Shadows in the Hall

St. Jude’s was a labyrinth of despair.

The hallways were endless, lined with lockers that wouldn't open and portraits of people whose faces had been scratched out. The air was always cold, a damp chill that seeped into the soul—or whatever was left of it.

Elliot learned quickly that Julian wasn't exaggerating about the dangers.

On his third day, during the transition between the Dormitory and the Lecture Hall, Elliot lagged behind. The crowd of grey, shuffling students was thick, a river of apathy. Elliot stopped to tie his shoe—a habit from life that persisted in death.

When he stood up, the crowd was gone.

The hallway was empty. The lights overhead flickered, buzzing like angry hornets.

From the shadows of the locker banks, shapes began to detach themselves. They weren't students. They were jagged, shifting silhouettes of pure darkness, with white, gaping holes where mouths should be.

* Shadows.* Lesser souls who had lost their memories and degraded into hunger.

Elliot backed away, his heart hammering a phantom rhythm against his ribs. "Julian?" he squeaked.

The Shadows hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe. They lunged.

Elliot squeezed his eyes shut and threw his arms up, waiting for the teeth.

* CRACK.*

The sound of impact was wet and heavy.

Elliot opened his eyes.

Julian stood before him, a silhouette of charcoal and fury. He held a heavy iron poker—where had he gotten that?—and swung it with brutal efficiency. He didn't fight like a brawler; he fought like an executioner. He smashed the nearest Shadow into dissipation, the darkness dissolving into smoke.

The other Shadows recoiled, screeching.

"Mine!" Julian roared. The voice wasn't the polite, melodic tone Elliot was used to. It was a guttural, ancient sound that shook the dust from the ceiling. "He is mine!"

The Shadows fled, melting back into the cracks of the walls.

Julian stood panting for a moment, then turned. The fury vanished instantly, replaced by a look of profound disappointment.

He dropped the poker and walked over to Elliot. He didn't ask if Elliot was hurt. He grabbed Elliot by the upper arm, his grip bruising.

"I told you," Julian hissed, shaking him slightly. "I told you to stay close."

"I'm sorry," Elliot sobbed, his legs giving out. "I just... my shoe..."

"You are helpless," Julian said. It wasn't an insult; it was a statement of fact. "You can't survive five minutes in this place on your own. You are a rabbit in a den of wolves."

Julian pulled Elliot into his chest. The embrace was suffocatingly tight. Elliot buried his face in Julian’s vest, shaking uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry, Julian. Please don't leave me."

Julian’s hand came up to stroke the back of Elliot’s head, a rhythmic, hypnotic motion.

"I won't leave you, El," Julian cooed into his ear. "But you have to listen. You have to let me do the thinking. You were never good at it, were you?"

"No," Elliot admitted, the relief washing over him like warm water. "I wasn't."

"Then stop trying," Julian commanded. "I'll keep you safe. I'll make the decisions. All you have to do is exist. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," Elliot breathed. "Yes, Julian."