by Ron Ripley
“Alright. Do you have a radio?” she asked.
He patted the portable on his hip. He never left the office without one, and she knew it.
“I’ll be fine, Marilyn,” Mitchell said. “Honest, I will.”
She nodded and said, “I know. I worry.”
“And I appreciate it,” he said. “I’ll check in as soon as I get there.”
Mitchell left the office and made his way to Deer Stag. When he arrived, he took the portable off his belt and called Marilyn.
She didn’t answer.
He tried once more before he put the radio away.
She’s probably on the phone.
The front door to Deer Stag was open, left wide when Larry and Bruce had run from the building. Within a minute, Mitchell was down in the cellar. He stepped through the puddles towards the large hole in the wall. A work light was on and propped up against some of the stones. The bright beam illuminated the dull metal of the safe.
The metal, Mitchell saw, wasn’t steel.
Lead? he thought. Why would it be coated in lead?
The sheets were held together with small rivets, and those seemed to be of lead as well.
He looked around the safe as best he could, but he felt uncomfortable. As though insects had gotten under his shirt and crawled along his skin.
A shudder rippled through him, and he picked up the work light. The metal was cold and comforting in his hands. He glanced back once at the safe, turned the light off and left the cellar.
Chapter 4: At the Office
Marilyn Davilla brought up Mitchell’s appointment calendar on the computer, double-checked it, and then added a meeting for the eighteenth. He was supposed to meet with Jeff Ricard about the caterers for the senior graduation.
Marilyn straightened up in her chair; a dark shape had passed through the edge of her vision.
Suddenly feeling nervous, Marilyn turned carefully to the left, but there was nothing there. The bookcase, a filing cabinet, a picture of the quad when the cherry trees were in full bloom.
Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed uncomfortably. The room had gotten colder, and goose bumps rippled along her forearms. She tried to shake the nervousness away as she turned back to the computer. The monitor’s screen flickered and went out.
“Oh damn it!” Marilyn exclaimed angrily. She hadn’t saved the last file she had worked on. Auto-recover would salvage most of it, but she couldn’t be sure of how much until she opened the document again.
She went to hit the ‘power’ button, and the lights went out.
Even though the sun streamed in through the windows, the room felt dark. Marilyn fought the urge to leave, to run out of the building for the safety of the outdoors and the daylight.
A creak sounded from Mitchell’s office, followed quickly by a crash.
Marilyn stiffened, and her heartbeat quickened.
It’s probably a squirrel, she told herself. One had gotten in at the beginning of April, and it had taken Larry an hour to catch it. Yes, just another squirrel.
The idea of the animal running around Mitchell’s office and making a mess made her frown. She reached for the portable to call Larry, and then she remembered how the man had looked.
I bet he’s gone home, she thought. Marilyn looked at the phone, debated on whether or not she should call a pest control service, but her decision was made when another item crashed to the floor of Mitchell’s office. The squirrel would destroy his office if she didn’t get it out of there.
Marilyn took her key to his office out of the desk and let herself into the room. When the door swung wide, she gasped. Broken mugs were on the hardwood floor, and the coffee was seeping down. The curtains had been pulled down from the window, and papers were scattered across the floor.
A dark shape eased past her, and Marilyn stiffened. A sharp cold tried to penetrate her flesh, and she stood still. She shivered as what felt like rough lips brushed against her ear.
Then Marilyn relaxed, her eyes losing focus. A gentle voice whispered in her ear. The words were soft, caressing. She smiled, nodded, and stepped to Mitchell’s desk. She picked up a pen and a piece of paper. Marilyn hummed to herself as she wrote a few words down.
Nodding happily, she signed the note, returned the pen to the desk and looked up at the beautiful, antique brass chandelier mounted in the center of the ceiling.
Chapter 5: Bringing Back the Portable
Mitchell didn’t feel well as he returned to the administration building. The Deer Stag House had left him with a sense of dread. A deep, primal fear had burrowed into his heart and refused to be dislodged by the warmth of the sun.
