Shadows of Alarun

Chapter 4: The Locked Room

Dayan dropped her backpack and slammed her fists furiously against the heavy wooden door. She screamed until her throat burned, her voice echoing off the peeling paint of the abandoned walls.

"Help! Open this door! Let me out!"

The old wood barely rattled under her frantic blows. She spun around, pressing her back against the door. The long hallway was pitch-dark, illuminated only by dusty, pale slivers of sunlight squeezing through boarded-up windows. The stagnant air was thick and suffocating, smelling strongly of rot, old sulfur, and damp earth.

"Hey," a voice suddenly echoed from the other side of the door. It was deeply distorted, metallic, and incredibly unsettling, like someone speaking through a heavy cloth or an electronic scrambler.

Dayan froze. She pressed her ear flat against the cold wood. "Who's out there? Unlock this door right now!"

"You're too curious for your own good, Dayan," the distorted voice whispered, the sound vibrating through the wood.

Dayan froze, a chill racing down her spine. The person outside knew her name.

"Who are you?" Dayan demanded, trying desperately to keep her voice from shaking. "Is this Erol? If this is a joke, it isn't funny."

"Erol is a lovesick fool," the voice replied slowly, dripping with cold malice. "I told you to stop digging into things that don't concern you. You're becoming a serious problem. And problems need to be eliminated."

Dayan backed away from the door, her hands trembling violently. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to learn a very painful lesson."

Heavy footsteps crunched deliberately on the gravel outside, moving slowly away from the door until absolute silence reclaimed the hallway.

Dayan yanked her phone from her pocket, but the screen boldly declared, “No Signal”. The thick brick walls and basement foundations completely blocked her out. She was completely cut off from the world.

Refusing to panic, she moved down the hallway, rattling every door handle she could find. Every room was locked tight. Finally, at the very end of the hall, just past Clara’s abandoned black shoe, she found a small door marked “Janitorial”. She grabbed the rusted handle and twisted.

It clicked loudly.

The door creaked open, revealing a steep, narrow concrete stairwell leading down into absolute, suffocating darkness. The basement. A blast of freezing air hit her face, carrying the intense, sharp scent of industrial bleach mixed with raw copper. It smelled exactly like fresh blood.

A heavy, slow scraping noise echoed from the bottom of the invisible stairs. Metal dragging on concrete. Someone was down there.

Dayan wanted to sprint back to the front door, but a sudden noise behind her made her freeze.

Click.

The deadbolt on the main hallway door turned. The heavy wood groaned open, letting in a blinding flood of bright daylight. Dayan stood frozen near the basement stairs, staring down the long, dusty corridor.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped into the light, blocking her only exit.

It wasn't Rupert. It wasn't Erol.

It was Wayne Cross.

Wayne was a brilliant, deeply disturbed medical student who worked the graveyard shift at the city morgue. He was an absolute ghost on campus. He always wore dark, shapeless clothes that hung loosely on his large frame, and his messy, jet-black hair constantly fell into his hollow, exhausted eyes. Rumor said he had been violently expelled from his previous university for nearly beating a student to death with his bare hands. Everyone on campus went out of their way to avoid him.

"What are you doing here?" Wayne asked. His voice was deep, incredibly rough, and completely devoid of any normal human emotion.

"Someone locked me in," Dayan stammered, taking a small, terrified step away from the dark basement stairs. "I heard a voice. They just left."

Wayne reached out and pushed the heavy door closed, plunging the hallway back into dim, terrifying shadows. He began to walk toward her with slow, deliberate, stalking steps. He didn't look surprised to find her there; he looked like a predator patiently observing a trapped prey.

"You shouldn't be exploring abandoned buildings," Wayne said, stopping just a foot away from her. "Dangerous people hide in places like this."

Dayan stared up at him, refusing to let him see how badly her knees were shaking. "How do you know my name? We have never spoken."

Wayne ignored her question. Moving faster than she could track, he reached out and grabbed her right hand. Dayan gasped loudly, trying to yank her arm back, but his grip was like iron. He turned her hand over, staring intently at her bruised, bleeding knuckles from where she had pounded on the wood.

Slowly, he reached into his dark jacket pocket and pulled out a perfectly clean, white cotton handkerchief. Without saying a word, he began to gently wipe the blood from her skin. His touch was surprisingly soft—an unbelievable contrast to his violent reputation and massive size. The dark chemistry between his terrifying presence and his tender care made Dayan's heart race confusingly.

"You're looking for the man with the scar," Wayne said quietly, his eyes was focused on cleaning her knuckles.

Dayan felt her heart stop. "How do you know about that? That information was classified."

Wayne finally looked up. His dark, deep-set eyes locked onto hers, swirling with unimaginable tragedy and a heavy exhaustion. "I work at the morgue, Dayan. I helped the coroner undress Clara's body last night. She had human skin and torn blue fabric completely jammed under her fingernails."

Dayan gasped, trying to pull her hand away again. This time, Wayne tightened his iron grip and stepped aggressively close to her. He towered over her, his massive chest trapping her flat against the hallway wall. The gentle caregiver vanished, replaced by the monster everyone rumored him to be.

"Drop this," Wayne whispered roughly, his hot breath brushing against her ear. "You're playing a game with people who will break you into pieces. If you keep looking for the scarred man, you will end up dead on one of my metal tables."

"Let go of me," Dayan demanded, gathering every ounce of her stubborn courage. She shoved both hands hard against his broad chest to push him away.

As her hands slid aggressively over his left shoulder, she felt something hard, thick, and brutally uneven through his jacket and shirt. It was a massive, raised scar.

Wayne instantly realized what she had felt. He stepped back sharply. His hollow eyes flashed with sudden fury.

He reached deep into his coat pocket and pulled out a long object wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the concrete floor directly at her feet. The cloth fell open, revealing a long, silver hunting knife crusted with dried blood.

"You dropped this," Wayne said coldly.

Before Dayan could even process the weapon, Wayne turned around and walked out of the building, slamming the door hard behind him, leaving her completely alone in the dark with the murder weapon.