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墨書 Inktalez
I know I shouldn’t say this, but I can’t help it.
The principal's mental state has noticeably deteriorated over the past few weeks, especially after entering the Principal's Office. He has become extremely sensitive to light; the curtains in his office are almost always drawn tight, and the lights are only half on, casting a dim gloom over the entire space. But what disturbs me the most are the seventeen portraits on the wall.
These are self-portraits of past principals, each from a different era, and each with a distinct style. Some are realistic, some distorted, and others look like they were hastily scribbled with crayons. Yet every single one… truly every single one… depicts a pair of eyes that are unnaturally wide open.
The principal often stares at those portraits.
One night, I returned to school to retrieve something and saw his silhouette through the crack of the door, standing completely still in front of the wall. I knocked on the door, but he didn’t turn around; instead, he spoke:
“They are counting.”
“Counting what?” I asked.
He turned to look at me, and that gaze is something I will never forget—like a living person being treated as a paper doll.
“Who hasn’t finished class,” he said.
From my observations, the positions of those portraits have been moved before. They aren’t fixed in place; they are rearranged weekly, their order constantly changing. But the principal always remembers their original positions. If someone has moved them, he flies into a rage, even smashing cups on his desk while muttering, “He will get confused; he will think I’m in the wrong seat.”
Who is “he”?
I once asked him. He remained silent for a long time before saying, “The last person who sat in this chair… hasn’t left; he’s just been painted in.”
I looked through the list of past principals at the school. The last one to retire was Principal Ye, but I couldn’t find his photograph—only one painting, which was placed in the far corner. In that painting, the figure had its back to us, sitting in a chair.
I stared for five minutes, and that person’s head moved twice.
I couldn’t bear to look any longer.
I only know that whenever there is a Broadcast Incident, students lose control, or rumors about the Banyan Tree circulate again, the Portraits in the Principal's Office change. Once, two faces appeared in one of the paintings.
Now, the principal has started talking to the painting. Not in whispers, but clearly, word by word:
"I haven't finished calling the roll, I'm still in class, I'm not late, please let me stay."
…I dared not listen any longer. He wasn't speaking to the Portraits; he was reporting to something behind the wall.
That day, he looked at the largest Portrait on the wall and said:
"Qian Qian is already seated, two more to go."
——
【Supplementary Record | Principal Ye Wenheng's Log Before Disappearance | Content Transcribed from a Handwritten Notebook Found Under His Desk】
I'm not sure what day it is today. The calendar has flipped to the end of September, but my hand has been repeatedly writing "I haven't finished calling the roll" for two consecutive days.
I dare not open the curtains. The light would reveal their expressions. Yesterday, in the seventh Portrait, Principal Li smiled—a smile he had never shown before. The teeth in that Portrait were drawn by me; how could I forget? But yesterday he opened his mouth and revealed twice as many teeth as I had drawn.
They move. They have all moved.
I thought I could still control the seating arrangement. But today, my chair shifted slightly. I didn't move it; it just felt wrong, too close to the wall. That wall had been empty, but when I entered this morning… a thin crack appeared on it, as if something was looking out from inside.
I didn't eat lunch. My Lunch Box was turned over, and the food seemed licked clean, with only one sentence written on the lid—written in sauce:
"You are not the last one."
I sensed something was off with the bell. Today, the class bell rang three times, each time slightly out of sync, but I was the only one who noticed. I asked the secretary if there had been any schedule changes, and she looked at me as if I were insane.
I wasn't insane. I just remembered everyone's names. I even recalled a name that shouldn't exist: Huang Qianqian.
Once she sat down, I knew she wasn't the only one. She was merely waiting for roll call.
---
I can no longer write my own name. Every time I pick up the pen, other names flash through my mind, and as I write, all I get is: "Next, next, next..."
Just now, the sixteenth portrait changed.
In the painting was me.
I stood there, looking at myself.
I turned around, and the wall cracked open, revealing a chair inside—That Chair—left empty.
I heard someone calling names from within—not mine, but another voice calling My Name.
I thought I should go over. Otherwise, they might think I was skipping class.
[Supplementary Record | Acting Principal Jiang Ruolan's Private Notes | File Number: H-01]
It has been three days since I officially took over as principal. The office key was retrieved from the security room, and no one was willing to accompany me to unlock the door. Initially, I thought this collective silence was merely a result of pressure from rumors until I sat down in this office myself.
The portraits were indeed still there.
Seventeen of them, each one seeming alive.
As soon as I stepped inside, I caught a whiff of an ancient scent—like mold, like old paper, and something akin to the smell after a ritual had concluded.
The desk was tidy, but in the bottom drawer, I found a blank canvas with a sticky note attached to it.
The note read:
"Please complete before the start of the school year."
I couldn’t remember who had left this note, nor did I understand why my heart raced as I stared at the white canvas.
The distance between the portraits seemed... off. Some of the walls between the portraits appeared wider than yesterday, as if to make room.
Today at noon, I noticed an additional hook on the wall. It was empty.
I had a dream where I sat in a chair, and a wall slowly revealed hundreds of student ID cards. All the photos were blurred, but each one bore the same name: My Name.
Was that what they were doing? Erasing us one by one, filing us away, turning us into portraits?
I didn’t pick up a brush to paint. I had never learned to draw. But after school today, I discovered that the knuckles of my right hand were stained with deep brown paint; the canvas on my desk had received its first stroke.
I couldn’t remember what I had painted. All I knew was that today, the number of portraits... had become eighteen.
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