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

Silence. Then, coldly, “Don’t call this number again.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“If you call, I’ll notify the police.”

“Why—”

The line goes dead.

I dial again. It rings before going to voicemail. “You have reached the…”

I hang up. Dial again. This time it goes straight to voicemail. “You have reached…”

I dial again. “You have…”

Again. “You…”

I leave my classroom and walk swiftly down the hall. Most rooms are only half full. The students turn and notice me peering in. Eyes wide at the sight of me. Something in the way they look at me tells me how I must appear to them. A ghost haunting their halls.

“Richard?”

At first, I don’t recognize my name. That name. Responding to Richard feels strange now, like a costume. A disguise. Don’t they know I’m Sean? Or are we still playing a game?

Condrey stands at a safe distance. We’re alone in the hall. Her blazer for the day is red. Bloody tempera. “Richard,” she says, her tone even. Calm. “What are you doing here?”

My throat is too dry to manifest the words clearly. “Going to class,” I manage. Even smile. I can pretend, too, I think. See? I can play these silly games just like the rest of you.

“I’m sorry, Richard, but…you can’t be here.” She takes the slightest step forward.

“I just want to go to my class…”

“Richard. Please—”

“Stop calling me that!” I don’t mean to shout. I don’t mean to scare her. But hearing that name, hearing the tone of her voice, the soothing quality of it, feels false to me. A trap.

Condrey blanches. That’s when I know for sure it’s all been a performance. All this time, she’s wanted me to believe that she’s on my side, that she’s my princiPAL, friends till the end.

But of course it’s a lie, like all the others.

“Hey, Rich…”

I spin around to see Mr. Dunstan. He’s holding out his hands. Was he trying to sneak up on me? “Let’s go outside, okay?”

“Stay away.” I take a step back.

I look at the walls. The pictures taped to them. Stick figures. Crooked Crayola smiles. Distorted eyes. Warped bodies. It’s all right there, out in the open, hiding in plain sight.

This school has been teaching its students the same ceremonies all along.

Miss Castevet peers out from her classroom doorway. I swear I see her lick her lips. Her tongue is much too long.

The teachers. It’s always been the teachers. Mrs. Gordon. Mme. Choule. Mr. Costanza. They’re surrounding me now. They’re all staring, waiting for me to turn my back.

“Rich, please.” Dunstan steps toward me. I hear the hum from behind his lips, the song, the song is there, buzzing behind his teeth. “Don’t do this…Not in front of the children.”

“Stay away from me!”

The bell rings just then, startling everyone. It could’ve been a gunshot, the way it makes the teachers jump. Before Condrey can turn the tide and keep the kids inside their classrooms, a flood of students fills the hall. They pass us, unaware of what’s happening. They head to their next class. Their next lesson. Their ritual.

“Stop,” I shout. Several students freeze, like it’s a game. Red light, green light. They’re all looking at me. Staring. “You need to run before they—”

Mr. Dunstan threads his arms through my own from behind, wrapping his hands around my neck and forcing me over. I never knew he was that agile. That strong. I try to bring my arms around to push back but I can’t reach him. He’s dragging me down the hallway. Away from the kids. I yank my head forward, hoping the weight of my body will throw him off-balance. His grip around my neck slips, giving me just enough leverage to pry free.

I stumble out of his arms and start running. Pushing through the children. All the children. None of them move. They stand stock-still. Some are crying. Eyes wide. Mouths open.

It’s too late for them. Too late to save them. I have to keep running. I push past the last of the students, sending one falling to the ground before I burst through the doors.

The sun is too bright. It stings. I have to shield my eyes.

A black pillar of smoke snakes into the sky, winding its way over town. The column is close enough to see it roil and contort from the tree line. It looks as if it’s coming from behind the school. Along the bike path. Toward the houses just on the other side.

Our house.

DAMNED IF YOU DON’T

 RICHARD: 2013

I hear Tamara before I see the fire. All other sound is drowned out by her sobbing, no matter how loud. Not the sirens from the fire trucks. The roar of the blaze. Not the low murmur from the onlookers standing at a safe distance. These sounds mean nothing to me.

All I hear is Tamara, her throat raw from wailing.

“Where is he where is he where is he…” It’s meant to be a question—and at one point I imagine it had been. But not anymore. Not with the answer burning before her.

Tamara keeps repeating the words anyhow until they lose their shape.

A fireman wraps his arms around her waist, holding her back from breaking the perimeter. Tamara gives in and leans back against the fireman’s chest as they stare at the flames, the soft orange glow playing across their cheeks.

There isn’t much of the house left by the time I reach our street. The hipped roof has collapsed. The pillars along the front porch have buckled. Sheets of flame lap at the windows.

The garage is gone. It must’ve burned down first. The walls of the studio are cindered ribs, a few boards stubbornly standing up like the chest cavity of some prehistoric beast.

The volunteer fire department does what they can, but there’s no containing the blaze.

Let the fire burn itself out. Let the flames eat their fill.

I stop before Tamara. She won’t look away from the house, searching for her son.

I say her