Dark Halls - A Horror Novel

by Jeff Menapace

  Before leaving, the visitor gazes adoringly towards the other items that adorn the perimeter of the chamber, the candlelight seemingly sharing the visitor’s adoration as it caresses each item with its wavering glow.

  All is how it had been originally left before the fire, again, unaffected by the vigilante act, to the great delight of the chamber’s current occupant. And that occupant’s gaze now settles on John Gray’s framed picture in the corner, a silver gym whistle—a treasured gift from his ex-wife, his initials carved into the silver, the whistle mysteriously vanishing the day before he took his life—hanging from the corner of the picture frame. The picture itself? A noose around the man’s neck, inked in blood that is long caked and a reddish brown, is still ever present.

  Also ever present are the dozens of other personal items and photographs that once belonged to those who died within the walls of Highland Elementary, teachers and students alike.

  26

  Two things happened during the next five days. Ryan and Rebecca had seen each other every day and night since they’d shared their first drink together on Friday. And Ryan had struck up a great friendship with his fellow first-year and fifth-grade teacher, Trish, the five-foot, motor-mouthed Cabbage Patch Doll.

  “Did you get it up yet?” Trish asked.

  “I beg your pardon,” Ryan replied in a lousy British accent.

  Trish punched him in the arm. “Perv. Do you want me to send you an email to see whether it’s up and running yet?”

  They sat side by side, each in front of a laptop trying to set up their school email accounts. It was close to noon; the third day of orientation had ended early, and the instructors had encouraged them to return to their classrooms to practice the internet skills they had learned earlier that morning. Trish and Ryan had chosen the latter’s room to practice, which realistically consisted of ten minutes of computer time and forty-five minutes of Pinewood gossip: which teachers seemed cool, which seemed a headache, and, of course, the lovely Rebecca Lawrence.

  “Send it,” Ryan said. A short moment later and the number one appeared next to the inbox on Ryan’s screen. “Booyah.”

  “It came through?”

  “It did.”

  “Awesome. What are you doing for lunch? I mean besides Rebecca.”

  “You flatter me. Like I could last that long during a lunch break. I’m more of a water break guy.”

  Trish let loose her trademark laugh—a machine gun loaded with helium. Nails on a chalkboard to some; adorable to Ryan.

  “Seriously, what are you doing for food?” Trish asked when her laughter died.

  “Brought a hoagie. I told Rebecca I’d meet her in the cafeteria. You wanna come along?”

  “Nah—third wheel.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  “Your mom’s dumb.”

  “She’s actually quite smart.”

  “Sometimes the apple does fall far…”

  “I’ll hit a girl.”

  “Probably punch like one too.”

  They shared a grin.

  ***

  Happy with her email progress, Trish got up and wandered around Ryan’s room.

  “You ended up doing a good job in here,” she said.

  “You ended up doing a good job.”

  “Meh. I just pointed. You did all the labor.”

  “My little foreman,” Ryan said, still staring at his computer screen.

  She bopped him on the back of the head. “I’m five-two in heels.”

  “I’m six-two in them.”

  She laughed and continued to wander. The rest of the fifth-grade wing was empty. Everyone had indeed gone to lunch. Ryan hit one last button, and his screen went black. In fact, the whole room shut down. Lights, air-conditioning (the school had mercifully turned it on a few days ago), everything.

  “What the hell?” Ryan said, quickly taking his hands away from his laptop as though he might have caused it all.

  “What happened?” Trish walked over to her own laptop. It too was dead.

  “Must be a power failure or something,” Ryan said.

  “Then why did our laptops go out, dummy? They’re on batteries.”

  Ryan felt a familiar touch of fear. He flashed on the teachers’ lounge, the brief power failure therein, the three dead teachers staring at him with their barren faces.

  “Hey—Hey!” Trish called out. She was standing at Ryan’s classroom door now, looking out into the hallway. She spun back towards Ryan. “Did you see that? A little boy just ran by your room.”

  “What?”

  “A little boy just ran by your room,” she said again. “I saw him.”

  “One of the teachers must have brought their kid.”

  “Not dressed like that, they didn’t.”

  Ryan frowned. “Dressed like what?”

  “I don’t know. Weird. Like a pilgrim or Amish kid or something.”

  Ryan stood. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Trish seemed more excited than rattled. “I shit you not—he looked like one of those little Amish kids. All in black. Black wide-brimmed hat too. Be right back.”

  “No, Trish—wait.” Ryan did not follow her. He stayed put. Called after her again, but she was already gone. A strong beat of silence followed.

  It was a teacher’s child. A teacher brought their kid. That’s all.

  (And the way Trish claims he was dressed?)

  She was mistaken. She’ll show up here at any moment with the kid, and it’ll explain everything.

  What came next was a scream, its pitch so high it could only have come from Trish.

  ***

  Trish turned the corner of the fifth-grade wing and watched the child in black disappear into the boys’ room.

  Quick little bugger, she thought.

  She stood outside the boys’ room door and contemplated entering. What if Ryan had been correct? Maybe a teacher had brought their kid here, and the poor bugger just needed to take a whizz something fierce. You go in and catch him at a urinal midstream and you might scar the poor little guy for life.

