Dark Halls - A Horror Novel Page 2

  “What about you?” Ryan asked. “Surely you don’t believe in curses and whatnot…”

  Hansen shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really know anymore. I’m one of a few original employees left around here; I knew the victims well. They certainly seemed fine to me.”

  Ryan loosened his tie. “I’m still here, Jerry. And I still want the job.”

  Hansen sat back in his chair and began tapping his fingers in rhythm across his belly. Ryan watched Hansen studying his fingers as they twiddled on his stomach. You could argue that the man was deep in thought. But Ryan felt confident Hansen already knew what he was going to say next, he was just waiting for the perfect moment to deliver it. Storyteller indeed.

  “The murders?” Hansen finally said. “You know about the murders?”

  This is hands down the most bizarre job interview I have ever been on in my entire life. I can see why the others left halfway through the interview. They weren’t freaked out about the school’s history. They were freaked out from Jerry “Manson” Hansen here.

  “Yes, I read all about the murders.”

  Hansen continued as though Ryan had said no.

  “Six murders in the past sixteen years. At an elementary school, for Christ’s sake. Kids killing kids.”

  Ryan repeated himself. “Yeah, I read about those. One boy stabbed and killed two of his classmates in ’87. Another beat a fellow student to death with a baseball bat during recess in—”

  “’99,” Hansen broke in. “The last one was 2003. Another stabbing. Three children killed this time. Four wounded. The student, the perpetrator—good grades, good boy, never a lick of trouble from him—apparently had asked to go to the boys’ room. Instead, he went to the cafeteria, somehow managed to secure two large kitchen knives, returned to his classroom—a knife in each hand—and did his thing. I guess that was when the locals felt enough was enough and…” Hansen finished his sentence by pretending to light a match and set something on fire, sound effects and all.

  Ryan nearly cast Hansen a disgusted look after his stunning portrayal of an arsonist, yet reeled it in—despite Hansen’s previous assurance that the job was already his, he knew a considerable amount of ass-kissing was still required.

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it?” Hansen asked. “These were children, for God’s sake. Murderers before puberty.”

  “Victims before puberty too,” Ryan added.

  Hansen acknowledged Ryan’s comment and looked as though he may have regretted his words.

  Ryan, desperate to change subjects, asked: “Have you decided what grade you’re going to be putting me in?”

  “You’ll be teaching fifth grade in our west wing. You’ll have three team members, but, unfortunately, no mentor. In fact, all of your team members will be first-year teachers. I’m sure you understand.”

  No mentor??? Fuuuck…

  “Sounds fine to me,” Ryan lied. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  Hansen stood and walked to the solitary window in the room. He looked out of it as though something had caught his eye.

  Only Ryan knew better. He knew Hansen’s act by the window was merely an attempt at biding additional time so he could choose a new line of questioning, to reintroduce the subject Ryan was so desperately eager to avoid.

  “I really like your optimism, Ryan,” Hansen said. “I think you’re going to do fine. It must have been quite a shock to find out you got the job minutes into your very first interview, yes?”

  No mention of voodoo this time. Perhaps I was wrong.

  “Shock is right,” he said. “A pleasant shock, however.”

  Hansen smiled but kept staring out the window. “You have something I admire,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ignorance.”

  Ryan wondered whether he’d heard him correctly. Had he just been insulted?

  “Ignorance?”

  Hansen broke his gaze from the window and returned to his seat. “You’re not afraid,” he said. “You’re not afraid because you’re ignorant.”

  Ryan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Hansen sensed this and quickly elaborated.

  “I’m not using the word ‘ignorant’ in a negative connotation, Ryan. Please don’t think for one moment that I was questioning your intelligence and whatnot. The simple truth is that you aren’t afraid because you don’t know what it is you’re up against, and for that I envy you. It’s your ignorance that makes you fearless.”

  Ryan felt better and worse after Hansen’s explanation. Better because he now understood that he was not being insulted; worse because he could not understand, for the life of him, why the director of human resources was trying to convince him the boogeyman was real.

