Spring-Heeled Jack

by Wyll Andersen

  “S-Sir,” Atticus chimed in, “you can grade it right now. I promise it’s all done.”

  “And I bet it’s perfect,” Brock said from his seat.

  “One more outburst from you, Mr. Mackenzie,” Varnum shouted, “and I’ll send you both to the principal!”

  Varnum glared back at Atticus and down to the exam. He sat down with a hard plop, picked up the test as well has his favorite red pen used to point out errors, and went straight to grading.

  Atticus watched as the professor darted across the page, his pen always at the ready, but whenever he wanted to mark something, he couldn’t. Varnum couldn’t bring himself to believe it, but Brock was right: Atticus’ test was perfect. He wanted to mark something wrong for whatever reason he could think of, but he knew, as a teacher, he couldn’t do such a thing.

  It only took the professor a couple of minutes to examine each answer, and since every answer was correct it required even less time. He placed the exam down on the table, his hands twitching with frustration.

  “Mr. Whaelord,” he mumbled, “you’re excused.”

  And with that, Atticus thanked him and bolted out of the classroom.

  Chapter 2

  Normally, as he’d done his past years, Atticus would head to the courtyard fountain and take a nap after his exams. He’d listen to the hum of airships and zeppelins that fly overhead, and the purring of the different science labs on the far side of campus. But today, he couldn’t do that. Atticus needed to find Mike and see what was up with him.

  As long as they’d known each other, Mike was never one to skip class for any reason. His parents were higher ups in the mechatronics industry, owning all sorts of machinariums and laboratories across the west coast. If they heard news that their son was skipping class for any reason, they would be furious.

  Atticus made his way across campus to Mike’s dorm room. He did, their usual “Shave and a Haircut” knock, but just like the other day, there was no response. Instead, he was greeted by Mike’s roommate, Justin Drasken.

  Justin was the president of the school’s tennis club with a still undetermined career path. When Atticus asked where Mike would be, he just responded with an unsure shrug. As far as Justin was aware, Mike left for class in the morning like he usually did.

  Atticus wracked his brain for any place Mike might’ve gone too. He tried his best to use his makeshift detective’s intuition and tried to think of all of Mike’s favorite places on campus. The bookstore and western park areas were the places they hung out most often. If Mike wasn’t at either place, then Atticus would have to assume Mike was taking care of business elsewhere that he had no idea about. Perhaps he was making up class time that he missed the other day, or perhaps he was speaking with Principal Shepard.

  He scoured the campus hotspots for Mike and sadly found nothing. Atticus didn’t want to admit it, but he was a bit afraid. He naturally feared the worst whenever he didn’t know the answer. He knew worrying wouldn’t solve anything. Mike would turn up eventually; he just had to be patient.

  Atticus made his way to the campus fountain and laid down. As he stared up at the sky, he closed his eyes and began to think of his parents: William and Isabel.

  His father was a Nevada native with no proper schooling, but a natural gift in clockwork science. He was brash, confident and a bit of a gambler, but he was also a klutz on his feet. His mother was an immigrant from Mexico who attended college to earn her degree in Plasma Engineering. She was calm and gentle, but she could explode if need be. The two complimented each other wonderfully. Atticus was nothing like either of them, but he was happy. They were a perfect family.

  But, six years ago, when Atticus was just ten years old, his parents left for a business trip and never returned. They were both former employees of the Zebulon Corporation but left to try and start their own business. They’d said they were only going to be away a short while to meet with some new colleagues. They didn’t mention the potential risk in never coming back. They just disappeared, and no one had any idea where they’d disappeared to.

  After they vanished, Atticus was sent to live with his grandparents in Boulder City. They refused to talk about the disappearance; Atticus assumed it was just as hard on them as it was for him. The only thing he had to remember his parents was a small locket his father gave to him before they left. It was small, brass, and had a design on the face of two gears entwined with one another. On the inside was a picture of the three of them from when Atticus was just a baby. His father always told him to keep it close to his heart; if he had the locket, they’d always be together. And he did just that. Atticus always kept it snug in his pants pocket, the chain coiled up around a belt loop.

