Dark Halls - A Horror Novel

by Jeff Menapace

  72

  Ryan doubled back towards the lobby and then headed west down the familiar fifth-grade wing. His footsteps were quicker now and not nearly as cautious. He passed Trish’s room and did not feel sorrow. He felt a righteous fury. He would make this woman suffer for what she had done to his friend. Ryan had never hit a woman before in his life, but right now he wanted nothing more than to do it. Not just hit her, but beat the ever-loving crap out of her. Take his time about it, too.

  And if she has a weapon?

  (What had Stew said about the heart? Feeding her the fucking thing? I’ll feed her that fucking weapon first.)

  And the other thing? Her being able to hurt you without laying hands on you?

  Ryan’s classroom door was closed, the interior dark. He gripped the doorknob and hesitated. Was she really in there, waiting for him?

  You know she is. So don’t go trying to be sneaky and creep on in, giving her a chance to steel herself for the attack. Rip that damn door open, hit the lights, and storm your ass inside, give her one hell of a surprise.

  Ryan did just that. He did not see Carol Lawrence anywhere in his classroom. What he did see froze him. Something that simply made no sense.

  His classroom was a burnt and barren hole. There were no desks, no chairs. The walls were charred black and gray. Ash and rubble littered the filthy tiled floor. The faint smell of sulphur hung in the air. Ryan stood in a room that appeared to have been the victim of a terrible fire long ago.

  “Do you finally see it now?” a voice behind him asked.

  Ryan spun and found himself looking at Carol Lawrence. She stood in the doorway, her face both sympathetic and grave. Ryan did not lunge for her. He was too dumbfounded to even breathe.

  “Do you finally see the truth?”

  73

  “Truth?” Ryan said. His righteous anger was paused, his current surroundings cancelling out all previous intentions, demanding explanation.

  “Yes, Ryan, the truth.” Carol stepped into the ruins of his classroom. “The truth about what we’ve been working on all this time. About what I’ve been getting you to accept, to come to terms with.”

  Ryan’s eyes were wide and unblinking, his mouth hanging open slightly. His head throbbed, the familiar sickness stirred. He fought hard to regain his initiative.

  “You’re a sick woman,” he said. “I know all about you.”

  “You know what you want to know about me. You have resentment towards me because I’ve been helping you bring something to the surface that you’ve been trying to keep suppressed for a very long time. It’s why you’ve recently labeled me as your antagonist.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Look around you, Ryan. You’re standing in a school that was burnt to the ground five years ago. You were convinced that a new school stood in its place. You were convinced that you worked there. How long have you been coming here? How many times have you stood in this classroom—your daughter’s classroom—seeing something else entirely?”

  74

  Ryan’s face twitched. “Daughter? I don’t have a daughter.”

  “You did have a daughter. You lost her here. She was taken from you in this very classroom by another student.”

  He barked out a laugh. “What?”

  “People often repress painful memories they can’t cope with on their own, Ryan. They often fabricate alternate explanations to help them cope. You couldn’t handle your daughter’s death. You were a young, single father forced into counseling with me to help you manage your crippling grief. Before long, your grief was so strong that you refused to accept the truth. Your mind concocted an elaborate story as a defense mechanism to protect you from that truth. Before long, you had forgotten about your own daughter’s very existence.”

  Ryan closed his eyes and shook his head. His head throbbed; his nausea surged, flu-like. “No—no, you’re fucking with me. You’re inside my head, and you’re fucking with me. I never had a daughter.” He opened his eyes. “You’re related to Helen Tarver. You’re responsible for what happened here. Stew is real. Karl is real. Trish was real. It’s all real. I’m…I’m dating your fucking daughter!”

  “Listen to what you’re saying, Ryan. Yes, those people you mentioned are real; they were all employed by Highland. You knew them well and were quite fond of them. Especially my ‘daughter.’ Rebecca Lawrence was your daughter’s teacher. You were especially fond of her, and she you.”

  “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”

  “Look around you, Ryan—” She waved a hand over the classroom, the devastation therein. “My goodness, it’s all the proof you need—you’re standing in it.”

  Ryan looked in all directions and then closed his eyes again. “It wasn’t like this before…”

  “You didn’t allow yourself to see it like this before.”

  He opened his eyes again. “I saw things in this school. This is Pinewood Elementary. It used to be Highland Elementary. I saw things here. I know what’s going on.” His voice was growing desperate.

  “There was a Highland Elementary, Ryan, but there is no Pinewood. Listen to me, please. Your daughter was murdered.”

  “No.”

  “Think about it, Ryan: even your age makes sense. You’re not some twenty-two-year-old boy, fresh out of college and looking for a job. You’re a thirty-year-old man. You were a young father with a daughter starting first grade….”

  “No.”

  “First grade—the same grade that Rebecca Lawrence taught.”

  “You’re Carol Lawrence. Rebecca is your daughter.”

  “Your daughter was murdered by another student. You could not cope with the truth—”

  “No.”

  “—and you created an alternate reality for yourself. You even believed that you yourself were a schoolteacher.”

  “I am.”