  “So, you do believe in curses,” Ryan said.

  “No,” Hansen quickly responded, “I am a man of science. I trust my eyes; I trust logic.”

  “Doesn’t sound that way to me,” Ryan said. “You just said you envy me because my ignorance protects me from whatever naughty stuff wanders up and down the halls of Pinewood Elementary.”

  “You asked me whether I believed in curses, and I do not,” Hansen said. “There is something wrong with Pinewood, though. Something…” He paused, frowning as he dug for the right words. Then: “Bad. Something inside that school is bad.”

  It took you that long to think of “bad”?

  “But it’s a fresh start now, right?” Ryan said. “Highland Elementary is gone. Pinewood is the future. Full of promise and free of the stigma that plagued it, yes?”

  “Just new bricks and paint; that’s all Pinewood is,” Hansen said. “Whatever it was is still there.”

  Man of science, Ryan’s ass. He could all but smell Hansen’s fear of the unknown. He needed to bring him back and end this insane interview before Hansen ended up underneath the table sucking his thumb.

  “I’m still here, Jerry. It’s been five more minutes, and I’m still here.” Ryan took a breath, let it out slow. “I certainly agree that what happened over the years was tragic. But I do not, for one minute, believe that something ‘bad’ inhabits that school.”

  Hansen smiled and whispered: “Ignorance.”

  Ryan’s temper flared, slackening the leash on his required ass-kissing. “You can call it ignorance if you want, Jerry, but I don’t recall many people blaming Freddy Krueger or the Blair Witch when the incident at Columbine occurred. Same with Virginia Tech—no talk of ‘bad’ things there.” Ryan had now thrown Hansen’s woeful adjective back at him twice. He needed to check himself.

  But Hansen hardly noticed. In fact, he perked up. “They were high schools and colleges, Ryan. We’re an elementary school. What compels children to slaughter children on three separate occasions over the span of twenty years?”

  Ryan just shook his head, figuring it best to stay mute.

  “Not to mention the other stuff,” Hansen added.

  “Suicides are tragic,” Ryan said, “but hardly an excuse for the occult or whatever the locals wish to call it.”

  Hansen stood and walked to the window again. He peered out of it pensively.

  Fucking drama, Ryan thought, rolling his eyes behind Hansen’s back.

  “That’s not what I was referring to,” Hansen said. “People watch the news, they read the paper. They learn about the big stuff, the stuff that’s impossible to ignore. The murders, the fires, the suicides. But they never learn about the little things, the small stuff. The stuff the school kept a secret from the media as best it could.”

  Ryan gave a little shrug. “If it’s small, then what’s the big deal? I mean, I would imagine its significance pales in comparison to what you refer to as ‘the big stuff,’ yes?”

  Hansen turned his head from the window slightly and looked at Ryan with one eye. “That depends: do you go for the horror films with the big budgets and elaborate special effects, or do you prefer the subtle, psychological horror?”

  Ryan splayed a hand. “I don’t know; I suppose I pre
fer subtle horror, the psychological stuff.”

  Hansen controlled his smile to something small and appropriate. “Me too.” He turned and faced Ryan completely. “The murders were tragic. Horrific. All those children dying, and at the hands of other children, no less. It was beyond comprehension. But you see, that was the big stuff, the special effects; the subtle, psychological horrors were the motives of the children who committed those murders.”

  “And they were?”

  Hansen splayed his short stubby arms. “There were none. Not even any recollection of the atrocities they committed. Nothing from all three. No recollection. Zip.”

  “They were probably lying,” Ryan said.

  Hansen went on undeterred. “These were children who underwent extreme psychological testing after what happened during their respective incidents. Not one of them recollected the horrors they committed. And believe me, there are dozens of psychologists, therapists—they even tried hypnotists—ready to swear on their lives that they believe every word those children said. Lying? I think not.”

  “Psychopaths are excellent liars, Jerry, children and adults alike.”

