The Mysterious Death and Life of Winnie Coleman

by Jillian Eaton

  “Nice. Real nice,” he says and I am filled with an emotion I don’t feel very often: shame.

  Reaching behind my neck I sweep my hair over one shoulder, playing with the ends while I try to get myself under control. It’s hard for me to think before I speak. I can feel the words pushing up from the bottom of my throat. Mean, sarcastic, hurtful words intended to make Sam feel worse than I do. I swallow convulsively. I don’t want to fight with Sam. Not when he is the only person I know in this strange new world where floating doors lead to old tree houses and monsters try to steal bodies.

  “What do we do now?” I ask quietly.

  Sam scratches the side of his face. “We need to get back to your classroom,” he says.

  “What?” My eyes round. “Why?”

  He sighs. It isn’t a happy sound. “Because that is the Origin. The door we took to get from the hallway to here,” he explains when my eyebrows needle together. “Do you remember the hallway?”

  Yes, I remember the dim hallway that smelled of curry. I even remember the hotel lobby and the fat man. My memory isn’t the problem here.

  “The hallway is the starting point. If we can get back there Craven can’t follow. Unknowns can exist only in the past. They can’t cross over.”

  A dull throbbing begins just above my eyes. “I don’t understand.” I am like a ship, cast out in the ocean to bob aimlessly amidst the waves. No, I correct myself silently. Not a ship. More like the buoy that the ship runs over.

  “Just trust me, okay?” Sam stares at me intently, his eyes unreadable as smoke. Suddenly he brushes the back of his hand against the side of my cheek. I jerk away, startled by the unexpected touch. A wry smile plays across his mouth. “I will keep you safe, Winnie. No matter what. I promise.”

  I believe him. Maybe it’s his face. Sam has one of those honest faces. The kind where you don’t have to know who he is to know he’s a good guy. Or maybe it’s just because I don’t have any other choice. Either way, I give a jerky nod of my head. If Sam says we have to get back to the classroom then we’ll get back to the classroom. After all, it’s only a few blocks away. What’s the worst that could happen?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We make it to the entrance of the school before Craven finds us. He comes lurching around the side of the gas station across the street, his face and body just as bloody and horrifying as I remember. He grunts when he sees us, or maybe it is a gleeful cackle. Due to the big rotting hole where his mouth should be it’s hard to tell.

  In his left hand he carries a wrench the length of my arm. Sparks shoot up in the air when he slams it down on the pavement before starting towards us with his familiar lumbering gait, dragging the wrench behind him. Sam and I exchange one fleeting, terrified glance.

  “Run,” he says.

  “Run,” I agree.

  Together we slam through the front doors of the school. I turn around and begin locking them, but Sam yanks on my arms and pulls me through the lobby.

  “Don’t bother,” he says.

  I discover why locking the doors would have been a waste of time just a few moments later, when the sound of breaking glass and metal twisting against metal screeches through the air. Craven is inside the school.

  In a headlong sprint Sam and I careen down the main hallway. It has been years since I’ve stepped foot in my old elementary school; fortunately my memory is still good. Recalling a shortcut I used to take when I was late for class, I lead Sam through the cafeteria and into the connecting gymnasium. Our shoes echo loudly against the floor as we run across, going from one end to the other faster than I ever did in phys ed.

  “Where is the classroom?” Sam pants.

  “Not much further.” I edge in front and Sam follows me out of the gym and through another hallway. Converted from an old factory in the eighties, the school is a maze of intersecting hallways and classrooms. A new wing at the back of the school houses the three fifth grade classrooms.

  Artwork blurs by in one long colorful streak on the white washed brick wall as we run, our footsteps now muffled by the nondescript beige carpet. The fluorescent tile lights flicker crazily overhead, before snapping out with a crackle of electricity. I feel it through the floor and cry out in pain and surprise when a shock zaps up through my body, stopping me in my tracks. Sam stumbles behind me and doubles over, clutching his knees as his entire spine twitches.

