them, letting my head fall back against the wall for just a moment, as my heart tried to beat its way out of my chest. And then he showed up. Mortimer's polished black shoes clicked sharply against the floor, long before he came into view. When he rounded the corner, his face looked exactly how I remembered. He looked pleased. Well done, Mr. Mercer, he said cheerfully enough. All the children seem to be accounted for.

Yeah, but Fred's still down there. It's trying to kill him, I said. Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Fred's already dead. And most of the time, you can't kill what's already dead. He winked. Chop, chop, children, lunchtime. They stood up like it was just another day, walking past us and tore the cafeteria doors.

To be honest, I wasn't feeling much livelier myself. But Mortimer didn't give us much of a choice. He clapped me on the shoulder with one of his gloved hands, too hard as usual, and steered me down the hallway like I was a shopping car. When we got to the cafeteria, it was chaos. Not normal school cafeteria chaos, but this was something else entirely. The place thrummed with activity that just felt a little off. Kids were eating food that glowed faintly under the fluorescent lights. A couple of students at the nearest table were having what looked like an intense argument

over whether or not the spaghetti could actually try to strangle you. And then there was Iris, sitting primly at a table in the corner, like nothing weird was happening at all, sipping what I really hoped was tomato soup and not blood. Mortimer strode up to the line like he owned the place. Maybe he did. Me? I hung back for a second, sticking close to Mr. Lyle.

The two of us shuffled forward cautiously, until we were standing behind Mortimer at the counter. That's when I saw it. The creature scooping food onto trays was a mash-up of parts that should not have been assembled together under any circumstances. Their face was stitched together from patches of varying skin tones, and one eye had an unsettling habit of rolling around independently of the other. They were massive, too, towering over even mortimer by a good two feet, with arms thick enough

to bench press a small car. Mortimer didn't bat an eye. I want a hot dog, without the bun. He said crisply, enunciating each word like he was placing an order at a five-star restaurant. The lunch creature pulled out what looked like a sausage, but smelled like deaf. In any case, they slapped it onto Mortimer's tray and slid it across with a grunt. I wasn't eager to see what my options were, but eventually it was my turn. I ended up with something resembling mashed potatoes, if mashed potatoes had veins, and what might have been green beans in another dimension. Mortimer waited politely while I got my food, and then led me back through the maze of tables towards what I could only assume was the teacher's section. Mr. Lyle followed us closely,

carrying his own tray piled high with unidentifiable slop that he seemed way too comfortable with. And then there was Fred. Wait, Fred! Sitting at the table like nothing had happened, and chewing on what looked like part of a giant finger. Hey, Fred! Fred didn't even look up at first. Just kept gnawing on that grotesque piece of finger like it was a chicken drumstick. When he finally did lift his head, it was a slow, deliberate motion, his jaw still working

over whatever nightmare meat he'd been tearing into. His eyes met mine for half a second, before he let out this long, drawn-out groan that sounded more annoyed than anything else. Then he just went right back to chewing, like we were inconveniencing him. I stood there for a moment. completely stunned. My tray wobbled in my hands, the mashed potatoes jiggling ominously. Then Mortimer clapped me on the back, hard enough to make me stagger forward and nearly drop the tray.

Well done, Mortimer said. Good thinking on the tic-tacks. How did you know? The rest of the table erupted into murmurs of approval and pants on my shoulders and back. One of them, a guy who looked like he'd been cobbled together from spare parts in a bad sci-fi movie, gave me what I think was a thumbs up. I, you know, I just knew, I said. At this point, I figured it was better to just roll with whatever bizarre narrative they'd conjured up,

rather than admit I had no idea what I was doing. Fred let out another low-grown, still not bothering to participate in any actual conversation, and bit into the finger again with a crunch. I decided right then and there that I was not hungry anymore. Well, Mr. Mercer, we do hope you stay. Mortimer said, as he grinned over at May and a serial killer kind of way. Still, I smiled back. Soon after, I found myself back in the classroom finishing up the day.

I spent the better part of two hours, having the students explained to me what that creature had been. How often this kind of thing happened, and what exactly this school was? You know, that sort of thing. I didn't get all the answers I wanted, but it was a start. As the final bell rang out, I leaned back against my desk and let out a deep breath. The monster kids began packing up their things. Well, most of them. A few were still putting finishing touches on projects

that involved suspiciously glowing substances or scribbling in notebooks that appeared to hum faintly when opened. Just another normal day here, apparently. I glanced at the door, ready to make my escape, or so I thought. Before I could move, a small crowd of children started forming around me.

It began with Nova, the sentient storm cloud girl who likes art. She handed me something. The storm cloud where her head should have been now raining softly into her school uniform. It was a drawing of the entire class on dinner plates, with a giant hand monster towering over them. Between the children and the monster stood, me and Fred, staring defiantly up in it, with more courage than I remember having. Nova hugged me, then ran off.

Then came puddle kid, feathered kid, glass kid, shadow girl. One by one, each child came up, gave me a gift, a hug, and ran off into the hallway. That hit me harder than I expected. my throat felt tight. I looked at these bizarre monster kids, every single one of them, unique in ways I couldn't begin to explain. Sure, they were strange and kind of terrifying,

but they were also genuine in a way that most people weren't anymore. For the first time since I'd walked through those creaky old doors earlier this week, I didn't feel like an outsider anymore. Maybe this wasn't just some bizarre temporary gig after all. I cleared my throat, grabbed my bag, closed the classroom door behind me, and headed to my car.

As I put the key into the ignition, I glanced toward the school windows and saw what looked like Fred waving sadly at me. Then I saw the giant finger in his mouth and realized he was probably just eating, not saying goodbye. But who knows, maybe it was a little of both. As I drove home, I thought about my first day at the Nightshade Institute. Today had been completely insane, terrifying beyond words, and I still wasn't 100% sure this hadn't all been a dream.

But this was only day one, and I had to admit. This had been fun. What's more, I'd somehow managed to follow rule number one. I smiled, glancing over at the children's gifts on the seat next to me. Yeah, I was definitely going to stay.