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The Clock-Faced Children

You walk into the classroom, was it for third or fifth or tenth grade? You don't know. 

Brick wall. Eggshell white clashing against posters of garish colors. Cracks lining from floor to ceiling, weaving together and apart, locking into a wild unchoreographed dance.

A whiteboard mounted like the head of a decapitated beast. Ghosts of words linger despite the chemical smell of cleaner. Hidden behind a funeral procession made up of four solemn syllables:

Today's Date Is...

Dressed in black ink, now faded to grey with time and lack of attention. No chaste fingers will free the felt tip of the marker that lay desolate on the floor. The chill of the tiles seeps into the cylindrical prison that held the ink hostage within its plastic casings. You trail your trembling fingertips along the metal tray, long since empty of the eraser, working up the dust that had taken its place.

Tile, a dull white and grey patterning the floor, streaked with scuff marks, remnants of children's scurrying feet. They are a chilling reminder to you of Their existence.

Shadows crawl along the floors, the only ones brave enough to walk alongside the destructive creatures. The dim room gave them the perfect playground, a space for them to enjoy their dark entertainment.

You shouldn't be here.

You look around, shoulders tense. What lie within the shadows were things of urban myths. Stories told to scare children and keep them away from the abandoned building. 

The old school house had a history that no one liked to speak of, filled with loss and pain. Ghosts of the past linger far longer than they should. The silence is as suffocating as the dust coating the floor, kicked up and causing your body to be wracked with a fit of coughing.

Once you regain your wheezing breath, that silence falls heavy around your throat once more. It chokes you. It is too heavy... It is-

The silence is broken.

You hesitated, far too aware of the sudden shift in the ambient quiet. There had been a scuffle of unseen feet, frenzied and awoken by your cough. 

A loud ringing fills flinching ears, deafening you before falling to an abrupt silence. The echo remains, however, dulling the mind and leaving thoughts blurry and unfocused.

Then the ticking starts up.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Your eyes turn away from the whiteboard, names neatly written across the ghosts. Lips form words of inquiry that die in the darkness of the throat as students enter, single file and silent.

Moving in sync, perfecting the steady rhythm of the tick tick ticking. Placing down bookbags dyed colors not meant to be seen by the naked eye.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Sitting down, fancifully wrapped packages lined up in neat little rows. Their faces turned towards the board.

Faces.

Tick.

Turned.

Tock.

Towards.

Tick.

You.

Tock.

A raised hand.

'Exactly four minutes and three seconds late, teacher,' says one child.

'No one likes people who dilly dally, teacher,' says another.

You find yourself stumbling back, legs going weak. You are filled with unease.

Heart pounding.

Palms sweating.

Body trembling.

Stomach heaving.

Lungs contracting.

Thoughts racing.

And faces ticking. Ticking ticking ticking ticking, the sound grows deafening as they all arise from their seats.

'Mrs. Harrington didn't like her children being late,' says the first student.

'But we don't like our teacher being late, either,' they say in unison.

Your legs give out. The students get up, in sync. They crowd around your prone body. The world goes black, but still, that sound haunts you.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.