Drip.

A short horror story. Me and my friend came up with the idea a while ago.

*Drip.*

Part I:

After a dark winter's day, the bell screams its dismissive ring, releasing the enthusiastic children into the cold, bitter afternoon. Mrs. Davies, a plump but jolly lady, waves the children off at the window. Some wave back, but not many. She is an exhausted but dedicated teacher, standing wearily by the new staffroom coffee machine. The unnerving drip...drip...drip of a leaky pipe above the ancient heater is a constant irritation. It is there all day, every day, and it never seems to get fixed. She pours herself a lukewarm cup from the premade pot, the metallic taste of it doing little to combat the exhaustion at the end of the day. She takes a seat next to the machine on an old scarlet armchair, her eyelids drooping. She wakes with a jolt. The school is silent, a tomb of darkness minus the slow dripping of the pipe. Panic claws at her throat. She races out into the hall for the front doors, which are already locked. she tries to shake them, kick them, but the large bolts are unyielding. She glances at the clock again, its white face now cracked, frozen at the same time it had always been, its hands sharp, as though they were frozen in place to cut through the fabric of time itself. Its stillness gnaws at her, the absence of movement a dark promise of what is to come. She takes deep breaths, trying to get a better idea of her surroundings. The air in the school is strangely warm tonight, as though it’s carrying something heavy, something that doesn’t belong. It clings to her skin, suffocating in its sweetness, as though the building itself is breathing too deeply. The drip...drip...drip is louder now, more insistent. She stumbles back into the staffroom, tripping over her own feet. She looks around. Listens. The heater, an ancient iron monster, emits a low, unnatural humming or buzzing. Water from the old pipe falls onto its surface, instantly turning to ice, a cold crystallization forming around the rusty behemoth. She touches it, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. It's impossibly cold, emitting an icy energy that creeps into her bones, unlike any feeling she had ever come close to experiencing. Driven by her forming desperation, she tries another exit, through the back of the school. Her footsteps echo on the old wooden floor throughout the empty halls. locked again. She moves through the empty halls, searching for any escape, but deep down, she knows there is none. As she walks, she passes a classroom undergoing maintenance. It has a big, wooden door, unusual for a classroom in this school. The door is covered in long strips of caution tape and has little scratches down it. Curiosity and a strange sense of dread pull her toward it. The drip...drip...drip is deafeningly loud inside. She hesitates, weighs up her choices, then slowly opens the door, peering into the gloom. The air shivers with an unnatural cold. She takes a slow, cautious step inside. Then, snap, black. loud wailing police sirens are heard all around the school. Mrs. Davies lies sprawled against the wall, with no sign of any door. Her head is gruesomely open, revealing the cracked bone beneath. But there’s no blood. Just a waxy liquid and a thin layer of frost clinging to the edges of the wound, as if she had been frozen from the inside out. But the school is warm...

Part II:

20 years later, Sarah, a tall, slim, woman fresh out of university, wakes up to her alarm, nervous to start her first job as a teacher at the same primary school. She gets out of bed, excited to start the day. She puts some bread in her small toaster and gets some butter ready. The toast is enjoyable but is rushed by her second alarm. She finishes off her breakfast, gets dressed in some formal clothes, pulls on some boots, and runs to catch her bus to work. As Sarah steps out of her apartment, a sudden gust of wind tugs at her clothes, though the air is otherwise still. It’s an unsettling kind of stillness, as if the world itself is holding its breath. She pays the fee and sits near the center. She looks at her surroundings, her leg bouncing in excitement and nervousness. The bus shudders to a stop, the doors hissing as they open. Sarah gets off the bus, making sure to thank the elderly bus driver. She stands outside the old metal gates of the school. The building is made of an old but inviting brick, covered in history. As she walks into the building, a nice older teacher offers her a cup of coffee. Sarah accepts, as she had never had coffee, so the teacher limps over to the ancient coffee machine in the staff room and pours her a cup of the premade coffee. "It’s the best coffee you’ll ever taste," the teacher smiles, though her eyes never meet Sarah’s. "The machine’s old, but it keeps brewing. Just like the school. Always here, always..." As she sips the coffee, Sarah thinks she sees something strange in the teacher’s eyes, a flicker of recognition, but it’s gone before she can pinpoint it. The coffee is rich and smooth, but something about it tastes… familiar in a way she can’t quite place. Almost too familiar. She takes her coffee and sits down in an old red armchair to take in her surroundings. She notices a Buddha statue on the shelf, which seems almost out of place in the corner. Its surface is worn, the paint chipped from years of hands brushing over it. When Sarah touches it, a fleeting coldness tingles through her fingertips, a shiver she shakes off as nothing more than the chill of the room. The school bell rings, and small children start to pour into the class. Sarah introduces herself as she embarks on her new job. The students take to her instantly, eager to ask questions, which she happily answers. As the day ends, she heads home with a smile, feeling fulfilled. She boards the bus home, exhaustion settling in after a fulfilling first day. As the rhythmic hum of the engine edges her into sleep, a contented smile lingers on her lips. Her dreams are filled with the excitement of new beginnings, the warmth of her students’ curiosity, and the promise of the journey ahead.The days pass, each one feeling like a warm embrace of normalcy. The students’ laughter, the gentle hum of the coffee machine, and the familiar ritual of rubbing the Buddha’s belly, Sarah settles into her new life as though this routine is all there is. It feels like the beginning of something beautiful, as though she has finally found her place. But beneath it all, something old, something forgotten, stirs. She even meets a nice man who takes her out for dinner one evening. Then, there is a knock at the door. The postman. A letter. Sarah's father, dead of a heart attack. She gets the bus to the hospital. His lifeless body is there, on the bed. She kneels next to him and cries, holding his cold hand. The following day, she's a ghost of herself, enveloped by grief. She forgets the coffee. She forgets the Buddha. The world feels distant, like she’s watching it through frosted glass. Everything is muffled. The weight of her father’s absence presses down on her like an unspoken truth, one she can’t yet face, but the silence is deafening. Her eyes feel hollow, and her smile, a mask she hasn’t been able to take off. The students seem less excitable, less eager. At the end of the day, exhausted and drained, she collapses next to the coffee machine in the red armchair and drifts off to sleep. She wakes in darkness, the noise held captive by the voiceless shadows. A familiar sense of claustrophobia consumes her. She pounds on the doors, but they remain locked. The only response is the creaking and groaning of the old building, echoing through the silence. Then, drip. One single drop falls onto the heater. It freezes instantly. Compelled by morbid curiosity, she touches it. A jolt of icy shock reverberates through her. The heater is so cold it sends a shiver down her spine, colder than anything she’s ever felt, almost unnatural, almost… impossible. As Sarah walks through the empty hallways, the familiar sounds of children’s footsteps, once comforting, now feel distant, muffled. She passes by the old classroom, its door still covered in caution tape. For a brief moment, she hears the unmistakable sound of dripping water, though she knows it’s just her imagination. But something about the silence, the stillness in the halls, makes her heart beat just a little faster, as though the school itself is watching her, waiting. She slowly pushes open the door, its hinges whining in protest. The room beyond is a void of absolute darkness, a box of unbearable cold and suffocating silence. Yet, something lingers in the air, unseen, but undeniably present. A weight, a presence. Holding her breath, she takes a single step inside. Then... nothing. Sarah's lifeless body is pressed against the wall where the door once stood, cold and still. Her once-vibrant form now slumps in the oppressive darkness, a chilling reminder of her final, silent step into the void. Her head open, but no blood. Just the same eerie frost, waxy liquid. The same void of life.

Part III:

The alarm clock’s beep slices through the silence, but as the young woman stirs, something about the room feels wrong, familiar. A shadow stretches across the walls, unnaturally long. Her gaze catches the clock, frozen at the same time it had always been. Time has betrayed her before. She shakes off the remnants of sleep, hurriedly getting ready for work, unaware of the horrors that lie in wait. She climbs into her small car, the engine humming to life as she pulls away from her driveway. The drive to the school is a blur, the new streets passing by as she drifts in thought of her new life. Soon, she arrives at the school, the welcoming building standing quietly in the early morning light. It feels just like any other day, but something in the air, a tension she can't place, suggests otherwise. The familiar walls and halls offer no hint of the darkness lurking beneath. As she walks through the corridors towards the staffroom, she passes the old classroom, carrying a strange, unsettling atmosphere. Still covered in caution tape. Her footsteps echo softly, and then, from within the room, a barely audible drip breaks the silence, each drop hanging in the air like a whisper of something that should not be.