Cindy and Alam walked side by side down the academy's dark hall. A single bulb flickered in the corner, throwing shadows that stretched and snapped across the walls. A cold draft brushed the back of Alam's neck, and he shivered, pausing mid‑step.
"The Dean's office is just ahead," Cindy said, gesturing toward an old oak door at the far end. Its frame loomed heavy, carved with cracks that looked like veins.
Alam glanced at the door, then back at her. She nodded enthusiastically. "Go on," she urged.
"W‑will you come with me?" he asked, voice hesitant.
"I have classes to attend," she replied casually, her tone light.
"Classes? You're not a nurse?" Alam frowned.
"Oh, goodness no. I'm a student, like you." Cindy smiled, her eyes glinting. "Well, not exactly — I'm a Junior. I think your file said you're a Freshman?"
"Yeah," Alam muttered.
Her phone chimed. Cindy glanced at the screen, lips curling into a grin.
"Gotta go. See ya, handsome!" she called, already halfway down the hall, her footsteps echoing until they vanished into the dark.
Alam was left staring at the oak door, the flickering light above it buzzing like a swarm of angry insects. The air smelled faintly of damp wood and old paper, a mustiness that clung to his throat.
The door creaked open, its hinges groaning like something alive. A draft spilled out, colder than before, brushing his skin and raising goosebumps along his arms.
He inched forward, each step echoing too loudly in the hollow corridor. His breath caught, chest tight, as shadows stretched across the floor like grasping fingers.
Then — a voice slipped from the darkness, low and deliberate, smooth yet unsettling.
Alam jolted back, heart hammering against his ribs.
"Please... come in, Mister Lestari," the woman's voice called, velvet and chilling.
He cautiously stepped through the door. The air inside was heavier, tinged with the musk of old wood and dust. A dim glow pooled across the room, shadows clinging to the corners like secrets.
Several things caught his eye at once:
• An ancient cuckoo clock, its tick‑tock sharp and relentless, echoing like a heartbeat in the silence.
• A massive oak desk, scarred and polished by years of use, smelling faintly of varnish and ink.
• A sign on the desk that read: Dean Chinyama
• An old, rusted iron door set into the left wall, its surface pitted and flaking, streaked with orange corrosion. A heavy padlock and deadbolt clung to it.
• A metronome swaying back and forth, its click slicing the air with mechanical precision.
• The woman at her station, fingers striking the keys of a mechanical keyboard, each clack crisp and metallic, like teeth snapping shut.
• And on the wall, looming above it all, a black metallic hyena mask — its hollow eyes glinting faintly, its muzzle stretched into a frozen, mocking grin, crimson teeth bared as if mid‑laugh.
The Dean sat rigidly behind the oak desk, her frame tall and angular, draped in a dark chitenje‑patterned shawl that seemed to swallow the dim light. Her skin carried a deep, earthen tone, and her cheekbones were sharp, casting shadows that made her face look carved from stone. A thin chain of spectacles perched low on her nose, lenses flashing like shards whenever the metronome clicked. Her hair, streaked with iron gray, was braided close to her scalp in neat rows, each line severe, exposing the ridges of her skull. Around her neck hung a beaded necklace in red and black, the colors of Chewa ritual, its pattern echoing the hyena mask looming above her. When she looked up, her eyes caught the glow — cold, metallic, and unblinking, like the mask itself — and her voice carried the weight of ancestral cadence, velvet yet chilling, as though every syllable was spoken from a place older than the Academy walls.
Alam's breath caught. The room felt alive, every sound amplified, every object watching.
Alam's gaze locked on the mask. Its hollow eyes seemed to glimmer in the dim light, the metallic grin frozen mid‑laugh, jagged teeth gleaming like they were waiting to bite. The ticking clock and swaying metronome fell away, drowned beneath the pounding in his ears.
"Rangda..." he whispered, the word trembling out of him like a curse, haunting and reverent all at once.
The syllables hung in the air, heavy, as if the room itself recoiled at the name.
"What was that, Mister Lestari?" Dean Chinyama asked, her tone curious but edged with something unreadable.
"Um... are you—"
He was cut off by a sudden bang that rattled the rusted iron door. The impact reverberated through the room like a cannon blast, sending a shiver down his spine.
From behind the door came the scrape of claws against metal — long, jagged scratches that shrieked like nails dragged across bone. Then the noises followed: a guttural snarl, wet and ragged, swelling into a chorus of throaty growls that rose and fell like something half‑starved, half‑rabid. The sound carried a sick rhythm, broken by low, rasping breaths that wheezed as though the creature's lungs were collapsing with every inhale.
The padlock rattled against its chain, trembling with each impact, as if the barrier itself was straining to hold back the thing beyond. The air thickened, heavy with the metallic tang of rust and the sour musk of decay, clinging to Alam's throat like smoke.
He froze, pulse hammering, every instinct screaming that something unnatural pressed against the door, desperate to get out.
The Dean's voice rose sharply, slicing through the discord. "I'm Dean Chinyama. Please, have a seat."
Her hand flicked toward the lone chair in front of the desk. Its iron frame gleamed faintly in the dim light, the cushion worn thin, threads fraying like veins.
Alam inched forward, his club foot dragging across the old carpet. The fibers rasped against the sole of his shoe, releasing a musty odor of dust and age. Each step felt louder than it should, swallowed by the ticking clock and the metronome's relentless sway.
The chair groaned beneath his weight, its iron frame cold against his palms.
"How are you enjoying your first day, Mister Lestari?" Dean Chinyama asked, her voice flat, stripped of warmth, each syllable falling like stone.
Alam barely heard her. His eyes wandered, pulled by the ticking clock, the metronome's relentless sway, the clack of her mechanical keys. The room seemed to breathe around him, every sound amplified, every shadow stretching.
Then his gaze snagged on the hyena mask again. Its hollow eyes glinted faintly in the dim light, staring back with a cruel mirth that felt alive, as though it had chosen him for its next joke.
The Dean cleared her throat, snapping his attention back to her.
"Yes, sorry. It's going good so far," he said softly, dropping his head.
"Really?" she replied, faint sarcasm curling her tone. He nodded quickly, eager to appease.
"Then why are you starting fights?" Her voice sharpened, annoyance cutting through the room.
"I—"
She sliced across his words. "Mister Lestari, since this is your first day, I should let you know this Academy has a zero‑tolerance policy for fighting."
"But—"
Her interruption came again, harder. "If you cause any more trouble, I'll be calling your stepmother and having you shipped back to whatever third‑world backwater country you came from!"
"I didn't—"
"Are we clear?!" she barked, the metronome's click punctuating her fury.
"Please, let me explain—"
"You don't need to explain anything. Ewan told me everything," she said, assured, her flat voice echoing against the walls.
"Ewan told you...?" Alam muttered, disbelief tightening his throat.
"Yes. He told me you mocked Fitz for his weight, and that's what started the fight."
"That's not what—"
"Mister Lestari, you've been warned. Don't start fights on my campus again."
"I wouldn't—"
"Good! Now get out of my office." Her final words cracked like a gavel, leaving the ticking clock and the hollow stare of the hyena mask to fill the silence.
He retreated into the hallway, the oak door slamming shut behind him with a final, echoing thud. The corridor smelled faintly of polish and dust, its silence broken only by the hum of flickering light overhead.
Waiting there was a familiar face.
"Ewan?" Alam said, startled.
"Hey, Alam," Ewan replied nervously, shifting his weight. "How'd it go, Fam?"
Alam turned away, shoulders heavy. "You betrayed me.