Previous Chapter || First Chapter
A week of relentless rain had turned St. Brigid’s into a gray, weeping fortress. The dampness seemed to seep through the ancient mortar, settling into the bones of the students and making the stone floors slick with a permanent chill.
It was 10:00 PM. The East Wing dormitory should have been silent, save for the rhythmic breathing of sleep. But in the far corner, nestled in the shadows between the last row of iron beds and the wall, four girls sat in a tight, shivering circle.
Stephanie sat in the center. In just seven days, the "new girl" shine had worn off. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her cuticles were raw from nervous picking. She rubbed her arms, her fingers digging into the wool of her sweater as the rain lashed against the windowpane like handfuls of gravel.
"I’m telling you," Stephanie whispered, her voice tight with a suppressed tremor, "it’s not a disciplinary record. It’s a lab report."
Lakshmi, sitting cross-legged and cleaning her glasses on the hem of her nightgown, looked skeptical. "You’ve been here a week, Steph. You haven't even been in the Chair yet. How could you possibly know what’s inside the Ledger?"
"Because I was on brass duty yesterday," Stephanie replied, leaning in, her shadow stretching long across the floorboards. "Sterling had me polishing the handles on the archive cabinets. She was at her desk, working on the book. Then the phone rang—some donor on the line. She turned her chair to the window to take the call."
Stephanie swallowed hard, the memory making her throat click dryly. "She left the book open. I was five feet away. I didn't just glance at it; I read the page."
"And?" Samantha asked, leaning forward from her perch on the edge of the bed.
"It was a grid," Stephanie said, tracing a square shape in the air with a trembling finger. "It wasn't a list of sins. It was columns. Stimulus. Duration. Reaction."
She turned to look at Rachel, who was hugging her knees to her chest. "Your name was at the top of the page, Rachel. There was a graph. A literal line graph plotting your 'Time to Incoherence' over the last semester. She had a note in the margin written in red ink: 'Subject shows increased tolerance to feathers; recommend switch to horsehair for next session to maintain high-frequency vocalization.'"
Rachel went pale, looking physically sick. "She... she’s graphing us?"
"She’s researching us," Stephanie corrected, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and cold fury. "She’s not teaching us discipline. She’s figuring out exactly how to break a human nervous system, and she’s using us as the data points. It’s sick. And if the Board of Governors saw that book—if they saw she was running biological experiments on students—she’d be finished."
"But we can't get the book," Rachel whispered, glancing nervously at the heavy oak door of the dorm. "It never leaves the desk. And she’s always there."
"We don't need to steal it," Stephanie said. "We just need proof. A sample. If we could copy just ten pages of that grid... the dates, the times, the specific tools used... we could prove the pattern."
"To copy ten pages of Sterling’s tiny, precise handwriting would take at least thirty minutes," Lakshmi countered, her analytical mind already calculating the odds. "And that’s assuming you can even get into the office."
"We can't go through the door," Samantha said, shaking her head. "You’re the new girl, you don't know the geography. The office connects to the Records Room, but that door is triple-locked from the inside."
"But the vent isn't," Lakshmi interjected, looking up at the ceiling where a dark grate sat in the shadows.
Samantha’s eyes narrowed as she followed Lakshmi’s gaze. "The heating duct... You're right. It runs through the main corridor ceiling and drops right over the Records Room files."
"If someone was small enough..." Lakshmi mused.
"I can fit," Samantha said quickly, assessing her own frame. "I can drop in. And Lakshmi, if you stay at the vent opening, I can pass the pages up, or you can come down. We can transcribe them by moonlight."
"But Sterling will hear you," Rachel argued, her voice rising in panic before she clamped a hand over her mouth. "The Records Room is right next to her desk. One creaky floorboard, one rustle of paper... she has ears like a bat."
"Not if she’s distracted," Stephanie said.
The silence that followed was heavy. The rain outside seemed to beat harder against the glass.
"Distracted how?" Samantha asked slowly.
"My grace period," Stephanie said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It’s been a week. She’s been watching me. Every time she passes me in the hall, she looks at my feet. I have seen the hunger in her eyes. She’s just waiting for an excuse... Any excuse."
Stephanie looked down at her feet. She was wearing two pairs of heavy wool socks, safe and warm. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached down and peeled them off.
"If I go to her tonight," Stephanie said, her voice trembling. "If I turn myself in for a 'confession'... she’ll take me. She’s been dying to get me in that chair."
"Steph, no," Rachel hissed. "You don't know what it's like. You haven't—"
"I know I have a condition," Stephanie interrupted, tears pricking her eyes. "I know that when I get tickled... really tickled... I blackout."
The other girls stared at her.
"My brain shuts down," Stephanie explained, her voice cracking. "I lose control. I scream. I thrash. I make so much noise I can't even hear myself think. It's not funny for me. It's a panic response."
She looked up at the trio, her face pale but determined. "If she puts me in those stocks, I won't just be a distraction. I’ll be a riot. She won't be looking at the Records Room door. She won't be listening to the vents. She’ll be too busy trying to keep me from kicking her desk apart."
"You're going to use your sensitivity as a weapon," Lakshmi realized, awe and horror warring in her expression.
"I'm going to give you forty minutes," Stephanie said. She reached into her pillowcase and pulled out a small, crinkled package. She ripped it open to reveal a pair of sheer, cheap black nylon stockings—contraband she had smuggled in.
"She likes texture, doesn't she?" Stephanie asked, her hands shaking as she bunched the nylon up. "I saw how she looked at Emily's bare feet. But if I wear these..."
She pulled the sheer fabric over her toes. The nylon hissed softly as it slid up her arch, a sound that made her skin crawl. She rolled them up over her ankles. Her feet looked elegant, dressed up, and terrifyingly defenseless. The mesh offered no protection; it only promised to amplify every scratch, every brush stroke.
"The static," Stephanie whispered. "It makes it a hundred times worse. It feels like electricity."
Stephanie reached for her heavy, black leather school shoes. She jammed her nylon-clad feet into the stiff leather. It was a tight squeeze; she winced as she laced them up.
She stood up. She stamped her feet. The sound was a dull thud.
"If I walk in there like this," Stephanie said, "she won't be able to resist. She’ll want to unwrap the present."
Samantha stood up. She looked at Stephanie with a newfound respect. "You are walking into a buzzsaw, Steph. And you're doing it barefoot."
"I know," Stephanie said, her breath hitching. "Just... get the data. Make it worth it."
She smoothed her nightgown, took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned toward the door. She was going to war armed with nothing but the most sensitive feet in the school and a pair of suffocating, sweat-slicked stockings.
---
The corridor leading to the Headmistress’s office was a wind tunnel of drafts, but Stephanie’s feet were burning. She had jammed them, encased in the sheer, cheap nylon stockings, into her heavy leather school shoes.
The fit was dangerously tight, and the synthetic material trapped every ounce of body heat. With every step—click, click, click—she could feel the damp, slippery friction of the nylon rubbing against the stiff leather insole. It was a sensation that made her toes curl involuntarily, a sickening prelude to the torture she was about to invite.
She reached the heavy oak door. Her hand hovered over the brass knocker. Inside was the predator. Behind her, somewhere in the dark ceiling, her friends were waiting for the signal.
Forty minutes, she told herself, shifting her weight on her throbbing feet. Just survive forty minutes.
She knocked. Three hollow raps.
"Enter."
Stephanie pushed the door open. The office was warm, smelling of beeswax and the faint, lingering scent of peppermint oil. Headmistress Sterling was seated behind her massive mahogany desk, poring over a stack of financial ledgers, a calculator clicking rhythmically under her fingers.
She looked up, her expression one of mild irritation at the interruption.
"Miss McCarthy," Sterling said, her voice low and devoid of surprise. "It is past lights out. You are drifting."
"I... I have a confession, Headmistress," Stephanie stammered, stepping into the pool of amber light. She didn't have to fake the tremor in her voice; her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I couldn't sleep. I brought contraband into the school. It’s on my person right now."
Sterling stopped typing. She sat back, her eyes gleaming with sudden interest. "Is that so? And you brought it directly to me? That is... unusual."
"I was hoping," Stephanie said, her voice trembling as she looked down at her shoes, "that by coming to you directly... by showing honesty... you might show mercy. I thought you might reward forward thinking."
