Lena hated Mondays, but High School 3 always smelled of adventure and chalk. After the holidays, the north wing reopened, although Room 24 remained closed to the public. Older yearbooks said that biology slides used to live there, not necessarily dead ones. The headmaster repeated that this was nonsense, and that the key had been lost during the renovation of the lab. Lena listened half-heartedly, jotting down the dates of her midterm test and a list of topics to revise. And yet, as she walked past the door, she felt a gentle draft, as if someone was whispering. After her last lesson, she found an envelope in her locker, unstamped, with her name in machine print. Inside lay a brass key on a string and a note: Do not open Room 24. Her heart began to work faster, but curiosity overtook reason by a whole half a floor. She called Maks, a partner from the debating circle who liked to crack school riddles. He arrived in five minutes, with a torch and a smile that usually ended in trouble. - 'If we're not going to open it, all the more reason to see,' he stated without hesitation. The corridor of the north wing sounded empty, even though the clock only indicated sixteen-thirty. The light from the fluorescent tubes pulsed unevenly, casting shadows that arranged themselves in strange angles. Behind the glass of an old display case, a dust-covered atlas moved, as if someone had poked it. Lena reminded herself that they had a test on genetics tomorrow, and she had yet to repeat it. However, her feet carried her by themselves to the number 24 plate, dull as an old photograph. The key fit smoothly, all the way suspiciously; the lock vibrated when footsteps sounded in the corridor. They ducked into an alcove by the hydrant, obscured by a rolled-up evacuation plan and a chalk box. A caretaker walked by, muttering a tune from the radio, and stopped for a moment at the door. He touched the handle, looked through the window, then shrugged his shoulders and walked slowly away. Maks looked out first, and Lena slipped the key in again, this time turning it more boldly. A quiet rustle came from inside, reminiscent of the start of rain, although it wasn't raining. - 'Do you hear that rustle, like pages turning or a projector on? - She whispered, pressing her ear to the doorframe. The door sprang open a hand's width away, letting out a trickle of cool air and the smell of alcohol. A greenish glow flashed in the semi-darkness, from which her arms became covered in goosebumps. A light from an old microscope flicked red on the desk, though they did not touch the switch. Maks lifted the phone, ready to record, when a distinct click sounded somewhere deep inside. Then someone, invisible from the threshold, clearly spoke Lena's name, in a very calm, schoolboy voice. Lena's fingers tightened on the key, as another voice, a younger one, spoke from the darkness: - Don't turn around.