School of the Dead

by Avi

  “Now then,” Jessica went on, “first things first: You must lead us to the Penda Boy. He has this nasty trick of allowing only one person to see him. We have to deal with him first. He interferes far too much. Then we’ll take your soul and share it among ourselves, your uncle Charlie included. Which is only fair, don’t you think?

  “When we’re done, you and your uncle Charlie will be one of us, students at Penda for as long as you like. We’ll have so much fun being in first grade again. And we’ll have honored the past and protected the future.”

  She distracted me with one of her splendid smiles, so that before I realized what she was doing, she took a quick step forward and snatched up the knife from the chair. “Ready? Now go through the door and find that stupid boy.”

  I stood there.

  Uncle Charlie took a step toward me, his hand extended. “Come on, Tony, you and I were always a team. This is your reward.”

  I stole another look into the hallway. That time, at the far end, I caught sight of the Penda Boy. Moreover, I knew I was the only one who could see him.

  “Good boy,” said Uncle Charlie, taking another step toward me.

  That was when I bolted through the doorway.

  Once on the far side, I reached back and slammed the door shut. Fumbling, I hooked the latch—knowing it wouldn’t hold them longer than a moment—then ran down the hallway toward the Penda Boy. The only light came from his glow. It wasn’t much, but it allowed me to go toward him.

  “This way!” he cried, and turned and raced around the bend. He made no sound, though my running made an awful clatter.

  From behind I heard a crash, and I assumed the door I’d come through had given way. “They’re through the door!” I shouted.

  The Penda Boy didn’t pause, but kept on until we came into a small, dim room. Empty and dilapidated, it had three doors. He went to one, pulled it open, called, “Hurry,” and went through. Yanking the door shut behind me, I tried to stay close. I took two steps, tripped, and went sprawling.

  “Get up! Get up!” the boy screamed.

  Although my knees stung and my left ankle hurt, I forced myself up. Limping, I ran after him. From behind I heard doors slam and the sound of feet running in many directions.

  We reached some steps. The Penda Boy clambered up. I followed as best I could until we came to a landing with two doors. He chose one and went through. I stayed with him.

  A little way on, I stopped. My ankle was hurting. I was out of breath. Footfalls sounded above and below. I had the sense that we were being surrounded. “Where are we?” I called.

  “We mustn’t stay here!” he cried, and hurried on. I forced myself up and struggled to keep him in view. When he reached a hole in the floor, he appeared to jump into it, and disappeared. I drew up to the same place and peered down, relieved to see him scurrying down a steep staircase.

  I hooked my legs over, grabbed what I thought was a railing, and started after. It was so dark I had to feel my way. He was waiting at the last step—not that I knew where that was. Nor did he say anything, though his glow pulsed rapidly, as if agitated.

  “I have to rest,” I said, sitting on the last step. My breath was coming in gasps, my chest hurt, and my ankle was full of shooting pains.

  “You can’t stop until we’re a little farther,” he said. When he darted away, I limped after him.

  He came to a flight of steps going up. Instead of using them—as I expected—he went behind the steps, into a triangular alcove backed by a small wall. Squeezing his child’s fingers around that wall’s edge, he pried the wall open. Behind was a tiny space, no more than four feet deep and wide, with a steeply slanted ceiling.

  “They don’t know about this,” he whispered. “We can hide here and wait. I’ve done it before.”

  Pressing my back, he urged me into the space. When I entered the space, he followed, pulling the wall piece closed after us. I managed to sit, but only by pulling up my knees and leaning my head forward, a painfully cramped position. He sat beside me. As he did, his light faded until the alcove became as dark as night.

  After a while I said, “Do you know what’s happened?”

  “No.”

  “They’ve done something to Ms. Foxton. I don’t know what. And . . . and that old man you saw, he’s my uncle Charlie. He was the one who arranged for me to come to the school. He . . . wants my soul too.” Only then did the full dreadfulness of it grip me. Tears slid down my face. I tried to stop them, but they kept coming. I had to gulp for air.