He hurried up the stairs and into the building, making his way quickly to his office. He saw the lights were off, and Marilyn wasn’t at her desk.
“Marilyn?” Mitchell called out as he caught sight of his own door open.
“Marilyn?” he asked again, walking around her desk.
He stopped abruptly, turned, and vomited onto the floor. The remnants of his breakfast splashed up and stained his khakis. He dry heaved several times before he was able to straighten up, wiping his mouth off with the cuff of his sleeve.
Marilyn was hanging from the chandelier mount. Her pretty, light blue blouse had been knotted around her neck. Her eyes, which had been a sparkling green, were dull and glazed. Her once neatly-brushed and set hair was in disarray, and her tongue protruded from her mouth like a fat worm in a garden plot. Her pale flesh was sickening to look at, her breasts heavy in the plain white bra she wore.
When she had died she had wet herself, the urine leaving a trail down the inside of each leg and dripping slowly, rhythmically onto the top of his desk. Her blue, flat shoes were neatly placed in front of his desk, the heels touching one another on the wood.
Mitchell caught sight of a piece of paper on the desk with words written on it. He recognized Marilyn’s neat, professional script. Numbly, he walked into the room, vaguely registering the broken coffee mugs and the sheets of paper scattered everywhere. When he reached Marilyn’s shoes, he looked down at what she had written.
I’ve had enough.
She had signed it as well. The great, flourishing signature he had seen her use when writing birthday wishes to a staff member.
The sharp, bitter stench of Marilyn’s urine filled his nose and Mitchell stiffly left the room, his legs feeling as though they were of wood. He staggered to her desk. He picked up her phone, but there was no dial tone. Slowly, he returned it to its cradle, and he took his cellphone out. His hands shook as he dialed nine-one-one.
Chapter 6: The Day is Nearly Done
Mitchell had set up a temporary office in Dave Licata’s history classroom. Dave, who had been teaching at the Academy for over twenty years, had come in to grade some of his final papers.
Dave took his glasses off, put them on his desk, and looked at Mitchell, who smiled wanly at his old friend. Dave opened a drawer, moved some papers around, and pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label.
Mitchell eyes widened. “Dave, how long have you had that in there?”
“Remember John McElwain?” Dave asked, taking a pocket knife out of his suit coat and cutting off the wax seal around the bottle.
Mitchell frowned, and then he nodded, “Yes. John. I had him as a student in English. He was in the class of ninety-seven. He was a handful.”
“Indeed, he was,” Dave agreed. “An absolute hellion.”
“I think the only class he never missed was Mechanics,” Mitchell said.
“You would be correct,” Dave said. He opened another drawer, dug around for a moment and then produced a pair of clear plastic cups. “Ah. Here we are.”
As Dave poured a small amount of liquor into each cup, Mitchell said, “Why did you bring John up?”
“I never thought I would survive with John as a student,” Dave said, reaching over the desk and handing Mitchell a drink. Mitchell took it, nodding his thanks. “I promised myself a bottle of Blue La
bel if I managed not to lose my temper with him, or end up in jail for punching him squarely in the mouth.”
Dave raised his own up and said, “Here’s to Marilyn, I hope she is at peace.”
Mitchell nodded, and they drank silently.
“Why didn’t you ever open the bottle before?” Mitchell asked a short time later.
“There was always another student like John, one who challenged me both mentally and emotionally,” Dave replied. “I eventually decided I would save the liquor for when I retired. Today, though, seemed like a far more somber occasion. And, my friend, you honestly look like you could use a drink.”
Mitchell was silent, and then he said, “It wasn’t like her, Dave.”
Dave waited patiently for Mitchell to continue.
“She was never upset. Never. Not once,” Dave said. “I mean, yes, she had her moments when she might be frustrated. But in the six years she worked for me, Dave, not once was she depressed or in a funk.”