  “Craven,” he manages to grit out. “Hurry, Win. We need to get to that door.”

  Limping along, we round the corner. From somewhere behind us I hear the clang of metal on brick, followed by a loud roar. Sam is right. Craven is getting closer, catching up to us just like he did in the field. The library flashes past on our left. It shouldn’t be much further now. Two right turns, then the new wing begins where the computer room used to end.

  Gradually gaining momentum I race around the second turn with Sam at my heels, his labored breathing so loud I can all but feel it at the base of my neck. We make two hard rights and I then can see it, my fifth grade classroom! Right across from the art room. Two hundred yards… One hundred yards… Relief pours through me. We’re going to make it! And then a door swings open right in front of me and I don’t see anything at all.

  “Win. Winnie, you have to get up. Can you hear me? Win, wake up!”

  Someone is shaking me hard enough to snap my teeth together. I bite my tongue. Blood, sweet and metallic, floods my mouth. Groaning, I struggle into a sitting position. The face hovering over mine sways. Blurs. Comes into focus.

  “Sam,” I gasp out his name, then gasp again when he hauls me roughly to my feet and jams his shoulder under my armpit.

  “Lean on me,” he orders.

  I try to do as he asks. It is more of a slump than a lean, but it is the best I can manage. My head is spinning. My limbs feel numb. Something tickles my upper lip and I sweep my fingers across my mouth. They come away bloody.

  “My nose,” I try to say. Instead it comes out sounding like “Mrf Norf”. My vision begins to gray at the edges again. I blink a few times, chasing the shadows away. When I can finally focus I see that we are no longer in the hallway. It is dark, the only light coming from a single light bulb swaying from the ceiling. My right arm flails out and knocks over a mop. Sam holds me tighter against his side.

  “Shhh,” he warns. “We’re in a janitor’s closet. I dragged you in here after you passed out. I barricaded the door, but I don’t know how long it will last. Do you think you can run?”

  Run? I can barely stand up! I try to remember where the janitor’s closet is in relation to my classroom. I’m pretty sure we are only two doors away from where we need to be. Mrs. Swain used to complain all the time about the squeaky wheel on the cleaning cart.

  Slowly I flex my fingers, then my toes. The numbing sensation is beginning to wear off. Hesitantly I try to take a step forward and nearly crumple to the floor. Sam catches me and hauls me up against his chest. I can feel his lips moving against my neck as he speaks in a soft whisper.

  “Easy. You hit that door pretty hard. Healing should kick in soon. Good thing you’re already dead, or that would have left you with some serious damage.”

  Yeah. Good thing. “Feeling?” I ask, confused.

  “Feeling? Feeling what? Oh, you mean healing. Man, you sound pretty funny with a broken nose,” Sam chuckles.

  I try to scowl and just end up baring my teeth instead. My entire face feels like it got run over by a dump truck and Sam thinks it’s funny. Well, my nose might be broken and my legs might be numb, but my elbows still work. I jab them both back as hard as I can and draw immense satisfaction by Sam’s quiet grunt of pain when I connect with his ribs.

  “Knock it off. I’m not the one who opened the door,” he says crossly.

  “Whoof diff?” The door wasn’t just opened, it was shoved open at exactly the right moment to catch me completely off guard. I would blame Craven, except he was somewhere behind us when it happened which can only mean one thing: someone el
se is in the school with us and they aren’t a big fan of me. Awesome. Great. Freaking fantastic.

  “I didn’t see who it was,” Sam admits. “And it doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting to that room. If we can get through the Origin door we’ll be safe.”

  Safe sounds good. Safe sounds reassuring. I want safe.

  “Do you think you can walk now?” Sam asks again. I can tell he is trying to be patient, but I know what he isn’t saying. He isn’t saying the longer we stay locked in a broom closet the longer we give Craven a chance to find us. And if we have to go up against a crazy murderer, I certainly don’t want to do it inside a cramped four by four room.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I square my shoulders and prepare to try walking again. It seemed like such a simple task before I hit the door. Put one foot in front of the other. Swing your arms. Look where you want to go. Now it looms up as a seemingly insurmountable challenge, one I am not sure I will be able to meet. Sam’s hands rest gently on either side of me, ready to offer support if I decide to take another swan dive.

