The Lord of Misrule

10 -- Revenge

"So just don't lock the door until you see her out," said Steve with a wag of the finger, "Just don't do it, okay pal? Easy, right?"

But Godric took this well. Listened with dark attention until Alan poked his head in, and Godric smiled at him. The skinny janitor smiled back with confusion. Eyebrows twitched and he turned to Steve, spewing nervous and meaningless words. Durst only sat there and let it roll off him until Steve and Alan each left with a final jab about the door. Alan's joke was weird and made no sense.

Godric watched them on security feeds when they left. Steve's lips moved in almost violent speech as they descended the stairs. Alan was hanging behind him by a few steps, listening, tight faced. Awkward and uncomfortable.

Godric made progress on any of his little projects, and after some hours had passed, he set out on the first patrol of the night. He'd paid more attention to the cameras this time, and had seen nothing, as usual.

When records room hall there came a careening cry the moment he shut the door—he had slammed it more than he meant, and jumped at the cry of accusation—except it wasn't an accusation.

"Help me!" It was Ada; unmissably her—the accent couldn't lie. "Help!" she cried again after a pause.

A dread swelled over Godric—pens drew black X's all over his skin. The girls shouting came from behind the records room door—locked-in again! And once again there would be none but him to blame for it!

Godric all but sprinted to the door—the key was already in his hand—he gripped the knob. But it turned with ease. Unlocked after all. He let go; the door drifted ajar.

From behind it there came a sort of thud. Something low-down and solid. Maybe a foot-stomping, or perhaps a book fell to the floor.

"Hello?" he called out.

No answer.

Godric pushed the door with his fingertips instead of throwing it, and the creaking wood drifted open into an empty room. Durst jumped when the knob found the wall with a tap.

There was total silence among the stacks that loomed over him. No explanation of the shouts presented itself, no shouter and no shadow, nor was there anything that seemed to have created the thud. All deserted.

"Uh, hello?" Durst called.

Felt like a vampire that couldn't enter a house without explicit permission, lest it be called harassment.

"Are you there Ms. Galli? What's the trouble? I heard you call."

Nothing came, and he asked, "Is anyone there?"

No response, and he said, more to himself than anyone else, "I'm coming in..."

The room was dark too; the only illumination came from a lamp someplace beyond the shelves and a glass-shielded bulb planted in the ceiling above his head.

Ada wasn't at the desk when he reached it, though it looked like it had been abandoned mid-work, and recently. A laptop sat open, the internal fan still humming. Hadn't even shifted to a screen saver yet—a spreadsheet belched green into the room.

A notebook and an uncapped pen sat in a cleared space, a strange list of words sprawling out across the page, "Final Lexicon" written as a heading. To Godric it looked like a list of synonyms for business-type words. Next to that sat a banker's box and a toppled stack of folders beneath a desk lamp's glow. There was no sign of a struggle.

Godric turned from this to the darkened room and switched on his flashlight. The brightness that slashed through shadow with ease revealed no new information. He called out again, still no reply.

Puzzled, Godric made his way to the far end of the room, of which Ada's desk formed a mid-point for the entire length. His breath quickened at the thought of a small dying lump curled up out of sight on the hardwood—enveloped by shadows as her breathing slowed, vision blurred, and ever-weakening limbs reached out towards the door. He found himself walking fast, but the far side was as empty as the light-drenched sector near to the door.

Then that first strange noise came again.

Low-down and solid—Durst stopped in his tracks to listen. It carried a different sort of essence that could not be perceived in the hall. Something that made it sound more like a heavy mechanical click than a book being dropped.

Godric took a careful step back towards the door, and the floor creaked under him. Loud enough that it seemed to carry across the room. Godric cringed, and pressed on, trying and failing to soften his steps.

When he'd made it halfway to the door another creak came a mere instant after he'd stepped. From a few shelves away. He halted hard. That was no echo—no tremor carried down the length of a board.

Someone was there. Stepping when he did.

"Hello?" the word was a touch hard.

Silence—Godric waited.

Too many boxes and shelves to see what was there in the minimal light. Durst took a regular step and then a second faster than his unusual pace. Again, the noise came a fraction late. Out of synch.

"Who is that?"

The words came as more of a growl than he'd meant. He took a step towards them—this time the echo made it sound like an angry stomp.

Something slammed hard on the opposite side of a shelf—Durst charged. It was a box of records. Tumbled from the top shelf to spill its paper guts out everywhere in a bursting rip of cardboard. No one in sight.

A light-stepping skitter crossed the wood a few shelves up and the lamplight vanished with a plastic click. A book hit the ground behind Godric—he spun—a mistake.

Stomping rushed to him on creaking wood behind him and a hard shoe stampeded into his groin. Pain exploded up his body like a wave washing over him and he doubled over.

"Fuck!" he groaned.

Another strike hit his ass while he was half bent and clenching his gut; it knocked him onto his face. He hit the ground and the spilled box hard, slipping on loose-leaf.

Something tugged at his belt—the keychain attached to it rather—and it pulled away from his body on the chord. Slammed back to him after a reverberating strike; the keys gone.

Durst shouted a hoarse protest before rolling over to snatch at the form hovering over him; but he slipped on the scattered papers again. Above him bloodshot brown eyes—both determined and terrified—stared down, and a small blade gleamed in the laptops green glow.

The figure hesitated before vanished through the door, slamming the wood shut behind.

The lock clicked.

Stomping creaks fleddown the hall at a run.

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