Day 352

The door to the staircase was always locked but for some reason today it was wide open.
It seemed to beckon him upstairs (though there was no upstairs, it led to the roof).
With nothing urgent that needed doing immediately and no class for twenty or so minutes
he walked up those steps - if nothing else he'd at least have a story to tell.

It didn't lead to the roof... it should have led to the roof but there was clearly a second floor.
Strange how you couldn't see it from the outside or maybe you could?
The door was locked but there were people inside working on some art installation or something.
They wore old fashioned costumes and as they noticed him they looked so excited.

One yelled the code is 1919 and sure enough the door opened.
Stepping inside he felt the air grow cold, could even see his breath mist in front of him.
The people inside didn't seem to mind it though their skin was faintly blue.
Even their voices were strange, they sounded hollow and tinny like they were far away.

They were so happy so see him even if they kept a fair distance away.
A bell rang and they scurried off, leaving him alone and surrounded by grotesque artwork.
The frames were twice the size of him, showing bodies in varying stages of disfigurement and
decay, plastered onto what appeared to be thin plaster walls.

Whispering noises came from behind thick curtains that hung loosely between the white walls.
Some had large holes torn through them, painted brown in places and stiff like they'd been starched.
Peering through one he saw the costumed people kneeling in a circle, muttering and cursing.
He heard them say his name with such anger it made him audibly gasp.

Their heads snapped round with a sickening crack and he leapt back, stumbling away.
The door he had come through was locked from the outside and with no way to input the code he
found himself stranded among these strange people, if they even were people.
His next thought was to find a window and try to escape to the ground floor, anywhere but there.

As he walked he saw their pale blue faces glaring at him through the holes and slits in the curtains.
They looked furious, hissing curses at him as he passed by and muttering the word blue.
Passing by a mirror he turned sharply to stare at himself, realising why they'd been staring.
His skin, formerly tan, was now the same pale blue as the costumed people.

While he was distracted by the state of his skin, the coldness that had begun to seep into his bones
he never noticed the people creeping out from behind the curtains, brushes and wires in hand.
The same bell that had caused them to flee now sent them in, swarming around as he screamed.
They put up a new painting depicting him in his final moments of torment and were pleased.

They said the stairs at the back lead to a second floor.
Everyone knew the building was only one floor high but it didn't stop people from talking.
It used to be the art department before they moved it in the 20's to a new building.
Some big accident up there had killed a whole classroom but nobody knew the details.

Still, sometimes pale figures could be seen walking along the rooftop holding canvas and brushes.
You weren't supposed to look at them though not everyone knew that.
People went missing from time to time, it never traced back to the second floor but they all knew.
Like all artists, they needed new materials, new canvas and paints.