Dark Halls - A Horror Novel

by Jeff Menapace

  He had never been so grateful to be hit in the balls.

  Ryan sat up. He was soaked. His head throbbed, even more than his nuts. “Jesus…” he muttered.

  He went to the kitchen, stuck his head under the sink’s faucet, toweled off, and then filled a glass of water that he downed in two gulps.

  Sebastian leapt onto the countertop, keen to once again allow Ryan to give him an early jump on breakfast, please.

  Ryan stared at the orange tabby, the tabby staring back with his yellow eyes. He recalled his comment to the cat the first time he’d given him that early breakfast: You owe me one, buddy.

  “I’d say we were even,” he told Sebastian, “but something tells me you hooked me up a hell of a lot more than I hooked you up.”

  Ryan fed him again. Gave him the whole damn can.

  49

  Ryan’s cell phone woke him. He had made his way downstairs to his bedroom after waking from his nightmare in an attempt to grab more sleep—a laughable task at the time—and actually did manage to find some. And with nary a nightmare to be had, no less.

  “Hello?” His voice was raspy from sleep.

  “Hi. It’s Rebecca.”

  “Hi.”

  “How are you feeling? You sound tired.”

  “I didn’t sleep well.” He chose not to tell her about his nightmare, the savage intensity of it, unlike any of the ones that had preceded it.

  There was a pause. Ryan envisioned Rebecca choosing her words.

  “Last night was kind of…spooky,” she finally said. Her tone was cautious, not particularly warm.

  “Ya think?” He plucked a sleep crumb from the corner of his eye.

  “Do you remember anything yet?”

  “No.”

  “How are you feeling physically?”

  “I feel okay. Bit of a headache.”

  “I was thinking: your car is still at the school.”

  Ryan had forgotten he had somehow managed to drive to the school in his sleep. This sobering truth made him miss her next words.

  “Say that again?” he asked.

  “I was thinking I could come pick you up and we could do a late lunch or something. Go get your car after.” Her tone still seemed off.

  (Can you blame the girl?)

  “This lunch,” he said, “is it something I should be worried about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  No sense in beating around the bush. Out with it. “I mean, is this a breakup lunch?”

  “No—why? Is it for you?”

  “You invited me.”

  She chuckled. A little warmer, but only just. “True. How about I come to your place at four?”

  “What time is it now?”

  “It’s two. I tried calling you earlier.”

  He sat up. “Two? Jesus, I really slept late.”

  “Something tells me you needed it.”

  A-fucking-men to that.

  “I guess I did.”

  “See you at four?” Her tone was still cautiously warm.

  “See you then.”

  “You won’t pull another disappearing act on me?”

  Well, at least she’s joking about it.

  (If she’s joking.)

  He wanted to believe she was and thus replied with what he hoped was equal levity. “Car’s at the school. And I’m awake. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Touché. See you soon.”

  Ryan hung up. His phone rang immediately after.

  “Hello?”

  “Ryan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Stew.”

  “Hey, man. What’s up?”

  “All right if we drop by?”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Karl and I.”

  “What for?”

  “It’s important.”

  Ryan frowned. “Can’t you just tell me over the phone?”

  “We’d rather talk to you in person. Are you alone?”

  “Yeah—my mother’s at work.”

  “Good.”

  Ryan’s frown remained. “Seriously, Stew; what’s this about?”

  “You’ll find out soon.”

  Ryan sighed. “Fine. Just know that Rebecca’s coming to get me at four.”

  “Be there in twenty.”

  Stew hung up.

  Ryan dropped his phone hand and sighed again. “Any more drama, anyone?” he asked the empty house.

  50

  “You sure you know where he lives?” Stew asked the second Karl was in his car.

  “I’m sure. I got it from the office directory.”

  They backed out of Karl’s driveway.

  “We going to pick up Barbara first?” Karl asked.

  “She’s not answering her phone. No big deal—we can handle it.”

  “What are we gonna tell him?”

  “Everything we know.”

  “You know, something just occurred to me,” Karl said.

  “What?”

  “Well, we’ve been keeping quiet about what we suspect for a long time now. We tell Ryan everything we know, there’s a good chance he’s going to tell Rebecca. Good chance she’s going to—you’re gonna want to make a left up here—good chance she’s going to tell her mother. That’ll be putting us in Carol’s line of fire.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that,” Stew said. “But those who died were those who could see.”

  “They died because they were a threat to her. Now, we’re making ourselves a threat.”

  Stew glanced over at Karl. “So be it.”

  51

  Carol Lawrence stood in the doorway of her daughter’s room. She had a cup of tea in her hands.

  “I’m not sure it’s such a good idea that you see him anymore, Becks,” she said.

  Rebecca was putting away some clothes. She stopped midway when her mother’s words hit. Turned and faced her mother with clothes in hand, drawer hanging open on a slight angle behind her.

  “What? Why?”

  Carol entered her daughter’s room and took a seat on her bed. She patted a spot next to her. Rebecca took it. Carol handed her the cup of tea.

  “Have some—it’s really good.”