  “You created an alternate reality, Ryan,” she said again. “I’ve been trying to get you to realize what really happened for some time now. The more I did, the more you resisted. Eventually, you began to see me as your enemy.”

  “Please stop.”

  “You are standing in the remains of Highland Elementary. Your daughter was murdered. You have been in therapy for the past five years trying to deal with that loss. All that you knew is not the truth, Ryan.” She waved her hand across the interior of the room again. “This is the truth.”

  The pounding in Ryan’s head felt as though his skull might crack at any moment. He tasted bile in his throat, demanding release.

  “No,” he wept. “I know what’s going on. I know who I am. I know what’s real.”

  She strolled towards the chalkboard. “This is real—” She rapped her knuckles on the board five times—one; one, two, three; one.

  Ryan dropped to his knees and pitched forward, his forehead pressed into the dirty floor. His head swam; unconsciousness felt one or two heartbeats away.

  “I know what’s real,” he wept one last time before rolling onto his back and passing out.

  Carol Lawrence smiled, turned, and exited Ryan’s classroom.

  75

  Ryan dreamt of a little girl.

  He kneels before her, and she rushes into his arms, nearly knocking him over. He teeters backwards, catching himself, laughing. The little girl then kisses him on the cheek and wraps her tiny arms around his neck, squeezing in a loving embrace.

  Now Ryan watches the little girl sleep in her bed, her eyelids fluttering from a dream, her mouth slightly open, emitting shallow, tiny breaths that make the belly of her pink pajamas rise and fall. He watches her sleep for what seems like hours, treasuring the moment with impossible love.

  Now Ryan walks the little girl to her first day of school. Her small, delicate hand grips his own, her palms sweaty with anxiety as Ryan walks her to her classroom, passing children equally stuck to their parents, equally anxious for their first day.

  Ryan and the little girl enter the classroom and meet the teacher—a y
oung, pretty woman with strawberry blonde hair. She introduces herself as Miss Lawrence. Her beauty is such that Ryan takes note that it is Miss and not Mrs. Lawrence.

  Ryan gets down on his knees to kiss the little girl goodbye. He sees terror in her eyes, her fear palpable. Ryan leans in to hug and kiss her again, to tell her it will all be all right, and the little girl clutches onto him as though the two were teetering on the edge of a cliff.

  Ryan pries her off and assures her all will be well again. She is crying now, scared beyond reason. She tells him this. Tells him that something bad is going to happen. He assures her yet again that all is well; he will be back to get her soon.

  Ryan leaves, is halfway down the hall when he hears a blood-curdling scream. He spins and runs back to the classroom. The little girl is lying on her back, eyes closed, a knife sticking out of her chest.

  Ryan rushes to her side and cries out. He looks up for help, and Miss Lawrence looks down at him with disgust. “Why did you leave her if you knew this would happen?” she says.

  Ryan stammers, searching for words. He then feels the little girl twitch in his arms. He looks down and sees that the girl’s eyes have opened. She looks up at Ryan with the same look of fear and terror from just moments ago, only now, unable to speak, the knife taking her breath, her eyes convey something else, not unlike the same question Miss Lawrence had posed; of this Ryan was sure: why did you leave me?

  Ryan cries out again and pulls the little girl into him. Her body goes limp, her eyes rolling back into her head. Ryan cries out again, apologizes profusely, begs for her to come back.

  And she does come back. It all comes back. The scene begins anew: Ryan hugging and kissing the little girl goodbye in the classroom once again. Her look of terror is like before. Her words that she is afraid and that something bad is going to happen are as before. And Ryan assures her all will be well and leaves as before. And then the blood-curdling scream, spinning him on the spot, Ryan rushing into the classroom and seeing the little girl lying on the floor with a knife in her chest, taking her into his arms and crying out, looking up for help, Miss Lawrence looking down on him with disgust and asking, “Why did you leave her if you knew this would happen?”, the little girl looking up at him, unable to talk, her eyes asking why did you leave me? before she dies in his arms as before.

  And then it starts over again, and again after that, each time eroding the layers of Ryan’s sanity.

  One floor below, back at her altar, the director was directing again, kneeling and sitting back on her heels, her eyes rolled back white, seemingly unable to see, but seeing all too well—seeing the dream she was directing with exquisite glee.

  Behind her, Ryan’s canvas hung on the wall. On that canvas was something new. Underneath the spirals of dried chicken’s blood and semen across his name was a crude line drawing: a little girl with a red dot in the center of her chest.

  Carol Lawrence was now quite sure that if Ryan woke up, and she highly doubted that he would, his mind would be far, far gone.

  76

  Carol Lawrence left her altar and now walked through the deserted hallways of Pinewood Elementary. She poked her head into Ryan’s classroom to ensure he was where she had left him—and he was. She smiled as she watched him twitch and whimper in what was now a fetal ball on the tile floor. She blew him a kiss, left his classroom, and then dialed her daughter’s cell phone number as she walked towards the lobby.

  “Mom?” Rebecca answered with what was practically a yell.

  “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. Where are you?”

  “I’m thirty seconds from the school. I’ll be right there.”

  Carol frowned. She had explicitly told her to go someplace safe. Would Stew be following her?

  “Sweetheart, I told you to go somewhere and hide.”

