Dark Halls - A Horror Novel

by Jeff Menapace

  Ryan and Stew tracked her march.

  “Why bother?!” Ryan called after her. “Rebecca!”

  “HELP ME! SOMEONE, PLEASE HELP!” Karl’s voice in the distance, crying out from within the nurse’s office.

  “Karl,” Stew said. He hurried towards the nurse’s office. Opened the main door, hit the lights, and then opened the door to his left that held Karl, hit those lights. What he saw paused him like a button. Karl was still very unconscious.

  82

  “HELP ME! SOMEONE, PLEASE HELP!” Rebecca and Ryan heard Karl cry once again, their eyes fixed down the hall, towards the nurse’s office. Had they looked behind them, they would have seen Carol, awake now, silently mouthing and thus projecting Karl’s cries in the distance with a delighted little smile.

  And then Rebecca did glance back at her mother. Carol’s eyes were open. She grinned up at her daughter. Silently mouthed “HELP ME!” again, and Karl could be heard crying out those very same words again in the distance.

  Rebecca screamed.

  Ryan spun.

  Carol leapt from the sofa, dove into Ryan’s waist and knocked him to the floor, she on top. She screeched, animal-like, and clawed at Ryan’s eyes; she bit into his neck; she grabbed his hair and repeatedly banged the back of his head against the tiled floor; her wild grin—big, impossibly big—constant throughout.

  “Mom, stop it!!!” Rebecca screamed.

  Carol did anything but. Ryan fought futilely beneath her, Carol’s savage fury overwhelming him. She gripped his hair again, banged it on the tiled floor again. “DIE!” she screamed, and banged his head again. “DIE!” Bang. “DIE!” Bang.

  Rebecca grabbed hold of her mother’s hair with both hands, jerked with all her might—and ended up tumbling backwards onto the seat of her pants with two fistfuls of her mother’s hair and scalp, Carol never flinching once; her daughter might as well have plucked a wig from her head.

  “DIE!” Bang. “DIE!” Bang. Ryan was unconscious, and Carol’s impossibly wide grin stretched that much wider, tendrils of saliva dangling from both corners of her mouth now, spit spraying with each “DIE!” she gleefully screeched.

  Stew on the scene now, rushing forward, the knife Carol had used on him tight in his meaty fist. He plunged it deep into the center of her back, and unlike Rebecca’s partial scalping job, this attack produced a significant effect.

  Carol cried out, sat upright atop Ryan’s chest, back arched, stomach protruding, and feebly tried to bring both hands behind her back to clutch the wound.

  Stew plunged the knife again, this time into her chest, and Carol cried out again, finally rolling off of Ryan and onto her back, her grin gone, in its stead an agonized grimace.

  Ryan started coming to. He staggered to his feet, swaying, dazed, eventually stumbling back against the wall, which he slid down onto his butt.

  Carol slowly rose to her feet, her shirt soaked red in front and in back. She stood, hunched over, wheezing, one hand on her bloodied chest, her gaze fixed on Stew.

  Stew held the knife out in front, both in threat and in preparation to follow through with that threat.

  Carol spat blood. “Oh, Stew…” she wheezed, the tendrils of saliva that hung from her chin now pink as they mixed with her own blood. “…the things I’m going to do to you…”

  “Mom, please!” Rebecca cried.

  Carol looked over at her daughter. “Oh, go fuck yourself, Rebecca. You’re a bigger disappointment to me than your father ever was.”

  Rebecca suddenly looked as though she had been stabbed. Her chest sank, her shoulders sank, her face sank.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Stew?” Carol said, fixing her gaze back on him. She waved him on, her bravado contradicting her weakened state. “The sooner you come and take your medicine, the sooner your balls will be frying in hell along with your little buddy John.”

  Stew readied the knife.

  “Wait!” Ryan called from his seat against the wall. Ryan struggled to his feet, his gaze not on Stew and Carol and Rebecca, but on something behind them.

  83

  Stew looked behind him. Rebecca looked behind Stew. Even Carol looked.

  Stew saw nothing, as evidenced by the splay of his knife hand and then a quick look in Ryan’s direction.

  Rebecca saw nothing, as evidenced by her gaze ping-ponging between Ryan and the distance behind Stew, and then back on Ryan again, her previously deflated face now scrunched with mystery.