  He pulled the locket out and held it up to his heart. The comfort it brought him plus the warm autumn sun quickly lulled him to sleep.

  It felt as if Atticus had only closed his eyes for a second before he was quickly shaken awake. His eyes flared open and he saw Brock standing above him.

  “Atticus, I’ve got some really bad news.”

  “W-What? What’s happened?”

  “It’s Mike,” he said. “He’s dead.”

  Brock lead Atticus to the far corner of the west park area. Normally, it was tranquil and one of the best places to relax, but that day it was lined with officers causing all sorts of commotion. In the distance, Atticus looked past them and saw a body hanging from a tree: Mike.

  Atticus wanted to vomit. There was Mike, dangling from the tree. How could this happen? Why did it happen? Atticus felt light headed and dizzy; his mind was racing with too many questions. He stared at the body, blankly.

  He tried to make his way forward but was stopped by a man working on the scene.

  “Sorry lad, no students past this point.” The man had a faint Scottish accent and wore a dark brown fedora, long trench coat, a pair of black leather gloves, and a very strange pair of goggles.

  “S-Sir, that’s my friend,” Atticus said. His voice was stilted.

  “I’m sorry, but rules are rules and I’m not allowed to disclose any information.”

  The man began to turn back to the scene, taking off his goggles. As he did, Atticus caught a glimpse of the man’s face, and more importantly, his piercing green eyes.

  “D-Detective McCloud!”

  The man smiled and turned back around. Atticus was at a total loss for words. Detective McCloud was his idol. An extremely successful detective that worked for not just the Las Vegas police department, but as a personal private investigator for the Zebulon Corporation. Atticus had sent him numerous letters asking about becoming an intern at the police station over the summer, but he’d never gotten a response.

  “That’s right,” he said. “And you?”

  “S-Sir, I don’t know if you remember, but my name is Atticus Whaelord, and I’d been-”

  “Whaelord?” McCloud’s eyes beamed with a strange sort of enthusiasm. “You’re the boy who’d sent me all those intern letters, right?”

  Atticus felt his body tremble. He was in so much shock that his body didn’t know how to react. It was such a strange mix of signals.

  “Y-Yes, sir, that was me.”

  McCloud smile but then his expression turned solemn. “I’m sorry about your friend, son. I really am.”

  “Detective,” Brock spotted Atticus’ discomfort and sprang into action, “what happened?”

  McCloud looked around for any officers in earshot. He wasn’t supposed to reveal any information with civilians until he was given the clear. The last thing the police wanted were rumors spreading around and mass hysteria because one officer couldn’t keep from gossiping.

  However, Detective McCloud wasn’t just part of the police department; he was Zebulon’s head private eye, and since the death took place on Zebulon property, he ordered to Zebulon first.

  “Well, we don’t know much yet,” he said. “Big chief thinks this was a suicide caused by stress. Too much pressure for a kid so young, ya know?”

&
nbsp; “And you don’t think that,” Atticus asked.

  McCloud shook his head and said, “Not one bit. This seems oddly suspicious to be just a suicide. I think there is something greater at work here.” He looked around again, keeping an eye out for anyone eavesdropping. “I don’t want to startle ya, but to me this looks like a murder.”

  Atticus’ eyes flared up. “Why do you think that, detective?”

  “From what I’ve gathered, the boy was a quiet one,” he said. “He didn’t stand out a whole lot, so why would he go out and hang himself for all to see?”

  A wave of terror washed over Atticus. The thought alone was too much for him. So many questions began to pop into his head: Why would someone go after Mike? Did his family have some connections with the mob? And then Atticus thought about what Mike had asked him about the other night: if he believed in ghosts?

  Atticus paused for just a moment as the thought lingered in his head. Mike was not the kind of guy to believe in the supernatural. He believed in science, not magic; so why would he suddenly fear a ghost?

