by Jon Athan
“Why do you want to find the killer so badly? I mean, do you really think he'd go after you?”
“I don't know. All I know is: he's killed three students and he's not showing any signs of stopping. I'm scared and I need to know what I'm scared of. Okay?”
Michael dug his fingers into his hair, frustrated. He couldn't help but chuckle as he thought about the situation. Staking out a house like a bunch of amateur detectives, he thought, it's like we're kids all over again.
He asked, “Well, what makes you think it was Wilson? Tell me the long story.”
“Melanie said the killer was a big man, like Wilson. And, she told us about the killer's mask.”
“What about it?”
“It had a very specific design. It had all this messed up make-up on it. It looked like it had blood on its cheeks, like if it was... crying blood. She said it looked like a child painted it. I remember seeing a drawing like that on Wilson's desk. It was a weird design. I don't remember who drew it, though.”
“Like a child painted it,” Michael repeated, curious. “I think I remember seeing something like that, too. Wasn't it–”
“Get down, here he comes,” Adam interrupted.
The friends sank into their seats as a black sedan rolled past them. The car pulled into the driveway of the beige house. The driver wasn't alone, though. Another person sat in the passenger seat—and the pair appeared to be flirting.
Adam asked, “Wilson isn't married, is he?”
Without taking her eyes off of the car, Charlene responded, “No, he's not.”
Wide-eyed, Michael leaned forward and stared at the car. As expected, Wilson climbed out of the driver's seat. To his utter surprise, Dominique hopped out of the passenger seat. He watched as his girlfriend embraced the teacher.
In the driveway, barely hidden by the shadows, Wilson and Dominique shared a kiss—a quick peck on the lips. Wilson chuckled as Dominique blushed. The pair acted like a normal high school couple.
Wilson could be heard saying, “Not here, not here.”
Awed, Michael said, “She was supposed to be home. She–She said her parents weren't letting her go out tonight. She... She said she wasn't going out!”
Charlene said, “Michael, calm down. Please, don't–”
Disregarding his friend's pleas, Michael pushed his door open and hopped out of his car. Caught in his emotions, he didn't care if he caused a scene in the tranquil neighborhood. He ran across the street, then he effortlessly vaulted over Wilson's fence.
Dominique gasped upon spotting her furious boyfriend. She slinked behind Wilson, hiding behind his shoulder. Rosy-cheeked, Wilson lifted his hands over his head as if he were just caught by the police. His worst nightmare came true—he was caught in a relationship with his student.
Michael stopped in front of the disloyal couple. The young man was rendered speechless due to his anger. He wanted to take a swing at his teacher, but he stopped himself. Adam and Charlene pushed the gate open and ran onto Wilson's front lawn.
Wilson stuttered, “We–We... We weren't doing anything. Oh, shit... Wha–What are you doing here?”
Michael jabbed his index finger at Wilson and asked, “What are you doing with my girlfriend? Huh?” He leaned to his right and glared at Dominique. He barked, “What are you doing with him?! Huh? What the hell are you doing here, Dom?”
Wilson waved and said, “Please, keep it down, Michael. It's... It's not what it looks like. Please, let's just... let's just talk about this inside.”
“Inside? Inside? What? Are you too embarrassed to talk about this out here? Is that it? You don't want your neighbors to hear about your relationship with a high school kid?! Is that it?!”
The neighbors' porch lights turned on. The nosy neighbors were drawn to the drama, watching from their windows and peepholes.
Wilson held his hand over his face, ashamed. Teary-eyed, Dominique buried her face in Wilson's back and sobbed.
Michael extended his arms away from his body and shouted, “Look! My teacher is fucking my girlfriend! My seventeen-year-old girlfriend! This fucking pervert is... is...” He sighed and shook his head, unable to continue his rant. He whispered, “He's really fucking my girlfriend.”
As she grabbed his wrist, Charlene said, “I'm sorry, Michael. We shouldn't have–”
“Stop. Just stop it,” Michael interrupted. He pulled away from Charlene's grip and walked past the gate. Without looking back, he shouted, “Don't call me, Dominique!”
