EMPTY EYES CROOKED JAW

Illustration by Ryan Sheffield @junkfiction

Spooky ASMR

The classroom never felt more desolate than after hours on a gloomy Friday night. Thin drops of rain pitter-pattered against the windows while I typed essay corrections on my school-issued Chromebook...nothing like having to go over late papers at the end of a grading cycle. Mute halogen lights illuminated scattered desks and disillusioned textbooks—habitual remnants of an average work day. A black backpack with pink lettering sat comfortably on one of the strewn desk chairs: “BLACKPINK” read the inscription. I smirked and opened the Notes app on my iPhone adding the novel term to a list appropriately named: “Gen Z shit.” 

Old, custom-framed posters of Dickinson, Poe, Hemingway and Cummings alongside a dozen other renowned American writers hung symmetrically on the brick walls; some of the depictions included the author’s most celebrated quote, though students hardly ever noticed. Dust-covered dictionaries stood abandoned inside wall cabinets alongside stacks of worksheets and a rogue crumpled bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. The tall, dark wood shelves around the room were filled with a diverse collection of literature—none of it mine—ranging from commonplace novels and immortal classics to Greek tragedies and modern drama. In the back of the classroom, an old chest doubled as an occasional bench for the cool kids. So far, my only contribution to the classroom’s decor was a small but growing collection of horror FunkoPops neatly placed across the landscape. A large whiteboard, filled with the day’s agenda and a variety of grammar exercises, occupied most of the wall-space behind my well-organized desk. Next to the entrance, an outdated Boston pencil-sharpener remained attached to the wall out of habit. Faint sounds of movement echoed down the dark hallway and through my open door, the custodian was wrapping things up—it was getting late.

Exhausted, I closed my laptop and slid it inside my Fossil work bag; time to go home and mentally shut down with the help of some red wine and a solid hour of braindead television. I felt tired. Taking this job last minute already five weeks into the school year was turning out to be just as I’d expected: a shit sandwich of meetings, lesson planning and overdue assignments. Apparently, the teacher before me left the position rather abruptly...a family emergency I suppose, though none of my new colleagues ever talk about it. Still, finding an open spot teaching English at the High School level is a rare occurrence, even more so at a distinguished private institution such as this one. I jumped at the opportunity without much inquiry. At the end of the day, redundant emails, obtuse parents and late papers are nothing a bottle of 19 Crimes and a few episodes of Too Hot to Handle can’t manage. I opened the desk drawer to reach for my car keys when a timid voice startled me, interrupting my thoughts of spirits and fake drama.

“‘Scuse me Miss, I’m about to lock down the whole building and you won’t be able to leave once I do.” A short man wearing navy blue coveralls and a gray receding hairline stood on the doorway—his thin frame in tandem with a nervous demeanor. He wore a  beige, heavy-duty fanny pack wrapped around his waist; on it, multiple sets of keys and a rabbit's paw clung to an oversized ring buckle.  

“Oh no worries, I was just leaving actually, got important matters to attend to back home you know,” I looked up expecting a reasonable acknowledgement of my bad joke, but the custodian wasn’t paying attention to me; instead, his fragile blue eyes wandered from one side of the classroom to the next, as if looking for something...he seemed uneasy; the drizzle outside remained steady. “Ok well goodnight sir, thanks for letting me know,” I continued awkwardly, ready to end the odd encounter and leave. Finally, he turned to face me. 

“Sounds about right...you be safe now Miss, drive safe and all that,” he said, still half inspecting the room with a cautious gaze. “Name’s Herb by the way, first one in every mornin’ and last one out every night for the last twenty four years, let me know if you need or...anything.” The gloom inflection in his voice spelled defeat; he bore the face of a man who wished he’d never existed. Stepping back into the somber hallway, Herb reached for his utility cart and walked away before I got a chance to reply—the smell of sweat, bleach and fear lingered behind. It was time to go home. I grabbed my things and headed towards the door unable to shake the custodian and his brittle eyes off my mind. Standing right where he’d been just a minute ago, I turned off the lights and waited for my eyes to adjust. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself, I reminded myself, suppressing the natural urge to leave.   

Distorted in the dark, my classroom remained still. I peered into the unfamiliar abyss: shadows slithered across the floor and up the walls, revealing hidden shapes and grim illusions. Instead of furniture, creatures of nightmare languished across the room, hiding in corners that weren’t there before. Portraits portrayed poltergeists and school supplies spelled death. Straight across from me loomed the Babadook...as interpreted by a tall bookshelf and my ghoulish imagination. Painful scratches covered the board to my left, and in the far back, the sinuous figure of a twisted man sat still on a desk chair. I should really write a scary story one of these days, I thought, closing the door behind me, amused and satisfied with my own morbid mind. Clueless. Ignorant. Blind. 

That night I fell comfortably asleep in my apartment under the television’s silver glow—unaware of the horror that was to come. 

Merton Academy hides behind fog and conifer trees on top of an ill-fated hill. A private institution for the privileged few, it can only be reached through a long and winding road off Lincoln Blvd. in the more secluded part of town. Leading up to the four-story building, there is nothing but lush forest and an old cemetery a few miles out; it’s a quiet commute. Founded in 1950, the school maintains a reputation for both administrative and academic excellence: classroom sizes, parent involvement, graduation rates, salaries, benefits, paid leave and test scores are all way above the national average, which means once someone lands a job it’s game over: the position will usually remain filled until death or retirement.

  Early one morning, I parked my old Toyota sedan amongst several luxury cars and made my way to the teacher’s lounge. A mournful wind accompanied me through the open campus, disturbing leaves and branches along its wake; above, an anemic sky threatened rain. I placed my keycard on the electronic scanner and waited for the familiar beep to open the door; inside, the cozy smell of fresh coffee canvased the ample space. In the center of the room, a glass bowl filled with fruit sat on a maple wood table next to a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. Leather arm chairs, polished furniture and a tidy kitchenette served to accommodate the faculty while a mounted 48-inch Samsung flatscreen television played the local news-channel. In the far back, an oil replica of Raphael’s The School of Athens hung complacent over a lit chimney. Everyone greeted each other with sleepy eyes and a satisfied smile. I walked discreetly towards the caffeine station, yawning and exchanging polite nods along the way...like most other mornings...side looks and whispers followed my every footstep. Fucking Boomers, I thought, slightly rolling my eyes. Except for myself and one other teacher, the rest of the faculty was well into their sixties—no surprise there. Initially, I figured the buzz was just due to the novelty of my presence, but after two weeks that reasoning began to lose steam. Maybe it was my black combat boots or impeccable eyeliner...either way, it was beginning to bother me.

“So did you watch it?” an eager voice spoke from behind as I added cream and sugar to my morning coffee. Emblazoned on my custom mug, the solemn image of King Paimon riding his camel over skulls and treasure—a gift from my mother. I turned around to face Kris Patel, Math teacher and my only contemporary in this place; he was wearing his usual dress shirt and Dockers combo paired with square glasses and cloudfoam tennis shoes. Standard teacher attire. During my first few days on the job, Kris was the one in charge of showing me the ropes and we’d developed a friendly rapport since: he was straightforward and easy to talk to, a bonafide “what you see is what you get” type of person—aloof, without terrible guilt or unspeakable secrets underneath the surface. 

“Nope,” I replied, savoring his visible disappointment and taking a sip with a half smile. 

“Boo. Loser,” he said, ironically making an “L” with his fingers.

“Dweeb,” I shot back with a slight grimace. Right on cue, a couple of strawberry Pop-Tarts sprung up from the toaster behind me. “I’ll watch it this week,” I said while placing the pastries on a plate, “Pop-Tart?” I offered.

“Pop-Tart,” Kris conceded with a sigh, the bribe was in. “This week for sure then, it’s such a good show I promise. So how’s the new gig treating you, still working late?” he asked, taking a bite at the same time; behind him, inquisitive eyes and subtle words meandered in our direction. 

“Yea a bit, but I’m mostly caught up now. Met the custodian the other night,” I said nonchalantly, taking a second sip and eyeing the rest of our colleagues from a distance. A woman in a business casual ensemble and a motherly demeanor stared at me from the opposite side of the lounge. I glared back until she looked away.

“Oh you met Herb? He’s alright, a bit much if you ask me,” Kris said, setting his empty plate on the counter and brushing a few leftover crumbs off his shirt. Meanwhile, standing next to the box of donuts, a pair of male teachers turned their heads away from me at the same time. Annoyed, I looked Kris straight in the eyes and lowered my voice.

“Ok so, why does it feel like everyone here is constantly talking behind my back?” I asked, expecting him to be timid or deflective about it. Instead, he remained unfazed. 

“What do you mean, isn’t it obvious?” he replied, casually taking a quick look around the room while everyone pretended not to notice. 

“Obviously not,” I emphasized, a bit surprised and without a hint of humor. Kris froze for an instant, his eyes got wide and an uncomfortable expression took over his face. 

“You’re...I for sure thought you’d...” he was beginning to say when the bell rang with a familiar tune, interrupting everyone’s morning delirium. Soon there would be students knocking on our doors, looking for extra credit or a desk to sleep on. “Listen, I gotta go but meet me in my classroom today right after school...there’s something you need to know,” Kris continued, taking a few steps towards the exit. 

“Just tell me now, I have some kids coming in for tutorials today after school.” 

“Same, just come over when you’re done.” 

“Is it my boots?” 

“What? No. And it’s also not something I can just tell you in five seconds...it’s a bit...delicate,” he said with caution. “My classroom. Right after tutorials. Full disclosure though, you may not even want to hear this...” he finished with an ominous tone.

“Ok bye,” I replied sarcastically, both dissatisfied and intrigued as Kris walked away in the teacher exodus. What the fuck is going on? I wondered, holding on to my custom mug and no answers as the break room emptied around me. On the TV screen, an attractive meteorologist predicted nothing but black skies and thunderstorms for the coming days—a most appropriate forecast. After all, Kris had been right that morning in the teacher’s lounge: there are truths in this world that should remain unknown. Some stories are better off kept untold.

The sound of my footsteps echoed off aluminum lockers and school spirit as I approached Kris’ classroom late that evening; every other door in the long hallway was shut except for his—a quiet, elegant piano emanated from inside. With most students and faculty gone, an eerie atmosphere gripped the entire building. I walked in impatiently ready to get answers, but found the classroom empty and in the usual after-school disarray: untidy desks, scattered pencils and expensive calculators laid triumphant all over the place. A series of graphed mathematical functions—each one more dreadful than the last—decorated most of the wall space around me while colorful parabolas and basic formulas radiated that unique, forced optimism only found in pedagogy: Hey student(s) can’t you see? You know that hypotenuse must be c! instructed Pythagoras, wearing a Yankees baseball hat and a gold chain around his marble neck. Gross. I made my way further inside, relieved Kris hadn’t left yet; my tutorials had run longer than usual. Above me, firmly attached to the ceiling, a state-of-the-art projector displayed some practice problems on the white SMART board across: Find the x intercept of the graph of the equation 23x - 16y = 92 read the instructions.