  Perhaps, Atticus thought, Mike was trying to warn him. Perhaps this was just another one of their puzzles that he needed to solve.

  “Detective,” Atticus said, “I think you might be right.”

  Brock snapped a look at him. “You really think so, Atticus?”

  He nodded.

  McCloud smiled and pulled a fist full of shredded paper from his pocket. “Another thing lad; it seems your friend left behind a note, but as you can see it’s been torn to bits. If this really was a suicide, why would he tear it up?”

  “Detective,” Brock said, “I don’t want to be rude, but this sounds just like a lot of assumptions. Is there any concrete evidence?”

  McCloud turned to Brock, his expression a strange mixture between sour and flattery. “This is still a very early investigation, my boy. As of now, assumption is all we have to go on. But, once I get some fats under my belt, ya bet I’ll be on it.”

  Brock still didn’t seem so sure.

  As the two bickered, Atticus peered past and stared at Mike. He wasn’t sure if his mind recognized that Mike was gone or if this was all just a bad dream. He was so out of it that he didn’t notice when an officer confronted him and asked him to leave. McCloud tried to vouch for them, but it didn’t matter. Students and staff were to evacuate the area as they cleaned up.

  Atticus just continued to stare. As Brock yanked him back, he caught a glimpse of something dangling from Mike’s belt loop. It was small, hanging from a tiny metal chain. It was a brass pendant. As he stared, what he saw nearly made his heart stop. Engraved on the pendant were two entwined gears, just like Atticus’ locket.

  His heart began to beat violently and his breath began to stagger. That symbol was his parents’. One gear his father, the other his mother, and where they entwined was Atticus. When his parents gave him the locket, they said he’d never be alone. It couldn’t just be a coincidence that Mike would have the same locket as him. But, if Atticus wanted to be a detective, he had to abolish the idea of coincidence.

  Atticus snapped himself out of his trance. “Pardon me detective, but could I see that note?”

  Everyone looked at Atticus.

  McCloud shrugged and looked at the tattered pieces of paper in his hand. “It seems a bit torn beyond repair, but I think we could still use it in some way.” Atticus felt his heart sink, but McCloud gave him a confident smile. “However, I trust ya lad. If you think you can get somethin’ from this, I believe ya.”

  McCloud carefully held out the note. Atticus anxiously grabbed it, making sure not to drop a single shred.

  “T-Thank you very much, detective.”

  Atticus shook McCloud’s hand and gestured at Brock to follow. He didn’t say anything, but Brock recognized the look. It was a look that said “I need to show you something important.” It was also the same look Atticus gave before he went into his detective mode. Whenever Brock saw it, he knew Atticus meant business.

  *****

  As the two burst into their dorm room, Atticus scattered the confetti onto the ground. Brock gently closed the door behind them before turning to his roommate.

  “Alright, Atticus, what’s going on,” he asked.

  “I can help McCloud solve this case.”

  “Case? What case? This isn’t a murder.”

  “How can you say that,” Atticus shouted. “Detective McCloud is right, and I can help prove it!” Atticus lowered his head and began to assemble the shredded note into a neat little pile. “Brock, I’m gonna show you something I’ve never showed anyone before and I want you to promise that you won’t freak out.”

  “Of course.” Brock knelt down in front of the note. “What’s up?”

  Atticus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He placed his right hand on top of the pile of shredded paper. Nothing happened at first, but that changed rather quickly. A fain chill came into the room and sent a shiver down Brock’s spine. As Atticus opened his eyes, an image began to appear on the back of his hand. At first it looked like a blue and gold mess, but as the image came more and more into focus, Brock realized it was the Queen of Spades out of a traditional deck of playing cards.

  Before Brock even had a chance to ask any questions, the note slowly began to piece itself together. Each of the shredded pieces lined up perfectly like a puzzle. In seconds, the note had completely reassembled itself.