“I could offer up a wealth of platitudes, Mitchell,” Dave said. “But none of them are appropriate. Today has been a difficult day for you, not only with Marilyn’s demise but with this particularly destructive prank.”
Mitchell straightened up.
“What?” Dave asked. “What did I say?”
“The prank,” Mitchell said softly. He looked at Dave and told him about Larry and Bruce, the white hair and the ambrotype.
“Nathaniel Weiss?” Dave asked. “Are you certain it was a picture of him?”
“Yes,” Mitchell said. “I’m positive it was.”
Dave finished the last of his drink. “Mitchell, do you have the key to the library?”
“Yes,” Mitchell answered. “Why?”
“Would you accompany me to the library and let me in?” Dave asked, standing up.
“Yes, but why?” Mitchell asked, getting to his feet.
“There is an autobiography on Weiss in the library and, well, I would like to look at it before I say much more. Alright?” Dave asked.
Mitchell looked at his friend’s face and saw the concern there. His skin had paled slightly, and his lips were compressed into a thin line.
He’s afraid, Mitchell realized.
He followed Dave out of the building, the small man walking quickly. Mitchell had a difficult time keeping up with him. The school grounds were quiet. In the cherry trees, the birds were quiet. No squirrels raced across the grass. The sky was barren of clouds, and the sun seemed as though it had been dimmed.
The world looked strange.
Dave glanced around him, then back to Mitchell and slowed down slightly.
“Do you feel it?” Dave asked, his voice hushed.
“Yes,” Mitchell answered. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Dave replied. They turned up the Belgian cobblestone path which lead up to the front stairs of the library.
The Weiss Library.
Dave stepped off to one side, and Mitchell dug out his keyring. He unlocked the door, opened it, and walked in quickly, punching in the security code to keep the silent alarm from going off. Dave followed him in, turned on the lights and said, “Follow me.”
Mitchell did so, Dave hurrying along the hall and up the narrow stairs to the second floor. Dave turned sharply into the first room on the left, clicked on the light and went to the far stack.
“Dave,” Mitchell said, walking behind him. “What are you looking for?”
“Hold on,” Dave said, holding a hand up. He paused, then went down the last aisle.
When Mitchell reached it, Dave was on his knees, head tilted slightly as he read the spines of the books. With a frown, Dave got up, checked the next few shelves, turned around, and examined the other books.
“It’s gone,” Dave said after several minutes, frustration thick in his normally calm voice. “Someone has it.”
“Has what?” Mitchell asked. “What book were you looking for again?”
“An autobiography,” Dave said, turning his attention back to Mitchell.
“Whose?”
“Nathaniel Weiss,” Dave answered.
“Why?” Mitchell asked, confused. “What does it have to do with today?”
Dave hesitated before he said, “Weiss was a firm believer in the supernatural. I think he may have found a way to come back.”
Chapter 7: Introducing Herman Emerson Hawthorne
Herman’s parents were English majors.
Both his mother and his father loved the classics. They had met in Mystic Seaport during the annual reading of Melville’s Moby Dick, and Herman had suffered accordingly.
No one, not a single other kid he had ever met shared his first name. He had met a Marine once whose first name was Emerson, but the Marine had gone by E-Z. And E-Z was still a whole lot cooler than Herman. Or Hermie.
For a while in middle school, kids had called him Hermie the Hermaphrodite. Thankfully, one of the math teachers had been arrested for drug possession at a concert, and Herman had no longer been the center of attention.
The Academy had brought his name right back into focus, though. It was bad enough he was no longer at the top of the scholastic totem pole, but there were so many more kids. And some of them seemed like adults. He saw seniors with full beards.
Herman, who had yet to sprout a single dark hair on his upper lip, tried to avoid the attention of the upperclassmen at all costs. His own peers were bad enough.