  But his clothing. It was so odd. Yes, the boy had run by Ryan’s classroom quickly, but she had still managed a decent look at him. The boy was even wearing one of those wide-rimmed black hats, the kind she’d seen the Amish, adults and children, wearing during the few times she’d visited Lancaster.

  So, what did that leave? An Amish kid hiked all the way from freaking Lancaster to pop into Pinewood Elementary and take that whizz he so desperately needed? Of course not. There were plenty of other possibilities; however, right now Trish’s curiosity was getting the better of her.

  She decided to enter.

  The boy was there. He was not using one of the urinals on the right, nor was he in one of the stalls on the left. He sat on the floor, far back against the wall, beneath a small square window overhead, the window doing a modest job showing all in the dimly lit bathroom that was not immune to the recent power outage.

  The boy’s outfit confirmed what she’d seen, right down to the black, wide-brimmed hat. The boy’s head was down, the top of the hat resembling an old record to Trish. If the boy heard Trish’s entrance, he did not show it. He just sat against the tiled wall, legs out in front, head down. He was humming to himself.

  “Hello?” she called to the boy.

  The boy lifted his head and looked at Trish. His face was round; his cheeks, cherub red. His eyes—black, too black, crowlike—fixed on Trish. He continued to hum.

  Trish inched forward. She squatted before the boy. “Are you okay?”

  The boy stopped humming. “You wanna see something?” His tone was pleasant.

  “Okay.”

  “This is what it made us do,” the boy said.

  The boy slowly began to tilt his head backwards. A long gash appeared across his throat, thin at first, then widening like a mouth the further back the boy’s head went. When the boy’s head could go back no further, a waterfall of red gushed from the wound, soaki
ng the boy’s front.

  Trish slapped a hand over her mouth. Tried to scream, but managed nothing.

  The boy’s head pitched forward, his eyes no longer a crow’s eyes, but rolled back white. His skin was the color of ash. He grinned at Trish with a mouth that seemed impossibly wide.

  “See?” the boy said with that grin. Those white eyes. “See?”

  The boy spat a mouthful of blood into Trish’s face and giggled.

  Trish found her voice and screamed.

  ***

  Ryan bolted from his classroom and followed Trish’s scream into the boys’ room. He did not notice Trish right away. He couldn’t. Instead, his eyes were on the little boy in black, the boy now on his feet, capering about the room, eyes white, grin his whole face, his tiny black shoes tracking his own blood along the bathroom tile underfoot. “See?” the boy sang over and over as he danced. “See? See? See…?”

  “Jesus Christ!” Ryan hollered.

  Trish, cowering in the corner, hands covering her face, shielding her eyes from the atrocity, dropped her hands and raised her head towards Ryan’s shouts. She sprinted into his arms. Ryan literally picked her up and carried her out of the boys’ room.

  27

  Trish and Ryan’s scene had attracted those who had not left the building for lunch. Those who were just as concerned about the recent power outage as any, and then, of course, by the chaos that had echoed throughout the once quiet building shortly after.

  “In there!” Ryan cried out, pointing his chin towards the boys’ room, Trish sobbing in his arms.

  Alex Barnett and Nora Haywood—second-grade teachers—cautiously opened the boys’ room door and went inside. Ryan held Trish tighter. For a moment, her sobs were the only sound.

  The bathroom door opened. Alex Barnett poked his head out. “Ryan?”

  Ryan looked at him. Alex motioned for Ryan, and Ryan alone, to join him and Nora inside. He nodded back and held Trish at arm’s length. “I’ll be right back,” he said to her. “Stay here.” He followed Alex into the bathroom.

  “What happened here, man?” Alex asked once they were inside. He was a young teacher, younger than Ryan. And right now he appeared flummoxed, trying to comprehend why Ryan and Trish had lost it in the boys’ room in the fifth-grade wing. Trying to figure it out because there was nothing in the bathroom. No bloody little footprints on the floor, no blood anywhere. More importantly, no trace of a little boy in black capering about the damn bathroom with maniacal glee as he chanted “see?” over and over again. Nothing.

  Ryan could only stare in disbelief. He’d seen it. He had, he fucking had. He quickly flashed on his conversation with Karl:

  “I believe you, son…I believe every word you just said.”

  And then Ryan’s fleeting sense of relief over Karl’s words: The old janitor believed him. Hurray. Who the hell would believe them?

  Trish. That’s who. Because she had seen it—

  (see? see?)

  saints be praised (and this feeling of relief was just as fleeting as it had been with Karl, more so even; he did not want Trish involved in this madness), Trish could see too.

  Ryan bolted from the bathroom without a word to either teacher. They followed cautiously behind him.

  Rebecca was now on the scene, trying to console Trish, to ask what had happened. Ryan did not acknowledge her. Instead, he immediately fronted Trish. “He’s not in there, Trish. Nothing is in there.”