“Yea, no thanks,” I murmured, horrified at the thought of doing math. On the blank space underneath, a feeble attempt in juvenile handwriting struggled to squeeze out a reasonable answer. Tragic. Right below: a small but remarkably well-drawn chibi version of Kris followed by two words and a smiley face: algebra sux :) 

“No cap kid, no cap,” I whispered with a smirk, pleasantly amused at my own use of slang. Sitting on a large desk in the back of the room, a silver Chromebook continued to play the delicate melody through a pristine set of black Logitech speakers. In an instant, a sharp staccato of heavy keys turned the once playful theme into something somber and most familiar...it didn’t take me long to figure out where I’d heard the tune before. Taking a seat on one of the student desk chairs, I tilted my head and moved my fingers to the cadence of the suddenly intimate, haunted chords.

“Bravo Maestro!” Kris walked in behind me with an affable grin and a sure step. “Your air-piano skills are spot on,” he teased as he sat on the office chair behind his desk. “Didn’t know you were a fan of...” he paused to take a glance at the computer screen “...Joseph Haydn,” he finished, looking up at me and adjusting his glasses. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a storm was coming. 

“Totally. Also though, this is the song Lestat plays on Interview With The Vampire,” I replied with a dignified wave of my hand reminiscing the wicked character. 

“Right, from that one movie with Tom Cruise and Brad Pitts,” Kris considered, leaning back on the chair with his hands behind his head. “Never seen it,” he concluded with a smile, smug and satisfied with himself.  

“Yea, that’s because you’re the worst,” I said coolly. “But I already knew that, Mr. Patel, let’s talk about what I apparently don’t know...” The hallway lights went out with a loud switch, which meant that other than Herb, we were the only ones left in the building. Kris paused the music with a solemn click leaving the room in silence; next he turned off the projector and closed his laptop with a serious finality. The room grew dim. Seating up, he placed his elbows on the ample desk and took a moment before speaking. The first few dour drops of rain made their presence known against the windows.

“During your formal interview, what did Marcusson tell you exactly, regarding the position you were applying for?” Kris asked with an analytical tone. 

“The Principal? Just the usual stuff I guess: we talked about my background, the school’s expectations, long term goals and the sort,” I replied concisely. 

“Ok...so nothing about why we needed to hire someone in such a rush barely a few weeks into the semester?” he continued, perplexed.

“Only that the previous teacher had to leave in a hurry, but he gave me no details and I didn’t ask, figured it was either a family emergency or a winning lottery ticket,” I replied, growing impatient. 

“Well, you’re not wrong...can’t believe he didn’t fill you in though, is that even legal?” Kris pondered, “Maybe it’s different for private schools...” he trailed off for a brief, eternal second. 

“Kris.” I said emphatically, bringing him back to our conversation. He looked at me with a solemn expression and nodded in acknowledgement; adjusting my seat, I leaned forward in anticipation—foolish—eager to learn about the wretched horror that would become my own undoing. 

“For the better part of 50 years, your classroom belonged to a teacher named Robert Erasmus Clark who, as I understand and putting it mildly, kept mostly to himself. You see, despite spending entire decades teaching here, longtime colleagues don’t know much about him outside of his dry professionalism and curt demeanor. Accordingly, his former students remember him as being strict, fair and maybe a bit scary in an academic sort of way,” Kris said, leaning back on his chair. “Personally, I only met him once a few years back during a Faculty meeting: unusually tall and painfully lanky, he reminded me of a well-dressed scarecrow...” the faint sound of a squeaky wheel crept into the classroom; making a pause, Kris’ eyes moved towards the dark hallway then slowly back to me and continued. “Herb claims to have known him the best, which, of course he does, though it wouldn’t surprise me to be honest; after all, that poor bastard has probably been working here longer than you’ve been alive,” he said, leaning forward and slightly lowering his voice.  

“Not quite,” I replied, briefly looking over my right shoulder. The open corridor stared back, hollow and unknown, “So what happened to Mr. Clark?” I asked quietly, “I’m gonna take a wild guess here and assume he is...no longer in our plane of existence,” the words came out slowly, aware this story wasn’t going to end well. Kris looked down for a moment then continued.   

“Right before the end of summer break a few weeks ago, Mr. Clark’s remains were found in his...in your classroom...self-inflicted according to the official report...” Kris said carefully, no doubt expecting an appropriate reaction; instead I remained mostly composed though unable to entirely hide my intrigue. Kris raised an eyebrow and resumed. “Naturally, the School Board made sure everything was resolved post-haste and with utmost discretion, don’t want to scare off any current or future clients with that sort of unsavory press you know; as it was, Mr. Clark’s affairs were in order and, without any known relatives to interfere, the Board was able to finalize matters in a matter of days,” he said, shifting slightly on his seat. Down the hall, a door was opened and shut in quick succession, Kris paid no mind. “This is why, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, his scholar possessions remain in your classroom—they belong to the Academy now.”  

“Well that explains the outdated decor and Victorian-like furniture,” I pondered outloud, “Not complaining though, his book collection is something else...” My eyes drifted momentarily towards the ceiling—the thought of hidden tomes and secret pages tucked away somewhere in my classroom’s decadent bookshelves drew a smirk across my face. 

“Right,” Kris replied, disconcerted by my unseemly demeanor. “Anyway, a replacement was hired and Fall semester began without a hiccup. Soon after, a small funeral—attended entirely by faculty and staff—was held for Mr. Clark at the cemetery down the road. There wasn’t much to it really: the usual Bible verses were read, a polished casket was placed underground, and an old priest performed the proper sacrament. Unlike most burials though, no one gave a eulogy. In the end, only a short obituary on the local paper made note of Mr. Clark’s passing.” A dull silence hung between us; outside, heavy gray clouds loomed frigid over the proud Academy. 

“So...how did he do it?” I asked discreetly. Behind me, in the dark, sullen spirits gathered, hungry for gossip. Kris took off his glasses and mechanically rubbed the bridge of his nose as he spoke. 

“Well unsurprisingly, the Board didn’t give any details and neither did the Police Department. Herb on the other hand, having been the one who found Mr. Clark, has his own grim account of what he saw that day. He told anyone who listened until Marcusson reprimanded him and asked him to stop.” Keys jangled down the hall. “I never spoke about it directly with Herb but like everyone else around here, I’m familiar with the unsettling rumors surrounding the state of Mr. Clark’s remains that summer morning.” Lightning flashed, thunder followed out of spite. “Whispers of occult artifacts, hollow eyes and desiccated skin made the rounds at the faculty lounge though the subject quickly became taboo...I myself never gave those rumors much credit, to me they seem more like the crude delusions of a lonely man looking for attention in the wrong place.” Leaning back, Kris hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Recent events, however, might suggest I was wrong...if you believe in that sort of stuff...which I don’t of course,” he declared, briefly looking past me and into the hall, unsure of his own conviction. 

“Are you telling me my classroom is haunted? Did something happen to the teacher before me?” My heart raced out of fear and excitement, I’d always wanted to see a ghost. 

“Well that’s the thing,” Kris said sternly. “You are actually the third person to hold the position since Mr. Clark’s passing...both of your predecessors submitted their resignations abruptly only a couple of weeks into the job, both cited personal reasons as the motive and took off back to their home states...no one’s had contact with either of them since.” I remained motionless, surprised, but mostly wondering what could’ve driven not one but two different teachers away from such a coveted job; what could’ve made them so desperate to get away that even moving became a necessity. Nothing good. Kris made one last pause before finally delivering the answer to my original question, the one I’d asked earlier that morning at the Faculty Lounge. “The reason our colleagues are uncomfortably aware of you all the time is an uneasy combination of authentic worry and morbid curiosity. Basically everyone is wondering how long you’re going to last and whether you’ve felt or seen anything yet; a few are also afraid for you, they’re convinced something foul lurks in that classroom.” 

For the first time that evening, a cold shiver ran down my spine. Leaning back on the stiff desk chair, I thought of the grizzly rumors surrounding my classroom and what all those dead authors hanging on the walls might have seen the night before Herb found Mr. Clark’s desecrated remains. Had I been too busy to notice any sinister occurrences? Come to think of it, there was a particular seat in the back of the room that students seemed to avoid...though that could be anything...a cold draft or a faulty desk chair. One morning not long ago, I found Mark Twain’s The Mysterious Stranger neatly placed on my desk...certainly odd though not enough to draw any concern at the time—a cynical, devilish tale, that one; perhaps it was worth a second look alongside the rest of Mr. Clark’s literary collection. After all, who knows what manner of leather-bound heresies one might find in the private library of a living specter. 

“So...have you?” Kris asked, unintentionally interrupting my furtive thoughts. “Seen or...felt anything?” His thin, stoic tone carried an equal amount of curiosity and skepticism. I stood up with purpose, bewitched by the prospect of a proper haunting. 

“Hm. No I don’t think so,” a sly smile found its way to my lips. “Fingers crossed though right?” 

“Ha! Fingers crossed indeed,” he snickered, placing his feet on the desk, seemingly satisfied with himself again, “So there you have it kiddo: Merton Academy’s ugly secret...still want the job?” 

“Yes,” I replied, grabbing my bag while making mental notes and neatly organizing in my head everything I’d just learned—I knew what I had to do next.

  “Wait, you’re not thinking about going all Nancy Drew on this are you?” he asked only half jokingly, having picked up on my silence. 

“Ew no,” I replied, taking a couple of steps back towards the open door then stopping for dramatic effect, “I’m going to Buffy the hell out of it,” the words came out triumphant and self assured, excited even. Confidence is the liquor of the fool.

“Um, didn’t she fight vampires though?” Kris asked, squinting his eyes and resting his chin on his hand as if in deep thought. 

“You’d be surprised,” I edged closer to the exit. “Either way, I’m not going anywhere...I mean I’m going home right now but yea, not quitting,”

“Fingers crossed,” he emphasized, gesturing with one hand, “I’d hate having to babysit another newbie you know.” 

“Hmm that’s right,” I pondered for a second, “I guess that makes you my Giles...shame...good luck!” I exclaimed, giving him a quick thumbs up and a frown before heading out for good.     

“Yea, I don’t know what that means,” he replied, but I was already out the door lost in thought and wonder, determined to meddle in the affairs of the damned. All my life I’d been waiting for this moment, a true paranormal experience. 

Down the hall, Herb pretended to mop in the dark, listening to our conversation, afraid of our words and their meaning—wishing he was someone else. 

That weekend I signed up for Saturday school—referred to as Achievement Academy—basically extra tutorials available for anyone failing one or more subjects. Fortunately for me, I’d also conveniently forgotten to pencil-in any students, which meant I’d have the whole day to myself—alone in my recently infamous, tragedy stricken...possibly haunted classroom. 

***

The cold morning light poured in through tempered glass windows, cascading over literature lessons and hardwood floors. Twenty desk chairs sat in silence facing a busy whiteboard; on it, a single quote—carefully dissected—laid bare for all to see:

“These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.” - W.S. 

A dozen annotations eager to please in different colors danced around the renowned words. Above, an old Oxford clock chipped away at the day’s seconds with a commanding tik-tok. Leaving the lights off, I set my bag on the desk and took a moment to scan the place: my eyes moved from one piece of furniture to the next, from chairs to cabinets, to closets, to crowded shelves and unsettling questions. At the same time, the grim truth clung heavy to the back of my mind: not long ago a man died right here under unknown, terrible circumstances. A small pit opened up in my stomach—the writers on the wall remained mute. 

