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... against the maintenance alcove door, the sound like nails on a coffin lid. Inside our cramped hiding spot, twenty students held a collective breath, the air thick enough to choke on. Mrs. Yamamoto was muttering prayers, her face a mask of terror. Mr. Tanaka had fainted, slumped against a conduit. Others were crying softly, their whimpers a pathetic counterpoint to the monster’s wet gurgling outside.
Then, a whisper, so close I felt its warmth in my ear. "I need to make a distraction," th ...
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