Dark Halls - A Horror Novel

by Jeff Menapace

  “You do make it very difficult for me, you know,” she said with a little smile.

  “At least it’s not boring.”

  “I would welcome boring right about now.”

  “You say that now…”

  She succumbed to a small laugh. “Do you want me to come over this weekend? I could stay the night.”

  Up until now she had stayed a few nights at Ryan’s place. They had not had sex yet. They had come close—very close—but it still hadn’t happened. Both of them wanted it more than oxygen.

  “If you’d like,” he said.

  “Would you like?”

  “I would like,” he said. Then: “No—wait. Can’t. My mom is having company. Relatives from out of town. Christ, a thirty-year-old man just said he couldn’t have his girl stay over because his mommy was having company.”

  Big-time swirl. “Your girl?”

  Ryan groaned. “Someone more than a friend.”

  She grinned.

  “What about your place?” he asked.

  “My mom has that rule about boys spending the night…”

  Ryan puffed out his chest. “What about men?”

  “Men who still live with their mommy?”

  “Cheeky bitch.”

  No succumbing this time. A genuine laugh. Oh, how she wanted to punch him one minute and kiss him the next.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “I’m still a little creeped out by you.”

  “But still not bored.”

  “No.” She kissed him. “Something tells me I’ll never be bored around you.”

  30

  “Are you prepared to be shocked?” Trish said a second after Ryan answered his cell.

  “Bring it on,” he said. “At this point, I’d say I’m fairly shock-proof.”

  “I did some digging today and found out an interesting thing or two about our beloved school.”

  “Trish, I promise you; whatever you unearthed is not news. The school’s history is not exactly a closed book.”

  “Unless you’re reading from a different book.”

  “Come again?”

  “My uncle. He’s got all the books.”

  “What books?”

  “It’s a figure of speech, dummy. I mean he knows everything about anything. Or at least he can find everything about anything. The internet is his bitch. Guy rocks like five generators just in case his power goes out. I’m not even sure he remembers how to walk, he’s on his computer—or should I say computers—so much.”

  “I’m not following you, Trish.”

  “I know you’re not, my dim-witted friend. What I was getting to was our school’s history. The real history.”

  “And?”

  “Do you know what happened there over two hundred years ago?”

  “I do not.”

  “Murder. Slaughter. Suicide. Turns out there was an old schoolhouse from way, way back. Built on the same grounds that you and I walk on today.”

  “And?”

  “And some Satan-loving teacher made all her students commit suicide.”

  “What? Where did you hear this?”

  “I just told you.”

  “Bullshit. You’re telling me that something like that was kept secret from everyone but your uncle?”

  “Oh no—it was buried miles deep. My uncle just has a hell of a long shovel.”

  “Why was it buried?”

  “A ritual suicide involving over twenty children? A benevolent—well, seemingly benevolent—teacher the culprit? Gee, I wonder.”

  “Wait, wait, wait—I still can’t buy that this is not common knowledge. Something like this—”

  “It isn’t common knowledge because officially it didn’t happen. The town buried the whole thing. Think about it, Ryan: It’s the good old days; somebody farts and it’s a big deal, right?”

  “Yeah, but come on, Trish.”

  “‘Yeah, but come on, Trish’ nuthin. This was a time when religion meant a hell of a lot more than it does today. People believed in witches and demons as much as they believed in their own reflections. The town was still growing, and if word of a supposed theological disaster like that got out, it would have crippled it.”

  “So, who was the teacher?” Ryan asked.

  “Some lady named Tarver. Helen Tarver. Apparently, her curriculum was a wee bit out of the norm.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean while the kids should have been learning math and grammar, she was teaching them incantations and ritual chants. Plus performing acts of possession and whatnot.”

  “And these children never told their parents about their ‘curriculum’?”

  “Apparently not. Makes sense, though, when you think about it. The sway she had over them. She literally convinced every child in her class to slit their own throats.”

  “Jesus…and no other teachers in the school ever suspected?”

  “There were no other teachers. This is Little House on the Prairie times, remember? One schoolhouse, one teacher.”

  Ryan grunted.

  “Sadly, that’s not the sickest part,” Trish went on. “On that final day, when all the kids…you know…a townsperson happened to drop by the schoolhouse and stumble on to what Helen Tarver was up to. Apparently, Miss Tarver was in the process of…collecting things from her dead students.”

  “What?”

  “Like I said, a townsperson dropped on by after the children were all dead. Tarver had already gathered jars of their blood—they were sitting on her desk—and she was in the process of removing certain body parts from some of the children. Apparently, a boy’s penis was already removed and floating in a jar next to the jars of blood on her desk.”

  “What the fuc—?”

  “Naturally, the townsperson freaked and ran for help. By the time she came back with that help, Tarver was gone.”

  “They never caught her?”

  “Oh, they caught her. Hard to hide in a small town like that. They caught her and then some.”

  “They killed her.”

  “Bingo. Literally tore her to bits. It’s rumored that one person ripped her heart right out of her chest and gave it to a local priest so he could cast her soul into the bowels of hell.”