  “Not one single doctor signed off on that possibility. You don’t think they would have caught it? These were good kids. Strong students. Popular. No history of deviant behavior at home or in the classroom.”

  Ryan kept quiet for a moment. He wanted the interview over, and he wanted Hansen to be a memory he could share with his buddies tonight over a beer. Still, one thing seemed odd to Ryan. Where was the principal? This director of human resources seemed to have more insider gossip than the token busybody on the corner, yet the principal—the one who likely had even more meaty bits to share than old Hansen here— was curiously absent.

  “Where is Mr. James?” Ryan asked. “I would have thought he’d be here.”

  “Gone,” Hansen said. “Off to greener pastures. Deborah Gates will be taking his place. Miss Gates is a first-year employee with the district as well.” Hansen paused a moment. Then: “I expect you’re wondering how a director of human resources like myself has so much insider knowledge about an elementary school.”

  Ryan smiled. “Like I said, Jerry; you could be a fortune teller.”

  Hansen’s mood became too somber too fast to acknowledge Ryan’s repeat quip. The subject of the school’s former principal had obviously affected him.

  “Edward James was—is—one of my closest friends,” Hansen went on. “He went through it all—acting principal for every single catastrophe that occurred at the school. You’d think after all that happened, he would have been replaced or quit, but no one else wanted the job, and Ed absolutely insisted on staying on. He confided in me about everything. Ed walks with a limp now. I suppose the reason for that limp was his last straw.”

  “A limp?”

  Hansen only nodded.

  Christ, he’s going to make me ask. “So, what happened?”

  “One of the small things,” Hansen replied, and stopped there.

  Oh, for the love of— “Such as…?”

  4

  “Ed was leaving the school well after six on a Friday evening,” Hansen said. “He was a clean freak, Ed was. Couldn’t stand litter or clutter, and it wasn’t uncommon to have the stray paper or pencil or candy wrapper or whatever escape the janitor’s attention.” Hansen leaned back in his chair, ample belly jutting, his shirt buttons struggling to hold hands. He was too deep in thought to even notice or care. “So, Ed spots a couple of errant crayons on the floor outside a classroom and wanders on over to pick ’em up. Once again, it’s after six, smack dab in the middle of January, so it’s dark out already. The school’s lit some, but it’s anything but bright. All the classroom lights are out. It’s a wonder how he even spotted the damn crayons. So, as he bends over to pick them up, he hears whispers coming from the dark classroom in front of him. He thinks it’s kids hiding, playing a joke, who knows, right?”

  Ryan nodded without thought.

  “Either way, there’s no damn reason any kid should be in the school that late, especially since everyone but Ed was gone. So Ed enters the classroom and flicks on the light. He sees just one boy. One boy, all by himself, his back to Ed, sitting and facing the corner of the room with his legs folded like he’s being read to or something.”

  Ryan leaned in.

  “The kid is real close to the corner of the wall—almost crammed into it—and he doesn’t even flinch or take notice of Ed when those bright classroom lights come on. He just keeps on whispering to himself and staring into that corner.”

  “What was he whispering?” Ryan asked.

  “Ed didn’t know,” Hansen replied. “The school was pin-drop quiet, but Ed claimed he couldn’t make out a single word the boy was saying. So, of course Ed calls to the boy, but the kid doesn’t answer. He just stays put and keeps on whispering into that corner. So, Ed inches towards the boy and calls to him again. Nothing. He can’t call the boy’s name because the kid’s back is turned and he can’t get a look at his face.”

  “Who was the kid?” Ryan asked.

  Hansen ignored the question. Did, in fact, look mildly annoyed that Ryan had suggested flipping to the last page.

  “So,” Hansen went on, “Ed is now a good five feet from the boy, standing behind him. The boy still hasn’t moved an inch and still hasn’t acknowledged Ed. He’s still whispering something, only Ed claims they weren’t words, at least none that he’d ever heard before, and Ed was as learned as they came, spoke three different languages.

  “Finally, Ed gets a bit frustrated, steps forward, and taps the boy’s shoulder. The boy turns around and locks eyes with Ed…and that’s when Ed froze stiff.”