Adam leaned on the fence and said, “Michael, don't go. Come on, man. Where are you going?”
“I'm going to blow off some steam! Take a bus home or something! Don't call me, either!”
The group watched as Michael hopped into his car. His wheels howled as he peeled out and zoomed away.
Adam glanced back at the group and said, “He's probably going to the baseball field to cool off. Don't worry, he's going to be alright. He'll bounce back.”
Wilson loudly swallowed the lump in his throat, then he said, “I shouldn't be doing this, but... you can come in if you want. I'll explain everything... although it may not be necessary. Come on.”
Wilson nodded at the couple, then he strolled up the walkway. Dominique stared at Adam and Charlene—shame sitting on one shoulder, guilt sitting on the other. She nodded at her friends, then she followed the teacher.
Charlene and Adam glanced at each other. They didn't have any other options, so they followed Wilson into his home.
***
The group gathered in the living room of Wilson's house. Adam, Charlene, and Dominique awkwardly sat on a three-seat sofa while Wilson sat on a recliner. The sofa and the recliner were separated by a coffee table. Three mugs filled with coffee sat on the table—one for each student. The teenagers weren't eager to drink his coffee, though.
Her hands under her thighs, Charlene glanced around the living room. There were a few framed family pictures on the walls above the console tables and desks. None of the images were recent, though. The living room was very clean and organized, too. She assumed Wilson had some sort of obsessive-compulsive disorder. The home had an eerie aura to it—something was afoot.
Breaking the silence, Wilson said, “So, I guess it's obvious: Dominique and I are in a... a relationship. It's... It's not a sexual relationship. I mean, we've had sex, but that's not what it's about. I'm not taking advantage of her and she's not taking advantage of me. It's about love. Okay? It's about forbidden love. And, since it's forbidden, I hope we can keep this a secret between us. Please.”
Charlene and Adam glanced at each other, anxious. The couple sought answers to a murder mystery, they weren't interested in an immoral love triangle.
Twiddling her thumbs, Dominique said, “He's right. I've heard the rumors in school. 'Some cheerleader is dating Wilson so she can get better grades.' That's not true. I'm doing fine in school already. It's real love. I didn't want you guys to find out this way. I was going to wait until after we all graduated. I would have turned eighteen right after and everything would have been... kinda normal.”
Charlene sighed, then she said, “Listen, this is serious, but there are more important issues going on right now. Okay? We didn't come here to catch you cheating. We didn't even know you were going to be here, Dom. We came here to ask questions.”
“About what?” Wilson asked.
“About the murders. I remember seeing drawings on your desk during my sophomore year. I think I even saw them last year. They were drawn on worksheets. They were kinda childish and kinda creepy. Do you remember them? Hmm? Who drew them? Why did you have them?”
“Drawings? I'm... I'm not exactly sure what you're talking about, Charlene. Students doodle on their worksheets all the time. What does that have to do with the murders?”
Adam explained, “Melanie described the killer's mask to us. It was a creepy mask with a lot of make-up and bloody tears.”
Wilson puckered his lips and glanced up at the ceiling as he thought abo
ut the description. He sighed and shook his head as the thought dawned onto him—it wasn't pretty.
He said, “I think I know what you're talking about. First of all, they weren't just drawings on worksheets. They weren't doodles or anything like that. They were masks—masks made out of worksheets. I just unfolded some of them. That's probably what you saw. They were normal masks, mouth masks, and even, um... domino masks. Casey made them for me.”
“Casey...” Dominique repeated, baffled.
“Yeah, Casey Marshall. You know, he... he made them before he took his own life last year.”
The students glanced at each other upon hearing the name, awed by the revelation.
Casey Marshall was a student at their high school who committed suicide during the year prior. The frail teenager cut his wrists vertically, swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, and hung himself in his closet. He did everything in his power to stop his family from reviving him. He wanted to permanently leave the cruel world.
Wilson continued, “I don't know if you knew him, but he was sort of the artistic-type. He sat at the back of class and kept to himself. He was... enigmatic. He gave me those masks when we spoke about the bullying he was going through. I guess they were supposed to be some sort of gift.”
With a set of sharp, furious eyes, Dominique asked, “What did he say to you, Wilson?”
“Wha–What do you mean?”
“When he talked about the 'bullying' or whatever, what did he say? Did he say any names? Hmm? Why was he talking to you?”
Wilson raised his brow and scratched his hair, baffled by the defensive questioning. He glanced over at the other students—Charlene and Adam wanted answers, too.
Wilson said, “No... No, he didn't say any names. Casey just told me about the bullying. He told me about the name-calling, the fights, and the... the molestation—for lack of a better word. He told me how a few students disrobed him and recorded him. It was shocking stuff. He never said any names, though. He was afraid of retaliation, I suppose.”
He sighed as he looked back on his relationship with Casey. Failure, disappointment—the feelings made him sniffle. Casey went to him for help, but he wasn't able to save him. He didn't participate in the abuse, but he still felt guilty.
Noticing the students' silence, Wilson asked, “Did... Did any of you bully him?”
Wide-eyed, the students glanced at each other. Adam appeared to be surprised. Charlene looked sad and remorseful—a set of glum eyes and a frown on her face. Lost in a tailspin of emotions, Dominique appeared angry, sad, and confused.
Adam said, “I didn't know Casey, Wilson. I knew about him getting bullied, I left a few comments on some Facebook posts, but I didn't really do anything to hurt him. I definitely wasn't trying to get the kid to kill himself.”
“I knew about the bullying, too,” Charlene confessed. “I didn't do anything to him, though. I mean, I didn't even know it was that serious. I would have tried to do something if I knew.”
Wilson, Adam, and Charlene turned their attention to Dominique. Dominique squirmed to the edge of the seat as she glanced at her friends.
The cheerleader stuttered, “It–It doesn't matter. None of this matters, okay? Melanie must have made a... a mistake. We're just assuming it was one of the masks Casey made. We–We're making something out of nothing. I mean, what are you thinking? A ghost is killing people? Huh? Casey's ghost is killing the people who bullied him? Is that it?”
Charlene responded, “It doesn't have to be something 'supernatural.' This isn't Friday the 13th. It could be one of Casey's friends or a family member, right?”
“Wrong. You're wrong, Charles. This is so fucking stupid!”
What's wrong with you? Did you–”
“Nothing's wrong with me, bitch! I'm just tired of talking about this! I'm sick and tired–”
“Alright, settle down,” Wilson sternly said. The girls sank into their seats and retreated from the argument. Wilson said, “The cops are going to find this killer. It's not your job to investigate this. You don't know what type of trouble you can get yourself into by digging into the wrong places. So, here's what we'll do... I'll contact Sheriff Jackson and tell him about the masks. It's probably nothing, but I have to let him know. I'll tell him I got the information from an anonymous tip. I'll agree to keep quiet about all of your possible bullying and your snooping, too, if you agree to keep quiet about... about our little relationship. Do we have a deal? Adam? Charlene?”
Charlene and Adam glanced at each other, communicating with their eyes. Charlene's eyes said: we have to keep digging. Adam's eyes said: this is our final stop, this is the end.
Adam said, “We have a deal.”
“Good. Great. I think you'll be able to convince Michael to keep this on the 'down-low.' At least, I hope so... Anyway, since he left in such a hurry, I'll give you guys a ride home. Let me get my keys.”
Wilson nodded at the students, then he strolled into his kitchen. Dominique followed closely behind her lover, looking for a sense of reassurance.
Charlene grabbed Adam's arm and whispered, “I don't think we should stop. We're still in danger and we can't trust anyone, remember?”
Adam responded, “We had an agreement. You promised we'd stop here, so we're stopping here.”
“That's easy for you to say, Adam. You didn't get a call from the killer. And, that call matches with our theory. Someone might be trying to get vengeance—and he knows me. I could be next.”
