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fanatical /fəˈnatɪkl/

adjective adjective: fanatical

filled with excessive and single-minded zeal. "fanatical revolutionaries"

obsessively concerned with something.

He arrived early, the way he always did. The corridor lights flickered once before settling, each tube casting a pale strip that made the floor look colder than it was. Interesting how most high schools haven’t updated their lighting since the ‘70s. His footsteps travelled across the lino, a dampened knock that repeated without variation, as if the hallway were absorbing half the sound. He set his bag on the desk, straightened a pile of worksheets, then checked the attendance system. The monitor dragged itself awake, colours blooming out of grey in a slow crawl. By the time the first bell rang, the building felt fully operational. Doors slammed. Lockers chattered open. He stepped into the doorway with his mug, watching the tide of students roll and separate. Most moved with a practised urgency, heads down, bags slung carelessly over one shoulder. The second bell rang, dispersing students towards their respective doors. That was when he saw her. Mali Griffin. Year eleven. Dark hair pinned back with two silver clips. She stood near the alcove by the science wing, not far from the drinking fountain. Another girl leaned close to her, almost touching. Their conversation had that sharpened tone he recognised instantly, the quick bursts of breath, the tilt of shoulders toward the absence of a third person. “You should get to class,” he stated. Mali’s eyes lifted to his. The smile she gave him was precise and thin. It held no warmth. The other girl kept her attention fixed on her shoes. “What are you talking about?” he asked but he already knew. Mali was a known gossip and a bully. The kind that took great pleasure in punching down. She shrugged. “Nothing.” “Gossip is not nothing, get to class please” he stated again. The other girl nodded once. Mali did not. Her gaze stayed on him, steady and unblinking. Something about the look pressed lightly against his throat, a small, inexplicable pressure. Nothing overt. Nothing he could name. Her friend, pulling on her arm, guided them to class. He wouldn’t know it then but he knew later, Mali didn’t like to be challenged. The evening settled into its usual pattern. He reheated leftovers, marked two sets of short essays, and stacked the papers beside the phone. The first call came after eight. He picked up before the second ring finished. No voice greeted him. Instead he heard a faint wash of music, muffled by poor reception. It took a moment to recognise the source. The local radio station. The late show with the monotone host who played older tracks. There was no breathing, no movement on the other end. Just that radio, drifting in and out as if someone held the phone near a stereo across the room. “Hello,” he said. His own voice sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Who is this?” The music continued. He set the receiver down and tried to return to marking. Forty minutes later the phone rang again. Same pattern. He answered. Same music, fluctuating in a strange, wavering pulse. He said nothing this time. He listened for any sign of breath. Nothing. He hung up after a minute. When it rang the third time, he let the machine take it. The tape whirred inside the small black box, recording the same faint music. After ten seconds it cut. The machine clicked off. He told himself it was a harmless prank. Teenagers did that kind of thing. Maybe a wrong number. Maybe someone bored. He forced the thought into something manageable and kept it there. By morning, it felt almost unimportant. Friday changed that. The car park was nearly empty when he finally stepped outside. The air held a thin chill, enough to tighten the skin on his forearms. At first he didn’t notice anything unusual. Then he rounded the front bumper.