  Ryan hated to admit it, but Hansen had him now. “Why did he freeze?”

  “Ed was tough,” Hansen said. “Ed is tough. Did two tours of Vietnam that had him seeing things that most people could never stomach. But when that boy turned and looked up at Ed, well, Ed claims that was the first time he’d ever been truly afraid. Like down to his core. Ed claims that boy’s eyes were pure white, like they’d rolled back into his head, and his mouth was…was too big.”

  “Too big?”

  “Ed claims the boy was smiling, no, grinning up at him, and that the boy’s mouth was too big, like it had too many teeth.”

  Ryan became aware of the tie around his neck. He loosened it with a finger.

  “What did the boy say?” he asked.

  Hansen shrugged. “Nothing. He just stared up at Ed with those white eyes and that impossibly big grin and stayed as mute as a broken radio. Ed said nothing himself; he was too damn scared.”

  “The limp,” Ryan said. “What does this have to do with the limp that finally made him call it quits?”

  “Ed eventually summoned the courage to speak to the boy,” Hansen replied. “‘Are you okay?’ ‘What are you doing here?’ Et cetera. And the boy just kept staring up at Ed—still the white eyes; still the big grin—but his right hand pulls out a pair of scissors. Before Ed can even blink, that little bastard jams those scissors right into the top of Ed’s foot. The boy turned out to be only nine years old, but he jammed those scissors in so hard they went right through the leather instep of Ed’s shoe and straight into the bone, splitting it like a crab shell.”

  “Jesus,” Ryan breathed. “Who was the boy?”

  “A student,” Hansen replied. “A fourth-grader who had somehow managed to make his way into the building after hours.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “Well, there’s Ed screaming and cursing and hopping on one foot, and there’s this boy, on his feet now, grinning up at Ed with those eyes, head tilted slightly to one side as though he’s amused by Ed’s dance, his pain. The boy then starts to whisper again, only this time it’s a bit louder, a normal speaking tone. And Ed—despite his pain—ignores his foot and shifts all his attention back onto the boy, to what the boy was saying.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “It wasn
’t gibberish; Ed was adamant about that. He insisted it was a language of sorts. It had inflections and lilts and pauses…how did Ed put it? Sideways English?”

  “Sideways English?”

  “Yeah. Ed said it was like English, but it wasn’t. Like someone took a proper sentence and threw it in a blender before trying to read it.” Hansen smiled a little at recalling this.

  “You’ve got a heck of a memory, Jerry.”

  Hansen nodded. “Well, I still talk to Ed. Every now and then we discuss what happened. He doesn’t really mention the murders or the suicides much, but he sure as hell dwells on that one boy.”

  Ryan casually glanced at the clock on the wall. He had been here an hour. Far longer than he’d expected. Still, that didn’t stop him from asking: “How did Ed end up dealing with the situation? By that I mean, what did Ed do after the boy stabbed his foot and started babbling in ‘sideways English’?”

  Hansen appeared pleased with Ryan’s deeper inquiry. Didn’t even try to hide it. And why not? The only thing the storyteller loves more than an audience is a captivated one.

  “Like I said, Ed was tough. And nine-year-old boy or not, he grabbed that kid by his throat and slammed him up against the wall. Ed started screaming at the boy, chastising him, but the boy’s expression never changed. He just kept grinning and speaking that speak with eyes as big and as white as golf balls. And Ed admitted to me that despite his rage, he was still scared shitless by this child he was holding by the throat. Ed said it was like holding some talking doll that was broken and wouldn’t shut up. So, his fear caused him to strike out.”

  “He hit him?”

  Hansen nodded. “Yup. Not a slap either. Closed fist, right on the bridge of the boy’s nose.”

  Ryan sat back and gave Hansen a funny look.

  “It’s true. The boy’s nose popped like a big pimple, and blood went everywhere. Ed immediately dropped the boy and took a step back, horribly ashamed at what he’d done.”