Spring-Heeled Jack

by Wyll Andersen

  “W-Well, I should get going,” Attics said. “Y’know, I-I have a lot of studying to catch up on.”

  “You’re excused, Atticus,” said Principal Shepard. Her face was finally starting to relax. “Say, why don’t you leave that ring with me? I can ask some of the other faculty members about it, okay?”

  Atticus nodded. He placed the ring on the principal’s desk, and as he did he caught a small bead of sweat trickle down Varnum’s cheek. The man was almost completely drenched in bile. Ever since Atticus revealed the ring, he acted as though it was something terrible.

  The professor started to act a bit jittery, almost as if someone poured a bucket of hot sand down his trousers.

  “Well,” he said, “I should also get back to work. Busy, busy. What do you think would be a good time to meet again, principal? I was thinking-”

  “Not quite, professor.” Principal Shepard knocked her hand on her desk. Varnum tensed up again. “We need to discuss your recent behavior.”

  A tingle rushed up Atticus’ spine when she said “behavior.”

  He quickly said his farewell to the principal and gave his sincerest condolences to Professor Varnum, who did not look the least bit thrilled.

  Atticus quickly exited the faculty building, chasing after Detective McCloud. He wanted to talk to him about so much: Professor Varnum, the Nelsons, the ring. If he could just get a minute, Atticus was sure they could get some answers.

  Detective McCloud was just making his way past the Fortuna Prep fountain when Atticus caught up to him.

  “Detective,” he hollered, “just a minute please!”

  McCloud stopped and turned about to face Atticus. He still had a devilish grin on his face.

  “Well, good ‘ay, lad,” he said. “What’s the matter?”

  Atticus was panting. The entire day he’d been stressed out, running around, his mind moving a million thoughts a minute, and now it was starting to take its toll on him.

  He steadied his breath and said, “I would like…to talk to you…about the murder.”

  McCloud nodded. “Yes, yes. You saw how well that went for me with the parents.”

  “Why doesn’t Dr. Nelson-”

  “Please, now.” McCloud raised his hands. “Let’s sit down first. The, we’ll talk business. You look exhausted, lad.”

  The two parked themselves on a bench outside the gates. For a moment, Atticus’ mind was lost as he stared out across the horizon. The sun was just barely peeking over the skyline and the city lights were just starting to flicker on. City of Lights was definitely the best name for Las Vegas.

  “So lad, what was it you were saying?”

  Atticus lowered his head and shuffled his feet. “Dr. Nelson calls you a dog of Zebulon.”

  “Ah, yes,” McCloud said laughing. “Not my biggest fan, is he?”

  “But why? What’ve you done wrong? Doesn’t he understand that you’re trying to help?”

  McCloud shrugged. “Can’t say I know. The man is obviously very distressed.”

  “How can he be so-”

  “Foolish? Arrogant? Rude?

  Atticus looked over at the detective. His smile was still stuck to his face and his piercing emerald eyes stared right at him. He was so intimidating; his eyes so haunting. It was almost as if they gleamed in the dark. How terrifying, Atticus thought, to see McCloud staring you down in the darkness.

  “Yeah, arrogant,” he said.

  “Ha! I knew it would be one of those! You see, you learn to predict people’s words when you do this job as long as I, lad.”

  Atticus smiled. “Detective, I think I may have something on this case.”

  He’d hoped that McCloud would be ecstatic to hear what he had to say, but he was wrong. Instead, McCloud shook his head and said, “Now lad, I understand you’re excited to help, but let’s just relax for a moment.”

  “But, detective!”

  No butts! I know you want to help. I understand your frustration, but you’ve had a long day. We both have, and now we just need to kick back, relax, and put our minds at ease.”

  “But, what if we miss something,” Atticus asked. “What if we’re too slow?”

  “Never worry lad. I don’t overlook things,” McCloud said confidently. “If I did, I wouldn’t be the head investigator for the world’s biggest mechatronics corporation. I’ll see right through any tricks.”

  There was a moment of silence. Detective McCloud was right. Atticus was too anxious to find Mike’s killer. He was so quick to point his finger at Varnum; he didn’t look in any other direction. Mike’s parents? That could just be Atticus’ jumping to conclusions. But, all that considered, there was still one question that bugged him.

  “If Dr. Nelson is so against Zebulon,” he said, “why would they send their son here?”

  The detective looked up to the sky and shrugged. "It was probably the boy’s idea. It seems that his father thinks Zebulon is just some money gobbling monopoly. Which, I guess, to an outsider is what we look like. Without a doubt, Zebulon is the most influential and renowned mechatronics and science corporation in the world, but it certainly isn’t a monopoly. Nor is it a money gobbler. Zebulon does all it can to take care of the world around it. Its employees are well taken care of and it funds dozens of charitable services.”

  McCloud smiled and patted Atticus on the back. “Now, I’m a bit biased in my views, though. You see lad, I owe everything to Zebulon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  McCloud smiled and said, “Eighteen years ago, back around the dawn of the second world war, my family moved from our home in Scotland to America in hopes of a better future away from all the terror.

  “I was already a member of the police force back home, so when we arrived in the ports of New York City, I set my eyes on becoming a member of the American police. But, I didn’t have much luck. Here was some Scot going around with no history, no connection, and no promise. All seemed hopeless until I met a man named Peter Pipes over a pint of Guinness. Little did I know at the time, but Pipes was Zebulon’s chief of security.”

  “Why was the head of Zebulon security in New York,” Atticus asked.

  McCloud was silent for a bit before answering. “To be honest, even to this day I’m not sure. I guess it was Fate. She is such a lovely lady after all.

  “Anyway, Peter saw promise in me, something no one else did, so he put in a good word for me, and then low and behold I got a job as an investigator for Zebulon’s New England division. I made sure to work harder than I’d ever done before. After only a year, I was promoted and moved here to Zebulon World Headquarters. Not long after that, Peter resigned and I became the new head investigator and chief of security.

  “You see lad, Zebulon gifted me with a better life than I could ever hope for. Without ‘em, I’d still be a nobody wandering the streets of New York, and for that I am eternally grateful.”

  “That’s amazing detective.”

  McCloud smiled. “Thank you, lad.”

  The detective pulled a small pocket watch from his coat and clicked it open. His smile turned into a frown as he stared at the clock face. He slipped it into his pocket and got up from the bench.

  “It’s been wonderful talkin’ to ya lad, but sadly, I need to get back and run some errands.”

  “I understand.” Atticus yawned. “I should probably hit the hay myself.”

  McCloud laughed. “Lad, if you ever want to talk, business or otherwise, don’t fret to stop by the police station. Simply ask for me and I’ll let you right in.”

  Atticus’ eyes shot open. “A-Are you serious?”

  “But of course!” McCloud smacked Atticus’ shoulder and said, “you, my boy, got promise. I see a little bit of me in you, and I think with the right push, your skills could one day surpass even my own.”

  Atticus was dumbfounded. He felt so honored he almost fainted, but that could’ve just been because of how tired he was.

  Detective McCloud gave Atticus one last smile, a
hand shake, and then left. As he faded into the distance, Atticus felt his eyes get heavy. He’d had a long day and it was time he clocked in for the night.

  Back in his room, Brock was sitting at his desk studying; probably for algebra. He wasn’t the best with numbers. He hadn’t even noticed Atticus walk into the room.

  As Atticus made his way to his bed, he slipped off his red plaid jacket and plopped it on the floor. He collapsed on the bed with a thump and closed his eyes. He began to slowly drift off to dream land when he heard Brock mutter something. He assumed it was just a, “How did your investigation go?” or something of the like. Honestly, Atticus wasn’t listening.

  He gave his best attempt at a thumbs up to say, “Everything is fine,” but he got the feeling it came off as, “Eh, it’s okay.”

  Atticus’ body felt heavy and everything went numb. He felt his mind drift to sleep.

  And then the nightmare happened.

  Chapter 8

  Atticus was back in the darkness. The same darkness he dreamt of earlier that day. It was still just as earie: no temperature, no light, no floor, no anything. Nothing, except for the squeaking. That same terrible bicycle squeak he’d heard before still sent shivers running down his spine. But this time it was so much worse. It was closer. It wasn’t just an echo in the distance. Whatever was causing the squeak was closer to him now. It wasn’t just a sound with no source. Atticus felt the sound from behind him getting louder and louder, little by little. Every squeak made his hairs stand on end and his heart race.

  Then, just as the squeak sounded like it was right next to him, it stopped. Atticus couldn’t move. He was too afraid. The now lingering silence was driving him to a new level of terror that he’d never imagined. Atticus knew this was all just a dream, but that didn’t make it any less frightening.

  Atticus began to turn his head to the source. What he saw was something that left him completely frozen with fear. An old man with dark gray skin and greasy jet black hair stood before him. He wore a tattered old black suit, a destroyed top hat, and oddly enough rode a rusty and ruined bicentennial bicycle. The man’s eyes were completely white; no iris, no pupil. It wasn’t possible for him to see anything, but he seemed to be staring right at Atticus. But, worst of all, the man had a wide blinding white Cheshire cat smile.

  The man didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything. He just sat on his bicycle, perfectly balanced, and stared at Atticus.

  Atticus thought to himself over and over again that it was just a dream and that everything would be all right, but it didn’t feel that way. The Gray Man felt deadly and unpredictable.

  “W-Who are you,” Atticus asked.

  The Gray Man gave an awful chuckle under his breath. Without saying a word, the man began peddling his bicycle, his body barely moving as he circled Atticus.

  Atticus felt his stomach in his throat and it was getting harder to breathe. Atticus wanted to run, but his legs wouldn’t listen. It was as if the Gray Man had him under a spell.

  The man made several circles around Atticus before stopping directly in front of him and whispered, “NamEs AreN’T ImpOrTaNT.”

  His voice was hollow and breathy; nothing like Atticus had ever heard. It almost sounded like someone scraping a knife against stone.

  “I doN’T mUCh care FoR naMEs.” The Gray Man spoke through his blinding white teeth, his lips barely moving. His movements were jagged and lacked flow, almost like he was a puppet.

  Atticus tried to take a step back, but his legs felt like jelly. His legs gave way and he toppled to the ground; the Gray Man staring down at him. Atticus tried to crawl away, but he felt dizzy. His body didn’t want to listen and no matter how much he struggled he couldn’t get away.

  The Gray Man began peddling around Atticus once again. “WhY dO yoU Run fROm Me, AtTicUs WHaeLOrD?”

  Just then, Atticus’ Queen of Spades appeared on his right hand, glowing a violent blue and gold like he’d never seen before. The Gray Man’s smile widened even further, which seemed unbelievable. He let out a terrible high pitched cackle that shredded the silence like hundreds of needles raking across a chalk board, deafening Atticus.

  Instantly, Atticus clenched his ears. It seemed that no matter how tightly he held them, the laughter only got louder. He looked up at the Gray Man and saw a glow of dark purple and black emitting from the man’s hand. He’d stopped laughing, but the sound remained. He reached out towards Atticus, gripping his hand around his neck.

  Atticus slammed his eyes shut. He wanted nothing more than to wake up and escape the Gray Man, but he seemed powerless.

  But, after a second, everything went quiet. He didn’t dare open his eyes, fearing that he would see the Gray Man right on his nose, but he had too. He had to remember that in the end it was all just a dream.

  As Atticus slowly opened his eyes, he was relieved to see that he was no longer in the abyss, but instead floating in the air above one of the history lecture halls. He stared across the room and saw Professor Varnum standing face to face with the Ghost.

  “P-Please, you have to trust me,” Varnum begged. “Nothing will go wrong, I’m sure of it!”

  The Ghost reached out and throttled Varnum’s neck. The professor’s dark glasses fell as he struggled to get free, and, for the first time, Atticus saw the professor’s eyes. They were puffy, red, and full of terror.

  “You defy The Master’s orders,” the Ghost said. His voice sent a shiver through Atticus’ body. It was harsh and strong, but very cold. Oddly enough, it sounded vaguely familiar.

  “No!” Varnum screamed. “I’m not doing anything! You see-”

  “More and more lies!” The Ghost pinned Varnum to the wall with his left hand and tightened his grip around the professor’s neck. “A single flea can drive a dog to madness! Are you going to be that flea, Varnum?” The professor struggled against the Ghost’s grip, but it was no use. He tried sputtering arguments, but only a garbled mess came out.

  Then, for a brief moment, the Ghost stood in silence. It looked around, eventually looking straight at Atticus. Again, he was petrified. He didn’t know what was going on but he had an idea of what would happen. Could the Ghost see him? Was this actually a dream or some sort of out of body experience? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He just wanted to wake up.

  The Ghost turned back to Varnum and lifted him up off the ground. He cocked his free arm pack, pointing his fingers so that his hand resembled a spear. “You’re a worthless wretch, Varnum. A mistake, but I will not question The Master’s judgment. But, if you defy His orders again, you will face something far worse than me.”

  A bright green and orange aura began to glow around the Ghost’s hand. Atticus saw something that appeared to be similar to his own Queen of Spades: The Jack of Clubs.

  Varnum began to panic even more.

  The Ghost thrust his arm forward, stabbing the professor in the chest with just his bare hand. Varnum let out a horrific scream of pain and Atticus’ eyes instantly shot open.

  As he sat up, Atticus swore that he could still hear the professor’s scream off in the distance. He looked all around and was relieved when he saw that he was still in his dorm room, but drenched in a cold sweat and the Queen of Spades blazing on his hand. He rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to get the images and sounds out of his head, but it was no use.

  He got out of bed and checked the time: Four o’clock. He then looked out his window. Atticus feared that in doing so he’d see the Ghost out in the courtyard, looking at him. It was just him being paranoid, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying; especially after the nightmare.

  Atticus walked into the bathroom and washed his face. He felt disgusting. Worthless. His gut was churning, his brain was screaming, and his eyes were bloodshot. He felt as if he’d really seen Professor Varnum get stabbed by the Ghost. The Gray Man’s smile and laugh were still fresh in his brain. He splashed his face with cold water try and snap sense into himself, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t shake t
hose horrible images.

  As he turned off the faucet and cleaned up the bathroom, Atticus saw that the Queen of Spades on his hand was slowly starting to fade. Why was it active? In his dream, the Ghost had a mark very similar, but was that true in reality? In reality was the Ghost actually somebody? Perhaps that person he’d seen was a custodian or groundskeeper for the school. Atticus was just jumping to conclusions.

  After a while, Atticus calmed himself down and returned to bed. And just like that, the night was over. It didn’t even feel like he fell asleep. One moment it was night, blink, then it was morning. But that was fine. The light was reassuring, and never before had the seven o’clock bell sounded so melodious.

  He jumped out of bed and started getting dressed for the day. He made his way back to the bathroom to go through his standard morning ritual and it was just as he left it. Atticus half expected the mirror to have a note written in blood that read YOU’RE NEXT!

  He felt foolish for letting himself get so worked up over a nightmare. Scary dreams were something that everybody had and once you realize that it was all just a dream, the fear is supposed to go away, but Atticus couldn’t shake it. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could see the Gray Man smiling at him with his blank white eyes and hear his laugh. Just the mere thought terrified him and made him contemplate skipping class again. But, he couldn’t be alone. He was much too afraid to be left alone for the whole day.

  Atticus sat on the toilet, his hands pressed to his face as he tried to think about happy things and not sobbing uncontrollably. He did okay with the first park, thinking about his parents and all the wonderful things they did together, but sadly he sobbed loud and obnoxiously. He was so frazzled; he didn’t realize he’d woken Brock up from his sleep coma.

  “Hey pal,” he mumbled, “what’s the matter? What happened?”

  Atticus tried to rub the tears from his eyes and regain his composure, but more just came streaming out. His eyes were red and puffy, and his nose was a fountain of dribbling snot. He wanted to tell Brock about his dream, but just the thought of reliving his nightmare made the tears flow faster.