Whisper Down the Lane, Clay Chapman [best short books to read txt] 📗

History must repeat itself.

Must come full circle.

The line goes dead. The garage window is before me. The world on the other side is black. Obsidian. The longer I stare through it, the more my eyes can make out shadows.

Shadows within shadows taking shape. Silhouettes of strangers staring in. Of others.

This is not me, I say. But I can’t hear myself say it. The words have no voice. I have to force myself to say it again, louder this time, nearly shouting, “This isn’t me.”

I pick up the Polaroids from the floor. I scour the garage, checking under every chair and box until I’m convinced I’ve collected them all. Now I have a deck of cards. I shuffle them, feeling the flick of each picture against my fingertips before tossing them into the fire pit Tamara and I set up for those cold nights together. I only have a little bit of time left before she returns home, so I douse the scattered stack and light the match right away, watching every last image of Sandy warp and bubble, listening to them hiss and crackle.

Other people, Mom said. Other people.

This isn’t me, I keep repeating to myself. My own incantation around the fire. Rather than invoke some spirit, summoning them from the flames, my own personal sacrifice, I wanted to do away with this demon. Whoever he was. He wasn’t me. This wasn’t me.

This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t me.

I almost believe myself by the time the last Polaroid curls into ash. Glancing back at the house, I spot the gray silhouette of a boy at the kitchen window. He steps away from the glass, knowing he’s been caught spying, disappearing from sight. I watch Elijah run back to his bedroom.

DAMNED IF YOU DO

  SEAN: 1983

Officially speaking, nobody knew who started the fire.

But everyone knew who started the fire.

A window in the cafeteria had been smashed during the night. An unknown assailant crept into the building, wandering down its darkened halls. There were no alarms, no night guards. Each empty classroom sat in perfect stillness. The desks were lined up in even rows, chairs pushed in, like skeletons hunched over in the shadows.

Mr. Woodhouse’s classroom was at the far end of the northern hall. Its walls were covered in charcoal self-portraits drawn by the students. The assignment for the students was to draw themselves how they wanted the world to see them: As a superhero. President. Even a cat, if they wished. Mr. Woodhouse didn’t give his children any restrictions. He merely wanted them to imagine their future. The possibilities. Be whoever you want to be. Their scribbled eyes stared blankly back at this unknown assailant.

One charge brought against Mr. Woodhouse that received the most media attention was his usage of rituals in class, such as circle time.

Circle time was usually at the end of the day, just before the final bell. Mr. Woodhouse would have his kids sit on the carpet in a perfect circle. He didn’t like using the term Indian style, though most teachers still called it that. He preferred criss-cross applesauce. His kids formed a ring on the floor, knees touching.

Mr. Woodhouse would ask his students to talk about their favorite part of the day and least favorite part of the day. What’s your rose and what’s your thorn?

He would have them close their eyes. Can you see it? he would ask. Is it clear in your inner eye now? He would then ask his children to imagine themselves putting that knowledge in a box. It could be as simple as a cardboard box—skrch-skrch—but it was their own special, secret receptacle hidden within their head where only they could access that knowledge.

You’ll hold onto this knowledge for the rest of your lives, Mr. Woodhouse insisted, pressing his index finger against his temple, where it can be called upon whenever you need it. Even as adults, it’ll be here. Right here. Just waiting for you to open it…so fill it up.

Mr. Woodhouse would then have them all sing special songs with words nobody had heard before, lyrics that Mr. Woodhouse himself had written, just for his children. The students were told not to share the words with anyone outside the circle. Not their parents or their friends.

The songs themselves could only be sung when it was circle time, when the students’ eyes were closed, so that they couldn’t see what Mr. Woodhouse was doing.

Sean said he peeped. He hadn’t meant to. He knew Mr. Woodhouse would be very mad if he found out Sean had opened his eyes during circle time. But Sean couldn’t help himself. He had to look. Just once. The students’ voices were climbing higher and higher. It was impossible not to sway as they sang. A steady rhythm manifested itself naturally as they rocked left to right, like kelp along a river bottom. The higher their voices climbed, the faster their bodies swayed, which was strange, because Sean wasn’t aware of the students’ movements when he’d had his eyes closed. In the dark, there was nothing but the music. It was only when he peeked that he was even aware of this strange, rhythmic motion.

Mr. Woodhouse was in the middle of the circle. He had no clothes on. He had selected a boy from the ring—duck, duck, GOOSE!—and ushered him into the center and set him down on his back and, oh it’s Tommy, it’s Tommy Dennings, and just as the circle’s swaying reached its peak, the students’ voices no longer their voices but the ululations of something far more carnal, necks bent back, eyes rolling up into their skulls—

Mr. Woodhouse was staring directly at Sean.

No peeking, he whispered.

When Sean shared a version of this with the kind policeman, and then later with the kind Miss Kinderman, and then with the not-so-kind district attorney, he said he was scared of Mr. Woodhouse because now his teacher knew that he peeked