I spent the next couple of hours going through Mr. Clark’s abandoned book collection, looking for anything related to the occult—if the macabre rumors were true, perhaps a clue to the mystery behind his unnatural death could be found hidden somewhere in between his dated selection of forgotten novels and arrogant classics. Every book seemed to be at least a few decades old, some even longer than that. I went through a worn-out copy of The Grand Grimoire, skimmed through the pages of Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Grey, then Dante’s Divine Comedy, Stoker’s Dracula and a few dozen other ghoulish titles. Nothing. The unnerving part, however, was how every single book I went through had been annotated many times over: the edges of most pages were filled with precise observations in a cold, distinctive handwriting—some passages were underlined, others, methodically scratched out. After setting a smooth hardcover copy of Atonement back on its place, I noticed a black tome with no inscription sitting high up on the shelf; next to it, William Golding’s Lord of the Flies stood silent and weary. The pit inside me churned. I reached out and took the faceless book back to my desk for a closer look and thus, began my nightmare. 

The front cover was blank except for a subtle gold trim running parallel to all four edges; the text block, though a bit faded, was also gold. From the bottom, a silk, red bookmark peeked carefully—dangerous and enticing. I opened the cover looking for the title but instead found an extensive Index organized in bold press Roman numerals. A variety of topics dealing in magic, demonology and the occult stood on top of each other, vying for my attention: 

...

III - The Major Arcana

IX - Lore of the Pantheon

XVI - Angelic Alphabets

XXXIV - Magic and Early Science 

XL - Tales of the Druids

LVII - Runes for Divination

...

  Every page was complemented with detailed Baroque illustrations, depicting all manner of incantations, sorcery and apocrypha. I dove in head first, attempting to narrow down my search to ritualistic death and the afterlife. I learned of Thoth, god of wisdom and writing, scribe of the underworld and marshal of sin. Then there was Sylvester II—commonly known as the Wizard Pope—unholy scholar, practitioner of necromancy and profane prophecy. Next, a passage on The Mandrake Legend explained how the coveted, cursed plant grows where criminals are hanged or buried. Scrying mirrors, tea-leaf readings and casting dice harmonized with medieval alchemy, healing charms and Rosicrucian manuscripts. The book was all consuming...it was also the only one I’d seen so far without a single annotation on it. Not one. 

As I read, a gentle daylight shifted across the classroom giving way to the passing hours...finally, I arrived at my cruel destination.

CXII - Summoning Demons and the Dead

A man wearing red robes and manic eyes kneels inside an ashen circle alongside three items: an oil lamp, a small bell and a tattered scroll. Across from him, an ominous shadow looms almost invisible. Ways of the wicked, reads the inscription underneath the sketch, offering no further insight. On the opposite page, a paragraph detailing the key differences within the hierarchy of immaterial beings, as well as the cost for summoning any one of them. From wanton spirits to regal hell spawn, the one constant demand throughout the text is sacrifice, though methods and requisites do vary a fair amount. On the next page, a woman kneels in front of a three-headed creature, her hands desperately imploring for unheard requests. Underneath, a vague description of heavenly spirits and their demeanor towards humans: love, apathy, disdain, devotion...humanity, it seems, lies at the mercy of equally imperfect gods. Every page thereafter had instructions on how to perform a variety of summons—and though most came with a warning—it would seem that petty curses, corpse reanimation, soul exchanges, blood bargains, earthly riches and unhallow blessings were all at the reach of anyone with enough grit to deal with the immortals who grant them—or with enough madness to pay the price.  

Mr. Clark had been one of those desperate, mad people. 

I was just about to turn the page when a knock on the door startled me, breaking my concentration and reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything all day.  

“Come in!” I called out, quickly making use of the red bookmark and placing my elbows on the desk in an awkward attempt to seem nonchalant. The door opened slowly. It was Herb. He stood right on the threshold, bearing the same lucky charm and brittle expression he had when we first met. “Hey Herb, what can I do for you?” I asked, trying my best to sound casual.

“Hey Miss, just checkin’ in on ya’, almost everyone is gone you know...” his eyes wandered, “...want me to turn the lights on?” 

“No thanks I’m just about done here anyway,” I replied, leaning back and stretching my arms, trying to decide whether or not to ask him about what he’d seen that grisly summer morning.  

“All right then, have a good rest-of-the weekend then,” he said, getting ready to turn around and leave.

“Herb, wait,” unfortunately for Herb, I had to know. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, if it’s ok,” his eyes grew wide for a split second, “about...Mr. Clark.” The name fell heavy in the space between us. Herb didn’t move an inch. 

“Well...” his voice shook, “I’m not supposed to talk about it Miss but...all I can say is...it was an awful thing to find,” his eyes dropped for a moment, “...you really shouldn’t be here alone you know—it’s about to get dark outside,” he said looking back up at me. I could feel his anxiety. 

“What happens after dark?” I pressed gently. Herb fell silent for a moment, afraid and unsure. “Herb, is there something...strange going on in this classroom? Like...something supernatural?” I kept pressing. “Anything you say will stay between us...cross my heart and hope to die,” I said this solemnly, and even did the customary hand motion. “I think we both know that I deserve to know, right? Being that this is my classroom now.” Herb shuffled his feet, then let out a short sigh and spoke faintly. 

“I found him right there,” he said pointing to a spot on the floor not five feet away from my desk. “Naked, skin like dry leather tightly wrapped around his bones; his eyes were missing and his face was...broken,” he managed to say with a catch in his voice. I remained quiet, both out of respect  and because I wanted him to continue. “There were things around him, objects on the floor you know and there was ash everywhere. I know what that sounds like Miss, but it’s what I saw.”

“It’s ok, I believe you Herb.” I said reassuringly. “Do you remember what any of the objects were around Mr. Clark?” He flinched.

“Not sure, I got out of there fast, and my head wasn’t right you know, after what I’d just seen...there was a cup maybe....but I don’t know.” He seemed increasingly distressed.

“No yea that makes sense don’t worry about it; I’m really sorry this happened to you Herb,” I said, trying to relieve the tension and give way to any other details he might remember. But there was only silence. Perhaps it was time to end the conversation. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Herb, I...I know it wasn’t easy... all this hasn’t been easy for you.” He stood there, seemingly troubled. “I’ll be out of here before dark,” I said reassuringly, Herb shook for a moment but stayed put—there was more. 

“Not a week after...you know...I found him, I was walking down the hall late one night, just about done and ready to go home,” his thin voice trembled. “All lights were off and I was on my way out, when I saw the door to this very classroom was wide open...didn’t think much of it, figured I’d just close it real quick before heading out,” he gulped. “I got to the doorstep looking down at my keys, making sure I had the right one, you know, gets pretty dark down here after hours,” he said, fiddling with the charm hanging from his side. “When I looked up...” Herb made a pause, and as he visualized the haunting memory in his head, his eyes began to gleam: “I...I...saw something...twisted, something...twisted and...dead, sitting perfectly still over there,” with a shaky finger, he pointed to one of the seats in the back of the room—the pit in my stomach grew deeper. “At first I thought it was just the shadows playing tricks on me,” Herb continued, “but there weren’t any tricks, and it wasn’t no shadows that I saw that night...” a drop of sweat ran down his anguished forehead, “...it was him,” he said in a loud whisper, wide eyed and afraid. The clock above me marked the hour with a dull, dated chime. 

“Mr. Clark...”  I whispered back, Herb nodded and crossed himself just in case. 

“Same cracked skin..same body too...bent in all the wrong places,” he said with a shallow, nervous breath, and continued, “...his broken face…the same as it was that goddamn morning...empty eyes...crooked jaw.” Herb managed to speak with a gasp, visibly shaken and ready to leave. “ It was dark in there, but I swear I could see him in the shadows, felt like he was looking straight at me...made my insides cold...I ran away as fast as I could, too scared to lock anything or even look back.” He pressed his lips and finished with a plea. “Ever since, I don’t go near this classroom at night...and neither should you, Miss.” He stood still for a moment, the gleam in his eyes was gone. On the wall next to Herb, a sullen Edgar Allan Poe listened closely, locked in his own eternal grief, painfully collecting fleeting secrets into stories never to be told.  

“I’ll be out of here before then, I promise,” I lied sincerely. “Thanks again for sharing this with me, Herb. I believe you…for whatever it’s worth…and I’ll make sure to keep this between us.” He nodded and gave my classroom one last weary look before exiting slowly, letting the door close behind him with a foreboding click. I felt moved and manic and terrified at the same time—I knew Herb wasn’t lying, no. His fear was real enough. I leaned back on my chair picturing his nightmare, going over his words…not as a cautionary tale…but as an invitation. Sundown would come soon.  

Alone again and undeterred in the slightest, I opened the dark encyclopedia back to where I’d left off: an imperial devil with candles for fingers and a distended abdomen sat comfortably on a gilded throne. Cool. I turned the page and lost my breath in a sudden gasp: wedged on the crease in between the pages, ominous and stark white, a neatly folded note patiently waited to be read. My heart raced as I picked it up, slowly unfolding it to reveal the same cold handwriting I’d come to know so well by now, the same sharp edges and short strides, the same lack of errors and compassion. Nervous and excited, I turned on the old, bronze desk lamp next to me and proceeded to read Mr. Clark’s final message to the world of the living:

The curse of humanity clings to me, ever bitter. 

Decades drowning in vicious vassals and primal filth. 

My own stench has become unbearable.

There is a certain ruin to this form, this...flesh. 

Rot is its nature and ignorance is our punishment.

Before my time comes, I must Ascend. 

                                                            —R. E. C.

I set the note down for a moment—pensive and intrigued—then I read it again and again, savoring the last thoughts of a dead man. There was a sense to his madness, a sad longing for something wistfully buried in self pity and old resentments. It seemed Mr. Clark had been looking for a way out, an escape from his own carnality and the mundane prison of our existence. Or maybe he was just a crazy, bitter old man. Whatever it was, he’d managed to do it. Somehow, Mr. Clark had been able to...ascend; precisely what that meant and how it worked would undoubtedly be found in the sinister book—and I didn’t have to look for long. I set the note down and turned my focus to the open page in front of me: Transfiguration Rituals, read the title at the top. Front and center, an illustrious demon with the head of an owl and the body of an angel poised to strike those beneath him. Andras, Grand Marquis of Hell, First of the 72, read the inscription underneath. A brief paragraph followed, introducing the three favors offered by the Demon King: Divine Alchemy, Astral Rebirth and Ascension. My eyes lit up. I was close. 

Starving for answers, I began to quickly scan the text when the desk lamp’s lightbulb went out with a violent pop. I let out a short scream. The whole classroom sank into darkness while tiny shards of soft glass lay scattered on my desk and forearm. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to adjust to the new dark and slow down my frantic heartbeat. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself, I reminded myself, exhaling profoundly and suppressing the natural urge to leave—a costly mistake. Outside, in collusion with fate, menacing clouds covered the night sky. 

I opened my eyes to shadows and empty silence—in darkness, my classroom remained unchanged. My outburst seemed to go by unnoticed, Herb must have been working on a different part of campus at the time. Lucky. There was the shattered bulb to consider...definitely not a coincidence but also precisely the sort of thing I was looking for, so there was no need to panic. With caution, I closed the book and leaned back, waiting for something, anything that would indicate a paranormal entity was present with me in the classroom. Nothing. Only the Oxford clock above made its presence known with the rigid, relentless rhythm of its hands. 