Sterling stood up slowly. She walked around the desk, circling Stephanie like a shark inspecting a swimmer in distress.
"Mercy is earned, Stephanie. Not requested. But I am intrigued. Show me."
Stephanie raised one of her legs and pointed. Above the rim of her black leather shoe, the shimmer of cheap, black nylon was visible.
"Nylons," Sterling breathed, the word sounding like a caress. "Forbidden synthetic fibers. Tacky. Cheap. And entirely against regulation."
"I... I get cold feet," Stephanie lied, though the sweat pooling inside her shoes told a different story.
"Cold feet, is it?" Sterling asked, her eyes locked on the ankles. "Nylon suffocates the skin. It traps the heat. It turns the foot into a hothouse."
She pointed to the high-backed chair positioned behind the desk.
"The Chair, Stephanie. Let us see about this 'mercy'."
Stephanie walked to the chair. She sat, the wood cold against her legs. She lifted her shod feet and placed her ankles into the padded grooves of the stocks, which were bolted firmly to the heavy mahogany desk.
Click.
The top bar came down, locking her ankles in place.
Click.
The latch secured it.
"Arms back," Sterling ordered.
Stephanie reached behind the chair. Sterling moved to the side of the wooden frame, her proximity suffocating. She grabbed the heavy leather strap and pulled it hard behind the backrest.
"Nngh!" Stephanie gasped as her arms were wrenched backward. Sterling buckled the strap tight, pinning Stephanie’s elbows together behind the chair, forcing her chest out and leaving her completely immobilized.
Sterling walked back around to the front of the desk. She stood directly before the captured feet. This was the moment. Sterling turned her back to the connecting door of the Records Room to focus entirely on Stephanie.
"Now," Sterling whispered, looming over the desk. "Let’s see what you’ve been hiding inside that leather."
She reached for the laces of Stephanie’s left shoe. She pulled them loose with agonizing slowness, savoring the tension. Then, she gripped the heel.
"Keep your foot limp," Sterling commanded.
She pried the shoe off with a wet Schlup.
As the leather shell pulled away, a waft of warm, damp air escaped—the scent of enclosed sweat and synthetic fabric.
Stephanie’s foot was revealed, encased in the sheer black nylon. The material was dark with perspiration at the toes and the arch, clinging to the skin like a second, suffocating layer.
Sterling inhaled deeply, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Oh my," she murmured. "It’s positively feverish in there."
She placed the shoe on the desk and peeled off the second one. "Look at them," Sterling purred, staring at the sheer, shiny soles presented to her. "Damp. Overheated. And wrapped in a texture that amplifies everything."
"The static," Sterling whispered, leaning closer. "It acts like a capacitor. Storing the charge. Waiting for a spark."
She didn't use her nails yet. Instead, she curled her hand into a loose fist and brushed the back of her knuckles rapidly against the nylon-clad soles.
Zzzzt-zzzzt-zzzzt.
The sound was a soft, synthetic hiss—like a zipper being pulled up too fast. The reaction was nuclear.
"IIIII-EEE-YIP! AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Stephanie convulsed, her head slamming back against the wood. The friction of the nylon against her sensitized skin sent jagged bolts of electricity shooting up her legs.
"It burns!" Stephanie screamed, thrashing against the leather straps. "IT BURNS AND IT TICKLES! MAKE IT ST-HO-HO-HOP! EEEE-HEEE-HEEE!"
"Fascinating," Sterling murmured, increasing the speed of her rubbing until the nylon blurred. Zzt-zzt-zzt. "The sweat reduces friction to zero, yet the nerve response is off the charts."
"I... I didn't know!" Stephanie gasped. "I just wanted to be warm!"
"And now you will learn the cost of that luxury," Sterling whispered. She didn't reach for a tool yet. She placed both hands on Stephanie’s soles. The heat from Stephanie’s feet radiated into Sterling’s cool palms.
Sterling began to knead her thumbs into the damp, nylon-slicked arches while her long fingers drummed a frantic, spider-like rhythm on the tops of the feet.
"IIII-HIII! GHK-HEEE! NO-NO-NOT THE ST-HAAA-TIC! EEEE-YAH-HA-HA!"
The scream ripped out of Stephanie’s throat, raw and panicked. It echoed off the stone walls, a deafening signal to the girl hiding in the ceiling vent next door.
---
High above the polished stone floor, huddled in the cramped darkness of the galvanized heating duct, Samantha froze. The scream from the office below vibrated through the metal sheeting against her chest. It was a jagged, desperate sound—a signal flare fired from a sinking ship.
"Go," she whispered to herself.
She crawled forward to the grate that overlooked the Records Room. It was pitch black below, save for the faint sliver of light bleeding under the connecting door to Sterling’s office. Samantha worked the latches with practiced, silent fingers. Clink. Clink. She pushed the grate aside and lowered her legs, dropping silently onto the top of the tall filing cabinet, then to the floor.
She looked up at the vent. "Clear," she mouthed.
A moment later, a notebook and a pen fluttered down, followed by Lakshmi’s legs. Lakshmi landed with a soft thump, instantly adjusting her glasses.
"We have to move," Lakshmi whispered, her eyes darting to the connecting door. Through the thin wood, Stephanie’s voice was a continuous, garbled loop of pleading and laughter.
"PLEASE! HA-HA-HA-HA! NOT THE TOES! OH GOD, THE NYLON! HA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
Every shriek made Lakshmi flinch. "She’s not holding back," she murmured. "We have twenty minutes, maybe less before she loses consciousness."
Samantha was already scanning the room. "The Ledger, it has to be in here somewhere."
She moved to the heavy oak sidebar where the "active" files were kept. Nothing. She checked the top of the safe. Nothing.
"Sam," Lakshmi hissed, pointing to a small, unassuming rolling cart tucked in the corner near the window.
Resting on the top shelf, looking innocuous under a layer of dust, was the heavy, leather-bound book.
They rushed over. Samantha grabbed it. It was heavy, smelling of old paper and authority. She carried it to the sliver of light coming from under the connecting door—the only illumination in the room.
Lakshmi knelt on the floor, opening the book to the most recent bookmark.
"Okay," Lakshmi breathed, pen hovering over her notebook. "Read. Fast."
Samantha squinted at the grid in the dim light. "Date: November 12th. Subject: Emily T. Stimulus: Boar Bristle Brush. Duration: 18 minutes."
Lakshmi scribbled furiously.
"Reaction," Samantha continued, her voice trembling as another scream ripped through the wall. "Subject exhibits... 'paradoxical laughter.' Sensitivity Node located at the base of the third toe. Note: Subject begged for 'metal' after 12 minutes of bristles."
"Sick," Lakshmi muttered, writing it down. "Next."
"Date: November 14th. Subject: Rachel C. Stimulus: Peacock Feather. Duration: 22 minutes. Reaction: High-pitch vocalization. Note: Subject attempted to bargain. Denied."
In the office next door, the torture escalated.
"NOOO! AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA! WHAT IS THAT?! IS THAT A COMB?! NO! NO! HA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
The sound of hard plastic scraping against nylon was audible even through the door. It was a zipper-like sound—skritch-snap, skritch-snap—followed by a fresh wave of hysterical shrieking.
"She’s using the comb," Samantha whispered, her face pale. "Stephanie said the static... focus, Sam. Focus."
She turned the page.
"Date: November 15th. Subject: New Entry. Stephanie M. Initial Observation: High Potential. Note: Subject displays nervous foot movement. Hypothesis: Extreme plantar sensitivity. Plan: attempt to achieve fainting/blackout in initial discipline session."
Lakshmi stopped writing. She looked up at Samantha. "She planned this," Lakshmi whispered. "She knew Stephanie would break. She wrote the plan before tonight."
"Just write," Samantha urged, her hands shaking as she turned another page. "We need ten pages. We have three."
Next door, the laughter changed. It wasn't human anymore. It was a breathless, whistling sound—the sound of lungs that had forgotten how to inhale.
"I CAN'T... HA-HA-HA... BREATHE... MISS... HEE-HEE... STOP... PLEASE..."
"She’s fading," Lakshmi said, writing faster. "We're running out of time."
"Page four," Samantha read. "Subject: Beatrice. Stimulus: Ice and Salt. Duration: 14 minutes..."
