There is an unspoken rule that dictates that all stories, regardless of intent and genre, must be satisfying.

So I'll start by telling you right now that my tale won't abide by that rule.

My tale isn't some leisurely story, not if I am to be faithful to what occurred.

I'll have to tell my story as it happened. A slow, drawn out death. No lesson, no closure, no reason. Nothing to justify what happened to my friends me. If you're looking for answers, leave, turn away,

shut the door, you won't find them here.

Nightmare, like all sickly malformed children, have a point of conception and birth.

Mine was birthed in my elementary school, vile and caustic.

I like to think that every school has them. vile and caustic.

I like to think that every school has them.

Little rumors and myths about a place.

Ours just happened to be, the wasting room. In the center of the East Wing of the School was a brick building about the size of a small garage

When I was in third grade I walked past it and was immediately entranced by it. I went up to it and ran my finger along the surface of the weathered brick, reveling in the amalgamation of strange textures, spongy patches of moss, brick and mortar as rough as rough as such as strange to a single surface. I circled the building, running my finger alongside it until I stood in front

of the door. I impulsively reached for the door knob and rested my hand on the cold,

rusted brass door handle.

Energy seeped from it to me, the transferring of an idea, an instinct, calling to me.

I know that's what he was doing.

My hand tightened around the handle and I was starting to twist it open

when the harsh reprimands of a woman's voice froze me in place.

Christopher, what are you doing?

asked my teacher, Mrs Leor.

She gave me a mild scolding before telling me that room was off limits and to run along and get to class.

Later the day at recess I asked my friends Danny and Leer about the mysterious Red Brick

...