I took out my phone to get some footage but quickly realized it was a bit too dark in there, and even though I could’ve turned the flash on I chose not to...after all, it’s safe to say spirits favor the absence of light. I set the device to record and placed it on the desk leaning against a dated pen holder. Sluggish minutes went by in droves, casually suffocating my ghoulish expectations. Disappointed, I decided to call it a night when I noticed...a man sitting still on one of the deckchairs at the back of the room. I froze. Sinister and crooked, an aura of ill intent emanated from his dismal silhouette—it was Mr. Clark, just like Herb had described: twisted and vile. My insides went cold and the pit in my stomach grew into an infinite abyss. I felt paralyzed. Vulnerable. Afraid like never before. My heart beat furiously against my chest, desperate to get away. I tried to scream, but my voice was caught in a knot of dread inside my throat. All I could muster was a short, agitated breath. The perverse figure remained still. Menacing. Malevolent under the guise of skin. Fixed on me. Still unable to move, I felt terrified. This was nothing like I had imagined it would be. This was not scary fun. This was horror and despair with a side of fear paralysis. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to go home. Instead, the apparition began to move; painfully and ever so slightly, his limbs stretched out to uneven lengths. The smell of rot filled the room. I wanted to scream and get out of there. I wanted to apologize and forget, but it was too late—something terrible was about to happen. 

Helpless, pointless tears rolled down my face as the crooked figure approached slowly, feet hovering over the floor. Mangled. Dead. A sharp pain coursed through the left side of my body, my vision blurred and breathing became almost impossible. Only fear remained. Please make it stop. Please make it stop. I begged profoundly before slipping into the cold darkness. Cursed. Marked for penance. Victim of the damned and the dark gods they worship.

Distraught, the quiet authors on the wall shuddered, grievously aware of the evil within. 

I woke up to intense pain. Every muscle in my body felt like it’d been ripped apart and put back together. I couldn’t see anything. The only sound was the familiar tik-tok, which meant...I was in my classroom. The horrid memory of Mr. Clark looming towards me lingered, like a bad dream that never should’ve happened. Slowly, I began to regain full consciousness, opening my eyes and becoming frightfully aware of the state I was in: on my knees, naked and covered in cold sweat; forehead and elbows painfully pressed against the hardwood floor. Worship. I let out a dry whimper as I began to ease the tension throughout my body, gently regaining motor function and clarity of mind. I felt exhausted. Confused, I sat on the floor, sorely stretching my aching limbs; around me, nothing but darkness and old furniture—no sign of Mr. Clark. Still, I felt afraid. 

Knock knock knock.

Fuck! I thought, startled. That must be Herb making sure I’m gone; he'll probably just leave if I don’t answer. I began to put my clothes on as quickly and quietly as possible, feeling deep anguish and uncertainty. Every movement I made, however careful, sent waves of stiff pain deep through bone and muscle alike. I needed time to think, time to rest, time to breathe and get a hold of myself. Time. Wondering how late it was, I looked up at the clock but it was too dark to read. My phone was right where I’d left it but it was dead, which meant I must’ve been out for at least a couple of hours, just enough time for Herb to finish his rounds. I gathered my things in a hurry, ready to leave the haunted place. Still on my desk, the grim book sat complacent—I didn’t dare touch it.  

Knock knock knock.

Fuck! I thought, startled again. He’s still out there, probably knows I’m inside...fuck it. I clutched my keys and walked towards the exit. I’ll just tell him I lost track of time and be on my way. I need to get the fuck out of here. Determined, I opened the door to an unexpectedly bright hallway, the sudden change made me wince and raise my hand over my face at the same time. 

“I was just leaving Herb, thanks for checking on me,” I said weakly, unable to see much and not in the mood for small talk. I also wasn’t ready to tell Herb—or anyone else—about what just happened. I wanted to go home. After my eyes adjusted to the white light, I lowered my hand and looked up, intent on walking straight past the old custodian. Instead of Herb, a plump teenager wearing stark gray pants and a white polo shirt stood awkwardly in front of me. Merton Academy’s arrogant crest adorned his breast pocket. A student. 

“Um, hello Miss...” he said timidly; his Avengers themed backpack hung loose from his left shoulder, as he held a stack of disheveled papers. Thick, coke bottle glasses sat on his nose in disarray.

“Santiago? What are you doing here? It’s late,” I barely managed to say, my throat was painfully dry. He looked confused. 

“Miss, you said to come here first thing Monday morning so we could go over my essay,” he replied meekly, unaware of the harsh blow he’d just landed on my psyche. His uninvolved words sent a brand new wave of terror and nausea down my already wounded state of mind. It was Monday. I’d spent the whole fucking weekend in the classroom. I felt sick.  

“I’m sorry Santiago, we are gonna have to postpone,” I said still in shock. “Head back to the Commons, we’ll work on your essay later this week.” I closed the door before he could say anything else then hurled a bitter blend of bile and saliva into the trash can. My head swooned. My eyes hurt. I felt exhausted. The classroom remained dark. Somewhat dazed and equally anxious, I bolted out of there with no intention of stopping for anything or anyone. Fortunately, it was so early in the morning the campus was still mostly empty. A single student yawned as I walked past him through the main doors and into the barren parking lot. Sunrise had yet to arrive.

The usually short drive to my apartment stretched unnaturally, plagued by insidious thoughts and unsettling questions; taking deep breaths, I held on to the steering wheel with a firm grip in an attempt to get a hold of myself. The only thing we have to fear is...some pretty horrible shit actually, thanks for nothing old man—I needed a fucking cigarette. I needed to scream. Once my phone had enough charge, I called the Head of my department and told her I’d tested positive for COVID, so she begged me to stay home for the next few days. Perfect.        

I parked the car, walked upstairs, got into my bed and slept the rest of the day away in a heavy, dreamless sleep—unaware of the grim curse bestowed upon me and the calamity it would bring. 

***

That morning in Merton Academy, half truths and whispers traveled up and down the corridors; the entire Faculty felt uneasy about the new teacher’s sudden absence...it felt too familiar. By third period, an array of grim conclusions were beginning to take shape: from malcontent spirits and paranormal hauntings to wicked entities and medieval hexes. The classics. One of the Math teachers, in an attempt to keep the place grounded, assured everyone she just had the flu—people talked regardless. They always do. In contrast, the wispy janitor remained quiet and distant, pensive and afraid. 

Over by the English Department at the far end of the school, inside classroom 707, a dead man lurked.

***

I woke up to the blue daylight seeping in through partially closed blinds. The varied, moody art collection hung evenly on the walls, barely visible in the dim hue of my studio apartment. Plants of different shapes and sizes stood silent in pots of artisan clay, ever vigilant. Albus—my black cat—sat on my chest, gently pawing at my face. Still sleepy and a bit disoriented, I reached for my phone, making him jump away in discontent. A digital rendition of Audrey Kawasaki’s Possessed graced the small, bright screen:   

Tuesday, October 3

11:52 a.m. 

6 New Voicemails

9 New Text Messages

The slew of notifications were mostly from Merton Academy’s Department of Human Resources making sure I filled some COVID related forms, the usual group chat GIFs, and Kris offering to bring me soup. I set the phone back down and carefully stretched underneath the soft bedspread. I felt better. At the very least, moving didn’t hurt anymore. I was just starving. As the disturbing memory of Saturday night lurched inside, a feeling of dread clung to my entrails still—something felt wrong. I needed answers. I needed grit. But most of all, at that moment, I needed food. 

After an absurd amount of scrambled eggs, hash browns and bacon, I sat at my desk and logged into the school’s online portal to make sure things were OK in the classroom. Other than a few of my A students stressing over their grade on an essay submission, everything seemed fine. No hauntings. No ghosts. Not even a note from the Sub. I closed the laptop  relieved but still distressed: I was alone in this nightmare, and even worse, I had to see it through. A stream of questions spiraled in my mind: What is the Ascension ritual? Did Mr. Clark achieve his sinister goal or is this something different? What happened to me in the classroom? Leaving the black book behind had been a mistake. Now I'd have to wait until after school was done to go back and retrieve it, which meant I had a few hours to do some research. I could look into the two teachers who held the position before me—perhaps they had a similar story to tell. 

Fed and content, Albus jumped on my lap ready for scratchies, and when I was about to oblige, I remembered something...something I’d overlooked...my phone. I remembered setting my phone to record before everything had gone awry that night in the classroom, right after the lightbulb popped. Perhaps it’d captured something useful in the darkness. A fleeting sound. A dismal shadow. Anything. I jumped up and rushed back to my bed where the sleek smartphone laid comfortably in between my covers.

  Albus was left displeased once again. 

The most recent thumbnail in my camera roll was all black, except for a series of numbers on the bottom right corner: 

02:13:06

My heart began to pound, this was it. Over two hours of footage taken on the night I lost consciousness; there had to be something in there that could give me insight into what was going on. Anxious, I pressed play and turned up the volume. The whole screen was engulfed in darkness: nothing but shapes and shadows delineated by the Oxford’s commanding tik-tok. I shuddered. Minutes went by with an occasional creak from my impatient desk chair, disrupting the wait in its eerie monotony. Obviously, I was already aware of this moment in the video...and I was also aware of what came next: the abrupt silence, followed by unsteady, rapid breathing and shallow whimpers. Fear. Then, I heard the blunt sound of my body collapsing on the desk. Silence again. The screen remained dark. 

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. 

I felt a knot in my throat. My chest grew tight in anticipation of the unfamiliar portion of the footage. I could barely breathe. The next few minutes offered nothing more than the grim passage of time and an unrelenting darkness. Suddenly, I heard a familiar creak, followed by low, uneasy steps—someone was moving with torturous difficulty towards the center of the classroom. The sounds stopped right in front of the camera; not that I could see much beyond the shifting black pixels on the small screen, but the cues were clear enough. Something clattered to the side, followed by a quiet shuffle, like cloth running down bare skin. Next, a subtle movement in the dark, and then...nothing. 

Never one to give up, Albus snuggled up against me just in time for his second morning nap. 

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok. 

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by, but the video remained in darkness. I watched intently, looking and listening for any other occurrence. Nothing. Eventually, I began to fast forward, scrolling through with my index finger, and stopping at different intervals to see if there’d been any change. Still nothing. The video was quickly coming to an end, and only one thing seemed certain regarding Saturday night: it was me, moving in the dark, undressing, then kneeling on the classroom floor...for 36 hours straight. Demented. Possessed. Although this bleak footage explained the body aches and state of illness I woke up to, it still failed to unravel the mystery behind Mr. Clarks’ grisly death and his haunting of the classroom. Fuck. I need answers. I need the damn book. 

Just seconds before the video ended, a deep crimson hue slowly consumed the entire screen—a devil’s glow—revealing, if only for a frame or two, the outline of my naked body kneeling before idle shadows and empty desk chairs. Mortified, I set the phone down in disbelief. Forlorn. Forsaken. The pit in my stomach reared its ugly head. 

Purring next to me, busy as can be, Albus made biscuits for no one. 

Clouds gathered outside my window, breaking the daylight’s pleasant spell. Back on the laptop, I set out to find my two predecessors on social media. I knew both their full names from classroom records and that alone was enough. In a matter of minutes, I was looking at Hugh Thompson’s LinkedIn profile, complete with a robust career summary and contact information. Facebook came next, but there wasn’t much in there to look at: a single picture of an obese man with piercing blue eyes sitting on a cruise ship, next to an equally obese woman with short, blonde hair and a pleasant smile; skin bright red from sun exposure—they looked happy. A few useless details on the About section and a single, unrelated post on his wall were the extent of it. Mr. Thompson, it seemed, wasn’t exactly the social media type—unsurprising, considering his age. So I wrote him a short email introducing myself and asking if he’d be willing to chat with me sometime soon regarding his time at Merton Academy. 