  All the Penda Boy said was, “If we can stay free till midnight, they’ll all disappear.”

  “They have Lilly.”

  “Lilly?”

  “I told you. She’s a friend. A girl in my class. If they can’t take me, they’ll use her.”

  “That makes things harder for them, and us.” He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Where is she?”

  “No idea.” When we continued to sit there, I said, “What are we going to do?”

  As if trying to decide, he remained quiet. After a while he said, “We need to free her. If they use her—and they could—we’ll never be rid of them. It’s you we want them searching for. We still have time.”

  I asked, “Do you have any idea where they would put her?” It was easier to think of protecting her than myself.

  He said, “There are too many rooms.”

  “In the tall tower?” I pressed, that being one of the few places I knew.

  “If you go there and they come after you, you’ll be trapped.”

  “What about their meeting room?” I offered. “Near Jessica’s room?”

  He seemed to consider that for a moment. “It’s worth a try,” he said. “But we need to take our time.”

  “Why?”

  “We should wait until it’s closer to midnight.”

  “But that’s five hours, and Lilly is—”

  “Shh.”

  I heard running footsteps. Neither of us spoke. I held my breath. They passed by.

  He whispered, “Best not to speak anymore.”

  I reached for my phone, only to realize I’d left it in Batalie’s room.

  The Penda Boy was silent.

  I don’t know how long we stayed there. All the while, the Penda Boy remained motionless and quiet. I fidgeted. When I did, he’d hiss, “Don’t.”

  Now and again, as from a great distance—above, below—I heard knocking, banging, footfalls. Sometimes the space we were in shook. My thoughts wandered. At some point I said, “May I ask something?”

  “If you must.”

  “Why did Mrs. Penda make this school?”

  “Growing older, she became appalled by the prospect of death. Trying to find ways of becoming young again, she met Bokor, who taught her how to stay young. It’s as I told you. They steal the soul of a young person and she becomes six again. Never graduates, but starts school anew. Then, when she becomes twelve—seventh grade—she must take another soul.

  “If you are to stay young forever, what better place to hide than in a school? If you are going to steal a young person’s soul, what better place to find one than in a school?”

  “And you were the—”

  “Shh,” he said. More footsteps came and went. “No more talk,” he insisted. “Sleep to pass the time.”

  “You won’t leave me . . .”

  “No.”

  Thinking that if I slept the boy might abandon me, I remained unmoving in that tight, silent darkness. Full of worry, limbs numb from being so cramped, I struggled to stay awake. Even so, I slid into shallow sleep.

  “Wake up.”

  From the darkness of my sleep, I woke to the darkness of our hiding place.

  “What is it?”

  “We have to move.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s getting close to midnight.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If I know anything, it’s time. They are becoming desperate. If we are to save your friend
. . .”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  He started to glow again, which allowed me to see him again. “Just keep close to me.”

  Moving cautiously, he pushed open the wall he had used to enclose us and crawled out. I came after. We stood up, my legs tingling from being so cramped. He moved his head this way and that, like a bird listening.

  Quite suddenly, he began to scamper down a narrow hallway. Desperate not to lose sight of him, I kept up as best I could.

  He went around one corner, and then another. It was like finding our way through a maze. I tried to be quiet, but, stiff from all my sitting, I lumbered.

  He stopped and waited until I had caught up. “We need to go there,” he said, and pointed to a hole in the floor. It was a spiral stairway. For all I knew, it was the one I had climbed before. He started down. Gripping the rail to keep from falling, I followed.

  I don’t know how far we went. It seemed endless. When we finally reached the end, I had no sense of where we were. All I could see was another hallway.

  “My ankle really hurts,” I whispered, sitting on the last step. I listened hard. Beyond my thudding heart, my gasping breath, I heard creaking and groaning, as if the walls about me were shifting, altering. In addition, though it came as if from a great distance, I was quite sure I heard my name called. “Tony! Tony!”