They worked in a frenzy, the scratching of Lakshmi’s pen racing against the horrifying soundtrack from the other room. Stephanie was buying them every second with her sanity, and they couldn't afford to waste a single drop of her suffering.
Suddenly, the noise next door stopped.
It wasn't a fade-out. It was an abrupt, terrifying silence.
Samantha froze. Lakshmi’s pen hovered over the paper.
"Did she pass out?" Samantha whispered.
Then they heard Sterling’s voice. It wasn't the purr of a torturer. It was the sharp, clinical tone of a scientist making a discovery.
"Unprecedented variance," Sterling’s voice came clearly through the door. "The combination of nylon and sweat has created a feedback loop. I need to log this immediately."
Footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate heels clicking on the wooden floor. Moving away from the desk. Moving toward the connecting door.
"She’s coming for the book," Samantha hissed, her eyes wide with panic.
"I have seven pages," Lakshmi said, ripping the sheets from her notebook. "It’s enough."
"Go!" Samantha shoved Lakshmi toward the filing cabinet under the vent. "Get up there! Now!"
Lakshmi scrambled up the cabinet, grabbing the lip of the duct. She hauled herself up, disappearing into the darkness just as the doorknob began to turn.
Samantha looked at the heavy Ledger in her hands. She couldn't take it. If Sterling saw it was gone, she’d raise the alarm instantly.
She sprinted to the rolling cart in the corner. She slammed the book down on the cart, trying to position it exactly as it had been.
The door handle turned fully.
Click.
Samantha bolted for the filing cabinet. She leaped, her fingers catching the edge of the vent. She pulled, her legs scrabbling for purchase against the metal.
The connecting door swung open.
Headmistress Sterling stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light of her office. She wasn't looking at the rolling cart. She was looking up.
Samantha was halfway into the vent. Her torso was in, but her legs were still dangling, kicking in the air as she tried to drag herself to safety.
Sterling didn't shout.
She moved with the terrifying silence of a predator.
She stepped onto the rolling cart—it creaked under her weight—and lunged upward.
Samantha kicked wildly, her fingers slipping on the galvanized metal. "NO!"
Sterling’s fingers locked around Samantha’s left ankle.
"Gotcha," Sterling whispered.
She yanked. Hard.
"NO!" Samantha screamed as she was ripped from the ceiling. She crashed down, hitting the floor with a bone-jarring thud.
High above, in the safety of the duct, Lakshmi clutched the stolen notes to her chest, tears streaming down her face as she scrambled backward into the dark, listening to the sound of the predator dragging its prey into the light.
Samantha hit the floor hard, the wind knocked out of her. Before she could even gasp for air, Sterling’s hand was tangled in the back of her pajama collar.
"Up," Sterling commanded, dragging the girl across the floor like a sack of laundry.
Samantha scrambled to get her feet under her, stumbling as she was hauled through the connecting door and into the bright, warm office. The smell of peppermint and sweat hit her instantly.
In the center of the room, Stephanie was slumped forward in the chair. She was unconscious, her head lolling against her chest, drool stringing from her lip. Her feet, still locked in the stocks on the desk, were twitching rhythmically—residual nerve spasms firing through the damp nylon.
Sterling shoved Samantha toward the desk.
"Release her," Sterling barked. "Now."
Samantha’s hands shook uncontrollably as she reached for the latch on the stocks. Click. She pulled the top bar up. Stephanie’s legs dropped heavily. Samantha moved behind the chair and undid the leather chest strap.
Stephanie slid out of the chair like a puddle, collapsing onto the floor in a heap of exhausted limbs. She groaned softly but didn't wake.
"Leave her," Sterling snapped. She pointed a long, dagger-like nail at the empty chair. "Sit. Assume the position."
Samantha looked at the chair, then at Sterling’s face. The cool, detached scientist was gone. In her place was something feral. Sterling’s eyes were wide, burning with a cold fire. Her bun was slightly askew, a single strand of silver hair falling across her forehead. She looked like a jailor who had just quelled a riot.
"I said sit!" Sterling slammed her hand onto the desk, making the heavy brass inkwell jump.
Samantha scrambled into the chair. She thrust her bare feet into the stocks and didn't wait for the order. She slammed the bar down and clicked the latch herself, her hands shaking as she slid them down the back of the chair, offering up her own freedom before Sterling could force it from her.
Sterling moved with violent efficiency. She yanked the strap tight—so tight it knocked the breath out of Samantha—and buckled it.
"You think you are clever," Sterling hissed, leaning over the desk, her face inches from Samantha’s presented soles. "You think you can crawl through my walls like rats and steal my property?"
She didn't reach for a tool. She reached for the drawer and pulled out a bottle of baby oil. She didn't pour it carefully. She squeezed the bottle hard, squirting a thick stream of the clear liquid all over Samantha’s feet.
"Who was in the vent?" Sterling demanded, slapping the oil onto the skin with rough, stinging strokes.
"No one!" Samantha gasped, her chest heaving against the strap. "Just me! I was alone!"
"Liar," Sterling spat. She grabbed a handful of silk cords from the desk. She didn't loop them gently. She wrapped the cord around Samantha’s big toe and yanked it back, tying it off to the brass eyelet with a vicious knot.
"AH! That’s too tight!" Samantha cried.
"It’s not tight enough," Sterling growled. She moved down the line. Second toe. Yank. Third toe. Yank.
Within seconds, Samantha’s toes were splayed and pulled back so far the tendons stood out like steel cables across her instep. The soles of her feet were taut, oiled drums.
Sterling opened her drawer. She retrieved something small, plastic, and seemingly innocuous.
It was a shampoo brush—a cheap, clinical-looking disc of hard pink plastic, studded with thick, blunt polyethylene spikes. Sterling slipped her middle finger through the hard plastic loop on the back of the brush. It fit her hand like a knuckle duster.
"Who. Was. In. The. Vent?"
"I told you! I was—"
She pressed the spiked disc flat against Samantha’s oiled arch and twisted.
"AAAA-HEEE-HEEE-YAAAA! IT’S EVERYWHERE! IT’S MOVING TOO FAST! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Sterling ground the tool into the sole. On dry skin, the plastic spikes would have dragged and caught. But on the heavy layer of baby oil, the tool became a chaotic, frictionless engine of torture. The stiff vintage bristles didn't bend; they skidded uncontrollably, popping over the tendons and slipping deep into the soft spaces between the bones.
Squelch. Squelch. Pop.
The sound was wet and sickening—the noise of hard plastic churning through fluid.
"TELL ME!" Sterling roared over the screams.
She began to move the brush in violent, figure-eight patterns. The finger-loop grip allowed her to apply crushing pressure without her hand slipping, while the oil allowed the spikes to fly across the skin with blinding speed.
"I CAN'T! I DON'T... HA-HA-HA... KNOW!" Samantha thrashed, her feet slipping and sliding in the stocks, the oil turning the leather restraints into a slimy trap.
"Loyalty," Sterling sneered. She slid the massager down to the sensitive, wrinkled skin of the heel and spun it like a dial. "Let’s see how long it lasts."
"NO! NOT THE HEEL! IT’S TOO HARD! AAAA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
The sensation was overwhelming—a frictionless, multi-point digging that felt like a dozen hard fingernails trapped under the skin. Samantha’s laughter turned into a high-pitched keen.
"LAKSHMI! OKAY! OKAY! IT WAS LAKSHMI! STOP!"
Sterling stopped instantly. The plastic spikes made a final, wet sucking sound as she pulled them off the skin.
"Lakshmi," Sterling repeated, her breathing heavy. "And Rachel was the lookout, I assume?"
"Yes... ha-ha... yes..." Samantha wept, her head hanging forward.
"And what were you doing?" Sterling asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You weren't just looking, were you? What was the objective?"
Samantha hesitated. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Sterling tapped the plastic spikes against the ball of Samantha’s right foot. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Don't make me start again, Samantha. I won't stop so soon next time."
"We wanted the data!" Samantha blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush to prevent the brushes from making contact. "We know about the ledger! We know you're researching us! We wanted to copy the pages to prove it! We just wanted ten pages... please, I told you everything! Just don't scrub again!"
Sterling stared at her. A slow, terrifying comprehension dawned in her eyes. She set put the scalp massager back in her drawer and closed it with a snap.
She picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit number. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the receiver.