  Rebecca took the tea but did not drink it. “Why shouldn’t I see him anymore?”

  Carol gestured towards the tea in her daughter’s hands. “Have some, Becks. It’ll soothe you.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes and sipped the tea. “Yummy. Now tell me why.”

  “I know you like him, sweetheart. I like him too. But he doesn’t seem very stable to me. His behavior is very erratic.”

  “I’ll admit he’s had a rough couple of weeks, but you don’t see the stuff I see when we’re together.”

  Carol nodded and gave a small smile, a placating smile. “I know I don’t. But I do see things in him.”

  “Like what?”

  “His behavior sounds like he may need some medical help. Especially after what happened last night. There could be something seriously wrong with that poor boy, Becks. I don’t want you getting hurt in the long run.”

  “Medical help?”

  Carol gestured towards the tea again, and again Rebecca drank quickly from the cup to appease her mother, to hurry the conversation along.

  “Becks, think with your head and not with your heart. Hallucinations? Sleepwalking? Sleep-driving? My goodness, Becks…please just think about it for a minute.”

  She did. And it killed her to find little to no flaws in her mother’s logic. Was she setting herself up for a potential disaster? Her feelings for him were very strong, despite their short time together, but how well did she really know Ryan?

  Rebecca took another healthy sip of tea, wishing it was wine. Then another, polishing it off. Carol took the empty mug from her, set it aside, and then placed a hand on her daughter’s knee.

  “Look at me, Becks.”

  Rebecca did.

  Carol patted her daughter’s knee five times, an odd rhythm to her pats—one; one, two, three; one. The
n: “I think you should end this now before you get hurt, Rebecca. Ryan is very unstable, and I don’t want something bad to happen to you.” A pause, and then: “I want you to end this now.”

  Rebecca’s gaze on her mother was unblinking. “Okay, Mom. I will.”

  “That’s my good girl.” Carol patted her daughter’s knee again, the same odd rhythm as before—one; one, two, three; one.

  Rebecca blinked, stood, and went back to putting away her clothes. Carol left with the empty teacup.

  ***

  Carol rinsed the teacup well before putting it away. She was pleased its contents had placed her daughter in such a highly suggestive state, allowing her to do her thing. She could not help but smile at her accomplishment. A twinge of guilt over doing such a thing to her daughter, yes, but all done out of love. Done to help cushion the blow when she finally killed the little fucker.

  52

  As Stew and Karl drove to Ryan’s house, they passed the school and saw a group of picketers outside. One particular picket sign sported a large photograph of Trish Cooke. Above the photo, it asked: How many more have to die?

  “Looks like word about the Cooke girl got out after all,” Karl said. “Twenty-to-one classes get cancelled tomorrow.”

  Stew grunted.

  They arrived at Ryan’s.

  “No car in the driveway,” Karl said.

  “It’s still at the school, remember?”

  “Oh right. The mother?”

  “Ryan said she was at work. She’s a nurse. No holidays for those poor people.”

  They parked in the driveway. Stew killed the ignition and looked at Karl. “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be. Sure we shouldn’t try Barbara one more time?”

  “Ryan said Rebecca was coming by at four. We go back to get Barbara and we’re eating up precious time.”

  “We should at least tell her where we are, what we’re doing.”

  Stew agreed and tried Barbara again. He got her answering machine and hung up without leaving a message. “Still not answering. Maybe she’s with family for Labor Day.”

  “Maybe.”

  ***

  Barbara Forsythe sat in her armchair facing the television in her den. Her cat, Chester, periodically jumped onto the armrest of the chair and pawed at his owner’s face, wondering why she was not showing him the affection she usually gave him.

  Eventually, the coroner would classify Barbara’s death as a heart attack. A strong family history of heart problems helped solidify this cause of death.

  Carol Lawrence knew Barbara’s family’s medical history quite well. She also knew that three messy suicides over twenty years could be a horrible coincidence, but several over a period of a few days was downright unbelievable.

  And this was where her ingenuity kicked in. She did not have to dispose of her recent obstacles in a public display of brutality as she’d previously done; she could dispose of them with a hand of subtlety that would ultimately achieve the same result. In fact, due to Barbara’s age and weak heart, Carol was quite pleased to discover that a personal substance of Barbara’s was not required for the end result.

  Carol had not gone back to sleep after her unsuccessful attempt on Ryan via his dreams, as Rebecca thought she had, but instead waited until her daughter was asleep, and then headed to the school. Her ego demanded compensation. Self-preservation demanded Barbara, Karl, and Stew needed to die, and soon. She chose Barbara first.

  If one were to visit Carol’s altar now, they would find a photograph of Barbara taped to the wall. On that photo they would find a valentine’s-shaped heart drawn in goat’s blood. Stuck directly in the center of that heart they would find a small dagger.

  Next to Barbara’s photo on that wall? Nothing yet. But soon it would contain photographs of both Karl and Stew. Karl, Carol had decided, would be the next to go. While no prior health problems existed that she knew of, what Carol did know was that Karl was quite old, his immune system assuredly compromised. And it was this truth that filled Carol with optimism that no personal item from Karl would be needed to take his life as well. If there was any pessimism among that optimism, it was that Carol was not sure she would be able to make Karl suffer sufficiently before he died. Barbara had likely died quickly. She wanted Karl’s death to be hell itself. He was, after all, the one who had saved Ryan, impeded her work.

