I yanked my shirt on and hurried from the bathroom before it could start again. As the door shut behind me, all went silent. An empty hall.

"You!"

I spun to see a custodian walking toward me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Th-the bathroom," I said. "I was using the bathroom."

He kept coming. I didn't recognize him. He was maybe my dad's age, with a brush cut, wearing our school janitorial uniform. A temp, filling in for Mr. Teitlebaum.

"I —I'm heading to c-class now."

I started walking.

"You! Get back here. I want to talk to you."

The only other sound was my footsteps. My footsteps. Why couldn't I hear his?

I walked faster.

A blur passed me. The air shimmered about ten feet ahead, a figure taking form in a custodian's shirt and slacks. I wheeled and broke into a run.

The man let out a snarl that echoed down the hall. A student rounded the corner, and we almost collided. I stammered an apology and glanced over my shoulder. The janitor was gone.

I exhaled and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the blue uniform shirt was inches from my face. I looked up . . . and let out a shriek.

He looked like a mannequin that had gotten too close to a fire. Face burned. Melted. One eye bulged, exposed. The other eye had slid down near his cheekbone, the whole cheek sagging, lips drooping, skin shiny and misshapen and —

The twisted lips parted. "Maybe now you'll pay attention to me."

I ran headlong down the hall. As I flew past one classroom door, it opened.

"Chloe?" A man's voice.

I kept running.

"Talk to me!" the horrible, garbled voice snarled, getting closer. "Do you know how long I've been trapped here?"

I flew through the doors into the stairwell and headed up.

Up? All the stupid heroines go up!