Fearscape (Horrorscape)

by Nenia Campbell

  Val gasped, her pupils narrowing to pinpricks as they focused on some unseen terror. She clutched at her chest until the muscles relaxed and her neurons, firing blindly as they scattered like an ant colony attacked by a predator, regrouped, once more allowing for reason.

  She collapsed back against her mattress, wincing a little when she came down too hard on a bruise. I'm here, safe.

  No. Not safe.

  She would never be safe again.

  She kicked off the sheets with a mutter of disgust, rolled out of bed, and got dressed. Not in her school clothes — the standard jeans and t-shirt — but terry-cloth shorts and a tank top. Val should have been at school enjoying the last day of her freshman year, giggling with friends, signing yearbooks, and saying goodbye to favorite teachers.

  Instead, she was bumming around at home, stewing in her own fears. At least I got to sleep in, she thought, though when she looked at the clock and saw that it was only 9 AM that proved little consolation — particularly given that her rest had been fractured by intermittent nightmares.

  The messages from her friends and teacher were of some comfort. Especially the one from Ms. Wilcox. The rest of Val's teachers were nice enough, but Val was never completely sure whether they actually cared about her, or were just pretending to care because they wanted tenure. Nobody was paying Ms. Wilcox to send Val feel-good messages; it was nice to know somebody cared.

  Val wanted to respond but nothing came immediately to mind, and she ended up responding to her friends' messages instead because those were easier. She just reeled off a couple of generic platitudes — you're so sweet, I'm OK, my phone was stolen so I'll call you as soon as I can, thanks for your concern — and hoped that they wouldn't mistake weariness for bitchiness. And then paranoia got the better of her and she ended up deleting all her responses.

  I just can't concentrate.

  No. More than that, she wanted to be alone.

  Supposedly, that was a normal after-effect of trauma. Her mother had said so. The brain got locked in a loop of heightened arousal, and the sympathetic nervous system remained on red alert, sending out the biochemical equivalent of a warning siren. The fear was normal: healthy, even.

  So then why do I feel so sick?

  Her eyes lit on the final message in her inbox and her mind halted, her index finger frozen over the arrow key.

  (I'll let you run for now)

  Threat laced through each word with deliberate precision, like pins through a voodoo doll, and fear surged through her veins in a distinctly Pavlovian response.

  He hadn't forgiven her for getting away.

  He was warning her because he felt certain that it would do her no good, beyond scaring her senseless.

  (Don't flee too far)

  He believed he would capture her.

  She knew she was giving him power over her by analyzing the message in such depth, doing his dirty work. She knew this, and yet she couldn't resist.

  She never had been very good at that. Not with him.

  A warm, sweet smell wafted into Val's bedroom and her stomach growled.

  She padded into the kitchen and stared in surprise at the image of her mother wearing a flowered apron, bending over their dusty oven as if she thought she was Martha Stewart. “Good morning, Val,” she said, in a tone of forced cheer. “I'm making pain au chocolat.”

  Val looked around for a box of pastry mix. There was none. “From scratch?”

  “Don't look so shocked,” her mother said, “I studied abroad in Paris, you know.”

  Val hadn't known.

  “I got an email from Ms. Wilcox.”

  “Is that your art teacher? That was kind of her.”

  “She sounded worried.” Her voice caught a little. “What did you tell Principal Hopkins about me?”

  “Nothing personal. Just that you were having some family problems. He was very understanding.”

  Her mother's look was pointed. Val avoided her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I still think you should talk to the police — ”

  “No.”

  “But if he — ”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Kimble stiffened, then nodded. “Okay.” She took a tube of dark chocolate from the fridge, letting out her breath as she set it on the counter. “Okay,” she repeated. “I just wanted to make sure that you didn't change your mind.”

  Val folded her arms on the table. “She asked me if I wanted to visit. Do you think I could?”

  “What time did she say again? After school? That doesn't sound like a very good idea, Val. I don't want you alone after school hours.”

  “Please? I miss my friends and teachers. I'm lonely.”

  “I don't want you anywhere even remotely close to that boy, Valerian. He might attack you. He might even kill you.”

  Val paled. “You think he would? Kill me, I mean?”

  “I'd rather not find out,” her mother said sharply.

  Both of them were silent.

  “Does that mean I can never go out again?” asked Val with an edge of bitterness.

  “No, honey. Of course not. Look. I'll call your teacher. I'll tell her we're having some safety concerns. About bullying — she doesn't need to know the details, just that you can't be left alone. If we can figure out a way for you to go safely, I'll take you to see your teacher.”

  Val perked up a little. “When will you call her?”

  “As soon as the pastries are done.”

  Val twitched visibly in her seat while her mother cleaned up the dishes with what seemed, to her, to be deliberate slowness. She fidgeted when her mother pulled the pain out of the oven with her ladybug-shaped mitts. Mrs. Kimble had been fixing her with a sideways look the entire time, torn between amusement and aggravation as her daughter's gaze flitted between the clock and the phone. It was nice to see Val still so excited about going outside, though.

  There was a bit of a wild streak in Val — she had always loved being out in the sun, hiking, cycling, and especially doing anything related to or involving animals. They had recently signed Val up to work at the shelter as part of her mandatory community service; she had been so excited and wouldn't stop chattering, rather like a little animal herself.

  Mrs. Kimble was afraid that what that horrible boy had done would stamp out that bit of life in her daughter, rendering her a pale shadow of her former self. Even now, she looked rather similar to a puppy that has found itself kicked, without warning or reason, and is still looking for the boot.

  Mrs. Kimble had read up on some articles about victims of violent assault. Some became agoraphobic and were unable to venture outside without experiencing panic attacks. Others developed post-traumatic stress disorder and experienced vivid and terrifying reenactments of the initial trauma when confronted with stimuli that reminded them of the attack. To Mrs. Kimble's horror, these “stimuli” could be as subtle as an angle of light or shadow, or even just a sound.

  According to the information in the articles there could be a delay between the attack and the onset of the symptoms. So maybe it was too early to celebrate. That sick son of a bitch. If her daughter's life was destroyed over this, she resolved, she and her husband would make him pay in full.

  For now, she would do her best to get Val through this as painlessly as possible.

  “Hi. You've reached Barbara Wilcox. If you're hearing this message, I'm most likely teaching, working in my office, or have already left the campus. You can leave a message, or send me an email at B.R. Wilcox at DHS dot edu. Thank you, and take care.”

  Mrs. Kimble left a phone message and then went to her office with Val trailing after her and wrote a similar message via email. “There,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “It's sent. Now eat.”

  “I'm not hungry.”

  “If you don't eat, you can't leave this house,” her mother said. “The choice is yours.”

  “Maybe I am a little hungry,” Val said.

  “Good girl. Co
me on. Let's go eat some pain. Chocolate makes everything better.”

  Not everything, thought Val.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Dear Mrs. Kimble,

  I'm shocked and upset to hear that Valerian has been the victim of such vicious bullying. She really is such a sweet girl. I honestly can't imagine anyone taking dislike to her, but children can be cruel and irrational.

  My classroom is close to the western parking lot, so if you like you can park, wait, and watch to ensure that she enters the building safely. I'll make sure none of the other students stay late.

  P.S. Sorry I could not return your phone call! I'm in the middle of teaching a class and the students are under the (mistaken) impression that my using the phone gives them permission to do the same.

  Warmest regards,

  Barbara

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  “What a lovely woman,” Val's mother said, reading the email. “Very charming.”

  “She's really nice. She always complimented me on my work, even when it sucked.”

  “Oh, hush,” said her mother. “You're a regular Rembrandt.”

  Val made a face, though it was obvious she was trying hard not to look pleased.

  “Why don't you go change?” her mother suggested. “Wear something nice. And maybe we can go out to lunch afterward, when you're done talking with your teacher.”

  “I'd like that!” said Val, sounding almost like her cheerful self. “It'll be nice to get out of the house, too!”

  Val raced upstairs, eager to escape the confines of her room. It would be nice to get her sketch back, too. She tugged on one of her nice blouses with an ivy motif and a broken-in pair of capris. As she was strapping on her sandals she happened to look at her laptop, still open to the offending message. She slammed her computer shut and walked away with a bounce in her step.

  “You look nice,” said her mother.

  “Thank you,” Val replied.

  No mention to Gavin's email was made.

  The sun was reaching its zenith as they pulled up into the western lot. Val avoided looking at the quad where she and Gavin had often talked in hushed tones beneath the grove of mulberry trees. The last day of school warranted an early dismissal, and the campus was gradually emptying out. Val had never seen her school look quite so sleepy or peaceful before.

  “Do you have your phone?” Mrs. Kimble asked.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Okay. If you finish early, call for pickup. Otherwise, I'll be here in about an hour.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Have fun, Baby,” her mother said. “Be safe.”

  She kept the car's engine running and watched as her daughter made a beeline to the art building. Watched as she tried the handle, found it unlocked, and peered inside the room. Watched as Val gave her a cheery wave and disappeared inside the classroom.

  She stayed a few minutes longer, watching, and then slowly she drove away.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Mrs. Kimble was sitting down to a cup of tea when the phone rang. Thinking it was Val, she set the mug aside and said, “Hello?”

  “Hello,” an unfamiliar voice said pleasantly. “May I speak to Mrs. Kimble?”

  “This is she.”

  “Hello! I'm Barbara. Barbara Wilcox. One of Val's teachers — her art teacher.”

  “Oh, yes. I got your email. Val speaks very highly of you.”

  “My email?” A pause. “Well, I'm very happy to hear that. Val is a sweet girl, but it's hard to know what's going on behind their foreheads sometimes. Anyway, I've been looking at some of my students' works and Val's was amongst them. The one I'm speaking of is a lovely sketch of a warehouse on the edge of town.”

  “I know the one you mean. It's an eyesore.”

  “But Val has brought it to life. Your daughter is very talented, Mrs. Kimble. I wouldn't mind keeping the picture but I wanted to know if either you or Valerian wanted to pick it up. I fear that with many of my students it's a case of out of sight, out of mind. Something they may regret in a few years if they ever need to create a portfolio.”

  Mrs. Kimble nodded, then remembered the other woman couldn't see it. “That's very considerate of you. I'd be delighted to have the picture — Val rarely shows me her work. You can just send it home with her when you're done.”

  Another pause. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, since she's there with you I thought it might be easier to give her the picture in person. Are they still being graded?”

  “No, they're graded,” Ms. Wilcox said. “Val got an A. But she isn't here with me.”

  “Did she leave early? I told that girl — ”

  “She isn't here at all. I'm in my office. Alone,” Ms. Wilcox added, with a touch of irritation.

  Fear coursed through Mrs. Kimble's veins like ice water. “But your email said — ”

  “What email? The one to the students about their final projects?”

  Mrs. Kimble went to her computer and recited the email verbatim.

  “That's my address,” Ms. Wilcox said doubtfully, “But I didn't write that email.”

  “What?” Mrs. Kimble shrilled. “Then who did?”

  “Well … the only other person who could have possibly sent that email is my student TA, and I'm not sure why he would have done that.”

  “Your TA has access to your email?”

  “Not my password, no, but he was entering grades for me on the computer.”

  It took Mrs. Kimble a moment to formulate words. “What's your TA's name?”

  “Mrs. Kimble, I can't give that information out over the phone — ”

  “Is it Gavin?” she persisted. “Is your TA named Gavin Mecozzi?”

  Ms. Wilcox paused. “How could you — what's going on? Did Gavin do something?”

  “Call the police,” Mrs. Kimble said. “Drop whatever you're doing and call them right now.”

  “Mrs. Kimble — ”

  “And then, if you value your job at all, get to your classroom as fast as you can.”

  “ — what on earth are you — ”

  “Because if you don't, something terrible is going to happen to my daughter. And I will sue both you and the school for every miserable penny you've got.”

  “ — talking about,” the disembodied voice finished. Mrs. Kimble hadn't bothered to hang up. She just grabbed her keys and ran for her car, hoping she wasn't already too late.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  The air hung heavy with the smell of paint, wood, and glue. Chemical and organic all at once, it had the same sort of appealing causticity as a drug. Student projects covered the walls and she was delighted to see a few of her own among them.

  “Ms. Wilcox?”

  Silence prevailed in the empty classroom.

  Frowning, Val looked around. A screen saver was running on the glowing monitor. There was a Styrofoam coffee cup in easy reach from the keyboard but when Val picked it up, curiously, it was both empty and cold. She set it back down and looked around, bemused.

  Her eyes lit on the glow coming from beneath the heavy wooden door of the storage room. Aha. So she was in the back room then. More pictures were on display in here — older ones, and clearly some of Ms. Wilcox's favorites. Every single artist had talent. There were a number of styles, some done better than others, and she smiled at an Escher-inspired drawing.

  The picture she had drawn of the toyger kittens was also on display, now carefully enhanced by water colors. She liked the way it looked, giving the picture a softer edge, though the water had caused the paper to warp a little. But thinking about the kittens reminded her of Gavin.

  She slid to the next picture: a chessboard in icy shades of blue and gray. The pieces, however, were real human beings, and the fallen had collapsed where they'd been taken, staining the marbled tiles with their blood. The only pieces remaining were the black queen and the white king, the two most important pieces in the game.

  The perspective was skewed, strange, unn
atural — one that would be impossible in real life, and was vaguely reminiscent of the chase scenes in old horror movies. The king carried a bayonet, which added to this image, and towered over the defenseless queen, whose head was lowered in a gesture of defeat, her fair (red) hair hiding her expression. The king, however, looked as though he were seconds away from bringing down the weapon in a killing arc.

  Oh, she knew who had painted this one. Without a doubt. She'd seen the preliminary version in his sketchbook.

  A door slammed behind her and Val stumbled into the metal filing cabinets as she turned around, her eyes widening when she realized who the intruder was. “Look familiar? It's called Checkmate. I had to change a few things, but the basic concept remains much the same.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said weakly.

  He clicked his tongue. “Which picture did you like the best? Savanna is my favorite, though for obvious reasons I didn't consider it for submission. I could have made some changes to the content, of course, but that would rather defeat the purpose of the original, don't you think?”

  Val couldn't think. She couldn't do anything.

  “You put the drawer in backwards,” he said. “In case you wondered. But that isn't what I wanted to see you about.”

  “But Ms. Wilcox — ” Val trailed off, connecting the empty room with Gavin's presence. The conclusion was not a pleasant one. “Oh god — where is she?”

  “Hmm? Who?”

  “What did you do to our teacher? I was supposed to meet her here!”

  “Val, Val, Val — what kind of monster do you take me for? I did nothing to her.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “You should. Ms. Wilcox didn't send you that message, you see, though she kindly provided me the means to do so. I did. It was me whom you arranged to meet. Oh, by the way — I took the liberty of deleting your mother's message. No need for anyone to get hurt. Is there?”

  Val flattened herself against the file cabinet. He's the TA. Ms. Wilcox would have no reason to suspect … to think he would —

  “Now don't get skittish with me.” His hands hit the metal on either side of her with twin clangs. “You don't want me to chase you again. Once I catch you, well, I might do anything.”