Next was Emma Sorensen—the first teacher to hold the position after Mr. Clark. Contrary to Hugh, her online presence was extensive: LinkedIn, Twitter, Facebook, Snapchat and even something called TikTok—Emma was everywhere. Full auburn hair, green eyes, freckles and a pixie nose; she was more Disney-princess than human. Her Instagram account had over ten thousand followers and was smothered in color and youth: pictures of tiny desserts at trendy coffee shops, arena concerts with friends and charming days at the lake decorated her page. Live. Laugh. Love. I clicked on her latest post: a masterfully crafted selfie holding a cranberry seltzer at an upscale restaurant. The caption read:

A perfect day. 

Emma’s fairytale smile gleamed in tandem with the photograph’s dreamy vibe. Perfect indeed. Even though the post was a few weeks old, I quickly noticed that the comments were fairly recent...my insides lurched as I read the stream of condolences:

candi92: still can’t believe this is real, miss you friend

estrav_sc: you are forever loved

cait_ln713: thinking about you today and always  

On and on, comments expressed shock and heartfelt laments; it seemed Emma was loved by many. Predictably, however—and in true internet fashion—the lower I scrolled, the more comments went from compassion and grief to cynicism and morbid curiosity: 

eag.trist8: damn. she was a baddie 

samafrans: this is the girl i was tellin u about @liblibao

wagie_lou: fake 

Deep in my gut a noose tightened: Emma Sorensen was dead. Mere weeks after abruptly resigning from her position at Merton Academy...dead. This was no coincidence. Something must’ve happened to her in that classroom...something awful and terribly familiar...something that managed to follow her all the way back to her home state. A shudder traveled down my spine. Still, I kept scrolling all the way down to the bottom—where the hidden comments reside—to find more of the same apathy and bile. Then, for all the wrong reasons, a single comment stood out amongst the rest: 

phy_lines: autopsy pics leakd on reddit. yall aint ready fr

The noose strained. The pit cried out. I had to see. Hands trembling, I got on Reddit and typed in the crude words: emma sorensen autopsy. An unending series of posts on the subject filled the screen at a grotesque speed. Though details were scarce, Emma’s unusual demise was beginning to pick up traction in both the true crime and paranormal corners of the internet. According to the headlines, her body was found in her parents' house where no signs of forced entry or violence were found; cause of death, still unknown. No suspects. No leads. Nothing. The seltzer selfie from her Instagram page served as thumbnail for most entries, though somewhere down the macabre list, a post with a pixelated thumbnail and an NSFW warning in bold red letters gripped my unwilling mind. I hesitated. To know the dark, go dark. Biting my lower lip, hands trembling, I opened the morose link with a click. 

The horror of who once was a lively young woman laid in full display on the computer’s lumen screen: her brimming auburn hair gone and replaced with coarse, scattered strands of gray; instead of fairytale green eyes, two black sockets devoid of breath told the story of a bitter end; her torn, open jaw revealed a cavernous abyss. Emma Sorensen was now little more than parched skin painfully wrapped around frail, grieving bones. A wave of terror oscillated acutely in my gut...Herb had described Mr. Clark’s remains in a similar fashion: hellish, broken and dry. I closed the laptop and clutched my shirt, resisting the urge to cry for the dead princess. Defiant, a single tear wailed down my cheek. Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven’s claws. 

Albus watched from a distance, sitting on the shelf across the room—indifferent. Next to him stood a framed, ink illustration of a girl wearing pigtails and a black dress alone in the forest; her index fingers playfully simulating the horns of Satan—a gift from an old flame. 

Outside, dusk began to set. After-school activities would be over soon, leaving Merton Academy empty in the hands of ghosts and lonely men. So I grabbed my things and drove to meet them, hoping to find solace in the pages of an unholy book. 

The school loomed over me as I parked near the main entrance. Two professors exited the building, each carrying a leather briefcase and a brisk demeanor. I turned off the engine and stepped out of the car wearing a black hoodie and an N95; I was supposed to be sick, after all. Above me, the street lamps were beginning to glow. Nighttime was imminent. I picked up a fast pace with the intent of getting in and out of the damned place when a familiar voice broke the parking lot’s crepuscular silence.

“Hey aren’t you supposed to be in isolation?” It was Kris, calling out from the inside of a white Prius.

“Yea something like that,” I replied, approaching him. “I’m just swinging by to pick something up real quick.” He looked up at me from his seat, suspicious.

“Must be something important,” he inquired, indirectly. 

“Yeah...something like that,” I said, without giving in. Kris chuckled.

“Seriously though, everything ok?” He insisted. “The whole faculty’s buzzing over your...sudden illness,” he remarked, inquisitively. A pair of headlights panned over us, the wind followed suit.

“What are you doing tonight?” I asked, my voice muffled behind the mask.

“Not a whole lot, got to run a few errands real quick but that’s it,” Kris replied in earnest. I pondered for a moment before further dragging him into the madness. “Why, what’s up?” he insisted. In the end, misery loves company.

“Meet me at The Rusty Nail after you’re done.”

“The dive bar on the other side of town?” he said, raising an eyebrow, “Ok Constantine, did you pick up smoking too?” he finished with a smirk.  

“Shut up, it’s the one place we can be sure no one connected to Merton will be at on a Tuesday night. Also, they have awesome wings.” 

“So...you don’t actually have COVID,” Kris surmised. 

“Rusty Nail. See you there, Chas.” I said, taking a step back.

“Still don’t get it,” he called out as I turned around and walked away. “Oh this again? It’s not as cool as you think it is, you know!” he raised his voice, but I was already up the steps, fishing for my keycard and pretending not to listen. He drove away as I walked through the first set of glass doors. I looked back just in time to see his car’s rear lights exit the property. Dusk had come and gone. The parking lot was mostly empty by now, sunk in darkness—giving way to lost voices and hungry spirits. I clutched my hoodie and entered the old building.

My classroom was dark and quiet, almost innocent. Almost. Not taking any chances, I turned on the lights, flooding the whole place in an offensive neon white. The usual after-school spectacle came to life before my eyes: phone chargers, coats, backpacks and teen spirit lay scattered across desk chairs in disarray. A Ziploc bag ached on the floor, empty and forgotten. Stoic, the mysterious book lay heavy on my desk. Untouched. Unmoved. I put it in my bag and left in a hurry, unwilling—or unable—to remain any longer. The echo of my hasty footsteps carried me down the quiet hallways past empty classrooms and glass trophy cases—I didn’t dare look back. Instead, the now barren parking lot was a welcoming sight. Keeping the pace, I got into my car and drove off down the winding road...out of view...out of reach. 

From afar, inside the school, Herb watched my headlights disappear into the night.

*** 

The surly bartender opened a can of chardonnay and poured it in a plastic cup. She was covered in tattoos and a bad bitch attitude. Behind her, a half-lit wall of liquor bottles and blurred memories stood tall underneath a deep-red neon sign: 

The Devil and I get along just fine. 

I raised my cup and took a drink. The bartender smirked. “I hear ya’ babe,” she said, throwing the can away and adding the charge on an outdated register decorated in decades-old stickers: Ozzy Osbourne, MadTv, Pam Anderson, Max Headroom and The Thing were a few amongst the vast vinyl collage. A raggedy, stuffed jackalope stood next to it, begging for tips. “Anything else for you guys?” the bartender asked in a monotone voice. Sitting next to me, Kris scrolled through the video on my phone with a pint of beer in his hand and an undivided attention. 

“I think we are OK, thanks,” I answered in kind. She gave me a nod and walked over to a customer a few feet away: a middle-aged man drenched in a middle-aged stupor. He perked up as she approached. She noticed. A wisp of smoke emanating from his cigarette whirled slowly between them. Sulking, the alluring bartender reached for it, taking a slow, drawn-out hit, only to then blow it back on the man’s face. He smiled, placed some cash in the jar and asked for another drink. One of her regulars, no doubt. In the far back of the bar past a few unkempt tables, a group of men in trucker hats played pool under a dim, flickering light. 

Kris set my phone down with a chuckle and took a sip from his glass before speaking. 

“Dude what am I looking at? The whole thing is just black,” he said. “You’re supposed to be...on the floor this whole time?” he added, taking another drink with skepticism and suspicion. 

“Yea, granted it’s more of a listening type of clip, but look at this,” I reached for my phone and scrolled all the way down to the last frame. “It's at the very end,” I held up the red screen, determined to prove my supernatural experience was real. 

“What is it?” he asked with a half grin.  

“That’s me,” I pointed at the bleary image. “Those are the chairs and that’s the bookshelf in the back,” I gestured over the phone.  

“I guess if you say so...” Kris looked at it closely for a moment before concluding. “I don’t see it. I see pixelated shapes and shadows, a digital Rorschach—it could be anything,” he sat up straight and took another drink. “Nice try though, kid. I do respect the commitment to the game,” he finished with a heartwarming tone and a pleasant smile. 

“So, you think I’m making this up,” I replied a bit offended but doing my best to hide it. 

“Occam’s Razor,” he proclaimed smugly, “...the philosophical principle that teaches us when confronted with a problem, the simplest...”

“Yea I know what it is dude,” I interrupted. 

“Ok so there you have it,” he said with a triumphant wave of his hand. “If I have to choose between a dead former colleague coming back from the grave to haunt his old classroom, or my current colleague—who also happens to be a horror aficionado either pulling a solid prank or giving into the current mass delusion taking place at Merton—I’m going to go with the latter ten out of ten times.” 

“But then there’s always that one time,” I shot back. Before either of us could continue, the bartender was back with a basket of hot wings and a brooding expression. She wore a black tank top showcasing a naked woman sitting on a stool and wearing a dunce hat; on her body, a single word painted in red: whore. 

“Look, you have an old book, a nothing video and a scary story,” Kris said, reaching for a wing. “It’s just not enough. It’s actually not much at all,” he emphasized, taking a bite and immediately nodding in approval. “Oh shit! You were not kidding about these wings though, they’re effing amazing!” he exclaimed with utmost sincerity, wiping sauce off his face. The bartender smirked again. 

“What about the note I found?” I asked inquisitively.

“Clark was like ninety years old or something, I’m sure he wrote some cryptic nonsense towards the end. It doesn’t mean he’s a ghost now,” he replied in between bites. 

“And Emma’s pictures online? Which you refuse to look at by the way...”

“One: real or not, I’m not into gore.” Kris explained with a scowl. “And two: Reddit is not a reliable source of information... at this point you’re no different than the dweebs peddling BigFoot conspiracies in the dumb corners of the internet,” he said, finishing his beer. 

“Oh, so you also know Bigfoot isn’t real,” I teased back, busy on my second wing and unwilling to continue—there was no point...probably for the best anyway. 

Over by the entrance, sitting next to an outdated Marlboro vending machine, a worn out jukebox began playing “Red Right Hand” by Nick Cavef and the Bad Seeds. Not ten seconds in, a mature woman in tight jeans, big hair and heavy make-up started dancing to the voluptuous tune—accordingly, the pool game at the back of the bar came to an abrupt halt. 

