The Wake-Up Call

I. A Normal Day (Almost)

James Whittaker woke up with a start, heart pounding. His room was too quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—the empty kind. The silence felt thick, pressing against his eardrums, swallowing even the sound of his own breathing. No birds outside. No distant hum of cars. Just absence. Not wrong in a way he could explain—just misaligned, like reality had been nudged half an inch to the left while he slept.

He shook it off and dressed for school.

Outside, spring was in full bloom. The air smelled of damp earth, fresh grass, and something else—something faint, metallic, just beneath the surface. The sky was blue, but not quite the right shade, as if someone had taken a photograph of the real thing and printed it slightly faded.

A group of students laughed by the school gates, but their voices—identical in pitch and rhythm—made his stomach twist.

James rubbed his eyes. Just tired. Just another school day.

II. The Lesson

Math class. Mr. Hargreaves stood at the board, scrawling an equation in neat, looping chalk:

2 + 2 = ?

James blinked. What? This was a Year 11 class, not primary school.

“James,” Mr. Hargreaves called, smiling too wide. “Come up and solve the problem.”

James hesitated. Something was off. A hush settled over the room—too complete, too synchronized.

He glanced at his classmates.

None of them were blinking. None of them were breathing. The air in the room felt still—too still. As if nothing in it needed air but him.

Sarah, who sat beside him, stared dead ahead. Liam, two rows in front, tapped his pen against the desk in perfect rhythm. No shifting, no fidgeting, no tiny motions that should’ve made them human. Just stillness. And eyes. Too many watching eyes.

James swallowed hard, his pulse hammering against his ribs. Hadn’t he answered questions in class a thousand times before? Why did it feel like something was waiting for him at the board, something just out of sight? He forced himself to stand, but his legs felt wrong—like he was moving through water, like something heavy clung to his back.

He picked up the chalk. The weight of their stares pressed against his back. The air itself felt thicker, as if the room was shrinking inward.

His hand trembled as he wrote the answer.

The moment he finished, the class erupted into laughter.

Not normal laughter. A single, unified sound, like a recording played through a hundred speakers at once.

James turned. Every student was grinning now. Too wide—far too wide. Their lips peeled back, skin splitting at the corners, little red fissures that bled but didn’t stop stretching. Their gums gleamed, slick and swollen, their teeth too white, too perfect, like they had never been used for eating.

Mr. Hargreaves’ smile split his face like a paper cut, curling past the edges of his cheeks.

James staggered back.

The teacher’s voice was gentle. “Try again, James.”

James looked at the board.

He hadn’t written "4."

The symbols he had scrawled writhed across the board, twisting in impossible directions. They pulsed, like veins, shifting when he tried to focus on them. His eyes burned just looking at them.

The laughter stopped.

Then—the entire class whispered in unison:

"Wrong."

James turned to run.

The bell rang.

III. The Repeating Day

He barely made it through the halls.

Students moved in perfect synchronicity, their footsteps identical, their conversations looping like broken records.

Then he was in his next class.

“James,” the teacher said, smiling too wide. “Come up and solve the problem.”

James froze.

He turned to the board.

2 + 2 = ?

His stomach flipped. “No. No, we just did this.”

The class stared.

The teacher’s grin widened, splitting just a little more.

“Go on, James.”

The laughter started again.

James bolted. He threw open the door and sprinted down the corridor—

And ran straight into his own classroom.

His chair sat empty. His classmates grinned.

Mr. Hargreaves beamed. “James, come up and solve the problem.”

His pulse pounded. “No, no, no, this isn’t right.”

The air warped.

James lunged for the door—

The bell rang. 

A blink—

And he was back at his desk.

“James,” the teacher repeated, voice an exact copy of before.

He stood, shaking.

He wrote the answer.

The laughter came.

The whisper followed.

"Wrong."

And then—

The bell rang.

A blink—

And he was back at his desk.

James didn’t even wait for Mr. Hargreaves to call his name this time. As soon as he blinked back into the classroom, he bolted.

He didn’t care where—just away. His feet slammed against the floor as he ran through the hallway, throwing open doors at random.

But every door led to the same room.

Desk. Chalkboard. Mr. Hargreaves grinning. His own seat, waiting for him.

He stumbled back, chest heaving. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

A shadow loomed behind him. "James."

He turned.

Mr. Hargreaves.

Standing too close.

Smiling too wide.

"Come up and solve the problem."

IV. The Horror of Knowing

James stopped sleeping.

Every time he closed his eyes, he woke up back in class.

Back at the board.

Back to 2 + 2 = ?

The walls stretched into endless hallways, doors opening only to reveal the same room, the same grinning faces.

He tried to tell his mum, but—

Her eyes were too wide.

Her smile was too frozen.

The television droned in the background. The news anchor blinked once. Then never again.

James screamed into the mirror.

His reflection didn’t move.

James sat in his room, hands gripping the sheets. There had to be a way out.

He reached for his phone. Maybe he could call someone—text a friend.

The screen lit up. Every contact was the same name.

"James."

Every number was the same. His own.

He threw the phone across the room. His breath came in sharp gasps.

"Wake up," he whispered. "Wake up, wake up, wake up—"

But nothing changed.

Nothing ever changed.

V. The Final Wake-Up

One morning—if it was morning—James had an idea.

If this was a dream, he could wake up.

He climbed the stairs to the school’s rooftop, heart thudding in his ears.

Below, students marched in eerie synchronization, their movements stiff, mechanical.

The sky stretched, too wide, too empty.

James took a deep breath.

He whispered, “Wake up.”

And jumped.

The world rushed past him.

The moment before he hit the ground, he felt it—a shift.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

VI. Reality (Or Something Like It)

James woke up gasping.

His bedsheets clung to him, damp with sweat. Sunlight streamed through the window. Birds chirped outside.

It was over.

He let out a shaking laugh. Just a nightmare. A stupid, endless nightmare.

Downstairs, his mum was making breakfast, humming softly.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

James nodded. He sat at the table, rubbing his face. His fingers trembled. It had felt so real.

He picked up the newspaper. The print felt strange beneath his fingertips—too smooth, like plastic.

The date caught his eye.

April 5th.

But today was… wasn’t it April 4th?

He swallowed hard. Maybe he was still groggy, maybe he was just seeing things.

But the more he stared, the more wrong it looked.

His stomach turned to ice.

The headline read:

LOCAL STUDENT JUMPS FROM SCHOOL ROOF, DIES ON IMPACT.

A photo of him stared back.

His breath hitched.

A shuffling sound.

He turned.

His mum was still smiling. Motionless. Too still.

James’s hands clenched into fists. "Mum?" His voice cracked. "Stop it."

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

And then—her lips moved.

Slow at first, like a machine booting up.

The smile widened.

Too far.

Her teeth gleamed, pristine and unnatural, stretching in a way no human face should.

"Go on, James," she whispered.

A pause.

Then—

The laughter started again.