  But Ryan saw it, and judging by the horrified look on Carol’s face—to Ryan’s great delight—she saw it too.

  It started from the south wing—a slow and steady march of children towards the lobby, John Gray leading the march.

  From the east wing another slow and steady march of children emerged, Jane Ballentine, the art teacher, leading the way.

  The north wing, more children, Mike Johnson, the science teacher, leading.

  And then finally the west wing, Trish Cooke leading.

  Stew turned to Ryan. “What?”

  Ryan only smiled back at Stew.

  Revelation clicked on Stew’s face. “What do you see, Ryan?”

  Stew’s words were like a starter’s pistol. The children’s march became a full-on sprint towards Carol, the four teachers strolling casually behind as the children rushed past them, content to amble and watch that which was about to unfold.

  Carol screamed as the children pounced. They tore off her arms. They tore off her legs. They tore off her head. They took turns jumping on her headless, limbless torso as though it were a trampoline, a fitting analogy as any, Ryan mused—the children were clearly enjoying themselves.

  ***

  Stew watched Carol, now flat on her back, as she screeched and thrashed and fought something he could not see.

  He spun towards Ryan again. “Ryan! Ryan, what’s happening?! What do you see?! WHAT DO YOU SEE?!”

  When Carol stopped screaming, when her arms dropped limply to her sides, when her legs stopped thrashing, and when her eyes, still open, went several beats without a blink, Ryan looked at Stew, smiled again, and said: “Vengeance, my friend. Long, long overdue vengeance.”

  ***

  When it was finished, Ryan watched the children file their way back down the halls from which they’d emerged, the teachers once again leading the way. It was all so orderly and cavalier in its construct that it might have been a teacher guiding his or her students from lunch back to the classroom—had those students and teachers not begun to dissipate on that march before slowly fading away entirely.

  The last to dissolve was Trish. She had let her students file on ahead before her. When they were gone, she locked eyes with Ryan, smiled her loving, cherubic smile, and blew him a kiss.

  84

  Pinewood Elementary started two weeks late. Though it was quite an undertaking—administration having to contact the family of each and every student due to attend the following day—a BS excuse about asbestos issues was used as the official reason.

  Everything that had occurred in the weeks prior, and especially on the infamous night of, was kept as hush-hush as humanly possible. Even the police were willing to remain tight-lipped to the press for the better of the community. Leaks occurred, of course, but nothing could be substantiated, and each leak varied greatly, causing them all to ultimately lose credibility in the coming days.

  Carol Lawrence’s chamber, and the altar therein, was destroyed and sealed in forever. Despite Carol’s knife wounds—all legally justified in the eyes of the law once all stories were told and corroborated—an autopsy ruled that a heart attack was the culprit in taking her life.

  Ryan didn’t think any sweeter irony was possible.

  Karl never did recover from his fall. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Carol’s work that did him in, but significant bleeding in Karl’s brain as a result of his head bouncing off the tiled floor when he’d fallen (though Ryan and Stew would agree later, with both great sorrow and anger, that technically it was Carol’
s work that did Karl in; after all, it was her damned spell that had caused him to fall).

  Although Karl had not been conscious at the time of Carol’s demise, Stew had leaned into the open casket during the janitor’s funeral and whispered: “You were there when she died, brother. You were there.”

  Barbara Forsythe’s body was eventually found, and her cause of death, like Carol’s, was also ruled a heart attack. Fortunately (though again Ryan and Stew would discuss, not so fortunate for poor Barbara; they knew the truth), Barbara’s advanced age meant not many eyebrows were raised over potential foul play.

  Rebecca and Ryan resumed dating, but not right away. There were too many open wounds at first. They took their time and eased into things, letting it occur gradually. Once things did eventually get up and running, there weren’t many times the two were apart. And of course Ryan now always, always made sure to flush a used condom immediately after they finished having sex. Call it superstition, but he simply couldn’t fall asleep afterwards unless the ritual was done.

  Stew and Ryan became quite good friends after their shared tragedies and made it a habit to hang out at least once a week for a few laughs as long as Ryan promised not to curse so much around Stew. Ryan agreed, but only if Stew would break down and have one measly beer with him from time to time.

  85

  The year was halfway done and without incident. Even the locals were beginning to mellow. The one significant problem—if it could be called that—was Barbara’s absence. She had been such an adept secretary that each replacement they attempted in the five months since school started had failed so miserably they were asked to leave. Some even chose to quit.

  Miss Gates, the new principal of Pinewood, was becoming desperate for a head secretary who could come even remotely close to filling Barbara’s shoes, and the knock on her office door now would, she hoped, be the answer to her prayers.

  “Come in,” the principal said.

  A pretty woman, late forties, light brown hair, and dark blue eyes, walked into the office and took a seat. In her left hand was a résumé. Tucked under that same left arm was a small wooden box. The woman, meticulously dressed in a beige business suit, stood upright and to attention as though she was military.

  As the two shook hands, Miss Gates found herself silently marveling at the strength the woman carried in her manner. Genuine confidence and assuredness that other hopefuls had tried to project, but that Miss Gates regretfully saw through.

  “Deborah Gates,” Miss Gates said as they shook hands.

  The woman smiled. “Susan Rose.”

  Miss Gates took her seat behind her desk, then gestured for the woman to take hers in front. “Please.”

  The woman smiled, thanked her, and sat. She handed Miss Gates her résumé. Miss Gates glanced at the résumé and frowned slightly. “It says Moyer here,” she said.

  “Moyer is my maiden name,” the woman said. “I recently married.” She then waved a playful finger at Miss Gates. “Don’t let anyone tell you it can’t happen after forty.”

  Miss Gates laughed. “Well, I suppose congratulations are in order. Good man?”

  “Oh yes. Very obedient.”

  Miss Gates laughed again. Her gaze then fell on the small wooden box, now in the woman’s lap.

  The woman noticed, looked down at the box herself, and smiled. “A good-luck charm,” she said. “Something very near and dear to my heart.”

  Miss Gates smiled. “Hey, whatever works, right?”

  Susan Rose smiled back. Pleasantly recalled how she had seduced the lonely man at the morgue, now her husband, and thus obtained Carol Lawrence’s heart after her autopsy. She then stroked the contours of the wooden box that held Carol Lawrence’s heart, gave it a tap on the lid, and said: “Whatever works.”

  Author’s note:

  Thank you so much for reading Dark Halls, my friends. Perhaps you’ll never look at an elementary school the same way again, yes?

  Please know that every single reader is important to me. Whenever I’m asked what my writing goals are, my number one answer, without pause, is to entertain. I want you to have fun reading what I write. I want to make your heart race. I want you to get paper cuts (or Kindle thumb?) from turning the pages so fast. Again—I want to entertain you.

  If I succeeded in doing that, I would be very grateful if you took a few minutes to write a review on Amazon for Dark Halls. Good reviews can be very helpful, and I absolutely love to read the various insights from satisfied readers.

  Thank you so very much, my friends.

  Until next time…

  Jeff Menapace

  About The Author

  A native of the Philadelphia area, Jeff Menapace has published multiple works in both fiction and non-fiction. In 2011 he was the recipient of the Red Adept Reviews Indie Award for Horror.

  Jeff's terrifying debut novel Bad Games became a #1 Kindle bestseller that spawned four acclaimed sequels, and now the series has been optioned for feature film and translated for foreign audiences.

  His other novels, along with his award-winning short works, have also received international acclaim and are eagerly waiting to give you plenty of sleepless nights.

  Free time for Jeff is spent watching horror movies, The Three Stooges, and mixed martial arts. He loves steak and more steak, thinks the original 1974 Texas Chainsaw Massacre is the greatest movie ever, wants to pet a lion someday, and hates spiders.

  He currently lives in Pennsylvania with his wife Kelly and their cats Sammy and Bear.

  Jeff loves to hear from his readers. Please feel free to contact him to discuss anything and everything, and be sure to visit his website to sign up for his FREE newsletter (no spam, not ever) where you will receive updates and sneak peeks on all future works along with the occasional free goodie!

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  Other Works by Jeff Menapace

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  Copyright © 2019 by Jeff Menapace

  Published by Mind Mess Press

  All Rights Reserved

  DARK HALLS

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner or the publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.