"Security," she barked. "East Wing Dormitory. Collect Rachel C. immediately. And intercept Lakshmi... she will be crawling out of the north corridor vent. Bring her to me. And bring whatever papers she is holding. Do not let her destroy them."
She slammed the phone down. The clang echoed in the room like a gavel strike.
Sterling stood there for a moment, the silence stretching out, broken only by Stephanie’s soft groans from the floor and Samantha’s ragged breathing.
Then, Sterling turned back to the desk. She reached for the heavy, leather-bound Ledger. She ran her hand over the cover, smoothing it out, before flipping it open.
"So," Sterling mused, her voice silky and calm. "You wanted to see my Ledger. You went to such great lengths, risk and pain, just to get a peek inside."
She rotated the book on the desk so it faced Samantha, though the girl was too teary-eyed to read the small print.
"Well, let's take a look together, shall we?"
Sterling ran a manicured finger down the index until she found the page.
"Subject: Samantha," Sterling read aloud. "Primary Weakness: The deep arch. Secondary Weakness: The heel."
She looked up, her eyes locking onto Samantha’s terrified face.
"But here is the interesting part," Sterling said, tapping the page. " 'Subject exhibits extreme distress and total loss of motor control when fingernails are used in a vertical motion from heel to toe. Recommended for high-priority discipline only.' "
Sterling raised her hands. Her nails were long, hard, and buffed to a lethal point. She flexed her fingers, the nails catching the lamplight.
"No..." Samantha whispered, her blood running cold. "But Miss... I told you everything. I confessed! Please! Have mercy!"
Sterling leaned in, her breath hot against the shell of Samantha's ear.
"The interrogation is finished, Samantha."
She dragged a sharp fingernail down the sensitive dip of the arch, eliciting a sharp, choked gasp.
"Now... we calibrate the consequences."
Sterling dug all ten nails into Samantha’s oiled heels and then she dragged her nails slowly, deeply, up the length of the taut, exposed soles.
"AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! STOP IT! STOP IT! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! AAAA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
Samantha’s body bucked against the straps, her laughter sounding like broken glass. Sterling didn't stop. She reached the toes, lifted her hands, and went back to the heels to start again.
"Mercy is for those who stay in their beds," Sterling murmured, sinking her nails in for the second pass.
---
Lakshmi scrambled out of the vent opening in the North Corridor, her knees hitting the cold stone floor with a jarring impact. The air here was damp, smelling of rain and mildew, but the sound that filled her ears was far worse. The high-pitched, jagged shrieks of Samantha were vibrating through her head.
Clutching the sheaf of stolen papers to her chest, Lakshmi scrambled to her feet. Panic was a cold knot in her stomach. She had to get to the dorms. She had to hide the evidence.
She turned to sprint—and ran straight into a wall of grey wool.
Strong, calloused hands clamped onto her upper arms before she could even draw a breath. She looked up into the impassive, stony face of a school security guard—a burly woman with a grip like a vise.
"Going somewhere, Miss?" the guard grunted.
Lakshmi struggled, kicking out. "Let me go! I have to—"
"You have to come with us," a second voice said.
Lakshmi twisted her head. Down the hall, two more guards were dragging a weeping figure from the shadows. It was Rachel. She was limp, her feet dragging on the floor, her face buried in her hands.
"They knew," Rachel sobbed as they hauled her closer. "They were waiting by the door. They knew everything."
"Move," the guard ordered, shoving Lakshmi forward.
The walk back to the Headmistress’s office was a funeral procession. Lakshmi felt bile rise in her throat. She looked at the papers in her hand—the data they had risked everything for—and realized they were no longer a weapon. They were a death warrant.
The guard opened the heavy oak door.
The scene inside was a tableau of absolute cruelty.
Samantha was writhing in the chair, her face a mask of red, wet agony. Her feet, glistening with oil and tied back with brutal precision, were being ravaged. Sterling stood over her, her back straight, her motion mechanical and relentless. She was dragging her nails from the heels to the balls of Samantha’s feet, digging in deep, treating the skin like parchment she was trying to tear.
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE! PLEASE! MISS! I CAN'T TAKE IT! STOP! STOP!"
Sterling didn't even look up as the guards dragged Lakshmi and Rachel into the room. She finished her stroke, savoring the vibration of Samantha’s arch under her fingertips, before slowly straightening up.
"Just in time," Sterling said, her voice calm amidst the chaos. She wiped her oiled hands on a linen cloth. "The audience has arrived."
On the floor, Stephanie groaned. She rolled over, her eyes fluttering open, glazed and confused. She tried to sit up, but her limbs were heavy, and her nylon-clad feet skidded uselessly on the polished floor.
Sterling snapped her fingers at the guard holding Lakshmi. "The papers. Give them to me."
Lakshmi hesitated, her grip tightening on the stolen notes. The guard wrenched Lakshmi’s wrist back until the girl cried out and dropped the pages. Sterling stepped forward and snatched them from the floor.
"Crude," Sterling muttered, glancing at Lakshmi’s frantic handwriting. "But accurate."
She gestured to the door. "Leave us. Wait in the hall."
The guards nodded and retreated, pulling the heavy door shut with a final, ominous thud.
The four girls were alone with the Headmistress.
Sterling walked behind her desk. She placed the stolen notes on top of the open Ledger. She looked at Samantha, who was slumped in the chair, gasping for air, her oiled feet twitching violently. She looked at Stephanie, dazed on the floor. She looked at Rachel and Lakshmi, who stood trembling by the door.
Sterling began to pace. She didn't look angry. She looked... thoughtful.
"You took a great risk tonight," Sterling said, circling the desk. "You identified a pattern. You hypothesized a motive. And you sought to gather evidence to expose me."
She stopped in front of Lakshmi.
"You thought if you showed this to the Board of Governors, they would be horrified. You thought they would see 'torture' and 'abuse'."
Sterling laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound.
"You possess a great deal of book smarts, Lakshmi, but you have zero understanding of economics. Who do you think pays for this school? Who do you think commissioned the Sensory Research Wing? Who do you think asks for these updates?"
The girls stared at her in silence.
"This Ledger," Sterling said, tapping the leather cover, "is not a liability. It is a catalogue. It is a menu. The wealthy men who support this institution do not pay for 'algebra' or 'history'. They pay for results. They pay to know that there is a place where discipline is absolute, where the breaking point is a quantifiable metric."
Sterling walked to the window, looking out at the rain-lashed grounds.
"You wanted to control the narrative? You wanted to tell the world what I do here?" She turned back, her eyes flashing with a dangerous inspiration. "Very well. Let us tell them. But we will not send them scrawled notes. We will give them a demonstration."
She sat down at her desk. She pulled the rotary phone closer.
"If the donors see the efficiency of my methods... if they see the raw, beautiful data you four have generated tonight... they won't fire me. They will double my funding."
She dialed a number. The mechanical whir of the dial was the only sound in the room.
Samantha whimpered softly in the chair.
"Mr. Van Der Hoven?" Sterling spoke into the receiver, her voice transforming instantly into a charm of velvet and steel. "It is Headmistress Sterling. I apologize for the late hour."
She paused, listening, a small smile playing on her lips.
"Yes, well, it seems we have had a breakthrough in the Sensitivity Retention Program earlier than expected. I have four subjects who have... volunteered... for a live demonstration of the cumulative effects of the curriculum."
Sterling looked at the girls. She looked at Stephanie’s nylons. She looked at Samantha’s oiled arches.
"The data is exquisite, sir. But reading about it is one thing. I think you and the Steering Committee should see it firsthand."
She paused again.
"Oh, yes. You are only required to bring yourselves, but by all means bring your checkbooks also."
Sterling hung up the phone. The click was soft, but it felt like the lid of a coffin slamming shut.
She stood up, smoothing her skirt. She looked down at the four terrified girls with a look of predatory satisfaction.
"You wanted to show the world the truth?" Sterling whispered. "Get ready, girls. You're about to become the star attraction."
Next Chapter
A week of relentless rain had turned St. Brigid’s into a gray, weeping fortress. The dampness seemed to seep through the ancient mortar, settling into the bones of the students and making the stone floors slick with a permanent chill.
It was 10:00 PM. The East Wing dormitory should have been silent, save for the rhythmic breathing of sleep. But in the far corner, nestled in the shadows between the last row of iron beds and the wall, four girls sat in a tight, shivering circle.
Stephanie sat in the center. In just seven days, the "new girl" shine had worn off. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her cuticles were raw from nervous picking. She rubbed her arms, her fingers digging into the wool of her sweater as the rain lashed against the windowpane like handfuls of gravel.
"I’m telling you," Stephanie whispered, her voice tight with a suppressed tremor, "it’s not a disciplinary record. It’s a lab report."
Lakshmi, sitting cross-legged and cleaning her glasses on the hem of her nightgown, looked skeptical. "You’ve been here a week, Steph. You haven't even been in the Chair yet. How could you possibly know what’s inside the Ledger?"
"Because I was on brass duty yesterday," Stephanie replied, leaning in, her shadow stretching long across the floorboards. "Sterling had me polishing the handles on the archive cabinets. She was at her desk, working on the book. Then the phone rang—some donor on the line. She turned her chair to the window to take the call."
Stephanie swallowed hard, the memory making her throat click dryly. "She left the book open. I was five feet away. I didn't just glance at it; I read the page."
"And?" Samantha asked, leaning forward from her perch on the edge of the bed.
"It was a grid," Stephanie said, tracing a square shape in the air with a trembling finger. "It wasn't a list of sins. It was columns. Stimulus. Duration. Reaction."
She turned to look at Rachel, who was hugging her knees to her chest. "Your name was at the top of the page, Rachel. There was a graph. A literal line graph plotting your 'Time to Incoherence' over the last semester. She had a note in the margin written in red ink: 'Subject shows increased tolerance to feathers; recommend switch to horsehair for next session to maintain high-frequency vocalization.'"
Rachel went pale, looking physically sick. "She... she’s graphing us?"
"She’s researching us," Stephanie corrected, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and cold fury. "She’s not teaching us discipline. She’s figuring out exactly how to break a human nervous system, and she’s using us as the data points. It’s sick. And if the Board of Governors saw that book—if they saw she was running biological experiments on students—she’d be finished."
"But we can't get the book," Rachel whispered, glancing nervously at the heavy oak door of the dorm. "It never leaves the desk. And she’s always there."
"We don't need to steal it," Stephanie said. "We just need proof. A sample. If we could copy just ten pages of that grid... the dates, the times, the specific tools used... we could prove the pattern."
"To copy ten pages of Sterling’s tiny, precise handwriting would take at least thirty minutes," Lakshmi countered, her analytical mind already calculating the odds. "And that’s assuming you can even get into the office."
"We can't go through the door," Samantha said, shaking her head. "You’re the new girl, you don't know the geography. The office connects to the Records Room, but that door is triple-locked from the inside."
"But the vent isn't," Lakshmi interjected, looking up at the ceiling where a dark grate sat in the shadows.
Samantha’s eyes narrowed as she followed Lakshmi’s gaze. "The heating duct... You're right. It runs through the main corridor ceiling and drops right over the Records Room files."
"If someone was small enough..." Lakshmi mused.
"I can fit," Samantha said quickly, assessing her own frame. "I can drop in. And Lakshmi, if you stay at the vent opening, I can pass the pages up, or you can come down. We can transcribe them by moonlight."
"But Sterling will hear you," Rachel argued, her voice rising in panic before she clamped a hand over her mouth. "The Records Room is right next to her desk. One creaky floorboard, one rustle of paper... she has ears like a bat."
"Not if she’s distracted," Stephanie said.
The silence that followed was heavy. The rain outside seemed to beat harder against the glass.
"Distracted how?" Samantha asked slowly.
"My grace period," Stephanie said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It’s been a week. She’s been watching me. Every time she passes me in the hall, she looks at my feet. I have seen the hunger in her eyes. She’s just waiting for an excuse... Any excuse."
Stephanie looked down at her feet. She was wearing two pairs of heavy wool socks, safe and warm. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached down and peeled them off.
"If I go to her tonight," Stephanie said, her voice trembling. "If I turn myself in for a 'confession'... she’ll take me. She’s been dying to get me in that chair."
"Steph, no," Rachel hissed. "You don't know what it's like. You haven't—"
"I know I have a condition," Stephanie interrupted, tears pricking her eyes. "I know that when I get tickled... really tickled... I blackout."
The other girls stared at her.
"My brain shuts down," Stephanie explained, her voice cracking. "I lose control. I scream. I thrash. I make so much noise I can't even hear myself think. It's not funny for me. It's a panic response."
She looked up at the trio, her face pale but determined. "If she puts me in those stocks, I won't just be a distraction. I’ll be a riot. She won't be looking at the Records Room door. She won't be listening to the vents. She’ll be too busy trying to keep me from kicking her desk apart."
"You're going to use your sensitivity as a weapon," Lakshmi realized, awe and horror warring in her expression.
"I'm going to give you forty minutes," Stephanie said. She reached into her pillowcase and pulled out a small, crinkled package. She ripped it open to reveal a pair of sheer, cheap black nylon stockings—contraband she had smuggled in.
"She likes texture, doesn't she?" Stephanie asked, her hands shaking as she bunched the nylon up. "I saw how she looked at Emily's bare feet. But if I wear these..."
She pulled the sheer fabric over her toes. The nylon hissed softly as it slid up her arch, a sound that made her skin crawl. She rolled them up over her ankles. Her feet looked elegant, dressed up, and terrifyingly defenseless. The mesh offered no protection; it only promised to amplify every scratch, every brush stroke.
"The static," Stephanie whispered. "It makes it a hundred times worse. It feels like electricity."
Stephanie reached for her heavy, black leather school shoes. She jammed her nylon-clad feet into the stiff leather. It was a tight squeeze; she winced as she laced them up.
She stood up. She stamped her feet. The sound was a dull thud.
"If I walk in there like this," Stephanie said, "she won't be able to resist. She’ll want to unwrap the present."
Samantha stood up. She looked at Stephanie with a newfound respect. "You are walking into a buzzsaw, Steph. And you're doing it barefoot."
"I know," Stephanie said, her breath hitching. "Just... get the data. Make it worth it."
She smoothed her nightgown, took a deep, shuddering breath, and turned toward the door. She was going to war armed with nothing but the most sensitive feet in the school and a pair of suffocating, sweat-slicked stockings.
---
The corridor leading to the Headmistress’s office was a wind tunnel of drafts, but Stephanie’s feet were burning. She had jammed them, encased in the sheer, cheap nylon stockings, into her heavy leather school shoes.
The fit was dangerously tight, and the synthetic material trapped every ounce of body heat. With every step—click, click, click—she could feel the damp, slippery friction of the nylon rubbing against the stiff leather insole. It was a sensation that made her toes curl involuntarily, a sickening prelude to the torture she was about to invite.
She reached the heavy oak door. Her hand hovered over the brass knocker. Inside was the predator. Behind her, somewhere in the dark ceiling, her friends were waiting for the signal.
Forty minutes, she told herself, shifting her weight on her throbbing feet. Just survive forty minutes.
She knocked. Three hollow raps.
"Enter."
Stephanie pushed the door open. The office was warm, smelling of beeswax and the faint, lingering scent of peppermint oil. Headmistress Sterling was seated behind her massive mahogany desk, poring over a stack of financial ledgers, a calculator clicking rhythmically under her fingers.
She looked up, her expression one of mild irritation at the interruption.
"Miss McCarthy," Sterling said, her voice low and devoid of surprise. "It is past lights out. You are drifting."
"I... I have a confession, Headmistress," Stephanie stammered, stepping into the pool of amber light. She didn't have to fake the tremor in her voice; her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I couldn't sleep. I brought contraband into the school. It’s on my person right now."
Sterling stopped typing. She sat back, her eyes gleaming with sudden interest. "Is that so? And you brought it directly to me? That is... unusual."
"I was hoping," Stephanie said, her voice trembling as she looked down at her shoes, "that by coming to you directly... by showing honesty... you might show mercy. I thought you might reward forward thinking."
Sterling stood up slowly. She walked around the desk, circling Stephanie like a shark inspecting a swimmer in distress.
"Mercy is earned, Stephanie. Not requested. But I am intrigued. Show me."
Stephanie raised one of her legs and pointed. Above the rim of her black leather shoe, the shimmer of cheap, black nylon was visible.
"Nylons," Sterling breathed, the word sounding like a caress. "Forbidden synthetic fibers. Tacky. Cheap. And entirely against regulation."
"I... I get cold feet," Stephanie lied, though the sweat pooling inside her shoes told a different story.
"Cold feet, is it?" Sterling asked, her eyes locked on the ankles. "Nylon suffocates the skin. It traps the heat. It turns the foot into a hothouse."
She pointed to the high-backed chair positioned behind the desk.
"The Chair, Stephanie. Let us see about this 'mercy'."
Stephanie walked to the chair. She sat, the wood cold against her legs. She lifted her shod feet and placed her ankles into the padded grooves of the stocks, which were bolted firmly to the heavy mahogany desk.
Click.
The top bar came down, locking her ankles in place.
Click.
The latch secured it.
"Arms back," Sterling ordered.
Stephanie reached behind the chair. Sterling moved to the side of the wooden frame, her proximity suffocating. She grabbed the heavy leather strap and pulled it hard behind the backrest.
"Nngh!" Stephanie gasped as her arms were wrenched backward. Sterling buckled the strap tight, pinning Stephanie’s elbows together behind the chair, forcing her chest out and leaving her completely immobilized.
Sterling walked back around to the front of the desk. She stood directly before the captured feet. This was the moment. Sterling turned her back to the connecting door of the Records Room to focus entirely on Stephanie.
"Now," Sterling whispered, looming over the desk. "Let’s see what you’ve been hiding inside that leather."
She reached for the laces of Stephanie’s left shoe. She pulled them loose with agonizing slowness, savoring the tension. Then, she gripped the heel.
"Keep your foot limp," Sterling commanded.
She pried the shoe off with a wet Schlup.
As the leather shell pulled away, a waft of warm, damp air escaped—the scent of enclosed sweat and synthetic fabric.
Stephanie’s foot was revealed, encased in the sheer black nylon. The material was dark with perspiration at the toes and the arch, clinging to the skin like a second, suffocating layer.
Sterling inhaled deeply, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Oh my," she murmured. "It’s positively feverish in there."
She placed the shoe on the desk and peeled off the second one. "Look at them," Sterling purred, staring at the sheer, shiny soles presented to her. "Damp. Overheated. And wrapped in a texture that amplifies everything."
"The static," Sterling whispered, leaning closer. "It acts like a capacitor. Storing the charge. Waiting for a spark."
She didn't use her nails yet. Instead, she curled her hand into a loose fist and brushed the back of her knuckles rapidly against the nylon-clad soles.
Zzzzt-zzzzt-zzzzt.
The sound was a soft, synthetic hiss—like a zipper being pulled up too fast. The reaction was nuclear.
"IIIII-EEE-YIP! AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Stephanie convulsed, her head slamming back against the wood. The friction of the nylon against her sensitized skin sent jagged bolts of electricity shooting up her legs.
"It burns!" Stephanie screamed, thrashing against the leather straps. "IT BURNS AND IT TICKLES! MAKE IT ST-HO-HO-HOP! EEEE-HEEE-HEEE!"
"Fascinating," Sterling murmured, increasing the speed of her rubbing until the nylon blurred. Zzt-zzt-zzt. "The sweat reduces friction to zero, yet the nerve response is off the charts."
"I... I didn't know!" Stephanie gasped. "I just wanted to be warm!"
"And now you will learn the cost of that luxury," Sterling whispered. She didn't reach for a tool yet. She placed both hands on Stephanie’s soles. The heat from Stephanie’s feet radiated into Sterling’s cool palms.
Sterling began to knead her thumbs into the damp, nylon-slicked arches while her long fingers drummed a frantic, spider-like rhythm on the tops of the feet.
"IIII-HIII! GHK-HEEE! NO-NO-NOT THE ST-HAAA-TIC! EEEE-YAH-HA-HA!"
The scream ripped out of Stephanie’s throat, raw and panicked. It echoed off the stone walls, a deafening signal to the girl hiding in the ceiling vent next door.
---
High above the polished stone floor, huddled in the cramped darkness of the galvanized heating duct, Samantha froze. The scream from the office below vibrated through the metal sheeting against her chest. It was a jagged, desperate sound—a signal flare fired from a sinking ship.
"Go," she whispered to herself.
She crawled forward to the grate that overlooked the Records Room. It was pitch black below, save for the faint sliver of light bleeding under the connecting door to Sterling’s office. Samantha worked the latches with practiced, silent fingers. Clink. Clink. She pushed the grate aside and lowered her legs, dropping silently onto the top of the tall filing cabinet, then to the floor.
She looked up at the vent. "Clear," she mouthed.
A moment later, a notebook and a pen fluttered down, followed by Lakshmi’s legs. Lakshmi landed with a soft thump, instantly adjusting her glasses.
"We have to move," Lakshmi whispered, her eyes darting to the connecting door. Through the thin wood, Stephanie’s voice was a continuous, garbled loop of pleading and laughter.
"PLEASE! HA-HA-HA-HA! NOT THE TOES! OH GOD, THE NYLON! HA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
Every shriek made Lakshmi flinch. "She’s not holding back," she murmured. "We have twenty minutes, maybe less before she loses consciousness."
Samantha was already scanning the room. "The Ledger, it has to be in here somewhere."
She moved to the heavy oak sidebar where the "active" files were kept. Nothing. She checked the top of the safe. Nothing.
"Sam," Lakshmi hissed, pointing to a small, unassuming rolling cart tucked in the corner near the window.
Resting on the top shelf, looking innocuous under a layer of dust, was the heavy, leather-bound book.
They rushed over. Samantha grabbed it. It was heavy, smelling of old paper and authority. She carried it to the sliver of light coming from under the connecting door—the only illumination in the room.
Lakshmi knelt on the floor, opening the book to the most recent bookmark.
"Okay," Lakshmi breathed, pen hovering over her notebook. "Read. Fast."
Samantha squinted at the grid in the dim light. "Date: November 12th. Subject: Emily T. Stimulus: Boar Bristle Brush. Duration: 18 minutes."
Lakshmi scribbled furiously.
"Reaction," Samantha continued, her voice trembling as another scream ripped through the wall. "Subject exhibits... 'paradoxical laughter.' Sensitivity Node located at the base of the third toe. Note: Subject begged for 'metal' after 12 minutes of bristles."
"Sick," Lakshmi muttered, writing it down. "Next."
"Date: November 14th. Subject: Rachel C. Stimulus: Peacock Feather. Duration: 22 minutes. Reaction: High-pitch vocalization. Note: Subject attempted to bargain. Denied."
In the office next door, the torture escalated.
"NOOO! AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA! WHAT IS THAT?! IS THAT A COMB?! NO! NO! HA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
The sound of hard plastic scraping against nylon was audible even through the door. It was a zipper-like sound—skritch-snap, skritch-snap—followed by a fresh wave of hysterical shrieking.
"She’s using the comb," Samantha whispered, her face pale. "Stephanie said the static... focus, Sam. Focus."
She turned the page.
"Date: November 15th. Subject: New Entry. Stephanie M. Initial Observation: High Potential. Note: Subject displays nervous foot movement. Hypothesis: Extreme plantar sensitivity. Plan: attempt to achieve fainting/blackout in initial discipline session."
Lakshmi stopped writing. She looked up at Samantha. "She planned this," Lakshmi whispered. "She knew Stephanie would break. She wrote the plan before tonight."
"Just write," Samantha urged, her hands shaking as she turned another page. "We need ten pages. We have three."
Next door, the laughter changed. It wasn't human anymore. It was a breathless, whistling sound—the sound of lungs that had forgotten how to inhale.
"I CAN'T... HA-HA-HA... BREATHE... MISS... HEE-HEE... STOP... PLEASE..."
"She’s fading," Lakshmi said, writing faster. "We're running out of time."
"Page four," Samantha read. "Subject: Beatrice. Stimulus: Ice and Salt. Duration: 14 minutes..."
They worked in a frenzy, the scratching of Lakshmi’s pen racing against the horrifying soundtrack from the other room. Stephanie was buying them every second with her sanity, and they couldn't afford to waste a single drop of her suffering.
Suddenly, the noise next door stopped.
It wasn't a fade-out. It was an abrupt, terrifying silence.
Samantha froze. Lakshmi’s pen hovered over the paper.
"Did she pass out?" Samantha whispered.
Then they heard Sterling’s voice. It wasn't the purr of a torturer. It was the sharp, clinical tone of a scientist making a discovery.
"Unprecedented variance," Sterling’s voice came clearly through the door. "The combination of nylon and sweat has created a feedback loop. I need to log this immediately."
Footsteps.
Heavy, deliberate heels clicking on the wooden floor. Moving away from the desk. Moving toward the connecting door.
"She’s coming for the book," Samantha hissed, her eyes wide with panic.
"I have seven pages," Lakshmi said, ripping the sheets from her notebook. "It’s enough."
"Go!" Samantha shoved Lakshmi toward the filing cabinet under the vent. "Get up there! Now!"
Lakshmi scrambled up the cabinet, grabbing the lip of the duct. She hauled herself up, disappearing into the darkness just as the doorknob began to turn.
Samantha looked at the heavy Ledger in her hands. She couldn't take it. If Sterling saw it was gone, she’d raise the alarm instantly.
She sprinted to the rolling cart in the corner. She slammed the book down on the cart, trying to position it exactly as it had been.
The door handle turned fully.
Click.
Samantha bolted for the filing cabinet. She leaped, her fingers catching the edge of the vent. She pulled, her legs scrabbling for purchase against the metal.
The connecting door swung open.
Headmistress Sterling stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light of her office. She wasn't looking at the rolling cart. She was looking up.
Samantha was halfway into the vent. Her torso was in, but her legs were still dangling, kicking in the air as she tried to drag herself to safety.
Sterling didn't shout.
She moved with the terrifying silence of a predator.
She stepped onto the rolling cart—it creaked under her weight—and lunged upward.
Samantha kicked wildly, her fingers slipping on the galvanized metal. "NO!"
Sterling’s fingers locked around Samantha’s left ankle.
"Gotcha," Sterling whispered.
She yanked. Hard.
"NO!" Samantha screamed as she was ripped from the ceiling. She crashed down, hitting the floor with a bone-jarring thud.
High above, in the safety of the duct, Lakshmi clutched the stolen notes to her chest, tears streaming down her face as she scrambled backward into the dark, listening to the sound of the predator dragging its prey into the light.
Samantha hit the floor hard, the wind knocked out of her. Before she could even gasp for air, Sterling’s hand was tangled in the back of her pajama collar.
"Up," Sterling commanded, dragging the girl across the floor like a sack of laundry.
Samantha scrambled to get her feet under her, stumbling as she was hauled through the connecting door and into the bright, warm office. The smell of peppermint and sweat hit her instantly.
In the center of the room, Stephanie was slumped forward in the chair. She was unconscious, her head lolling against her chest, drool stringing from her lip. Her feet, still locked in the stocks on the desk, were twitching rhythmically—residual nerve spasms firing through the damp nylon.
Sterling shoved Samantha toward the desk.
"Release her," Sterling barked. "Now."
Samantha’s hands shook uncontrollably as she reached for the latch on the stocks. Click. She pulled the top bar up. Stephanie’s legs dropped heavily. Samantha moved behind the chair and undid the leather chest strap.
Stephanie slid out of the chair like a puddle, collapsing onto the floor in a heap of exhausted limbs. She groaned softly but didn't wake.
"Leave her," Sterling snapped. She pointed a long, dagger-like nail at the empty chair. "Sit. Assume the position."
Samantha looked at the chair, then at Sterling’s face. The cool, detached scientist was gone. In her place was something feral. Sterling’s eyes were wide, burning with a cold fire. Her bun was slightly askew, a single strand of silver hair falling across her forehead. She looked like a jailor who had just quelled a riot.
"I said sit!" Sterling slammed her hand onto the desk, making the heavy brass inkwell jump.
Samantha scrambled into the chair. She thrust her bare feet into the stocks and didn't wait for the order. She slammed the bar down and clicked the latch herself, her hands shaking as she slid them down the back of the chair, offering up her own freedom before Sterling could force it from her.
Sterling moved with violent efficiency. She yanked the strap tight—so tight it knocked the breath out of Samantha—and buckled it.
"You think you are clever," Sterling hissed, leaning over the desk, her face inches from Samantha’s presented soles. "You think you can crawl through my walls like rats and steal my property?"
She didn't reach for a tool. She reached for the drawer and pulled out a bottle of baby oil. She didn't pour it carefully. She squeezed the bottle hard, squirting a thick stream of the clear liquid all over Samantha’s feet.
"Who was in the vent?" Sterling demanded, slapping the oil onto the skin with rough, stinging strokes.
"No one!" Samantha gasped, her chest heaving against the strap. "Just me! I was alone!"
"Liar," Sterling spat. She grabbed a handful of silk cords from the desk. She didn't loop them gently. She wrapped the cord around Samantha’s big toe and yanked it back, tying it off to the brass eyelet with a vicious knot.
"AH! That’s too tight!" Samantha cried.
"It’s not tight enough," Sterling growled. She moved down the line. Second toe. Yank. Third toe. Yank.
Within seconds, Samantha’s toes were splayed and pulled back so far the tendons stood out like steel cables across her instep. The soles of her feet were taut, oiled drums.
Sterling opened her drawer. She retrieved something small, plastic, and seemingly innocuous.
It was a shampoo brush—a cheap, clinical-looking disc of hard pink plastic, studded with thick, blunt polyethylene spikes. Sterling slipped her middle finger through the hard plastic loop on the back of the brush. It fit her hand like a knuckle duster.
"Who. Was. In. The. Vent?"
"I told you! I was—"
She pressed the spiked disc flat against Samantha’s oiled arch and twisted.
"AAAA-HEEE-HEEE-YAAAA! IT’S EVERYWHERE! IT’S MOVING TOO FAST! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Sterling ground the tool into the sole. On dry skin, the plastic spikes would have dragged and caught. But on the heavy layer of baby oil, the tool became a chaotic, frictionless engine of torture. The stiff vintage bristles didn't bend; they skidded uncontrollably, popping over the tendons and slipping deep into the soft spaces between the bones.
Squelch. Squelch. Pop.
The sound was wet and sickening—the noise of hard plastic churning through fluid.
"TELL ME!" Sterling roared over the screams.
She began to move the brush in violent, figure-eight patterns. The finger-loop grip allowed her to apply crushing pressure without her hand slipping, while the oil allowed the spikes to fly across the skin with blinding speed.
"I CAN'T! I DON'T... HA-HA-HA... KNOW!" Samantha thrashed, her feet slipping and sliding in the stocks, the oil turning the leather restraints into a slimy trap.
"Loyalty," Sterling sneered. She slid the massager down to the sensitive, wrinkled skin of the heel and spun it like a dial. "Let’s see how long it lasts."
"NO! NOT THE HEEL! IT’S TOO HARD! AAAA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
The sensation was overwhelming—a frictionless, multi-point digging that felt like a dozen hard fingernails trapped under the skin. Samantha’s laughter turned into a high-pitched keen.
"LAKSHMI! OKAY! OKAY! IT WAS LAKSHMI! STOP!"
Sterling stopped instantly. The plastic spikes made a final, wet sucking sound as she pulled them off the skin.
"Lakshmi," Sterling repeated, her breathing heavy. "And Rachel was the lookout, I assume?"
"Yes... ha-ha... yes..." Samantha wept, her head hanging forward.
"And what were you doing?" Sterling asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You weren't just looking, were you? What was the objective?"
Samantha hesitated. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Sterling tapped the plastic spikes against the ball of Samantha’s right foot. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Don't make me start again, Samantha. I won't stop so soon next time."
"We wanted the data!" Samantha blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush to prevent the brushes from making contact. "We know about the ledger! We know you're researching us! We wanted to copy the pages to prove it! We just wanted ten pages... please, I told you everything! Just don't scrub again!"
Sterling stared at her. A slow, terrifying comprehension dawned in her eyes. She set put the scalp massager back in her drawer and closed it with a snap.
She picked up the phone and dialed a three-digit number. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the receiver.
"Security," she barked. "East Wing Dormitory. Collect Rachel C. immediately. And intercept Lakshmi... she will be crawling out of the north corridor vent. Bring her to me. And bring whatever papers she is holding. Do not let her destroy them."
She slammed the phone down. The clang echoed in the room like a gavel strike.