  Trish looked up at Ryan with disbelieving eyes. She then looked down at hands that had wiped away blood that had been spat in her face only moments before. They were clean. She shouldered Ryan out of the way and rushed towards the bathroom, needing to see for herself.

  No scream echoing out from the bathroom this time. Just Trish’s incredulous cry: “No fucking way!”

  28

  Trish and Ryan sat alone in the teachers’ lounge, each gripping a Styrofoam cup of coffee, each wishing the coffee was very Irish.

  They had told their story to everyone in the building and were now content to be left alone. Fitting; after their story was told, everyone in that building was likely more than content to leave them alone.

  But not for reasons born from fear, but for the simple fact that no one appeared to believe them. Despite Trish’s hysteria and Ryan’s palpable angst, despite the sympathy offered, it was clear not a one was buying it. Ryan knew placation when he saw it.

  And why the hell should they believe the story? Ryan would have done the same if the shoe had been on the other foot, if someone else had claimed to have seen what they saw. Even the principal, Miss Gates, appeared to be among the disbelievers. Ryan flashed back on Hansen telling him that many had been spooked by their interview with him alone, had chosen not to take the job. How long, Ryan wondered, would it take for a sort of converse to come true? For he and Trish to be let go for spooking others? Perhaps let go for concocting some sort of sick practical joke?

  “Trish,” Ryan said.

  Trish did not look up right away. She was staring into her coffee, seeing something else. Almost assuredly seeing the boy in black.

  “Trish,” he said again.

  She finally looked up.

  “What we just saw was real,” he said.

  Trish lowered her head again and spoke into her coffee. “No one else saw it.”

  “But we did. We both saw it. Are you telling me that two different people imagined the exact same thing?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You do know about this school, right? You know the shit that happened here?”

  Trish nodded. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Yeah, well, what we just saw? That wasn’t the first time for me.”

  Trish frowned, her expression clear. Elaborate, it said.

  And so Ryan did.

  ***

  Ryan told her everything. What he’d seen and experienced in the lounge they were currently seated in (and Trish had given an understandably wary look around the lounge immediately after), Hansen’s tale about the former principal and the boy he’d encountered, the photo on his car, the fight in the lot, Karl, Stew, Carol, Barbara, even his dreams.

  “You can see it, Trish,” Ryan said. “Just like me, you can see it.”

  “I think I’ve had enough of that word for the day.”

  Ryan offered a thin, understanding smile.

  “So, what does this mean?” she asked.

  “Well, first, it means I’m not crazy. Much as I hate to have you as an ally in all of this right now, I do take comfort in that.” He finished the last of his coffee in a gulp. “And second, it means that we are allies in this. We can help each other.”

  “Help with what? After what I just saw today, I’m not even sure I want to work here anymore.”

  “No, no, no—don’t say that.”

  “Why not? Whatever the hell was in that bathroom clearly doesn’t want us here.”

  “I don’t think that’s right. I think that whatever’s here wants our help.”

  Trish scoffed, “It’s got a funny way of showing it.”

  “That’s not what I—I’m not sure how to explain it.”

  “Try.”

  Ryan fiddled with his Styrofoam cup for a moment. Then: “There are two…things in this school. One bad, the other victims of that bad. The bad wants to keep it bad. Make it worse, even. The victims of that bad want us to stop it, make sure it never happens again. I told you what Karl and Stew said: something in this building needs to be found and put right, whatever the hell that might be.”

  Trish dropped her head again and shook it. “This is insane.”

  “You’re preaching to the head of the fucking choir, sister.”

  29

  “I don’t know what you want me to say, Rebecca,” Ryan said.

  “I want you to tell me exactly what happened this afternoon. The truth.”

  It was after four. Most were gone for the day, Trish included. Rebecca and Ryan had stayed. They now stood
in the school’s lot by Rebecca’s car.

  “I told you what happened,” Ryan said. “The truth.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Ryan. Nobody else saw it.”

  “Trish did.”

  “Oh, of course Trish saw it.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re starting with some jealousy bullshit.”

  “I’m not,” she lied. “But give me a little break, will you? This isn’t the first time you’ve acted like this. You’re making it all so difficult for me.”

  “Making what difficult?”

  “Us.”

  Ryan nodded quickly. “Okay, okay—I get it. And I don’t blame you one bit for feeling the way you do. I don’t. But you need to know a few things. First is that I am not lying about what I saw today. I’m not. I wish I had a decent explanation for what I saw, but I don’t. I’m sure Trish feels the same.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes at the mention of Trish’s name.

  “Second,” Ryan said quickly when Rebecca rolled her eyes at Trish’s name, “is that I really like you. It would kill me if my behavior deterred you from wanting to see seeing me again.”

  Rebecca considered him. He looked so sincere. If he was crazy or just an attention whore who liked to stir things up, he was damned good at projecting otherwise.

  “I do want to see you again,” she decided to say.

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.” Screw it. “Is there anything between you and Trish?”

  “Not at all,” Ryan said immediately. “She is a friend; that’s all. You’re…”

  “A what?”

  “Someone more than a friend.”

  Her belly gave its familiar swirl. Crazy? Attention whore? Her belly just didn’t seem to care.