Glimpses: The Best Short Stories of Rick Hautala (3 page)

—
No, nightmares!

... he'd had about this place.

"Jesus Christ," he repeated, shivering so wildly he had to hug himself to make sure he was real.

Reflections from the sunlit street behind him made it difficult for him to see very much inside the school, but he could make out a dusty bar of sunlight, angling into the dark, dusty upstairs corridor from an opened classroom door on the left. The light looked solid, a sickly brownish-yellow … like the sepia tones of an old photograph.

That used to be Mrs. Doyle's fifth-grade classroom
, Pete thought with a hollow twisting of nostalgia.

Gussie Doyle. . . . How long ago since she died?

His mind filled with a rush of memories about his fifth-grade teacher—of the time he thought he'd lost his lunch box and had started to cry in front of the whole class only to find it buried beneath his papers inside his desk … of the time Phil Ricci, one of the school bullies, had beaten him up on the baseball field during recess, right there between second and third base, all because Pete hadn't paid him back the nickel he had borrowed for a pack of bubble gum a week ago … of the afternoon when Sally Phillips had heard the town fire horn signal a fire in her neighborhood and, worried that it might be
her
house, had started to cry so hard she pissed in her pants … of the time Ralph Haley had felt sick to his stomach and, not knowing what else to do, had lifted up his desktop and thrown up into it, all over his books and papers, to the great amusement of the class.

Mesmerized by this flood of reminiscences, Pete leaned forward until his nose was pressed flat against the wire-mesh glass. He couldn't get rid of the sensation that he truly was looking back in time into another dimension.

He glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was three-fifteen.

Three-fifteen … the exact time when school used to let out.

He looked up, half-expecting to hear the sudden clanging of the school bell on the wall and see a rush of students, charging into the hallway toward the front door and freedom.

Chilled sweat trickled down his sides from his armpits. Rubbing his hands over his face, he stepped back and cast a nervous glance toward the swings. The building blocked his view of the playground and cut off any sound. He could no longer hear the shrill squeal of Ryan's laughter or the squeaking of rusty swing chains. It was like he was inside a glass bell jar, looking out at the world.

"All right... all right, than," he whispered to himself. "You've seen enough." His voice had a harsh quality that grated on his nerves.

Taking hold of the doorknob again, he pulled back on it hard and spun it around. A shocking jolt as bright and sharp as a bolt of lightning shot through him when the door latch clicked.

He whimpered softly when he pulled back on the door, and it opened slowly with a low, chattering groan.

"Oh, Jesus!... Oh, shit!" Pete whispered, looking around fearfully as if searching for an escape route.

A rush of stale, warm air wafted over him like a dusty breeze from inside a tomb. It carried with it a teasing mix of aromas, so subtle yet strong they were more like tastes than smells. They stirred Pete's senses and memories—

The warm sting of old varnish burned the back of his tongue ... the scratchy mustiness of stale air irritated his eyes and the inside of his nose .. . the smell of ancient floor wax felt thick and pasty in his throat... and—beneath all of that—something else ... something that had a faint, sickening tinge of decay and rot. It hit Pete's stomach hard, like a clenched fist.

For several seconds, he stood there with the door braced open with his hip. Finally, realizing that someone might drive by and see him breaking into the school, he sucked in a breath of fresh air as if it were his last and stepped inside the building. The hydraulic door closer wheezed loudly as it pulled the door shut behind him. The heavy latch clanged with the sharp finality of a jail cell slamming shut. The sound echoed through the deserted corridor.

I can't believe this … I'm actually in here!
Pete thought as an icy thrill ran through him.

He moved hesitantly toward the stairway as though hypnotized. Once upon a time, the wooden risers had been painted flat black with black rubber protective edges. Now, the tan ovals of bare wood were showing through from wear. Cupped depressions marred each step close to the railing where the heaviest foot traffic had passed over many decades.

As he started up the stairs, Pete automatically reached out for the handrail to steady himself. He was mildly surprised by its smooth, comforting feel that was so familiar. It was as if he had touched it every day of his life as recently as yesterday.

He took each step cautiously, one at a time, not at all surprised when the treads creaked loudly underfoot. The low, groaning sound of old wood made him wonder if the stairs were even safe after all these years of disuse, but he reminded himself that the school had been open up until about ten years ago. There was nothing to worry about unless it was getting caught trespassing on public property.

The schoolhouse had trapped the stale summer heat like an oven. Even before he got to the top-floor landing, he was dripping with sweat. In the rectangle of light that fell across the old wood floor, he saw every detail of the floor in sharp relief … every dirt-filled crack between ancient boards, every rusted nail head … every swirl of wood-grain pattern worn to a dull black gloss with age stood out with near-hallucinatory clarity.

At the top of the stairs, Pete paused and wiped his face on his bare forearm.

The stale air was making his throat raw, as if he were running a fever. He looked longingly down the hall to the old porcelain water fountain, which was attached to the wall. He doubted there was any chance the water would still be turned on, but just seeing the fountain—the "bubbler," as he and his friends used to call it—made him remember all those times he had asked to be excused from class to get a drink. Beneath the layers of dust and dirt, the dull white gleam of old porcelain showed through the grime like rotting bone.

One detail which he didn't remember from when he was a student here was the pale brown pine wainscoting lining both sides of the corridor. The varnish had yellowed with age and was peeling off and laced with cracks like old river ice. Between the parallel joining grooves as well as in the angles where the wall met the floor, there was a thick accumulation of dust and black gunk. He wondered if rats had free run of the schoolhouse now.