  Stew? Such a strong man would be a challenge. She was up for it, though. School would be starting soon. She needed her obstacles out of the way so she could begin harvesting the exquisite souls of children anew.

  53

  Ryan answered his front door looking rough as ever.

  “Hi, Ryan,” Stew said.

  Again Ryan asked, in the doorway, “What’s this about, guys?”

  “Can we come in?” Stew asked.

  Ryan stepped aside and waved them in. He gestured towards the sofa. Stew and Karl took a seat.

  “You guys want anything to drink? Coffee or tea or something?”

  Both men held up their hands and mumbled a “no thanks.”

  “Good. I don’t feel like making anything.”

  Both men accommodated Ryan’s wit with smiles.

  “How are you feeling?” Stew asked.

  “Better. My dreams, though. Jesus, my dreams...”

  “What about them?” Stew asked.

  “They’re getting worse. Like way worse. The one I had last night…” He shook his head as though unable to believe it himself.

  “What was it about?” Stew asked.

  Instead of telling them, Ryan decided to ask a question he had neglected to ask anyone since discussing it with Trish. “Have either of you guys ever heard about a woman named Helen Tarver?”

  Stew looked at Karl. Karl shrugged. Stew looked back at Ryan. “Can’t say we do. Who is she?”

  “Before Trish died she had her uncle—some super sleuth computer geek—do some digging around. Turns out that around two hundred years ago, some nutty schoolteacher was into all this evil hocus-pocus and whatnot. Apparently, she made all of her students perform a ritual suicide.”

  Stew raised his eyebrows. Karl had no eyebrows. He raised what he did have.

  “I know, right? It gets better, though. Apparently the schoolhouse where this Helen Tarver lady taught was on the exact spot where Highland—or Pinewood or whatever—is now. Apparently our locals weren’t the only people fond of arson; the folks back then burned the schoolhouse to the ground as well. Not before tracking Helen Tarver down and killing her crazy ass first, of course.”

  Stew leaned in. “Why don’t more people know about this?”

  “I said the exact same thing. Apparently the town buried it well. I mean, come on, you guys have been on top of this thing since day one. If you never heard about it…”

  “So what are we saying here then?” Karl asked.

  Ryan shrugged. “Maybe someone who is still very much alive today knows all about Helen Tarver. Began studying her. Resurrected her work and has been implementing it for their own sick reasons for the past twenty years. At least that’s what Trish suspected.”

  Karl and Stew exchanged a look.

  “Ryan, how do you feel about Rebecca?” Stew asked.

  The sudden change in topic paused Ryan a moment. “Huh?”

  “Rebecca. How do you feel about her?” Stew asked again.

  “Why?”

  Both Stew and Karl said nothing.

  “I like her,” Ryan finally said, and then again asked: “Why?”

  “What about her mother?” Karl asked.

  “Her mother? Did we just change topics without my—?”

  “This is very much on topic, Ryan,” Stew said.

  “Well, then, any chance you can just come out with it, please? I’m a big boy.”

  Stew held up an apologetic hand. “We believe Carol Lawrence is the one who is responsible for what’s been happening at the school.”

  “Carol?”

  “I wasn’t exactly honest
with you when we first met, Ryan,” Karl said. “I told you I didn’t trust anyone. Well, I do trust Stew and Barbara.”

  “But not Carol.”

  Karl nodded.

  “Why?”

  “We’ve suspected her for a long time,” Stew said. “We just couldn’t prove it.”

  “Can you prove it now?”

  “We’re hoping you can.”

  “Me?”

  “You need to remember what happened last night.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Everyone who could see is dead because they were a threat to Carol,” Stew went on. “You’re a threat to Carol. She tried to kill you last night. You’re only alive because Karl was there to save you—don’t you understand that?”

  “I do understand that. What I don’t understand is why Carol Lawrence is responsible.”

  “Who knew you were at the school last night?” Stew asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. Stop and think for a minute, Ryan. Who came looking for you at the school?”

  “Rebecca and my mother.”

  “Right. Do you suspect your mother?”

  Ryan made a face.

  “Okay then. Do you suspect Rebecca?”

  “She’s twenty-three. Unless she was pulling this voodoo shit off when she was an infant, then I would have to say no, I don’t suspect her.”

  “Good, good…” Stew looked pleased with where his line of questioning was going—a suspect falling into his trap. “Now, what are the odds that Rebecca told her mother where she was going last night and why?”

  “Strong, I guess.”

  “And did Carol come along with her daughter and your mother to help?”

  “No.”

  “Strange, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No—not ‘maybe.’ Strange.”

  “It’s still pretty flimsy, Stew.”

  “So help us then. You’re different than all the others who died before you. They could see, like you; however, they never lived long enough to see more. Carol saw to that. But you…”

  “I live to tell the tale.”