“Hey!” Kris said excitedly, “this is the theme song for that show I’ve been telling you about...which you still need to get on by the way,” he insisted. On cue, the middle-aged man at the bar turned his attention towards the dancing woman, lighting another cigarette and nodding in approval. “Less ghosts. More television,” Kris motioned with both hands.

“Yeah. No.” I replied dismissively. “Also don’t be rude, this is the song from Wes Craven’s slasher meta masterpiece: Scream. Not some run-of-the-mill Netflix TV show,” I said, taking a pompous sip of wine. Kris rolled his eyes.  

“Whatever Sidney,” he said, getting up and placing a bill on the hardwood bar. “Either way, some of us actually have to work tomorrow, so I’m heading out. Enjoy your staycation and seriously,” Kris made a pause for emphasis. “Mad respect,” he finished with a fist-bump and a grin. 

“You’re wrong about this one, Dewey,” I called out as Kris walked away but he kept going, pretending not to listen. Well played. The pool game resumed with the unmistakable crack of the billiards while a few eager suitors approached the woman as she swayed to the thick, sensuous melody. One after the other, she paid them no mind.   

“I believe you,” the bartender ventured, pulling my attention from the raw human spectacle. “The bits and pieces I heard, at least,” she added. 

“Oh, yea? And why is that?” I asked, curious. 

“I’m a Scorpio rising, being hyper aware is like, my thing. I can tell by your aura you’ve been through something...unnatural,” she said coolly. “My advice: don’t fuck with that shit. The spiritual world is like the internet: it’s mostly filled with trolls.” Numerous sharp, silver piercings decorated her pale features. “Want a to-go box for those wings?” she asked, typing on the register. 

“And the check, please,” I replied, fishing out my credit card from my work bag, where the wicked book lay dormant and heavy. A shiver ran down my spine. “What if not messing with it isn’t an option anymore?” I asked with a solemn expression. The bartender looked at me for a moment, pensive. She looked concerned.  

“Take this,” she said, reaching for a matte black bead bracelet on her left wrist and handing it to me—one of the beads was made to look like an eyeball. “It’ll protect you from evil intent,” she said with confidence. 

“Oh thanks but I can’t...”

“Take it babe,” she interrupted before I could protest. “Us girls need to look out for each other, right? Besides, I have plenty more,” she added, showing off an infinite gothic collection on her wrists. I nodded in return. The bartender nodded back and there was something in her expression...something not unlike fear. I put on the bracelet and thanked her, making sure to leave a generous tip as she moved on to her next tragic customer. 

The haughty rock ballad was quickly coming to an end. Undeterred and now with a drink in each hand, the woman in jeans kept dancing—suitors be damned. On the speakers, Nick Cave crooned his last words as a warning in silk to everyone present: 

You’re one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan

Designed and directed by his red right hand 

No one listened. No one ever does. The men over at the pool table taunted each other after sinking the cue ball one too many times. Several empty pitchers of beer huddled together on the table next to them. Good times. I signed the bill and got ready to leave when my phone lit up.

1 new Email

from H. Thompson  

Eyes wide, I clicked open the notification with a clenched jaw. Mr. Thompson was alive, which meant whatever—or whoever—ended Emma’s life hadn’t gotten to him...yet. There was hope. The two of us could work together. Perhaps he had some answers or at least further insight into this evil. Best case scenario, Mr. Thompson himself had already figured a way out of it! Wishful thinking. Abandon hope! All ye who enter here. Hugh Thompson’s message to me was short and foreboding:  

He never leaves

I have nothing left to give

His words smelled of grief and terror. The spell of it paralyzed me for a brief moment. My blood ran cold. The pit grew stronger. Gathering myself, I replied right then and there. I asked him about his experience and proposed further contact between the two of us. A pointless endeavor. As it turns out, I would never hear back from Mr. Thompson again—his ugly demise, that very same night, would eventually make the rounds across every ghoulish site on the unencrypted web. 

I left the derelict bar in a hurry, dismayed and drenched in despair—certainly, the worst was yet to come. My only hope now was the unsettling book lurking in my bag. I drove home hell bent on picking up right where I’d left off, right before my encounter with Mr. Clark in the classroom...before the nightmare took hold...before the burden of callous devils and undying curses ever plagued my tired mind. 

It was just past midnight by the time I got home, only strays and beggars strolled the autumn streets. A soft blue light illuminated my apartment as I flipped through the book’s ashen pages; fortunately, Mr. Clark’s bitter note marked the spot: Transfiguration Rituals. Front and center, Andras—Grand Marquis of Hell—stared at me from his gilded throne. Ominous. Arrogant. Absolute. Once again, I quickly began to scan the text for the third favor listed under the Demon King: Ascension...déjà vu...I turned on a second lamp just in case. My living room came to life under the newly added light: vintage furniture, eclectic art and of course, more plants. I sat on my grey, L-shaped couch placed neatly across the television set proudly showcasing my VHS tape collection: The Mummy, Jaws, The Fly, Jurassic Park and Hellraiser were a few amongst the numerous cinema classics on display. 

Albus watched from afar, sitting comfortably on his gothic-themed cat tree—unconcerned. The book laid in front of me, deceptively mundane on my recently purchased Idanäs coffee table. I leaned forward, and there it was: 

Ascension: A wanton pact between demon and conjurer unlike any other. This ritual holds everlasting consequences in both the physical and spiritual realms. To Ascend is to be reborn, to leave one’s flesh behind and become immaterial on par with lesser devils. It is the forced transfiguration of the conjurer’s soul into a higher form. Heresy! Even in the deep, unhallowed circles of Hell. And thus, the price to perform this incantation extends well beyond flesh and blood. In exchange, Andras demands eternal worship from more than just the conjurer: no less than seventy times seven seventy times over mortal souls must kneel in life and thenceforth before this undignified favor is granted. 

Divinity dressed in death. To this day, no record exists of the Ascension ritual being successfully completed. 

At that moment, I finally understood my role in this tale of sorrow: I was a sacrifice. A means to an end. The third of future countless unfortunate bastards marked for eternal penance. All for the sake of one man’s vicious ambition and hate. The full weight of my grim reality bore down on me as I leaned back, mute and in shock, thinking how that Monday morning in the classroom I had in fact woken up on my knees, with my forehead pressed hard against the floor, worshipping an actual demon against my will. Possessed. Tears were not enough. And all my rage, inconsequential. Emma’s haunting pictures plagued my mind. Thompson’s silence became deafening. I was next. 

Albus jumped on my lap and bumped his head on my chest with a soft meow—aware of my distress. I held him tight in return. 

The following paragraph of the black book detailed the steps needed to conjure an audience with the Demon King: ancient artifacts, arcane symbols and incantations in Latin. In other words, exactly what Herb described he’d found around Mr. Clark’s desiccated corpse that summer morning. I spent the rest of the night poring over the voluminous book, desperately looking through its sullen pages for a way out of my misfortune. Unable to rest. Unable to sleep. Unfortunately, for all the dark lore and nefarious wisdom I found, there were no answers in the area of breaking curses—devils don't do take-backs. My fate, it seemed, was sealed. Defeated, I eventually succumbed to the soft couch, giving way to a spiteful slumber, rich in brutal nightmares. 

I woke up to a sepulchral silence. The air in my apartment felt heavy and damp, even sick. Albus was nowhere to be seen. I stretched my limbs and sat up, yawning and feeling slightly hungover from the cheap chardonnay. The book laid open on the coffee table, smug and damned. A delicate hue coming from the partially closed blinds permeated through the living room, still dim, but just enough to…my god. The twisted figure of a man stood on the threshold to my bedroom. The same twisted man I saw in my classroom days ago. The same empty eyes. The same crooked jaw. The same parched skin, malice and ill will. It was him. Mr. Clark. I couldn't move. Gripping the cushion underneath, I spoke the only words I could think of:

“What the fuck do you want?” my voice came out as a whimper. The specter remained still, menacing and unnatural. I felt nauseated. Slowly, his left arm began to move, creaking insidiously as he raised a long, bony finger in my direction. At that moment, every primal instinct of survival took hold of me as I bolted out of my apartment, tripping over every piece of furniture on my way out the front door, barefoot and terrified. Outside under the overcast sky, I kept running—a fear I never knew before pumped hard through my veins. I ran aimlessly, tears streaming quietly down my face. Breathless. I ran, unable to scream. I kept running until my legs gave up and my lungs pleaded to stop...then I ran some more. I had to get away. I didn’t want to die. 

A light drizzle enveloped me as I struggled to catch my breath, my hands resting on my knees. I couldn’t stop shaking. The autumn wind blew mercilessly. Across the street, a Boba tea shop offered shelter in bright colors and plexiglass windows. I walked in and sat on one of the many empty chairs. My feet dirty and sore from the pavement. In my black yoga pants, old NIN t-shirt and messy wet hair with a bewildered expression, I looked no better than a homeless lady. Fortunately, the employee working the cash register paid me no mind. Towards the back of the shop, a group of teens huddled over their phones, sipping tea and taking selfies on occasion—senior students from a nearby school skipping class no doubt. I laid my head down on the table, lost. In shock. Outside, drizzle turned to rain, blurring the view. I knew Mr. Clark was coming for me and I had very little time according to the timeline established by my two predecessors—no more than a few days. The book had yielded no solutions. I thought about Albus alone in my apartment, although my gut told me he wasn’t in danger...it was my soul—a human soul—that Mr. Clark was after. Still, at some point, I would have to go back. 

Outside, a pair of headlights drove by in a hurry...I let out a short gasp. Behind the long streaks of rain running down the window, I caught the sinuous figure of my undead stalker lurking from across the street—ever foul. I winced, scared and powerless. Then, with a dry snap, one of my fingernails detached on its own, falling stiff on the table. What the fuck! There was no blood. No pain. Only a sense of imminent death and the subtle smell of rot. He never leaves. I have nothing left to give. Hugh Thompson’s last words echoed in my head. Mr. Clark skulked from afar. I had to do something, quick. 

Trying my best to act normal, I stood up and walked towards the group of teens. There were four girls and two boys in the bunch, one of whom nudged the others as I approached. By the look on their faces, it was clear that my attempt at being casual had failed. Still, I kept on the charade. 

“Hey guys sorry to bother you! So I left my phone back home,” the boys snickered, “and I’m looking for a church nearby...any chance you could find one and point me in the right direction?” As I closed my mouth, a few teeth fell on my tongue, making me gag. No blood. No pain. The teens cringed in disgust. One of the girls covered her drink and turned the other way, while the others looked in different directions to avoid me. When I was about to turn around and leave, the smallest of the bunch spoke.

“Sure, it’ll just take a second,” she had short red hair and kind eyes. “Here, St. Luke’s is five blocks down the street that way,” she said pointing east. “Are you gonna be OK though ma’m? It’s pouring outside.” I nodded, unable to speak, and gave her the most heartfelt smile I could muster before walking away in a hurry. The muted sounds of teen mockery and pity carried me all the way out the store. Behind the cash register, the employee remained unbothered. Finally outside, I spit out three teeth on the palm of my hand, trembling. On the other side of the street, Mr. Clark remained still—untouched by neither rain nor mercy. 

Frantic to get away, I ran all the way to St. Luke’s desperate for answers, or at the very least, a safe haven from the horror I was in. After all, if devils and vile curses exist, shouldn’t the Almighty and his armies of Light be just as real? Perhaps all I needed was an actual Hail Mary. So for the first time in my life, I went to church, not only willingly, but actually looking for help. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she hardly knew of what. 