Sterling stood there for a moment, the silence stretching out, broken only by Stephanie’s soft groans from the floor and Samantha’s ragged breathing.
Then, Sterling turned back to the desk. She reached for the heavy, leather-bound Ledger. She ran her hand over the cover, smoothing it out, before flipping it open.
"So," Sterling mused, her voice silky and calm. "You wanted to see my Ledger. You went to such great lengths, risk and pain, just to get a peek inside."
She rotated the book on the desk so it faced Samantha, though the girl was too teary-eyed to read the small print.
"Well, let's take a look together, shall we?"
Sterling ran a manicured finger down the index until she found the page.
"Subject: Samantha," Sterling read aloud. "Primary Weakness: The deep arch. Secondary Weakness: The heel."
She looked up, her eyes locking onto Samantha’s terrified face.
"But here is the interesting part," Sterling said, tapping the page. " 'Subject exhibits extreme distress and total loss of motor control when fingernails are used in a vertical motion from heel to toe. Recommended for high-priority discipline only.' "
Sterling raised her hands. Her nails were long, hard, and buffed to a lethal point. She flexed her fingers, the nails catching the lamplight.
"No..." Samantha whispered, her blood running cold. "But Miss... I told you everything. I confessed! Please! Have mercy!"
Sterling leaned in, her breath hot against the shell of Samantha's ear.
"The interrogation is finished, Samantha."
She dragged a sharp fingernail down the sensitive dip of the arch, eliciting a sharp, choked gasp.
"Now... we calibrate the consequences."
Sterling dug all ten nails into Samantha’s oiled heels and then she dragged her nails slowly, deeply, up the length of the taut, exposed soles.
"AAAAA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! STOP IT! STOP IT! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! AAAA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-HEE!"
Samantha’s body bucked against the straps, her laughter sounding like broken glass. Sterling didn't stop. She reached the toes, lifted her hands, and went back to the heels to start again.
"Mercy is for those who stay in their beds," Sterling murmured, sinking her nails in for the second pass.
---
Lakshmi scrambled out of the vent opening in the North Corridor, her knees hitting the cold stone floor with a jarring impact. The air here was damp, smelling of rain and mildew, but the sound that filled her ears was far worse. The high-pitched, jagged shrieks of Samantha were vibrating through her head.
Clutching the sheaf of stolen papers to her chest, Lakshmi scrambled to her feet. Panic was a cold knot in her stomach. She had to get to the dorms. She had to hide the evidence.
She turned to sprint—and ran straight into a wall of grey wool.
Strong, calloused hands clamped onto her upper arms before she could even draw a breath. She looked up into the impassive, stony face of a school security guard—a burly woman with a grip like a vise.
"Going somewhere, Miss?" the guard grunted.
Lakshmi struggled, kicking out. "Let me go! I have to—"
"You have to come with us," a second voice said.
Lakshmi twisted her head. Down the hall, two more guards were dragging a weeping figure from the shadows. It was Rachel. She was limp, her feet dragging on the floor, her face buried in her hands.
"They knew," Rachel sobbed as they hauled her closer. "They were waiting by the door. They knew everything."
"Move," the guard ordered, shoving Lakshmi forward.
The walk back to the Headmistress’s office was a funeral procession. Lakshmi felt bile rise in her throat. She looked at the papers in her hand—the data they had risked everything for—and realized they were no longer a weapon. They were a death warrant.
The guard opened the heavy oak door.
The scene inside was a tableau of absolute cruelty.
Samantha was writhing in the chair, her face a mask of red, wet agony. Her feet, glistening with oil and tied back with brutal precision, were being ravaged. Sterling stood over her, her back straight, her motion mechanical and relentless. She was dragging her nails from the heels to the balls of Samantha’s feet, digging in deep, treating the skin like parchment she was trying to tear.
"AAAA-HA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE! PLEASE! MISS! I CAN'T TAKE IT! STOP! STOP!"
Sterling didn't even look up as the guards dragged Lakshmi and Rachel into the room. She finished her stroke, savoring the vibration of Samantha’s arch under her fingertips, before slowly straightening up.
"Just in time," Sterling said, her voice calm amidst the chaos. She wiped her oiled hands on a linen cloth. "The audience has arrived."
On the floor, Stephanie groaned. She rolled over, her eyes fluttering open, glazed and confused. She tried to sit up, but her limbs were heavy, and her nylon-clad feet skidded uselessly on the polished floor.
Sterling snapped her fingers at the guard holding Lakshmi. "The papers. Give them to me."
Lakshmi hesitated, her grip tightening on the stolen notes. The guard wrenched Lakshmi’s wrist back until the girl cried out and dropped the pages. Sterling stepped forward and snatched them from the floor.
"Crude," Sterling muttered, glancing at Lakshmi’s frantic handwriting. "But accurate."
She gestured to the door. "Leave us. Wait in the hall."
The guards nodded and retreated, pulling the heavy door shut with a final, ominous thud.
The four girls were alone with the Headmistress.
Sterling walked behind her desk. She placed the stolen notes on top of the open Ledger. She looked at Samantha, who was slumped in the chair, gasping for air, her oiled feet twitching violently. She looked at Stephanie, dazed on the floor. She looked at Rachel and Lakshmi, who stood trembling by the door.
Sterling began to pace. She didn't look angry. She looked... thoughtful.
"You took a great risk tonight," Sterling said, circling the desk. "You identified a pattern. You hypothesized a motive. And you sought to gather evidence to expose me."
She stopped in front of Lakshmi.
"You thought if you showed this to the Board of Governors, they would be horrified. You thought they would see 'torture' and 'abuse'."
Sterling laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound.
"You possess a great deal of book smarts, Lakshmi, but you have zero understanding of economics. Who do you think pays for this school? Who do you think commissioned the Sensory Research Wing? Who do you think asks for these updates?"
The girls stared at her in silence.
"This Ledger," Sterling said, tapping the leather cover, "is not a liability. It is a catalogue. It is a menu. The wealthy men who support this institution do not pay for 'algebra' or 'history'. They pay for results. They pay to know that there is a place where discipline is absolute, where the breaking point is a quantifiable metric."
Sterling walked to the window, looking out at the rain-lashed grounds.
"You wanted to control the narrative? You wanted to tell the world what I do here?" She turned back, her eyes flashing with a dangerous inspiration. "Very well. Let us tell them. But we will not send them scrawled notes. We will give them a demonstration."
She sat down at her desk. She pulled the rotary phone closer.
"If the donors see the efficiency of my methods... if they see the raw, beautiful data you four have generated tonight... they won't fire me. They will double my funding."
She dialed a number. The mechanical whir of the dial was the only sound in the room.
Samantha whimpered softly in the chair.
"Mr. Van Der Hoven?" Sterling spoke into the receiver, her voice transforming instantly into a charm of velvet and steel. "It is Headmistress Sterling. I apologize for the late hour."
She paused, listening, a small smile playing on her lips.
"Yes, well, it seems we have had a breakthrough in the Sensitivity Retention Program earlier than expected. I have four subjects who have... volunteered... for a live demonstration of the cumulative effects of the curriculum."
Sterling looked at the girls. She looked at Stephanie’s nylons. She looked at Samantha’s oiled arches.
"The data is exquisite, sir. But reading about it is one thing. I think you and the Steering Committee should see it firsthand."
She paused again.
"Oh, yes. You are only required to bring yourselves, but by all means bring your checkbooks also."
Sterling hung up the phone. The click was soft, but it felt like the lid of a coffin slamming shut.
She stood up, smoothing her skirt. She looked down at the four terrified girls with a look of predatory satisfaction.
"You wanted to show the world the truth?" Sterling whispered. "Get ready, girls. You're about to become the star attraction."
Next Chapter
Attachments
-
Sterling'sOffice.jpeg -
The Headmistress of St Brigid's 3 1.jpeg -
The Headmistress of St Brigid's 3 2.jpeg -
The Headmistress of St Brigid's 3 3.jpeg -
The Headmistress of St Brigid's 3 4.jpeg -
6dc40ced-589a-44ea-bad6-9ec3575eeb1e.jpeg -
The Headmistress of St Brigid's 3 5.jpeg -
980da972-075d-4fae-a41e-61589bcfeec7.jpeg -
2a0e702c-8a38-4c57-ad0b-1f91c004e878.jpeg
Last edited:
