by Matthew Tait
Soon tangible sounds entered the fray: the din of a thousand children seeming to scream and laugh simultaneously. Every now and then he heard his own name spoken in the cacophony, like the low murmur of exchanged gossip whispered behind closed hands. Urging him to come forward, to keep filming, and witness a world that had only ever been abandoned by the living.
Thirteen
Despite no longer holding any source of light, Jason could discern the priest’s square-cut features and three-day-growth as if they had been granted a brightness all of their own. Garbed in a black vestment (the very same he’d sported on the day of his final mass), and clasping a leather-bound prayer book, Father Parrington was no longer afflicted by the diseases that had plagued him in life. Smiling almost demurely as he approached, he appeared more substantial than the backdrop of the church behind him, more colorful and real than the courtyard itself.
‘Hello, Jason,’ he said. Father Parrington’s voice was cheerful, almost robust. Stopping just a few short feet away, he even deigned to rock back and forth on his heels. ‘Beautiful night, isn’t? I’m so glad you made it back.’
Jason could feel his heart thumping below his neck like something caught. Yet his familiar coping mechanisms (either succumbing to anxiety or praying), had failed to materialize. And just why was that, exactly? Why, when during all his time under Father Parrington’s tutelage he had felt a deep sense of unease? Both before the malady of his madness and after the man had surrendered to it. Part of it was the halo of disquiet all priests seemed to carry around with them; another part was perhaps the man’s unfulfilled desires that were just as transparent as his vestments. No, Jason hadn’t panicked yet because …
‘You’re not really Father Parrington,’ he said, a statement.
The priest nodded, satisfied. Still smiling, he said, ‘You’re a smart one, Jason Wedle. And that’s why I’ve chosen you over the others. Oh, strength of character is one thing – your friend Alyssa has that in abundance, does she not? But strength of character pales in comparison to genuine intelligence. No, Jason, I am not Father Parrington. I am what you would call the headmaster of Providence Place.’
Swallowing in preparation to speak had become difficult, a herculean task. He said, ‘You chose me?’
That brief nod of the head again, like someone holding in a laugh.
‘To palaver, of course. To discuss among ourselves what your presence here means. And what, exactly, comes next. Not just for you, Jason, but for all of you. You five bright souls who have, on this dark night, chosen to call Providence Place home.’
Jason felt something sliding into place, unanswered questions illuminated like a puzzle solved. From their first moments together as a group standing inside the decay of the main courtyard, each returning pilgrim had felt (and sometimes articulated), the presence of a shadow behind the curtain: the unseen architect of Providence Place pulling at the strings. They had all witnessed Carolina’s dark cloud, of course; had even heard the scream of something not-quite-human shrieking its mournful tune. But these had only been slivers of the sub-rosa phantom; foot soldiers for a form of energy composed of nothing but appetite.
Here stood that energy, guised as a memory, but somehow all the more potent for that.
‘What do you want?’ he asked the school. For now there could be little doubt who he was addressing.
When the headmaster grinned this time, parts of his human façade appeared to slough off; the bulge of his cheek almost rubbery as it moved; the whitened teeth exhibiting corruption.
‘Why, for you to make a decision, Jason. For you to decide your fate tonight.
Fourteen
Like a man in a dream, Jeff Wolfe moved toward the sound of laughter.
Marcy Ribald’s teasing laughter.
It’s just her ghost, old man. That’s no more her real laugh than anything else you’ve seen tonight.
The corridor ended, and a new one began. Every time another set of classrooms presented themselves, the laughter grew louder. Yet each time he came within inches of exposing it, the sound would drift away again. On and on this pattern went until Jeff, half-maddened by its echo, began calling out the names of Dillion, Alyssa, and Jason – hoping his entreaties would give this aimless wandering some kind of compass point. Then, knowing full-well the potential harm he invited, Jeff finally began to give voice to the name of Marcy Ribald, spitting out the syllables of his lifelong torment like a maligned curse and daring her to step out into the light.