  Slowly I take one step forward, then another. To my surprise my wobbly legs are able to support my weight without buckling. Apparently I really have begun to heal, something I will need to question Sam about at length when we’re not in danger of being pummeled to death by a giant wrench wielding maniac.

  It still feels like a very fat person bounced up and down on my chest and when I touch my nose it is definitely still broken, but at least I can walk. And if I can walk I can run. “Leff go,” I say determinedly, reaching out towards the round silver door knob. Sam’s hand gets there first and he uses it to hold the door closed.

  “Wait,” he says.

  A groan bubbles past my lips. I don’t have much more wait left in me. If we don’t get out of the closet soon, I won’t want to leave. Maybe Sam has me confused with some kind of action star, but I don’t. I am not a star athlete. I am not some genius geek. My talents are average at best, mediocre at worst. In short, I am not the girl you want by your side when deranged dead people attack.

  If Sam hasn’t figured that out yet he will pretty soon. I just hope I’m still alive – well, not alive alive, there’s no going back to that – when he does.

  He pushes his ear against the door and closes his eyes, an intense expression of concentration capturing his face. “I don’t hear anything,” he breathes, popping one eye open. “I think it is okay to go out. How far is the room from here?”

  I hold up two fingers.

  “All right,” he says. “Okay. Before we make a run for it there is – ah – something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  My eyebrows shoot up towards my hairline. “Whaff?” I hiss impatiently.

  Sam bites down on his lower lip. Indecision flickers across his face, and he shakes his head. “Never mind. I can tell you later. Are you ready? There is no telling where Craven is. We need to get to that classroom as fast as we can. If you get to the door first just go through it. Don’t wait for me. Got it?”

  I give a jerky nod. Sprint to the door. Go through it. Don’t wait. Yeah, I got it.

  “Okay…” Sam slowly starts to turn the knob. He sucks air in and out of his mouth, like a sprinter stepping to the starting line. “One… two… three… GO!”

  I fall forward out of the closet. Sam pushes me from behind, giving me a running head start. I take one stumbling step before catching my balance and launching into a fifty yard dash that would have made my high school’s track coach sit up and take notice.

  The door to my old classroom is easy to spot. After all it has turned bright red and is glowing silvery gold around the edges. I use the wall to the right of the door to stop my forward momentum and crash into it shoulder first. The force of the impact bounces me into Sam, who reels back with a muffled ‘oomph’ and clutches his arm to his chest.

  Sprint to the door: check.

  I roll along the wall until I am directly in front of the door. My hands brace on either side of the frame. Light pulsates from it, bathing my face in an otherworldly glow. My fingers stretch out…

  “Win, DUCK!”

  I don’t think, I just react. My knees buckle and I collapse to the floor. A whistle cuts through the air right where my head was. Plaster and painted brick fly as Craven’s wrench connects with the wall. With an ear deafening roar he rips it free. Out of the corner of my eye I see him swing it over one shoulder, like a batter stepping up the plate. His beady black eyes roll wildly in his mangled face.

  Falling forward onto my hands and knees I scramble to the side as he brings the massive wrench down again. It hits the floor to the left of my defenseless body with the force of a miniature earthquake, splitting the carpet down to the gray cement beneath. I think I scream. I’m not sure. I tell my body to get up. I order my legs to stand. I demand my arms push me forward. Nothing works. I am frozen. Again.

  Craven hauls the wrench up. He is so close that when a boil on his chest bursts it sprays me with blood and puss. I gag. Throaty heckling fills the air. Craven’s throat convulses, sending the laughter out through the hole that acts as his mouth.