  It sounded like Uncle Charlie’s voice. I looked to the Penda Boy. He too appeared to be listening. All he said was, “Are you ready?”

  “For what?”

  “To save your friend.”

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Not far from Mrs. Penda’s room.”

  “Under Ms. Foxton’s office?”

  He nodded. “Your suggestion. Near that meeting room.”

  I started to move. He held up a hand. “Someone’s close.” He made a motion with his head, which I understood to mean down the hallway.

  “Is it Lilly?”

  “Hopefully.” He looked at me. “You have to deal with it.”

  “Me?”

  “She won’t be able to see me. If I changed that, I don’t how she would react. Better for me to stay behind as much as possible—for now.”

  I sat there.

  “If you wish to save her, you must hurry,” he pressed.

  I stood and stared down the hallway. It was dark save for some indistinct fluttering light some way along. I was not sure what it was or where it came from. As far as I could see, the hallway was deserted.

  “Go,” he pressed.

  I went forward a few steps, paused, and looked back. The Penda Boy—his body glowing faintly—was standing where I had left him, watching me. He waved me forward. I went on. The more I moved down the hall, the harder it was to see him, and the more I felt alone.

  A sudden jolt—as if a sledgehammer had struck—made the whole area shudder. Debris rained from the ceiling. The hall, already murky, became even more obscured as filth clogged the air. It was so thick I had to cover my nose and mouth with a hand. As it was, I was coated with plaster dust. Earthquake, I decided, aware that this one had had even more strength than previous ones.

  The air around me, saturated with so much junk, was hard to see through. I wiped my face and cleared my eyes. I had to put a hand to a wall to guide myself. The other hand I kept over my nose and mouth.

  I glanced back again and saw the Penda Boy, or just his form. He had become coated with dust. But, feeling great urgency, I continued on.

  As I advanced, I realized that the fluttering light I’d noticed was seeping into the hallway from the left. I tried to think why it wasn’t steady. Then I remembered that on the meeting room table there had been a candle. If it was lit, that might explain the light’s irregularity.

  I crept forward, reached out, and felt a corner. With as much caution as I could muster, I peeked around. I had guessed right. It was the small alcove near Jessica’s room, the one that led to that meeting room. The door was closed, but that trembling light leaked around it, making it appear as if the door was framed with fire.

  I looked back down along the hallway. The Penda Boy was no more than a shadow. Even so, I was certain he was still waving me on. The whole area lurched. More fragments cascaded down.

  I waited until the air settled before stepping into the alcove. As I did, I heard from behind me an eruption of loud noises: thumps and thuds, followed by an unspeakable scream of pain. Then came an unearthly shriek, long and high-pitched, full of the most dreadful agony. Afterward came absolute silence, as awful as anything I had just heard.

  Knowing only that something ghastly had occurred—but having no idea what—I came out of the alcove and looked back along the hallway from which I had come. Wanting reassurance, I hoped to see the Penda Boy. All I saw were shifting shadows, like fluttering black flames.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, staring, trying to grasp what had happened—I kept hoping it was only the thick air that obscured my view, that the Penda Boy was all right, that he hadn’t abandoned me or been attacked. I could not tell.

  I waited for the air to settle. It did, some, but I was still unable to see the boy. Undecided if I should go back, if he needed me, if I could help, I strained to hear. There was nothing but silence.

  Telling myself I must go forward—believing the boy could take care of himself—I went into the alcove. Using both hands, I grabbed the door handle and gave it a jerk. The door popped open.

  On the table, as I had guessed, was a burning candle; the flame’s light was streaming like a painted star in the dust-laden air. Standing by the table was a short, ugly green creature. Instantly, I was sure it was Barney. Even as I decided it was him, I saw, sitting in a corner chair, hands behind her back, a cloth tied over her mouth, Mrs. Penda.

  Bewildered, I just stood there, staring at her. That’s when Barney lurched toward me, club in hand, held up as if to strike. It was enough to bring me back to life. I sprang forward, pinned his arms, and ripped the stick away. With a horrible snarl, he broke free and came at me again.

  Wanting only to defend myself, I lashed out at him with the stick. Between his forward movement and my swing, the stick struck his face with great force, shattering it like a pot of clay.

  Bits of his face fell to the floor. It was as if I had smashed his mask apart. Underneath, a different face was revealed. It wasn’t Barney’s face or, for that matter, anyone, or anything, I knew. It was the face of an old, decaying man, shriveled and wrinkled, with red, runny eyes and a collapsed, toothless mouth. A few strands of moist, lank hair hung from his bald, blue-veined head, from which blood and pus oozed.

  Though shocked by what I saw, I held the club aloft, ready to hit out again. In that instant, Barney dashed past me and fled from the room. I heard a bell ringing—I assumed it was Barney sounding an alarm. That was followed by the sound of many bells from many places, some close, some far.

  I turned back to Mrs. Penda. Holding up the candle, I drew closer. Only then did I realize that she was Lilly, in costume.

  I yanked the cloth from her mouth.

  She coughed and managed to gasp, “Tony, oh my God.” Then, confused: “Please, help me. I want to go home.”

  “Don’t talk,” I said, not wanting anyone to hear us.

  I twisted around the chair she was sitting on and worked frantically to pry apart the knots by which she was bound. When I had them loosened, she grabbed me with two hands and stood up, or at least tried.

  “We’ve got to hurry!” I cried.

  Leading her by one hand, the lit candle in my other, I guided us out of the room. Once in the hallway—the sound of bells ringing all around us—I turned to the left, which I knew would lead us to Jessica’s room. That was the only way out I knew—if we could get up the steps and out of the chest.

  When I reached the door, I kicked at it as hard as I could, not knowing who or what would be on the other side. The door fell in. Candlelight showed me no one was there.

  “Come on,” I called,
and went to the foot of those old, narrow steps.

  No sooner did we reach them than the whole room gave another violent shake. With a crash, the freestanding closet toppled over, breaking into pieces.

  “What’s happening?” gasped Lilly.

  I said what I had begun to think: “The school is collapsing.”

  I held up the candle. The steps were still intact. Even better, the chest door above appeared to be open, which meant we could get into Ms. Foxton’s office.

  “This way.” I hurried up. Lilly came after me. Near the top, I peered out of the false chest into the office. Two of the chairs were overturned, and Ms. Foxton’s desk was covered with hunks of plaster. The fireplace had buckled. The photograph behind the desk of joyful kids had fallen. A few cabinet doors had slid open. File folders had spewed onto the floor. But no one was there.

  I helped Lilly out of the chest. “This way,” I said, and guided her to the outer office. The painting of Mrs. Penda had fallen off the wall, its frame broken, the canvas curled and twisted on the couch. The Penda Boy painting was still up, but was hanging crookedly.

  I pushed the office door open. As I did, the room quaked. The painting of the Penda Boy crashed to the floor, facedown.

  We stepped into the reception hall. No one was there. The fake cemetery was a shambles. The chandelier was swinging wildly. Though mostly still lit, little lights were falling like the final bits of a Fourth of July rocket. The area was darkening rapidly.

  Just able to see the front doors, I shouted, “Come on!”

  I reached the doors, shoved one open, and handed Lilly the candle. “Go!” She offered a grateful look and ran through. I was about to follow, when I heard a shout.

  “Tony! Wait. You need to see this.” It was my uncle Charlie’s voice.

  Force of habit—how else can I explain my idiotic response?—made me stop and turn about.

  Uncle Charlie, along with Mrs. Penda, came out of the school office. Between them, they were holding up the Penda Boy. Or what had been the Penda Boy. He dangled from their hands like an old and dusty rag, like some little kid’s toy animal, its stuffing gone, limp and lifeless. He had been seen, caught, destroyed.