  “You made that last bit up, didn’t you?”

  “I did say it was a rumor.”

  “I meant the ‘bowels of hell’ part.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That was for flair.”

  “Well done.”

  “So, what do you think?” she asked.

  “What happened to the schoolhouse?”

  “Burnt to the ground. Ironic, huh?”

  “That’s not irony, Miss Morissette.”

  Trish’s groan was audible. “So what is it, then?”

  “A creepy fucking coincidence. I still can’t believe nobody knew about any of this.”

  “Oh, I’m sure some people do, but I would wager enough time has gone by where the word ‘legend’ is thrown around more often than not. You gotta remember: no internet; no TV; no radio; hell—no phones! Small town like that back then? Once that school turned to ash, the secret was as good as sealed. Still, any remaining members of the Tarver family apparently moved far away. Changed their name to Moyer. Can’t say I blame them. You know how creepy people were back in the day. Just having that same name would have probably gotten them burned at the stake with no trial.”

  Ryan grunted in agreement. “Still, taking into account your ‘legend’ comment, we should consider that much of the story has been embellished over the years. It can’t all be true.”

  “I’d agree,” Trish replied. “But I certainly didn’t imagine what I saw in that bathroom today, and neither did you. You told me that your buddy Karl felt that someone brought something bad to this school. I’d say it’s more likely that someone brought something back.”

  31

  The following day, Trish unwittingly discovered a small razor blade between a stack of papers she’d been photocopying. Or more aptly
put: the palm of her hand had unwittingly discovered the small blade. The cut was deep, spattering a good number of the papers, and anything else close by, with a generous amount of her blood.

  There were several witnesses in the copy room at the time, the majority rushing to her aid when she’d cried out, the majority wanting to help, but wanting nothing to do with the cleanup. Not for blood. Enter Karl, who was on the scene a short while later to do the deed.

  With the exception of the cut—and the mystery as to why a razor blade was hiding in between her stack of papers—Trish’s day had gone fairly well. Orientation was cut short once again, and she found herself in Ryan’s company for the remainder of the day, rehashing the topic from their phone call the night before.

  “Talk about history repeating itself,” Trish said. They were alone in Trish’s room this time. “Hundreds of years ago right back to us in one big creepy circle.”

  “Yeah, but why is it repeating itself? And are we actually admitting now that we both believe in ghosts and witchcraft and whatever?”

  Trish checked the bandage on her palm when she replied: “Who knows what to call it? But wouldn’t you say it’s safe to assume now that all of those children did in fact commit those murders of their fellow students against their will? The suicides too? If this Helen Tarver whacko can persuade a group of children to cut their own throats back in the day, then I don’t see why someone else with her same knowledge and…desires couldn’t persuade others to do similar sick deeds today.”

  “Assuming the history is accurate.”

  “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, my friend.”

  Ryan grunted. “I’m not particularly digging the story.”

  “Me neither. But it appears to be required reading—at least for us.”

  Ryan grunted again. Then: “Remember when I told you about Jerry Hansen’s story with the principal and the kid with the chants and the white eyes? The kid that stabbed the principal in his foot?”

  “I remember.”

  “They claim that kid had no recollection of anything. They claim none of the kids who committed the murders did either. So I guess it sort of makes sense: they were in some kind of trance or something.”

  Despite the occasional wince, Trish kept fiddling with her bandage as though it helped her think. “You know what I don’t get? This stuff that happened back in the day happened over two hundred years ago. Highland was built in what? The fifties?”

  “I think so.”

  “But all the murders and suicides didn’t happen until the eighties, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So what the hell took so long? Were the naughty spirits just biding their time for thirty years before deciding to start some shit?”

  “Well, maybe it’s like you said on the phone—maybe something wasn’t here all this time; maybe something was brought back.”

  Trish nodded. “And logic would indicate that it was someone who came on board shortly before the first tragedy.”

  Ryan made a face as though finding a hole in the logic. “That could be dozens of people. Plus, if this person—or persons—has been managing to do this crazy shit for the past twenty years and is still capable of doing it today, then wouldn’t you think they’d be clever enough not to have gone cooking shit up shortly after their arrival? They would have bided their time so as not to draw any parallels; it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out that bad shit started going down shortly after so-and-so arrived.”

  “That’s a good point, I guess.”

  “Karl says he doesn’t trust anyone here except me,” Ryan said.

  “Why you?”

  “Because he was there when I freaked out in the teachers’ lounge. Karl seems to have a lot of respect for the remaining employees from Highland—the ones who were there from the very first tragedy—but he told me he believes he’s still alive today because he doesn’t trust any of them. That he looks out for number one.”

  “Isn’t Karl one of those original four?” Trish asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “So, it could be him. Maybe his paranoid spiel is to throw us off his scent.”

  “Very possible.”

  “Do you think it could be one of those four who’s responsible for it all? Maybe all four?”

  “No idea.”

  “What if it was someone who already left Highland? Someone who still holds the ability to do what they do from—I don’t know—remote control?”