“Did he even say your name?”
Charlene asked, “What?”
Adam explained, “If he didn't say your name when you got the call, then he probably doesn't really know you. If it was the killer, he probably went through Tiffany's phone, copied all of the numbers, then randomly called everyone. There's nothing to worry about, okay? That person was just trying to scare you. He's trying to scare everyone. Just relax.”
Charlene sighed in disappointment. She was disheartened by Adam's disregard for her safety. She found some comfort in his logical explanation, though. It made sense to her. She thought: maybe he copied the numbers down and forgot to copy the names, maybe he doesn't actually know us. She could only hope her boyfriend was correct.
The couple sat in silence, waiting for Wilson to drive them home.
Chapter Eleven
Baseball
Clang—the ringing metallic sound echoed through the quiet baseball field as Michael struck a ball with his aluminum bat. The ball flew over second base and soared into center field. No one was around to catch the ball at night, though. It landed on the grass, then it was pushed away by a gust of wind. The chilly breeze was welcomed during such a disappointing night.
As he grabbed another ball from the ground beside home plate, Michael muttered, “Dominique, you fucking whore... What were you thinking? Why would you fuck him? Why would you do this to me?” He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. He stared at the twinkling stars above and said, “I'm going to get you back for this. I'm going to tell everyone about both of you, then I'm going to fuck all of your friends. You stupid bitch...”
He tossed the ball into the air, then he swung—whoosh. He missed by an inch. He watched as the ball bounced on the ground beneath him, irked. He rarely missed the ball, especially when he was practicing by himself, but there was too much on his mind. He couldn't concentrate.
He lifted the bat over his head, then he swung down at the ground. He felt the vibration in his arms as the bat collided with the floor. He hit the floor again and again—and again. It was a tried-and-tested exercise for relieving stress.
As the bat clanged with each strike, Michael shouted, “Damn it! Why would you do this to me?! You damn slu–”
He stopped, the tip of the bat hovering a foot over the ground. Over his frantic pummeling and screaming, he heard a person snickering—a soft, devious laughter. At that moment, it became clear to him: he wasn't alone.
Michael glanced over at the dugout and asked, “Who's t
here?”
No one answered.
He stood on his tiptoes and stared at the dugout, curious. Despite the darkness, he could see a silhouette in the shadowy corner of the dugout. Although nothing was certain—it could have been a forgotten uniform—he swore he saw the bottom of a person's raincoat and a pair of legs.
Michael cocked the bat over his shoulder and slowly approached the dugout. Anger flowing through his veins due to Dominique's cheating, the young man—a baseball player with a promising future—was ready to kill anyone in his path. He wouldn't bat an eye if he killed a homeless man as long as he released the rage in his system.
He stopped and said, “I'm having a bad day, man. If you want to do something, do it. I dare you, pussy.” There was no response. Anxious, he took one step in reverse and said, “I'm batting .360, man. I'll knock your head off. You hear me? I'm... I don't really feel like spending a night in jail, though, so... just stay down. Don't test me.”
Again, the snickering emerged from the dugout. Before Michael could say another word, the figure stepped forward and hurled a ball at the baseball player. The baseball hit the tip of his nose—a direct hit. The ball broke Michael's nose, causing blood to spew from his nostrils. He staggered every which way, dazed by the unexpected hit.
As Michael teetered left-and-right, a person emerged from the shadows in the dugout. The person wore steel-toe boots, black jeans, and a matching raincoat. His face was veiled by a paper-mâché Bauta mask—a mask without a mouth hole. The mask had an angry expression, too. Just like the other masks, the mask was decorated with smeared lipstick and bloody tears.
Michael blinked erratically as he tried to focus his blurred vision. He saw triple, then double. He stared at his attacker, shocked. He noticed the camera strapped to his forehead—he was being recorded. He was more concerned with the masked person's weapon, though. The killer held a spiked baseball bat in his right hand. Dozens of rusty nails protruded from the wooden bat.