St. Luke’s Catholic Church stood so tall I could see it from a mile away. Gothic stone towers and stained glass windows judged the city from above with an impeccable architectural design. As I approached, a pair of commanding wooden doors ushered me inside and into the hallowed ground. The place was dark and quiet. Soaking wet, I walked past a large bronze basin under the gaze of numerous tortured Saints, all brought to life in lead paint and ceramic. An old woman knelt in front of the gilded altar up front; another sat on a pew counting the beads on her rosary, muttering holy words not meant to be heard. I found a place to sit away from them, feeling uneasy and uncertain. Never having been religious, the truth is I had no clue where or how to begin. I felt lost. And yet, the smell of incense and old prayers brought a vague sense of relief. Taking a deep breath, I was just about to give it a go when a hand touched my shoulder. Immediately my whole body jerked away, expecting the worst. This time, there was no hellspawn. Instead, a man dressed in black and a touch of white stood behind me. He was tall and middle-aged, with a full head of peppered hair meticulously combed back. A sharp nose. Dark features. Strong jawline. An elegant gold crucifix rested on his chest while a set of pursed lips decorated his stern expression. His eyes examined the pew underneath me.

“My apologies, Miss,” he said in a silk voice. “Didn't mean to startle you. I am Father Rossi, servant priest of this humble abode. Is there something I can help you with?” Before I could answer, he once again placed his hand on my shoulder and continued in that comforting yet distant tone, reminiscent of a customer service agent on the phone. “I can’t help but notice you’ve been caught in the rain,” he said with a splendidly concerned look on his face. “Here, let me assist you with that,” he took a step back and motioned with his hand for me to stand up and follow him. Already regretting my decision to come, I obliged with a sigh. The priest briefly inspected the spot where I’d been sitting, and with a subtle head movement, he directed an altar boy towards it. Wasting no time, the kid went and fetched a towel from the sacristy. 

“This church was built in the late 19th century, did you know?” the priest mused as we walked towards the open entrance. I remained quiet. “Yes, it’s actually one of the first cathedrals erected by the Holy Seed in this great country. The opalescent glass in our windows was commissioned to John La Farge; the bronze stoup was shipped all the way from Rome herself—a most generous gift from the Archdiocese. And of course I’m sure you can see the intricate limestone work all around us, a true marvel. Yes, everything in here bears witness to something greater than most...even our long benches are part of this grand history.” Gently, he grabbed the back of my arm—I shook him off with emphasis. The priest scoffed. “All that being said, we are very happy that you found us. Sister Agatha will get you some clean clothes and take you to a place where you can dry off.” Like out of thin air, a nun appeared holding a maroon Harvard sweatshirt and a pair of old Levi’s jeans. She wore the traditional attire for her vocation with a threaded scapular around her neck and wrinkles on her face.

“No, listen, thanks but I don’t need your clothes,” I finally managed to get a word in. “What I need is...spiritual help,” saying it out loud felt even more embarrassing than I’d previously thought...beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Oh. You are here to confess,” Father Rossi grinned. “I’m afraid confession times are from...”

“No just, hear me out for a second,” I interrupted. He raised his eyebrows. The nun gasped. “I’ve been...cursed or...something like it. It’s kind of a long story but I need you or...God...to help me out of it.” The priest and the nun looked at each other in condescending agreement. “I know it sounds crazy but this is what the Church does right? Fight the good fight and all that? Isn’t there a prayer or a ritual you can perform to save my soul?” The priest took a deep, practiced breath, followed by a rigid, practiced smile. 

“Of course, that is exactly what we do. Tell me, when did you last take the Holy Communion? I have never seen you in mass.” His words had the unmistakable taste of scrutiny.

“Never but...”

“Never?” He interrupted with an inch of disdain. Sister Agatha crossed herself. “What about the other sacraments? Were you baptized at birth, perhaps?”

“No, my parents...” 

“Ah! Not to worry,” he interrupted again, this time with an air of triumph. “A son will not bear the iniquity of his father...you came to the right place, we are here to help set you straight.” He placed both hands behind his back in a smug demeanor. “Yes, we will sign you up for our upcoming catechism class, from there we can make arrangements to get you bapt...”

“You’re not listening to me!” My voice echoed helplessly against the cold limestone. Both parishioners threw me a quick dirty look before going back to their prayers. The bloodied Saints remained mute. “I will be dead in a matter of days if you don’t help me,” I said, lowering my tone to an assertive whisper. The priest and the nun shared another look. But before either of them or myself could elaborate further, another voice cut through the space between us. 

“F-f-father...” It was the altar boy. He stood in-between the rows of pews, holding the towel on one hand, and on the other...a yellowish, thin sliver of something putrid. Horrified, I looked at the water footprints leading to where I'd been sitting, and realized...it wasn’t water. It was my skin. I looked down at my bare feet...a sickly, wet hue emanated from my soles. Three toenails were missing. Father Rossi covered his nose in disgust. Sister Agatha crossed herself again, repeatedly.

“This is what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I said on the verge of frenzy, “something evil is happening to me and you need to help me, please.” My voice fell flat, powerless against unwilling minds. The priest signaled the boy to keep cleaning then directed his attention towards the nun.  

“Sister, call 911, this woman is in need of medical attention,” he said without looking at me, “and get something disposable to wrap her feet in while they get here.” He took a quick look at my gruesome footprints, “...not from the vestry though, get something from storage.” The nun nodded and scurried away on command. Having had enough, I was just about to leave, when I saw him: twisted and blasphemous, Mr. Clark stood near the pulpit—his black, hollow eyes, as always, fixed on me.

“He’s right there! See!?” I pointed in his direction. “Look at him!” I gripped the priest by the shoulder, making him recoil and grimace for a brief moment. Sister Agatha stopped in her tracks while the parishioners shook their heads in contempt. The altar boy looked in the direction I was pointing at, dumbfounded. “He’s standing right there by the pulpit!” I exclaimed to no avail. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. Father Rossi fixed his cassock and took a step back; his calculated persona back on the driver’s seat. He resumed his learned comfort tactics, but I wasn’t listening anymore. His voice became background noise as Mr. Clark moved towards me in that same sinister fashion: he floated slowly down the aisle—stiff and corrupt—defying God and his Saints, who bore witness in silence, as the Devil’s envoy defiled their own house. I thought about letting him take me right then and there in front of all the self-satisfied, religious fools. Let them live with that…an insidious smirk may have reached my lips at that point, but the truth is...I wasn’t done living...so instead I escaped as fast as I could—manic and undone. No one tried to stop me. 

The heavy wooden doors closed behind me sick of my problems, as I rushed down the stone steps and onto the courtyard. Raindrops battered my head, relentless. In crude fashion, a tuft of hair came off my scalp, falling lifeless on the pavement. I screamed in terror. I wailed in anger. I cried. But no one listened. My sanity was at an edge. In a panic, I looked around for Mr. Clark, but he was nowhere to be seen; only the church’s well-kept hedges and a granite fountain rich in cherubs kept me company under the harsh weather. I was alone. I was lost. I was running out of time. 

It was then, on the brink of despair that a desperate idea crawled into my desperate mind—an idea that would follow me all the way to my deathbed, gods and devils be damned. 

Merton Academy loomed under dark clouds and bad omens. Rain pitter-pattered on the hood of my car as I sat inside waiting for the right moment to sneak in. I didn’t want to be seen in my current state. Albus sat next to me inside his pet carrier; he’d been unnervingly quiet since I picked him up back at my place—he was scared. A large suitcase and an overnight bag laid ready on the back seat. The black book sat on my lap. Finally, the last remaining faculty member ran towards his car shielding himself under a tragically small briefcase; soon he’d be gone, leaving my car and Herb’s old truck as the sole occupants of the ample parking lot. A few minutes later, the lights inside the school shut down. It was time. I put my hoodie on, gave Albus lots of treats, and ventured outside, sprinting towards the teacher lounge and the welcome sound of my keycard beeping me in. Terrified, I set foot inside Merton Academy one last time. 

The dark, symmetric hallways stretched in front of me as I hurried towards my classroom. It was a long way from the lounge and every corner felt like a new excuse for something awful. I even kept my head down to avoid any shadows that might resemble him. The tall metal lockers around me stood somber, like unwilling witnesses to my funeral procession. With every step,  my bones rattled. When I finally got to my room, a meek voice called from the end of the hall.

“Miss?” I flinched at the sound, dropping my keys in the process. A small, familiar shape approached from the shadows.

“Uh, yea hey Herb,” I replied casually, reaching for the floor at the same time. “Oh don’t get too close,” I said. “I’m not wearing my mask, sorry.” Herb stopped immediately. I adjusted my hoodie.  

“Everything ok? It’s kinda late you know,” he said, rubbing the rabbit foot on his keychain. I stood back up and unlocked my door.

“Yea yea, I just have to pick something up real quick, you know how it is. I’ll get out of your hair ASAP,” I replied, turning my face away from him. 

“Alright Miss, I’ll be around for a bit longer...holler if you need anything,” he said tentatively, clearly gearing up for a follow up question I wasn’t going to allow. 

“Will do Herb, thanks,” I said curtly, stepping inside and closing the door at the same time. The haunted classroom embraced me with a grim finality. A bleak moonlight dripped through the windows, touching empty desk chairs and old shelves. Lightning flashed. Rain poured. Once Herb’s shuffled footsteps grew distant, I walked towards the back of the room where Mr. Clark’s old chest remained unbothered; two backpacks and an empty laptop sleeve laid on top of it. I quickly moved them out of the way and opened the chest, determined to carve a way out of the eternal penance I’d been marked for. Using my phone’s flashlight, I looked through the possessions of a dead man who refused to stay dead. Surprisingly, most of the items turned out to be mundane, commonplace things: late documents, outdated wallets, an Omega chrome watch, a great variety of round-framed spectacles, tired trinkets, old photographs and a rugged, wooden chess set. Kings or pawns, emperors or fools I thought as I looked through the yellowed polaroids. There, I saw him for the first time...in his human form: Mr. Clark. Black suit. Strict haircut. Malice in the eyes. He looked just like Kris had described: a well-dressed scarecrow. There he posed, unencumbered around people he despised—a cold shudder ran down my spine. I looked behind me just in case, nothing but shadows and the long-suffering school furniture. I was alone, for now. Back inside the chest, it didn’t take long to find, from amongst the many banal objects, everything I was looking for...or more accurately, everything the book listed as required: white chalk, red candles, ash, an iron cup, plate and dagger. Simple enough. Turns out Mr. Clark wasn’t the only one willing to go all the way, willing to sacrifice mind, body and soul for a single purpose. In other words, madness had set in, and with it, an ill-fated plan: I would perform the summoning ritual myself and strike my own deal with the demon Andras to remove the curse...or I would die trying. 

