An Abandoned School

There’s an abandoned school in my neighborhood. There are a lot of abandoned buildings in my neighborhood actually. Ever since the stud mill went out of business, our town is half-ghost, with empty windows and broken doors, blowing open with every gust of wind to terrify young children unfortunate enough to have parents still holding jobs in the forgotten city. No one knows quite how or when the school was abandoned, but everyone knows why.

It all revolves around the story of a boy who got lost. Lost in a little school with two hallways and twelve classrooms.  How could he get lost in such a small school? That is the mystery. Was he lured into some confusing, small space by someone and then met his demise? Or did he accidentally lock himself into a closet or a workroom and stay there, slowly wasting away, waiting, hoping for someone to come rescue him. The hunger pains must have grown slowly in his stomach, his throat burning with thirst, his eyes hazy and dim. He must have sat by the door, occasionally lifting a hand to bang against it or to test the knob until he grew too weak even for that. How horrific and miserable the moment must have been when he realized, as a young child, that he would die there, alone.

That is the mystery. What did happen in that little school to the little boy? What horrific event had taken place that had caused his spirit, unsatisfied, to wake from the dead and roam the halls again? Some unfinished deed, the adults said, murmuring where they thought the children couldn’t hear them. But we knew. We always knew. Some wrong that needed to be righted, they said, and we heard. And the words burned in our brains, staying there for days, weeks, years, constant, always hanging in the back of our minds. And, when we were alone together, somehow the idea surfaced and dominated all of our conversations, whether we wanted it to or not. It was as if he was there with us, another person sitting beside us, always drawing the attention back to himself. We could not ignore him. His presence was too demanding. So it was that we, as children, became fixated with the idea of the boy ghost.

Johnny was the first one to try to get into the school. He broke a window, I remember, tearing the boards away. We sat silently, watching him. He didn’t know we were there. We thought he didn’t know we were there. We don’t know. We will never know.

The funeral was strange, as if we were dreaming. The casket was closed, I remember, and I thought it was odd. At my grandfather’s funeral, the casket had been open, so we could look at his face once more before they put him in the ground. No one ever told me why Johnny’s was closed. No one ever talked about Johnny. Not the adults. Not us.

Carin tried it next. None of us saw her. We don’t know why she would try to get in. She didn’t tell us. When someone went to look for her though, they saw footprints in the mud outside the same window Johnny had used. The footprints looked as though she had been running. There were other footprints too, fainter, almost impossible to see. The man never saw them. I was the only one who saw them, when I went to the school later that night. I was looking for Carin. I knew she was in there, and I was going to get her out. I looked at the footprints. They were Carin’s all right. I had seen them so many times in the snow around my house. Then I saw the others. They were so faint I almost couldn’t see them. The size was undeterminable. All I could tell was an imprint in the mud, someone walking so lightly they were almost invisible. I followed them to the window. There was blood on the boards. I went home. I knew I wouldn’t find Carin then.

Another closed casket. Another somber, quiet, disturbing atmosphere as the people at the funeral whispered in corners, wondering aloud now. Why had the girl gone into the school? Why was she running? And, mine added in silence to the rest, Who was she running from? All these questions remained unanswered. Unanswered and, after that, unspoken of. Carin and Johnny needn’t have existed for the thought people put into them. No one seemed to remember, or care.

 But sometimes at night when I couldn’t sleep I would look out my window and Carin’s mother would be there, walking the streets silently, her hair unkempt, her white nightdress trailing behind her like the robes of a ghost.  And sometimes, she would look at me. She would stare up and our eyes would meet and we would look at each other, her eyes like those of an animal, mine slow and steady. Once she came into my yard. Once she came to my window, watching me the whole time. I stared at her, and her face contorted. She had lost all sanity. She was nothing more than a dog now. She climbed the porch, then came towards me, her feet clutching at the miniscule railing, her fingers clawing at the siding. She came to my window, and her face touched the glass. She stared into my eyes, as if trying to see something in them, trying to pry out a secret.

I didn’t say anything when she fell. I went back to bed.

They found her the next morning. My mother asked me if I had seen anything the night before. I didn’t answer her. I had seen nothing. Just as I had never seen Johnny break the boards off that window or those footprints in the dirt. 

The casket was open this time. It made me angry. Why did I have to see her again, when I did not get to see my friends?

We were no longer we anymore. Johnny and Carin had left. George and Abby had moved away when the strange things had started happening. I was the only one left. I would sit in our tree house, looking at the spots they had once filled. Sometimes I spoke to them. But they were never there. He was, though. He would come and sit beside me, watching me as I spoke to them. He was the only one left out of us. Johnny and Carin, the ones I longed for, never came back. But he never left.

Sometimes I spoke to him. I asked him what happened to Johnny, what happened to Carin. He would just stare at me with those sad, sad black eyes. Sad, frightened eyes. And when I looked in the mirror, I saw the same look in my own eyes. Because he never left me. Never. And that’s where my story begins.

“Kevin, what are you doing today?” My mother asks as she flips a pair of pancakes.

“I think I’ll go up to our treehouse.” I reply glumly. There isn’t much else to do. No one dares be my friend now. Too many accidents.

Mom looks worried. “Honey, I think you spend too much time alone up there,” she says gently, “maybe you should play with some other kids.”

“I’m not alone up there.” I tell her for the hundredth time and watch that worried look shine in her eyes for the hundredth time. “I have a friend that plays with me.”

She offers a forced smile, not wanting to argue with me and upset me. Mom seems to think that I am a wisp of smoke she has captured in her hands, and if she lets me go or blows on me at all I will float away forever. She is very, very careful. “Ok, have fun. Maybe we can go shopping after lunch.”

I offer a forced smile too. “Sure Mom. Sounds great.” I stand and escape as fast as I can.

He is not waiting for me. He usually comes after I do. I sit in the corner and wait, shivering with fear, because he is not my friend. He is something I wish I never had to see again, but he always comes to me. I do not like it when he is in my house with Mom, so I meet him out here. I don’t know what he would do to Mom if she found him. The same thing he did to Johnny and Carin. I can still hear their screams. They started screaming and we ran, we ran fast away from the window. George and Abby claimed they didn’t go. They always told me that, that they hadn’t gone, that I just imagined them there, but I saw the fear in their eyes and knew they were lying. They had been there, just like I had, and they had heard those screams too.

In a moment I feel it. He does not come quietly. I can feel his arrival. It hurts, like someone is ripping my heart in two inside my chest. I gasp as the searing pain rises in my throat. I want to cry, to scream for my mom, to run, anything, but I can’t. I can only wait, and I don’t have to for long. In a moment he is there, sitting in front of me. His sightless eyes stare at me, two enormous black holes in his head rather than pupils. They are not shaped specifically, but seem more like swirling black mists hanging where his eyes should have been. They had been eyes once, real eyes like mine, but now they had faded away, like flesh decaying, to leave that disturbing mist. He was pale, so pale he was almost transparent, and I could see the dim outline of the box in the corner through his chest. He was thin, so thin it was sick. I could see all of his ribs through his ragged shirt, and his arms were mere bones stuck together by a knobby elbow. There are tear-stains down his cheeks. He stares at me and I stare back. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. We know what the other is thinking. He is thinking how much he wants me to go to his school and I am thinking how very, very frightened I am of this horrible friend of mine that won’t leave me alone.

He beckons to me to come with him with a clawed finger. I shake my head as the rest of my body trembles. His face twists in an odd mix of anger and misery. His mouth opens and he screams silently in fury. I close my eyes and shake in fear. This is the beginning of every morning of mine, and every morning I wonder if it would be the one he killed me.

“Kevin?”  My eyes fly open and I feel a chill go through my body. The boy’s head turns and he is staring at the ladder down to the ground, where my mom’s voice had come from. His disgusting mouth twists into a smile.

I swallow to find my voice, but it still comes out as a terrified whisper. “Yes, Mom?”

I can practically see my mom’s frown as she hears my response. “Your father is on the phone for you. Are you ok?”

The boy turns his head to look at me, that sickening smile still glued to his face. He nods slightly. I clear my throat. “Yes, Mom.” I say quietly.

“Ok then, come down.”

The boy nods at me and points at the floor. He would wait for me. Of course he would. He always did. 

The call from my father was the same as always. He asks how I was doing, whether I was enjoying summer. I answer his questions mechanically, but for the first time I wish he would talk for longer. He promises to bring me a present, which he always says but never actually does.

“Sure, Dad.” I say dully. “I want a gun.”

There’s a pause at the other end. “A toy gun, like cowboys have?”

“No,” I say, looking up at the treehouse. “A real gun, like cowboys have.”

“What for, Kid?” Dad is worried. People always get worried around me.

“I want someone gone.” I stare up at the treehouse and try to hide the tears in my voice. “Please just get me a gun.”

“I see.” Dad says quietly. “Can I talk to your mom for a second?”

I feel sick. I don’t want Mom to know, but I simply nod. “Sure.”

I hand Mom, who is in the kitchen, the phone. I leave the room and hide on the stairs so I can hear.

“What?” Mom says. “I know, he’s asked me too…I just don’t know, Blade, he’s scaring me.” I feel terrible as I hear Mom’s voice break and she begins to cry. “He keeps telling me about this kid that he plays with in his treehouse, but no one ever comes over.  He says it’s a ghost and it’s his friend…I don’t know what to do…No!” Her voice was suddenly sharp and frightening. I shivered. “No, he is not going anywhere! How could you even suggest something like that? Well, maybe if you actually came around to see him you could make a decision about his future. You don’t even know what he’s like! What? No, I can’t afford that and you know it…”

I creep out of the house. I don’t have to hear them fight. I have heard it enough. I feel bad that Mom is worried about me though. As I look up at my treehouse, I feel worried about her. That little boy wants my mom to go to his school too. He wants all of us to go to his school. And I always give him what he wants.

That night I lie in bed and wait. I hadn’t gone back to the treehouse after my phone call, and I know he is angry. I can feel it when he’s angry. It hurts almost as bad as when he comes, a pain in my chest like someone is stabbing me with a red-hot knife. I wait for him to come and kill me. I am surprised when I fall asleep.

The door to my room opens slowly, waking me up. I stare at it and feel his arrival as tears of pain roll down my cheek. It hurts worse this time than it ever has before, and my entire body screams in agony and fear. I see his eyes first, those endless pits of blackness.  Then the rest of him becomes visible, standing in my doorway. He is grinning, showing his feral teeth, and he looks happy for the first time. He beckons to me, and again I refuse him. He doesn’t frown or scream this time though. He simply keeps smiling. I try to close my eyes, but they won’t move and I feel tears rolling down my cheeks as I watch him move closer.

“He’s scary. Mom. Mom! He’s scaring me!” I whisper. He simply smiles at me and beckons again, but this time he is holding something towards me. It is my daddy’s old gun that Mom keeps in her dresser. I don’t know how it works, and I had forgotten it was there. As he holds it towards me I feel a terror as I had never felt before because I realize, if he has this gun, he has been in my mother’s room.

“Mom.” I whisper again. “Mommy. Help me.” He laughs silently and beckons again. This time, I stand up.

The walk to the school is cold and painful in my bare feet. If I ever stumble, he turns around, points my father’s gun at me, and grins, then beckons to me again. I try to swallow my terror but I cannot hide my sobs as we wander the silent streets of my ghost town. He gets angry at me, but I can’t stop. He makes me walk faster until the bottoms of my feet are cut and bleeding, and I can’t stop. He brings me to the school and points for me to climb in through the broken boards on the window, and I can’t stop. The hole is much bigger, allowing an adult to go inside, and this is the only fact that haunts me and terrifies me enough to make me silent.

He leads me down an abandoned hall, and on both sides, cobwebs stick to the boards covering each of the doors. There is little light inside, only what filters through the boards covering the window. I look down and see long, dark stains on the floor, as though someone was dragging something along, something that was bleeding. I shiver as the faces of Johnny and Carin come to my mind. I can practically see their mouths open in a scream, their eyes wide with horror, and those faces, completely blank now, as the life drained out of them. Why had their caskets been closed at the funerals? What terrible, terrible thing had befallen them when they walked in this very hallway? Befallen. How did I know the word befallen? Mom had taught it to me three days ago, when she was reading me a story. Where is my mom? Where is my mom?

The boy motions me forward again, and I bite my lip as tears stream down my face. Why does he make me follow him? What is he going to do to me? What has he done to my mom?

Finally, after we have been walking in the endless hall for years and years, we reach a door without boards. I hear something inside. It sounds like crying. It sounds like Johnny. It sounds like Carin. Most of all, it sounds like my mom. The boy walks forward. He disappears and leaves me there, alone, in the hallway. I hear the crying get louder until it sounds like screaming in my ears. I sob and sob alone there in the school because I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know where my mom is, and I know that Johnny and Carin are inside that door. That was why their caskets weren’t open. There was nothing there. There was nothing there.

I reach forward and touch the doorknob. All of the sudden, the boy’s face flies back through the door, inches away from my own, as he screams silently and his black-mist eyes seem to drown me in their darkness. I scream in horror and he disappears, but the door flies open, slamming against my body with such a tremendous force it knocks me off my feet. I scramble back up and the boy is there, standing in the doorway, beckoning for me. I hear the wind as it howls through the school. I hear distant shrieks of agony from the empty classrooms. I hear an endless thumping, as if someone is hitting something over and over again, desperately, until their hands grow raw and bloody with their efforts and their throat is too tight and torn apart to scream. But above all of this, I hear a single voice, asking a question that sounded as much worried as it did terrified. It is the worry in it that convinces me. As someone, in a quivering voice, says my name, I know it is my mother.

The boy gives me a wicked smile and beckons again, his never-ending command. What can I do? Mommy, what should I do? I step inside.

My mother is in the corner, and he has tied her up. How has he tied her up? I didn’t know, but Mom is crying and I feel sick again. I can still hear the thumping, and I look to see where it is coming from. There is a closet in the corner, the door closed and covered in cobwebs. The thumping comes from there. I look back to my mother.

“Kevin,” she cries, looking at me, “please don’t do this. Put the gun down.”

“Mommy, I don’t have a gun.” I whisper, “You wouldn’t let me have a gun.”

“Stop it, Kevin,” she begs, “Stop it, please!”

The boy turns to look at me and grins, cocking the trigger of the gun slowly and pointing it right at my mother.

“Kevin!” She screams.

“It’s not me, Mom!” I sob, “It’s the ghost!”

“There is no ghost, Kevin,” she says desperately, “there’s no one here but you.”

I look at the ghost and wonder how she could not see him. How can she think I am holding the gun? Am I holding the gun? I don’t think so, but I can feel something heavy in my palm. But my hand is empty. I stare at the boy, and he stares at me. His finger closes around the trigger, and he looks at my mom, and I feel in my chest that he is going to kill her.

“No!” I scream, so desperately, so frantically, that I seem to lose my mind. I charge at the boy and try to wrestle the gun away from him. It feels like I am fighting the air, but I can feel the gun in my hands as we struggle over it. He yanks it away from me and points it at Mom once again, and this time I can see the determination in his eyes. I can feel the same determination deep inside me. We are going to kill her. We are going to kill her.

“Kevin, please!” Mom whispers, but it is too late.

Something happens. 

The thumping stops, and something appears in front of me. It is something incredibly white and small, and its face turns towards me. It is a little boy, a different one, and I think I have seen him before. I think we were friends once, a long time ago. Until one day, he disappeared…

He puts his hand on the gun.

My ears are deafened by the thunder of a gunshot. Then I fall into darkness.

***

Blade Parkenson stared at the TV, not quite believing what he was watching, even as the newswoman told him the facts one by one.

“Police arrived at the school to find that someone had broken in. After a short search, they discovered a boy, who authorities have identified as Kevin Parkenson, age ten, unconscious, with a bullet wound in the upper leg. His mother, Deborah Parkenson was also on the scene, apparently tied up by the child with cords. Upon further investigation, authorities found three bodies in a nearby closet. They were later identified as the three long-missing children of St. Anthony: Jonathan Forez, Carin Garret, and Caleb West. Jonathan and Carin disappeared almost a year ago, while Caleb has been officially missing since April 2008, almost five years ago. After an extensive examination, Kevin was found to suffer from mild mental depression, schizophrenia, and severe Multiple Personality Disorder. The child claimed to be friends with a ghost that killed his friends, but his mother later verified that Kevin was the one holding the gun the entire time, although some unexplainable event occurred that caused the gun to be pointed at the boy rather than the mother at the last second. The only information we have of this important change was the mother claiming in her deposition that a white thing appeared and seemed to alter the gun’s course. We are still waiting for more information.”

Blade turned off the TV and sat, staring at it in shock.

“I always told you it would happen.” A voice came from behind him. He nodded and turned to the figure there. It was a young man, staring at him with eyes that were swirls of black mist.

“You’re right.” He muttered, “You’re always right."

Reviews

[Rana]

This was an amazing creepy story, the part narrated by Kevin contorting reality skilfully while the second narrator giving keys to decipher it all. While reading my way through almost half the story, I remained decieved, believing Kevin all the time. Although or perhaps because mental disorders aren't strictly hereditary, the ending was like a second treat, a second climax, quite chill-inducing, haha. Thoroughly enjoyed it. Just one tiny thing I'd like to point, Kevin's been addressed as Josh somewhere in the first half of the story, so just in case that wasn't intentional.

[Aarea]

Oh thank you, I changed their names in the middle of writing it and was wondering if I had missed any! I will be sure to fix that. Thank you so much for your review!!! :)

[Tessa]

My heart was racing the whole time, especially when the little boy was blackmailing Kevin into spending time with him, I can only imagine how terrified Kevin felt having to be alone with him knowing he could easily kill him right then and there. The ending was a twist because for a moment I thought the explanation for the whole thing was because Kevin had several mental disorders, but turns out the sinister little boy just went on to start bugging other kids. Good job with this and congratulations on getting first place in my contest :)

[Aarea]

Thank you so much for the review!

[Rhia Barton]

The winner of my 'Scare Me' contest! I loved this piece so much. I'm a stickler for grammar and realism in speech and this one was amazing for that. I got kind of confused about the little boy with the mist for eyes until I realised who it was but then I just got even more confused at the end! You really know how to mount up the tension and I'm still left reeling from the ending! An amazing piece and well deserving of first place ;) Congratulations again!

[Kyle Wieczorek]

Wow, that was really dark and incredibly eerie. I liked the way the narrative led you right through the story as if you were right there experiencing it first hand, and liked the graphic and gory descriptions of the ghost, especially in the treehouse. I'm a big fan of the dark dreary and macabre. I did want to ask you if you had any inspiration and if you have anything published. Writing short stories right now, but would love to write actual novel-length thrillers one day.

[Aarea]

Thank you for your review! I have had a few stories published in literary magazines, but no novels. It is something I am working towards though. :) That's awesome that you want to write a thriller novel, I think that would be great!

[Evil Duncan]

Another good story, and you have a gift for telling them well. Enough description and dialogue to keep the pace just about right without going to fast or too slow.

Like others, I was surprised by the ending; I really felt I ought to have seen it coming, but I didn't, which I think it a sign of a well delivered plot-twist. And the 'second-ending' also blind-sided me so well done there as well!

Really enjoyed this, thanks!

[Aarea]

Thanks for the review! :)

[maria ( rose)]

I almost crapped my pants !!!!!! lol---- I was glued to the story and that ending WOW!! what a EXCELLENT STORY...''OM GAWD'' NOW THAT WAS A GOOD READ.

[Aarea]

Thanks a bunch! Your review made my day! :)

[maria ( rose)]

lol so happy :) and my pleasure..

[Reshma]

This is far better than many horror films :)
The way you crafted the story is incomparable. The story thread is amazing. I could not stop reading and I was totally clueless till the climax if it was Kevin or the ghost but mental disorder was completly unexpected.
I totally love it :) great work :)

[Aarea]

Thank you so much for your kind review!

[Napoleon has returned]

Excellent, you should write a real book. Gave me the creeps.

[MelissaAndres]

Aarea, Thank you for entering this into our contest. Submissions will be accepted until October 31st. If you have other WC friends who you think may be interested in entering, please feel free to pass on the information.

[Rockel Mansaray]

This story, was one I could not just scan over (like what I do with many stories). Every word kept me hooked. Every word had me guessing, putting the puzzle pieces together. but didn't prepare me for what happened in the end. This story didn't give anything away that led up to the ending. It was unexpected and shocking. Those are two really good aspects to have in a story.

There's so much I have to say that I love about this story.
I will definitely remember this one.
Thanks for entering my contest.
This story deserved the winning title.

Sincerely, Rockel M.

[Aarea]

Thank you so much for reviewing! :)

[Robert Parlange]

A great story. Although I was a little confused with the names. Was that intentional? Trying to show a disturbed mind trying to get a grip on reality?

Good narrative work. It kept the story flowing. Very satisfying ending.

You are a talented writer.