Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Another step. "The heroine ventures forth, armed only with her wits and extremely questionable fashion choices."
My sneaker squeaks against the stone, and I wince. Nothing says "badass protagonist" like sounding as though you're stepping on a rubber duck with every move.
"She bravely descends," I continue, but my voice has dropped to barely above a whisper. "Despite knowing better. Despite every horror movie ever made."
CRACK.
It's louder now. Closer. With each step downward, the slapping sound swells, filling the space around me. It's not just noise anymore—it's a rhythm that invades my chest, pulsing through me like a heartbeat.
Not my heartbeat. Someone else's. Something waiting.
"It's fine," I whisper, my hand trembling against the wall. "It's just Giovanni playing ping pong by himself. Really slow, extremely dramatic ping pong."
Another step. The darkness seems to thicken.
"Or maybe it's a janitor. Folding pizza boxes. Violently. A very angry pizza box folder."
My foot slides forward, searching for the next step.
"It could be a metronome. For giants. Giant metronome practice hour."
The excuses sound hollow even to my own ears. I'm running out of ridiculous explanations, and what's filling the space they leave behind is pure, unfiltered fear crawling up my spine like ice water.
CRACK.
I freeze mid-step, suddenly unable to force myself forward. The sound is so close now, not an echo but a presence. My clever comments die in my throat as reality sinks in: I have no idea what's waiting for me at the bottom of these stairs.
And all my babbling can't protect me from whatever it is.
My hand slips off the stone, grasping at nothing, and my stomach drops like I've missed a step. Except there is no step—just emptiness where the wall should be.
"Shit," I hiss, stumbling forward, my hand flailing for support that isn't there anymore.
The basement floor. I've reached it. The sound is louder here, unmistakable now—a rhythmic slapping that bounces off walls I can't see, creating an echo chamber of dread. The acoustics in this place are phenomenal if you're trying to amplify terror.
CRACK.
A faint light flickers somewhere ahead, casting sickly, dancing shadows across what must be a hallway. The illumination isn't helpful—just enough to transform darkness into shapes that could be anything.
CRACK.
"Of course," I mutter, anger bubbling up as a shield against my fear. "Creepy Gothic basement lighting package. Giovanni must get a commission. 'Yes, I'll take the Dracula's Lair Special, with extra shadows, please.'"
CRACK.
I inch forward, my sneakers squeaking traitorously on the stone floor. Each step feels like I'm announcing my arrival to whatever—whoever—is waiting for me. The light grows stronger as I approach the end of the hallway, but not in a comforting way. It's the kind of light that reveals things you wish had stayed hidden.
I round the final corner and my brain short-circuits.
The space opens before me, cavernous and cold. At the far end sits what can only be described as a throne—massive, carved wood with worn leather, like it was stolen from some haunted Victorian headmaster's office.
And on it, like he has all the time in the world, sits a figure dressed completely in black. Boots polished to a gleam that catches the flickering light, tight pants, a fitted jacket, and gloves on his hands. His face—Jesus Christ—his face is hidden behind a ski mask, erasing any trace of humanity.
The only sound is the steady slap of a riding crop against his gloved palm. Every two seconds. On the dot. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. Not playful or random—metronomic, deliberate. A clock made of leather and menace, counting down to something I don't want to know about.
I freeze, thoughts colliding like bumper cars in my head. Part of me wants to scream that this is cosplay gone wrong. That Giovanni hired the world's scariest substitute teacher for my personal humiliation. That this whole setup screams "Halloween haunted house" with an unlimited budget.
But my knotted stomach knows better. Nothing about his body language suggests this is a joke. The man in black doesn't acknowledge me beyond existing. His posture says it all: You’re late to class, and I’ve already begun.
My eyes dart around, searching for something—anything—that might make this less terrifying. But each detail only makes it worse.
The room is larger than I expected, unnervingly long with an echo that amplifies every sound. Raw stone walls climb upward to meet low, dark beams. The amber bulbs in their cages create patches of clarity that reveal more horrors than they hide.
A thick mat lies in the center of the floor—"weird wrestling carpet," my brain supplies desperately, refusing to consider its actual purpose.
Something shiny catches my eye—a mirror on the wall. For half a heartbeat, I glimpse my own reflection, pale and wide-eyed, before jerking away. Seeing myself here, trembling and small, feels like an intrusion into my own fear.
In the corner stands what looks like a giant beam. "Just an unfinished support post," I tell myself. But why is there leather strapped around it? My thoughts skitter away from that question like cockroaches from light.