  “Oh God,” I whimper. I drop back onto my haunches, using the wall to support me. My hands splay out; a last ditch attempt to protect my face. My eyes close. I am too much of a coward to witness my death a second time. The wrench whistles through the air as it begins its descent…

  The sound of metal crunching into bone is sickening. I force my eyes open and look down at my body, expecting to see myself cleaved in two. Dazedly I see I am in one piece. When a keening howl of agony rips through the hallway I realize what has happened.

  Sam took the blow intended for me. Sam, whose knee is bent in the wrong direction and face is a horrible mask of pain as he staggers past.

  “The door,” he moans as he fights to balance on his one good leg. “Get to the door.”

  I surge to my feet, using the wall as a springboard. Craven turns in an uncertain circle, unable to choose who to go after.

  “Over here, you bastard!” Sam shouts.

  While Craven was deciding which one of us to pulverize first Sam has fought his way across the hall and is swaying in front of the art room. He doesn’t look good. The wrench not only caught his leg, it must have glanced off his ribcage as well, crushing the organs within. His entire body is collapsed to one side. Blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. Our eyes meet, mine filled with horror, his with steely determination. Go, he mouths. Go now.

  Craven swings towards Sam, leaving the Origin door unguarded. My heart slams up into my throat. I hesitate.

  “WINNIFRED, GO!”

  My lips part on an anguished cry. “I can’t leave you here.”

  “Yes,” Sam grits out, “you can.”

  Craven stops in the middle of the hallway. He must sense Sam no longer presents a threat. Slowly, dragging the wrench behind him, he turns back towards me. It’s now or never. Stay or go. Fight or flight. Live or die.

  I lunge towards the red door and throw it open. Light bursts free, so bright it blinds me. I gasp and try to pull away, but invisible hands are drawing me forward. The door slams shut behind me, extinguishing the light, and once again I am free falling into darkness.

  Go through the door: check.

  Leave Sam behind to be ripped limb from limb: double check.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I land harder than I did the last time I jumped through a door. Springs squeak underneath me, cushioning my fall. Disoriented, I remain absolutely still and concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. My eyes drift close and I see Sam, broken and bleeding. With a jolt I sit up and allow my legs to dangle down towards the floor while I take a closer look at my surroundings.

  I am sitting on a hospital gurney. It – along with everything else in the small room – is white. White walls, white ceiling, white floor tiles. The lack of color is blinding in its intensity.

  “Hello?” I call out tentatively. My voice echoes against the sterile walls and
bounces back at me. Paper crinkles as my fingers wrap around the edges of the thin mattress. There is something odd about this room. Something not quite right. I look around again, searching for something, anything, that would give me a clue as to where I am. That’s when I see what is wrong. There is no door. No window. No way in or out. I am not in a room. I’m in an ivory prison cell.

  Claustrophobia hits me hard. I double forward, gasping for breath. My mouth goes dry. I try to swallow, but my throat constricts, refusing to let anything down. Frantic now, I start to jump down off the bed. The voices stop me before my feet hit the floor.

  “Poor dear. She’s absolutely exhausted. Look at her.” It is the voice of an old woman. Wispy and filled with sympathy. I whip around, my eyes darting left and right. Drawing my legs up to my chest I scoot to the middle of the mattress and remain perfectly still, my head cocked to the side, listening.

  “Well she can’t stay here very long. I have things to do.” A second voice, this one brisk and to the point. Female again, but not nearly as kind as the first.

  “Oh, let her rest before you send her back.”

  “Fine, fine… as if I don’t have enough to do.” The second woman sighs. “How do you think the Unknown found them so quickly?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Well, it just seems a little odd…”

  “Perhaps,” the first voice acknowledges. “…of coincidence… think.”

  “…really? Highly… impossible…”

  Their voices being to fade, as if they are walking away. I close my eyes, straining to hear more, but they have gone and I’m alone.

  I spend the next hour trying to find a way out of my prison. At least I think it is an hour. Time does not exist here. There is absolutely no sense of it passing, only a brief memory of how it felt when it used to pass and even that is fading. What does a minute feel like? Ten minutes? Thirty? An hour?