Pete walked over to the door and entered Gussie Doyle's old classroom. He was surprised to see the desks and chairs still there, all lined up in neat, narrow rows as though waiting for another onrush of noisy students. The desks looked much smaller than Pete remembered them. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows and glanced like white fire off the dusty aluminum sills. The heat in the room was stifling. Scores of trapped flies and hornets bounced against the grimy glass and tangled themselves in the clots of cobwebs as they sought a way out. The sill was littered with the dried husks of those who had failed.

The room looked and felt incredibly ancient, but everything still appeared to be in order. Pete let out a grunt of surprise when he saw what looked like a small, slouch-shouldered person standing in the coat closet at the back of the room. It took him a heart-stopping moment to realize it was an old coat someone had left behind. On the teacher's desk was a faded ink blotter, a cobweb-draped cup filled with pens and pencils, and a row of dusty textbooks with heavy lead bookends. Pete had the distinct impression that the closing of the school had caught everyone by surprise.

Everything was waiting for the new school year to begin.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Pete inhaled deeply, letting the peculiar mixture of smells fill his mind with a kaleidoscope of memories. In spite of his gathering nervousness, he felt a deep sense of peace here, too—a quietude that soothed him like he had never been soothed before.

He wondered how he ever could have twisted a place as peaceful and quiet as this—a place so full of warm, nostalgic memories—into such nightmare images.

Maybe his nightmares simply originated in a longing he felt for his own lost childhood—a deep, indescribable yearning for those precious times that were gone and, he knew, could never be recaptured or relived.

His reverie was cut short when a door slammed shut somewhere out in the corridor.

"Shit," he whispered as the sound reverberated in the hall.

Someone else is in here.

Spinning on one foot, he stared at the door, more than half-expecting to see hump-shouldered, gray-haired Mrs. Doyle standing in the doorway, scowling at him as only she could.

His first rational thought was that the school custodian might have stopped by to check on the place. Maybe someone had seen him enter the school and had called the police. Or maybe Cindy had come inside, looking for him.

Holding his breath, Pete tip-toed over to the door and looked out into the hall. He was acutely aware that the sunlight coming in through the windows behind his back would cast his shadow ahead of him. It would give him away in an instant.

The corridor appeared to be deserted, but Pete froze in place, holding his breath and waiting either to hear the sound repeated or the sound of approaching footsteps.

Nothing.

After the longest time, he exhaled and took a slow, shallow breath.

The stifling air inside the school muffled all sound with such density that it felt as though his ears were packed with cotton. When he caught a quick flutter of motion at the far end of the corridor to his left, he dismissed it as his eyesight, adjusting to the gloom.

Still, he didn't quite dare move out into the hallway.

Not yet.

He had to be absolutely positive he was alone.

And then a thought hit him … hard enough to make his stomach drop.

What if this is another one of my dreams?

A panicky shudder ran through him.

No
, he told himself.
This can't possibly be a dream. If it was, then when had it started?

Could he still be in bed, back at his mother's house?

Or what if he had dozed off while sitting in his mother's hospital room?

Or maybe the dream had started even further back than that.

Maybe he had never even come back east with Cindy and Ryan.

Maybe he was still back home in
San Diego … in bed and dreaming
all
of this.

"No," Pete whispered, his voice tight and trembling. "That's not possible. This is
real
. This is
happening
."

He raised his hands in front of his face and focused on them. The sunlight shining over his shoulder made every hair, every wrinkle, every pore in his skin, every vein and tendon in his hand and wrist stand out in sharp relief. The hot blast of sunlight warmed his back. The tightness in his chest was getting worse, and the short, shuddering breaths he was taking did little to relieve his panic rising inside him.

No. You don't get sensations like this in a dream!

Then, just as he was starting to relax, a strange sound echoed in the stairwell at the far end of the corridor. It was low, soft, and sounded like—someone crying.

It reverberated in the stairwell with a distorted, hollow sound.

Pete's feet dragged like lead weights across the creaking floorboards as he moved slowly out into the corridor, drawn by that teasing, elusive sound.

The soft, muffled cry had sounded more like an animal in pain than a person. He listened hard, and there it was—at the edge of hearing. Although he didn't want to believe it, he knew he hadn’t imagined it. It was coming from the far end of the corridor, probably from somewhere downstairs. His heart punched hard against his ribs when he realized that it had to be coming from down in the boys' basement!

Oh, Jesus … No … Not down there!

A choking sensation gripped his throat as he shuffled slowly past Mrs. Kuhn’s fourth-grade classroom. At the far end of the hall, the large window above the stairwell was filmed with dust and grime, clotted with spiderwebs. There wasn't much available sunlight. A soft, sepia glow filled the area with a smoky haze.

The closer Pete got to the stairwell, the more it looked to him like a deep, dark pit, much darker and deeper than he remembered it.

All the while, the faint, sniffing cry continued to resonate in the corridor, luring him forward like the strong, irresistible pull of the tide.

"This is fucking
crazy
," he whispered to himself.

His own voice sounded harsh in the hallway, like metal rasping against stone; but that didn't stop him from gripping the handrail at the top of the stairs and starting down.

With each step, the crying grew louder, but Pete had the odd impression that it was also fading away, retreating from him with every step.

No matter how silently he tried to walk, his footsteps thumped heavily on the stairs. Ancient wood creaked beneath his weight, making his ears ring with tension.

There's no way! … No way! … There can't be anyone down there!