Worship. Blood traveled slowly down my left forearm, ironically pooling on the beads of my protection bracelet before reaching the floor, where my knuckles and forehead pressed against. Andras pulcherrime, audi preces meas. Behind me, my clothes sat neatly folded on my desk in a morbid display of decorum. The clock ticked doom. The windows trembled. A Solomonic circle made of ash and despair occupied the center of the classroom; the student desk chairs strewn around it gave the impression of an invisible audience. Five unlit candles were placed on the outermost edge of the summoning circle, each one representing the five points of an inverted pentagram. Andras potens, inimicos meos dele. Inside a secondary circle, an ancient sigil in chalk drawn in-between two triangles, each containing the iron plate and dagger respectively—both stained in a deep, viscous red. Finally, a third small circle at the very center held the iron cup filled to the brim with my blood—small price to pay for salvation. Andras iniuste, poenas da iniquitatibus meis.  I felt weak as I recited the conjure over and over, blurring the lines between the material and what we don’t understand. My body ached. My mind endured. FunkoPop Michael Myers watched the grim spectacle from atop one of the shelves, knife at the ready. Suddenly, one of the candles lit up, quickly followed by the next and the next until all five illuminated the old classroom in an eerie red glow. New shadows were born, gently flickering alongside the restless flames. It was then that I realized two things: first, that I couldn’t move—my muscles strained to no avail as I tried to look up. Second, Mr. Clark was kneeling right next to me—his distorted figure loomed beside me. I screamed, but no scream came out of my mouth, only the summoning spell stuck on a loop, in my trembling voice.  

Andras pulcherrime, audi preces meas.

Andras potens, inimicos meos dele.

Andras iniuste, poenas da iniquitatibus meis.

Mr. Clark remained silent. Impervious. Solemn, in a monstrous way. A sixth flame materialized right at the center of the pentagram giving off an unnatural heat, making my skin burn and my hair sizzle. Sweat dripped down my body. Though unable to actually look up at it, I knew it was my blood in the iron cup that was set ablaze—my offering had been accepted. The ritual had worked...and the worst was yet to come. An immense pressure settled in abruptly, and with it, complete silence. My mouth clenched shut. My forehead and knuckles pressed harder against the weary floor. It was as if the Earth’s gravity had increased ten fold and my back was about to snap. I whimpered, struggling to breathe in the stifling heat while Mr. Clark remained unfazed. Finally, the insidious smell of sulfur filled the room, which could only mean one thing: we were in the presence of Andras, Grand Marquis of Hell. His deep red aura dangerous and unbearable. I was at his mercy. 

Andras, dressed in an otherworldly voice, spoke to me in unknown languages, and I listened, somehow understanding every word. Captivated. Bewitched. We visited my past, though none of it felt familiar. He showed me wicked truths and runic wonders. We explored wayward dimensions. We traveled at the speed of light. He revealed the secrets of dead men and fallen angels, showing great disdain for both. He showed me the depravity of human principles. He argued for chaos and death. And I worshipped. And Andras toyed with me too. We plunged into a darkness where laments are never heard—a foul place reserved for those in eternal penance. We dwelled in filth and spoke of trauma. He invaded my mind, peeling off every thought I’d ever had, scratching every lie I ever told. Every sin indulged. Everyone I’d ever hurt and every petty desire I ever had laid bare in front of me, to be judged and dissected. I pleaded with him, asking for deliverance. The Grand Marquis could only laugh. I could only worship. I could only burn. Then, as abruptly as it’d arrived, the divine pressure subsided along with the infernal heat. The classroom went dark again, even cold. Quiet. Andras was gone. Mr. Clark vanished. I was alone again. Wisps of smoke rose gently from the extinguished candles, slowly reaching for the ceiling. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I collapsed on the floor exhausted, but able to move again—broken, but alive. The echo of the Demon King’s last words lingered in my head:

A soul for a soul.

Bring your sacrifice to my servant.

Still reeling from what felt like an aeon under the thumb of a divine despot, I got up and put my clothes back on in a hurry—trembling at the horrid prospect of my own salvation. The old Oxford clock ticked behind me, ever uncompromising. A life for a life. I thought of Emma’s pictures, her painful remains, her tragic end and how much we would look alike once the curse was done. After all, it was already well on its way...and the unnatural heat from the ritual seemed to have made it worse. I put everything back inside the chest and frantically scattered the ashes across the floor. My skin was so dry it cracked with every movement. A soul for a soul. Thompson’s last message settled deep in the hollow pit of my stomach. I have nothing left to give. Before I could rearrange the student desk chairs, a knock on the door stopped me in my tracks. On the other side, a muffled voice called out to me. 

“Hello Miss? You in there?” it was Herb of course, checking in on me as usual. I froze. Distraught. Unsure of what to do next. My tongue felt coarse and dangerously brittle...I was running out of time. 

“Just checkin’ in Miss, I’m just about done here but I can wait if you need more time,” His voice came uneasy, hoping—no doubt—for no answer: I was already gone and he could go home to rest. Instead, an ugly epiphany struck me as I stood there in the dark classroom. Horrifying at first, the loathsome thought slowly took hold until there was nothing else. I wept at my own monstrosity. I recoiled at this sudden callousness. I resented my willingness to let an innocent bear my curse. The old janitor knocked on my door again, begging to die. I touched the stale gash on my face...where my lips used to be. Coward. Putting on my hoodie, I rushed to the door and opened it slightly. 

“Hey Herb, I could actually use a hand over here real quick, would you mind?” my voice came out unusually high, almost shrill. The nervous janitor was already by the next classroom over, pushing his old maintenance cart on his way out. He stopped and turned around, tired and slow. I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to change my mind. 

“Sure Miss, everything ok in there?” He hesitated. The dark hallway wrapped around us. I kept my head down.

“Yea come in, it will only take a second,”  I replied, stepping aside and trying to sound casual. Meek and predictable, Herb shuffled his way towards me—towards the haunted classroom he so rightfully feared. 

“We can turn the lights on, you know Miss? If I’d known you were gonna...”

“Oh it’s ok,” I interrupted. “I just need help with a few chairs in the back...” Herb walked in. Blind. Baited. I closed the door behind us. Desperate. Afraid. The storm raged outside. Herb stood in the middle of the classroom, nervously rubbing the rabbit’s foot dangling from his keychain, surrounded by shadows. He was led like a lamb to the slaughter. I couldn’t hold back my tears. 

“Yea we can put back those chairs real quick Miss...what were you tryna do here any...” Herb turned around to face me when a flash of lightning gave him a glimpse of my grim state. He let out a loud gasp. Fear glazed over his eyes. 

“I’m sorry Herb! I’m so fucking sorry!” I pleaded. My voice was in ruins. My spirit shattered. I may have changed my mind right then and there...but it was too late. Behind the old janitor, Mr. Clark’s twisted form emerged from the shadows—ever crooked and vile. This time, however, his evil intent was not meant for me.

“Wha...wha...” Herb stammered, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. I pressed my back hard against the door, trying to escape the misery I’d created. “What happened Miss? We need to get you some help!” He cried out, still looking out for me—still unaware I’d served him to the Devil himself. 

“Oh my God! Oh my fucking God!” I screamed as Mr. Clark moved towards the unsuspecting janitor, inching closer in a ghastly manner. “I’m so sorry Herb, please forgive me!” I begged through guilt and tears, terrified of what was about to happen. 

“Don’t worry Miss! It’s...it’s gonna be ok! We  just need to get you outta here! This...this place ain’t right!” Herb yelled, scared and visibly shaken. He reached out for me, but before he could get close...the undead abomination haunting Merton Academy reached him instead—sudden and grotesque. In an instant, Herb’s body turned stiff; his breathing accelerated and his muscles spasmed. Everything seemed bent and out of place. His eyes turned wide and dreadful. I could hear a great struggle in his suffocated whimpers. He was in terrible pain. Lightning flashed again, while the sound of my panicked breaths filled the room. Thunder struck. Slowly, Herb turned to face the back of the classroom and began undoing his overalls. His movements were jagged, inhuman. The rabbit’s paw fell heavy on the floor, powerless. Herb continued to undress until he was left naked, twisted and frail—surrounded by books about ancient gods and heroes that could not help him. Then, he proceeded to get on his knees, pressing his forehead and knuckles against the floor. Worship. I couldn’t bear it any longer. My heart pounded the throes of death. My mind wailed on the edge of insanity. Idle apologies and banal regrets clawed their way out of my throat—worthless syllables aimed at the forlorn innocent. The dead authors on the walls bore witness in silence and horror, yet again—a macabre tableau for the traitorous damned. Meanwhile, the book of spells and calamity sat on my desk, finally content. I took off as fast as I could, leaving Herb behind to the bitter fate I’d so callously crafted for him. Possessed. Doomed. Betrayed. The deed was done. I was a monster. A coward. Even worse, I was the villain in my own story—but I was alive. 

I left my classroom in a mad sprint, blindly running straight into Herb’s maintenance cart and falling to the ground alongside the clatter of mops and cleaning supplies. When I looked up, a red glow emanated from the classroom’s sullen window. 

I drove straight to my home state that very same night stopping only for gas and caffeine, lest the horrors left behind found a way to catch up with me. Over the next few days, the Administration tried to reach me regarding my sudden disappearance, but I never reached back. Eventually they gave up. The same thing happened with Kris. A string of one-sided text messages was the last I heard from my former colleague and friend.

Kris: hey didn’t see you in school today, shouldn’t your staycation be over by now? lol 

Kris: hey everything ok? Still haven’t seen you and people here are starting to get worried...

Kris: is this about Mr. Clark? Did something else happen? Give me a call Buffy!

Kris: ??

Kris: the irony here is that now you’re the one who’s ghosting the whole school. What happened? You know you can talk to me. 

Kris: It’s been a whole week. I know you’re not coming back or even return my messages...either way something happened and you need to know. They found Herb this morning in the janitor’s closet...he took his own life. We are having a service for him on Sunday at the school grounds’ cemetery, though I doubt you care enough to show up.    

He was right. I didn’t dare go back, though not for a lack of caring. I was ashamed. Terrified, still. Unable to forgive myself, and rightfully so—there aren’t enough razor blades on this Earth to atone for my sin. Not enough poison to drown out my iniquities. I didn’t dare face the remains of my victim, nor stand at his burial ceremony. A plague on his coffin. A mockery of his good will. Herb deserved better. He still does. 

I didn’t dare look at myself in the mirror; the missing flesh on display, an apt reminder of my betrayal—foul and eternal. And so I never went back to the haunted Academy, where a malicious specter unraveled my sanity; the same place where I communed with the Demon King and traded life for penance...losing my own humanity in the process. Any semblance of peace, forlorn. There is only guilt and ruin—fire and brimstone. I am corrupted by my own hand. A miserable footnote in a long book of death. A plaything in a game between dark gods and their wicked subordinates. Unclean. Unworthy. Fit only for the executioner’s block...in due time. I should’ve known. Devils don't play fair. 

***

Over the long years ahead, I moved relentlessly from small towns to soaring metropolises, from sloppy boondocks to pleasant parishes and forgotten cities. But no matter how far I go, sooner or later they always find me. Subtle at first...an eerie feeling in the dark, a lingering shadow on my doorstep, a creeping dread on the back of my neck. The witching hour beckons. Then comes an incessant wailing, distant and grave, drawing closer with each passing night. There is no escape. Terrible thing, to live in fear. Finally, I see them, Mr. Clark’s ever growing number of victims: morose, dour figures without breath or hope, endlessly carrying the burden of his ambition by the thousands. They come to me. They know, somehow, that I am one of them. They long to be released. They reach for me in righteous anger. They cry in silence. Sad and misshapen, they mourn their cruel fate. Some have tried to do me harm, but they are nothing. And very soon, I will be nothing with them. A legion of empty eyes. A myriad of crooked jaws. The desecrated undead. 

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