  Brock was completely in awe. “Whoa! What was that?”

  Atticus shrugged. “I’m not honestly sure. I don’t know where it came from or why I have it, but as long as I can remember, the Queen of Spades has always allowed me to fix broken things.”

  Brock was silent. He stared at the newly reconstructed note in awe, and Atticus was afraid he’d made a terrible mistake. He’d just shown his best friend this strange supernatural power that not even he understood. He was afraid he’d just scared away the only other person he had.

  But he was wrong. A wide smile brimmed across Brock’s face as he let out a hearty laugh. “That’s amazing! You have a super power!”

  Atticus felt so relieved. He was afraid Brock might think he was some sort of crazy mutant or wizard, but instead he was just his regular old self about it.

  “So,” Brock said, “what’s the note say?”

  Atticus picked up the note and began to read:

  “I’ve begun to fear this ghost might be real. I normally wouldn’t believe in this, but I just can’t shake the feeling that someone is always watching me. I’ve been hearing its voice calling me and I think my mother might have been right about the locket. I can’t leave my room or else it’ll get me, but I have to risk it. I need to give Atticus my locket.”

  Atticus couldn’t believe what he’d read. He reached into his pocket and gripped his locket tightly. The cool metal helped calm him down. It gave him strength and reminded him to be brave.

  “What locket,” Brock asked.

  Atticus pulled his from his pocket and held it in front of him.

  “This locket,” he said. “Mike needed to give me his.”

  Brock looked confused, so Atticus tried to explain as best he could. He tried to tell him about his parents and the symbol of the entwined gears, but Brock just continued to look confused.

  “I need to get Mike’s locket. I don’t know why, but he needed me to have both of them.”

  “But, why?”

  Atticus shrugged. He didn’t have an idea, but that’s what he needed to find out.

  He looked down at the Queen of Spades as it slowly began to fade from his hand. He didn’t know what was going on, but he had to do something. Anything would be better than just sitting around. His emotions were getting the better of him and his thoughts were running a million miles an hour, but he had to focus.

  Atticus felt a fire burn deep down inside of him. He was determined to do whatever he could to find this ghost, and nothing was going to stand in his way.

  Chapter 3

  The
next morning, Brock woke up to the seven o’clock bell. He groggily rolled out of bed and tried to slap the sleepiness out of his system. He jumped to his feet and began to slowly trudge his way to the bathroom. As he walked, he noticed Atticus had already up and left for the day. Brock could never understand how Atticus, or anybody else for that matter, could wake up and get moving so early. Bed was such a cozy and warm sanctuary. Why would anyone ever want to leave that, he thought.

  After he’d finished his daily cleaning regimen, Brock got himself dressed in his Fortuna Prep uniform, picked up his school bag and started to make way for class. But, he felt like something was all wrong. He made one last check around the room and saw that Atticus’ school bag was still sitting on his bed. It wasn’t like him to forget that.

  Brock wasn’t the best student in the psychology department, but he recognized abnormal behavior. It didn’t take a genius to see how badly Atticus was hurting. Brock decided the best thing to do would be to get Atticus to talk. Even if it was just something small, anything would help him.

  He picked up the bag and made his way out. Brock knew Atticus well enough to know he didn’t forget his bag on accident.

  Atticus sat silently on a bench at the campus’ western park staring at Mike’s tree. As other students walked by, he overheard them talking about the supposed suicide. News spread like wildfire that it was all self-inflicted and that there were no outside forces at work. They said he most likely had too much stress piled on his shoulders.

  Students decided to call it “Hangman’s Tree” almost as if it was some sightseeing attraction; it was like they saw Mike’s death as just some urban legend or ghost story to tell around Halloween.

  Riddles littered Atticus’ head. He still had so many that he wanted to share, but he knew the rules: he had to solve Mike’s first before it was his turn, and Mike left him with a doozy this time around. Not that it mattered much anyway. Atticus would never get a chance to tell him any that he’d thought up or kept on backlog: