Iron Portcullises and the Chemistry Teacher

Iron Portcullises and the Chemistry Teacher

I was walking through the local mall near my childhood home, but all the shops were closed and had heavy iron portcullises pulled down instead of normal security grates. It was freezing cold, like an abandoned stone cellar. I kept checking my watch because I had a shift starting at the bookstore, but the corridors stretched out forever under flickering torchlight instead of fluorescent bulbs. My old high school chemistry teacher was standing near the food court, but in my head I also knew he was some sort of executioner, wearing a heavy leather apron and holding a ring of giant black iron keys. He asked me why I hadn't prepared the ash for the register, and I felt this intense, sinking dread that I had ruined some terrible ritual just by being late. When I pulled out my phone to text my manager, the screen was just dark, cracked slate, completely dead in my hand.