Chapter 2 - The Fourth Floor
Julian’s scraper clattered against the wet floorboards.
His name. The voice knew his name.
He stood up so fast his head hit the low ceiling junction box, sending a shower of dry rust down his shirt collar. He didn't feel the sting. He grabbed his heavy steel flashlight from the bucket, his palm slick with cold sweat.
There wasn't supposed to be anyone on the fourth floor. The fourth floor had been padlocked with three heavy chains since 2021, when the county fire marshal declared the roof joists structurally unsafe.
Julian walked out of the basement boiler room, his worn boots squeaking on the slick linoleum corridor. The air smelled of old damp wool, rot, and the sharp chemical bite of pine cleanser.
He didn't take the main elevator shaft—the cables were rusted solid. He took the rear service stairwell, his left hand sliding along the cold iron railing. Every footstep echoed up the shaft, multiplying in his ears until it sounded like a dozen men were marching up behind him.
When he reached the third-floor landing, he stopped.
The heavy steel door marked WARD 4 - NO ACCESS had been unchained. The three heavy Master locks weren't cut; they were sitting open on a wooden stool beside the frame, the keys still sticking out of the brass tumblers.
Fresh grease glistened on the hinges.
Julian backed up half a step. Every survival instinct he had learned in five years of state foster care screamed at him to turn around, walk down the stairs, get on his rusted bicycle, and pedal until he hit the highway.
Then he heard it again. Coming through the crack in the door.
A raspy, wet cough. Followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of a rubber boot dragging across linoleum.
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Someone was walking toward the door from the inside.
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