  “I know, I just—”

  “It’s okay—I understand. Do you have your father’s ashes with you?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got them. But you were right—someone did come looking for them. I got away, though.”

  Carol closed her eyes and smiled, exhaling slowly.

  “He might be following me though, Mom. We should call the police.”

  “I already did, sweetheart,” Carol lied. “Come here now—it’s safe. Bring the urn with you and be very careful with it, please.”

  “What about Ryan and his friends?”

  “They’re gone. They left in a hurry for some reason. Everything’s okay, I promise. Just come to the main entrance. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  ***

  The first thing Carol did when Rebecca met her at the main entrance was take the urn from her. Once the urn was secured to her chest with her left arm, she reached forward with her right and hugged her daughter.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe, honey. Are you okay?”

  Rebecca nodded and then looked warily around the dark lobby. “You’re sure they’re gone?”

  “Yes, honey, I’m sure. But there’s always a chance they could come back. So I want you to—”

  “You called the police, right?”

  “Yes, I did. But listen to me: I can’t guarantee the police will get here soon, and Ryan and his friends may come back. I want you to hide until the police arrive.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Rebecca, please!”

  Rebecca recoiled, her mother’s sudden fury uncharacteristic.

  “I want you to hide, do you understand me? I am going to go put your father’s ashes somewhere safe. I do not want you to move from wherever you are hiding until the police get here. Do you understand?”

  Rebecca’s head bobbed, her face innocent like a child’s.

  “Good. I’m sorry I yelled, sweetheart. It’s just…I’m afraid. I’m worried about your father’s remains.”

  Rebecca nodded again, still mute like the scolded child.

  “That’s my good girl,” Carol said. “Find someplace safe and stay out of sight. I’ll call you when the police arrive.”

  Rebecca finally spoke, her voice soft and tentative. “Where will you be?”

  “I’ll be okay, honey; I promise.”

  Carol turned and left with the urn. Before long, she was gone.

  Rebecca spun slowly in the lobby, eyes going all over. Where to hide? Her eyes settled on the nurse’s office. She hurried towards it and entered. Before her was the main desk, beyond that, the nurse’s station. To her right and left were doors, each leading to a room with a cot; she remembered this much from the tour that had come with orientation. She would be safer in one of the cot rooms; out here she was in plain sight. Speaking of plain sight, she thought it wise to hit the lights. Even with the door shut, someone in the darkened lobby might notice the light on under the door. And wasn’t it possible that that someone

  (Ryan???)

  might be here now, looking for her? That they’d arrived a second after she’d closed the nurse’s office door behind her?

  Rebecca hurried towards the wall and turned off the light. Total blackness in the nurse’s office now. She closed her eyes and tried to envision the precise outlay of the office she’d just gleaned seconds before. Took short cautious steps forward, hands outstretched and aimed slightly downwards, probing, looking for the main desk.

  Her toes found it before her hands did, the big toe of her right foot banging the leg of the desk hard enough to shift it—she could hear the subtle squeal of metal on tile—and hard enough to hurt. She cursed lightly.

  Rebecca then bent forward at the waist and placed both hands on the desk. It felt good, gave her a sense of security.

  Okay, first leg of the journey is done, she thought. Now—left room or right? And then a second thought: Does it really matter? Pick one, and quickly.

  She went left, again groping blindly, hands outstretched.

  No toe casualty this time; her hands found the door first. She opened the door and then closed it behind
her. Got down on all fours—and this too gave her a better sense of security, being so low to the ground, the stability of moving on four wheels instead of two—and crawled slowly forward, one hand out in front, oscillating back and forth, searching for the cot.

  She soon found one of the cot’s legs and the ample space beyond, underneath the cot. Flat to her belly now as she wormed her way beneath the cot, and soon, this too gave her a better sense of security. And why not? It was almost cliché—hiding from the boogeyman under the bed.

  She lay there, flat on her stomach, chin propped beneath both hands. She slowed her breathing to minute breaths from her nose, keen to block out any noise that may prevent her from hearing any goings-on in the lobby. Hoping such goings-on would be the sounds of men and women entering the building, claiming to be police. Hoping it might then be her mother’s voice calling for her, telling her everything was okay, that it was safe to come out of hiding.

  The absolute last thing Rebecca had hoped to hear was a broken snore coming from the cot above her.

  77

  Rebecca screamed.

  She banged her head on the metal frame of the cot while scurrying out from beneath it and didn’t feel a thing, fear anesthetizing her.

  On her feet now, she lunged blindly for the door, colliding with it, groping for the handle, finding it, cranking it, ripping the door open and darting out into blackness, making a hard right towards the main door of the nurse’s office that led out to the lobby, colliding too with that door, banging her shoulder hard, again not feeling anything, groping frantically for a handle again, finding it again, ripping the door open again and rushing out into the lobby and into the immediate arms of a powerful man.

  ***

  Stew took hold of Rebecca around the waist with his left arm and clasped a firm hand over her mouth with his right. She screamed all the same, fought and struggled, and Stew clamped down harder, squeezed her waist tighter, spoke quickly and urgently in what was a loud whisper into her ear.