  “Remote control?”

  She made a face. “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m still not sure it’s as easy as pointing a finger at a man or a woman. After what I’ve seen the past couple of weeks—after what you’ve seen—I wouldn’t be surprised if the school itself was somehow running the show.”

  Trish shook her head. “Then why did it lie dormant for those years from the fifties to the eighties? No—it’s somebody. Somebody who knows the same buried history about this town that we now know. Somebody who wants to get the ball rolling again now that the school is back up and running. I mean, when you think about it, the suicides make sense. If they were all people who claimed to see things, then maybe they could have ultimately exposed the person or persons responsible through the visions they were having. The person or persons responsible would need to dispose of those who could see sooner than later to keep such an eventuality from ever happening. Protect his or her identity. Keep things running smoothly.”

  “Keep murdering children,” Ryan said.

  “Which raises yet another question. Why children? The teacher suicides make sense if you buy my theory about the evildoer covering their ass, but why children?”

  “Who knows? Maybe it’s some kind of sacrificial thing. Like some cults do with virgins or whatever.”

  “Oh, now you’re really screwed.”

  “And you’re really safe.”

  She laughed and punched him. “Speaking of which, have you and Miss Rebecca Lawrence done the deed yet?”

  “A gentleman never talks.”

  Trish looked at her classroom door. “Who came in?”

  Ryan burst out laughing. A diehard Three Stooges fan, Ryan instantly got Trish’s joke: whenever someone referred to the Stooges as gentlemen, they would, without fail, spin towards the door and ask: Who came in?

  “A Stooge fan…” he said. “I’m now certain we were separated at birth.”

  She extended two fingers and went for his eyes. He did the classic block with the vertical flat of his hand.

  When their shared laughter died, Ryan added: “I’ll tell you one thing: I’d sure as hell like to know who left that photo for me on my car.”

  “Yet another mystery,” she said. “Was it a threat, or was it someone trying to help like your buddy Karl suggested? Or was it Karl himself?”

  “Karl thinks it was planted there to get me to start snooping around. So, yeah—help, I guess. What it did was scare the freaking crap out of me. Not everyday someone leaves you a photo of three dead people you actually saw the day before. Still can’t believe it’s gotten to the point that I can say that with a straight face.”

  Trish smiled and fiddled with her bandage again. Winced again.

  “How’s your hand?” Ryan asked.

  “Hurts. You’d like to know who left you the photo; I’d like to know how a stupid razor blade wound up in a stack of papers.”

  “Let me see.”

  Trish showed him. The white dressing was soaked through with red. She peeled back the tape and showed him the wound underneath.

  “That looks pretty bad, Trish.”

  “Can you go and get me another bandage from the nurse’s office before this one is completely soaked too?”

  “You need to get it checked out, Trish. Seriously. It looks bad. You can’t just keep wrapping it. You might need stitches.”

  “You might need to just do what you’re told.”

  “Pain in my ass.” Ryan bonked her head lightly and left her classroom for th
e nurse’s office.

  When he came back ten minutes later, Trish was sprawled out on her classroom floor, a lake of blood around her head, her throat slashed from ear to ear. In her open right hand was a razor blade. Her eyes were open, and she was very dead.

  ***

  It was not long before a crowd had gathered around Trish’s body. Some screamed; some cried; some turned away and left the room covering their mouths, afraid they may soon see everything they’d eaten that day.

  If you were one of the individuals in the building who knew where to look, you would have found a piece of canvas with Trish’s name inscribed on it, tucked far away within a hidden chamber in the boiler room, behind the great boiler. On this canvas you would have found the bloodied bandages Trish had been discarding in the nurse’s office throughout the day, meticulously placed in precise positions around her name, several razor blades entwined within.

  32

  Trish Cooke’s post-funeral reception. Ryan was seated at the small bar in the banquet hall the Cooke family had reserved for the occasion. He was on his third scotch. Trish’s funeral had gone about as well as funerals go. Ryan had cried, but the tears were born from equal parts sorrow and rage. And so here now, Ryan was content to drink, mourn, and figure out who was

  (because according to Trish, it is a who. Not a what, a WHO. And so it now IS)

  responsible for Trish committing suicide.

  “Hello, my friend.” Stew appeared to Ryan’s right. “How you holding up?”

  “I’m not,” Ryan replied, looking at the bottom of his glass.

  “You two were close?”

  “Yeah. She was such a wonderful—” Ryan stopped, his throat tightening.

  Stew put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. The big man’s touch had the cathartic result it was meant to, and Ryan wiped away tears. He drained the remainder of his scotch and signaled the bartender. Then to Stew: “You want a drink?”

  “Never touch the stuff.”

  “You mind watching me drink?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Ryan ordered a fourth scotch and took a healthy pull from it the moment it arrived. He looked to his left and saw Rebecca and her mother in the distance. They were at the Cooke table, offering condolences. Rebecca made eye contact with Ryan and gave a quick, thin smile; the only type of smile appropriate for such an affair. Ryan returned the same smile and turned back to Stew.