Soon, his pleas were answered.
Fifteen
A full house.
Alyssa gazed out at a sea of faces, dozens of rictus-grin smiles leering back at the stage. Though the spotlight above had pinned its beam on her the second she’d alighted the stage, Alyssa could still see the faces of the audience like grim and expectant bobbleheads awaiting her next move.
The spotlight was my anchor …
Yes, it was; Alyssa remembered this distinctly. Always, she had traversed from one scene to another in any given performance because the spotlight managed to expunge the ogling eyes of a crowd. It was easy to pretend you were living in a fantasy world when each spectator stood veiled behind the black armband of an artificial smokescreen. This was her secret weapon. An ace up the sleeve and one of the main reasons she never flailed when others did. But now Alyssa could see their faces all too clearly … and some of them were familiar.
In the backrow sat Edith Kerrigan and Debra Harrison, two sophomores who had perished in a car accident while Alyssa was still in middle school. Next to them was a small man sporting a moustache, a red baseball cap, and a face lined with wrinkles like ingrown blackheads. David Fassett, a Providence Place groundskeeper run over by one of his own tractors. Though she barely recalled the man, she did recall the memorial held in his wake, a by-the-numbers sendoff for the grieving students and faculty. Mr. Fassett’s smiling picture had been strung up around the church like a collage of missing person’s posters. The groundskeeper’s grisly demise had been one of her first ever brushes with death. At least until –
Whitmore. Sadie Whitmore. And here she is now in the front row, complete with a ravaged neck and dead eyes. She’s holding something in her bone-white hands, something she tried giving you in the dressing rooms all those long years ago: a perfect noose fit for the gallows. Are you ready to wear it now, Alyssa, as you surely should have from the start? Are you ready to give your final performance?
Sixteen
While the headmaster talked, Jason bore witness to the true nature of Providence Place.
Abandoned and derelict in the present, the school was not so in whatever unimaginable timescale it thrived in. Human beings, semi-transparent for the most part, negotiated the courtyards and buildings like lost souls seeking paradise. Although some wore the astringent attire befitting teachers and heads of staff, most bore the blazers and bags of young children. Some walked; others jogged. Some were holed up in stairwells, staring out at nothing. One thing was similar about all of them: a forlorn expression of misery; of something eternally misplaced. They would never leave, these children. Never know the sweet sound of a bell signifying home.
Like insects caught in amber, Providence Place had pinioned their secret selves.
Hell is repetition, Jason thought.
The school said, ‘You have a decision to make, Jason.’
How did everything come to this? he wondered.
What kind of God would allow something so sinister to give him such an ultimatum? Providence Place wanted more emotions, where the creature called human could be manipulated and given a taste of pure burning appetite. Not just emotions, either; it wanted Jason to go back into the real world and pioneer the seeds of its resurrection, to bring about a return of human activity and commotion.
All Jason had to do was agree, and his life would be spared.
‘What will happen to the others if I do?’ he asked.
The headmaster’s face contorted, ripples of rot giving glimps
es of the disease festering beneath. ‘My son will finish what he started.’
Seventeen
She emerged from the shadows dressed for the occasion: short blue skirt and halter top, jet-black hair pinned back in a ponytail. It was the same outfit she wore every night during her shift; the same outfit worn when deciding to butcher numerous students then perform an act of self-mutilation so visceral in the particulars it was almost beyond the measure of understanding.
She’s chewing gum, too, Jeff thought. I’ll be damned.
Her smile was seductive; her waltz equally so. When she chewed, it was with the lewd abandon of the promiscuous. Edging closer, the lockers to either side of them bled away to nothing. Darkness receded, and a natural glow took its place.
‘You lied before, didn’t you, Mr. Wolfe?’ Marcy said to him.
‘Lied?’
‘Back in the closet, when you told your story,’ Marcy sniggered, running a hand through her ponytail. ‘I was listening.’
‘You were?’
Marcy nodded, a roguish smile curling the side of her lip. ‘Of course. And you didn’t just lie, but you left parts of the story out, didn’t you? You left out the part where after you caught me with Regina, you went home and jerked yourself off.’
This isn’t Marcy, he told himself. It’s just the motherfucking unseen world.
That might be so … but the illusion was solid. Jeff could even smell her perfume, the caustic aroma of something cheap. Black nail polish on the tips of her fingers gleamed as though recently applied.
And let’s not forget her words are essentially true. Jeff Wolfe, a poor cleaner who lived alone, whose sole outlet when it came to sexual gratification entailed watching porn, had indeed jerked his wad at the end of that long day. Though who could blame him? He was a lonely man, and –
‘But it wasn’t just that night, either, was it Mr. Wolfe?’ said Marcy, now edging closer with each word. ‘You thought about me often, didn’t you? Right from the very beginning. Thought about putting it inside of me in the cleaning closet after lights out. Just the two of us, yes? That was your fantasy. You thought you could show me the ropes – an experienced old man and a younger woman. You would teach me.’
Those nail-polish adorned fingers … Jeff watched as Marcy slipped one of them into the top of her skirt, watched her push it underneath the hem. All the while still moving, making small, skittish steps and holding him with her gaze. Not just chewing the gum, now. But gnawing on it.
‘Get back,’ he said, the words sounding somehow pathetic. ‘Or I’ll …’
‘You’ll what, Mr. Wolfe? What will you do? What do you want to do to me? We have all the time in the world, now. The headmaster will see to it.’
Despite the incongruity of the moment Jeff raised his head, curious. ‘Headmaster?’ he asked.
‘He wants you to stay, Jeff. You and some of the others.’
So close now he could reach out and touch her if he wanted. And did he want to? Oh God, yes. Never wavering from their intent, Marcy’s fingers had found that sweet portion of her underneath the hem’s lining, and there they began to knead. He thought back to the hundreds of times his mind had played out a scenario very close to this one: being seduced, forcefully, by Marcy or one of his other underage coworkers. And now the opportunity was presenting itself; his ultimate dream made manifest.
And what does the world outside these walls have to offer an ageing nigger, anyway? Nothing but a shitty apartment, a lousy pension, and a limp dick. You can also add dementia to the list … because only a senile old fool would believe some cheap-ass film would’ve made them a star.
Sensing his realization dawning, Marcy’s eyes brightened. And in that glint Jeff’s noticed something move. A shadow; something’s elongated reflection. Yet a thing substantial enough to break his reverie entirely. Suddenly the illusion shattered, and Marcy’s form became the elusive nothing it had surely been from the start.
Slowly turning around, Jeff had time to comprehend a blur of hulking silhouette
(oh God, Maddox)
and the abyss of a muzzle before Providence Place and everything in it was plunged back into darkness.
Eighteen
First wearing out the battery of one iPhone, Dillion replaced it with another. And then a third. The more he witnessed, the more power his lithe little cameras seemed to consume. As if the scenery were full of pixels, and he had only been allocated a certain amount of software. Vaguely aware there had once been others by his side, that particular adventure now seemed a lifetime ago. In its place was the bourgeoning empire of the ancient, unseen world … one whose sheer profundity of forms defied adequate description. In addition to the wandering orbs, other configurations of regressive life had wandered into the viewfinder. Things with glistening eyes attached to buttocks and hides composed of nothing but teeth. Itinerant, the teeth would produce liquid chattering sounds, while the eyes wept and disgorged fat yellow discharge that pooled around twitching limbs like the appendages of a quartered and struggling caterpillar. Dillion filmed, and kept filming, and after a time the other, older world began to reassert itself once again; the grey world of barren hallways and empty classrooms; a world where humans had been driven out by the ghosts of their own banal appetite.
Exiting a block of buildings, familiar sights came to greet Dillion: serried ranks of yellow school buses and the fragrant reek of wood smoke; crumbling concrete containing a ceiling of serpentine fog like a thin atmosphere.
Separated from the pack, errant and misguided, sat a school bus having the attributes of a derelict home …
Suddenly everything came crashing back: Maddox, now a grown-up vagrant, had shot his mother. And Dillion had caught it on camera. Matricide for the masses. Then he had run, and so had the others, and then …
Lowering his phone, Dillion made his way over toward the bus. Makeshift fires from the barrels continued to cast the scene in a ruddy glow … but there was another source of light, one that had followed him ever since he’d fled this scene – a chalky, flat radiance highlighting corners and coating the asphalt like the ebb and whorl of an Etch A Sketch. Although no stars were visible, fat columns of spectral cloud gave off their own sickly shine. By the illumination, he could make out the plump oblong of a sprawled and lifeless body. Carolina’s body. So he hadn’t imagined the whole thing, after all. His movie really did have a climatic murder. And there was something else, as well … some other thing lying a few feet away next to the rear tires of the bus. Another lifeless body, this one sprawled on its stomach.
That can’t be right – everyone got away. Didn’t they?
Curiosity piqued, Dillion’s slow walk became a trot. Then a small sprint. Though aware Maddox could be lurking anywhere (could in fact have his shotgun trained from one of the bus’s windows), finding out the identity of the second body was suddenly paramount.
Almost tripping over some of Maddox’s refuse (an encrusted mattress and skinned carcasses), Dillion stumbled into the pall of light created by the ebbing barrel fires. And yes … here was Carolina, her printed flower dress soaked with gore and her right hand still clutching her flashlight. In the livid light, her skin had the complexion of blood-soaked beef; her eyes like the jellied fat on a cooling dinner cadaver. Her mouth, much like the corpse in the stairwell, had frozen in a silent scream. Without pausing to think about it, Dillion lifted up his iPhone … but stopped short when his eyes again alighted on the second body beside the tires.
Shot in the back of the neck. And wearing a long-sleeved designer shirt with faded jeans.
The kind of thing a devil-may-care director would possibly don. Doc Martins completed the ensemble.
Dillion’s world doubled, then trebled. Pitching forward, he only just managed to keep his balance, coming to rest less than a foot from the body. Although the face was only partially visible, Dillion didn’t need to see it all to know there would be a small white scar running along the base of the chin … the end result of a bicycle
accident at the age of twelve. Just as he didn’t need to see underneath the bloody shirt to know there was a small tattoo of Tarantino on the left abdomen, a permanent reminder that it was possible to create motherfucking art with nothing but unwavering ambition.
The dead body was Dillion Cook.
I never got away, he thought. He killed us both.
Memories of the unseen world were suddenly filling him up, relentless and assaulting: Carolina’s dark cloud infected with a city of faces. And inside that maelstrom a fresh countenance newly added to the fray – his face.
Filled with the agony of an impending eternity inside the walls of Providence Place.
Nineteen
From the gallows, a single noose beckoned.
Watching on, a ratchet of applause went up from the audience of ghosts, all of them cheering wildly. Though the auditorium was now filled with the sounds of mirth, the spectators producing the revelry were a catalogue of death and disfigurement: rotting faces and marble eyes. For every person Alyssa recognized, there were at least a dozen more she did not.
Men, women … but mostly children.
Just like the ones in the mirror.
What had she been thinking, coming back here? In the time between her last day of school and Dillion’s proposition, a species of forgetfulness had taken root, her time under this roof something of no more substance than one of her plays. Even when recounting her story for Dillion’s camera, her episode in the dressing rooms had felt like an actor’s scenes. Only now was she recalling how utterly cloying and claustrophobic the whole experience had been. A haunting to end them all. And yet in the aftermath of the ordeal, Alyssa Asterious had simply gone on with her life and relegated Sadie Whitmore to the shadows.