His Introduction to the English Literature teacher hadn’t helped matters either. Not only did Mrs. Starr bring his name to the attention of his classmates, but she was his god-mother. Add into the mix, Herman’s own love for books, and he was the instant scapegoat for anything wrong in the class. Failed the test on Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men? Well, if Hermie hadn’t done such a great job on the essay, Mrs. Starr would have graded the test on a curve. Forgot to write the definitions down for the weekly vocabulary words and you failed the quiz on Friday? It was Hermie’s fault. All he had to do was let you copy off of him.
Yeah, Herman thought. Life at the Academy is a barrel of laughs.
But it was better than being at home. His parents may have fallen in love, but they hadn’t stayed in love. They barely tolerated one another, and both of them drank heavily. Every night.
Herman couldn’t stand being in the house if either of his parents were there. The anger poisoned the air, darkened the rooms.
When the automated call from the Academy had come through, he thought he might have a day to himself. Maybe read a little more of The Deeper World, a book he had gotten out of the school library. When he had gone downstairs for breakfast, though, both of his parents were home. Neither of them had been talking, and the atmosphere in the kitchen had been foul.
He had told his mother and his father, separately, how he was going to go downtown and do some research for a project at the library. It was a lie, but if he hadn’t, they wouldn’t have let him out of the house. They were overprotective and while they couldn’t agree on whether or not to have rice with dinner, they had no problem ‘keeping him safe’ from the ‘big bad world’.
Herman rolled his eyes at the memory of it and paused under an elm tree at the edge of the school grounds. He knew, like most of the kids, about the senior prank. He didn’t care either way, and he wasn’t going to open his mouth about anything either. Herman liked chewing his food, and if a senior found out he had ratted on them, they would have broken his jaw.
Herman adjusted his backpack, which he had stuffed with cereal bars and a couple of water bottles, and made his way to the back of the Weiss Library. Mrs. Alcott, the librarian, was also his neighbor.
She knew all about his home life. Shortly before Christmas, she had stopped him on the street, handed him a small manila envelope and said, “Merry Christmas, Herman.” Inside had been a key to the library’s back door and the access code to turn off the alarm system; it was the best gift he had ever been given.
Whenever life at his house became too much to handle
, Herman slipped away to the Weiss Library. He was safe there.
Herman glanced around to make sure no one could see him, took the key out of his wallet, and let himself into the building. He punched the code in and made his way to Mrs. Alcott’s office. She always left it unlocked, and it was a windowless room. Big enough for her desk and computer, small enough for her to be comfortable in.
Herman slipped into the room, closed the door and turned on the light. He put his backpack on the floor and pulled the book out. It was written by Nathaniel Weiss, one of the school’s founders. It was Weiss’ autobiography.
Normally, Herman read fantasy or science fiction. Dune or something from Star Wars. The Lord of the Rings trilogy. But not autobiographies.
He had found it a few days earlier when he had been roaming the library by himself, one night, after his parents had both passed out drunk in their separate bedrooms. The binding of the book had felt strange. A weird, almost too-soft type of leather. Evidently, Weiss had believed in all sorts of supernatural stuff. Roaming outside of his body. Speaking with the dead. The book was actually pretty exciting.
Herman made himself comfortable at Mrs. Alcott’s desk and flipped open to where he had left off, “The Power of the Written Word.” Which is where the man said the true power of writing came into play. Weiss’ style was direct and to the point; Weiss always sought to deliver the purpose of his message as quickly as possible. And he recommended any young writer to do the same.
Herman wanted to be a writer. He took his small notebook out of his backpack, unclipped the pen from the inside cover and jotted down a single phrase.
Short and sweet.
He needed to work on it. His own sentences tended to be run-on monstrosities. Herman turned back to the book and caught a line which made his eyes widen.
Words are power. And a few have the ability to end lives. They say the pen is mightier than the sword. This is true, but not in the way in which they think. You, dear reader, if you are skilled enough, can create havoc with your words. You can end relationships. You can create doubt. You can make mortal enemies of friends, and friends of mortal enemies. All you need is the will to do so.
