314 (Widowsfield Trilogy) Page 9

  “Why do I know about it this time?” asked Jaime. “I can remember all the other times this happened, and I never felt this way before.”

  They both stared through the books on the shelves at the chaos in the library. Students were crying as the teachers tried to overturn tables to keep the creatures in the fog from breaking through the glass. Anna knew it was useless. In minutes, the window would shatter and the demonic, twisted children would rush in. They were the children that The Skeleton Man gave up on. They became his soldiers, and their hatred mutated their fragile bodies into demonic, dog-like creatures.

  She could hear their paws scratching at the windows.

  “He searched us this time,” said Anna. “He let us know him because he wants to find the one he lost. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, or how old she is now. If he can find her, then he can start this all over in a way that he’s never done before. He let us know him the way the children do because he wants to find the girl he lost.”

  “I know her name,” said Jaime.

  Anna held her friend’s hand as they continued to look through the books. “I do too.”

  Jaime said it, “Alma Harper.”

  The glass broke.

  Jaime and Anna embraced as they waited for their inevitable death. Then it would begin anew, slightly different from the times before, and they would forget the prying mind of The Skeleton Man as he continued to try to complete the circle.

  16 Years Later

  March 10th, 2012

  Alma was in her classroom and an oversized, ornate harp was beside her desk. The instrument’s strings were black and thicker than they should’ve been.

  “Miss Harper?” asked one of her students.

  “Yes, Dave, what is it?”

  Dave had his head on his desk and his arms draped at his sides. He didn’t lift his head as he spoke. “Are you pretty?”

  “Excuse me?” asked Alma.

  Claire Powell, a popular, pretty girl that sat at the front of the class, raised her hand and wiggled her fingers in the air. She didn’t wait for Alma to give her permission before she spoke. “He wants to know if you’re ugly.”

  “What sort of question is that?” Alma’s heart raced and she felt as if she’d been transported back to high school where social standing was a constant concern. She desperately wanted to be one of the pretty girls, but she wasn’t. Llama Harper is what the kids used to call her and she never understood why. They used to cut out pictures of Llamas and tape them to her locker. It was the sort of careless bullying that provided short-lived amusement for the aggressors, and a lifetime of heartache and doubt for the victim.

  “Your mouth is bleeding,” said Dave, his head still down.

  Alma put her hand over her mouth and felt wetness. She inspected her palm and discovered a smear of dark red blood. The children laughed as she searched in her drawer for a handkerchief, but there was nothing but pens inside the desk. She rifled through the hundreds of pens in search of anything that could clean her blood, but there was nothing to be found. The children continued to laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” said Alma as she gave up her search. When she closed the drawer, it rattled as if there had been change inside.

  The bell rang and frightened Alma. Her mouth was in pain now and the clanging of the bell seemed to aggravate her mysterious wound. The children sprang from their seats, gathered their things, and rushed for the door. They laughed as they passed Alma, furthering her embarrassment.

  Alma went to the counter at the rear of the room where there were paper towels and a sink. There were craft supplies littering the area from the art class that used this room part of the time and Alma shoved the bottles of glue and glitter away. She cupped her hands to collect the cold water and splashed it on her face. The blood and water swirled around the stainless steel drain, but didn’t seem to go down. It just kept spinning as the colors blended. Glitter, glue, and paint mixed with the blood and water to create a hypnotic spiral that wouldn’t dissipate.

  Alma took a few paper towels from beside the sink and put them into her mouth to search for the source of the blood. She felt her shoes sticking to the floor and wondered if the glue had spilled on her feet. Her attention flitted between concerns as the spilled glitter and glue dripped from the edge of the counter.

  She felt stinging pain from one of her lower incisors. The tooth wiggled at the slightest provocation. Alma took the paper towel out of her mouth and started to press at the back of the tooth with her tongue. It bent forward until it brushed against the inside of her lip.

  The tooth wiggled back and forth as she prodded it. Blood continued to pour out of her mouth as she gripped the tooth between her thumb and index finger. It took no effort to dislodge the incisor and she rinsed it off before inspecting it. The tooth looked normal and healthy, white with lengthy roots.

  “Alma?” Blair Drexler, the head of the PTA, was at the door.

  Alma swiftly hid the tooth in her front pocket and then rinsed more blood from her face. The water still swirled in the sink, refusing to go down the drain. She didn’t turn to greet Blair and focused on the mess.

  “Hi Blair,” said Alma as she struggled to clean herself.

  “Is everything okay?” Blair’s high heels clicked on the tile as she walked toward Alma. Blair was an upper class housewife, always adorned with jewelry that was worth more than a month of Alma’s pay.

  “Fine, fine, I’m fine,” said Alma as she tried to hide what had happened. She wiped the counter and tossed the bloody paper towel into the trash. Her blood smeared, as if it were made of oil. The glue and glitter were gone now, as if her blood had soaked it up.

  Blair was at Alma’s back. “We’re all waiting for you.”

  Alma didn’t turn, fearing that blood still stained her chin.

  “Waiting for me? Why?”

  “It’s time for your party. We can’t do this without you.”

  Alma shook her head and got more paper towels to clean up with. “No, I’m not going. I can’t. Sorry, but I’m just too busy right now.”

  “It’s your party.” Blair put her hand on Alma’s shoulder.

  Someone started to play the harp, which startled Alma. She glanced over to see the principal, Mrs. White, seated beside the massive golden instrument, strumming the black strings. The instrument seemed warped now, as if it had been slowly melting behind her back.

  “Don’t disappoint us,” said Mrs. White. She plucked the strings and the sound they emitted was unnaturally low. Each note seemed to fade in and out as if Alma was moving closer to the source and then away again, over and over.

  “Okay,” said Alma. “I just need a little time. Maybe, like, ten minutes? Would that be okay?”

  Blair looked perturbed, but nodded before walking away. Mrs. White got up from the seat beside the harp and met Blair at the door. Her hands were bloody, and Alma noticed that the instrument’s strings were dripping wet now.

  “We’ll see you in the auditorium,” said Blair.

  Mrs. White looked at Alma before she left the room. The principal’s teeth were chattering as she smiled and left.

  Alma breathed a sigh of relief after they were gone and turned back to the sink. She set her hands on the counter and leaned forward. The water had finally disappeared, but the sink’s drain catch was missing, leaving only a black hole at the bottom now. Alma leaned further forward to peer into the hole when she felt something fall past her open lips.

  Another tooth clinked against the porcelain sink and spun around the basin. She tried to catch it, but the tooth fell into the hole before she could stop it.

  Alma clapped her hand over her mouth as she felt another tooth begin to slip out of her gums. She whimpered as she searched her mouth with her tongue. The metallic taste of blood overwhelmed her as more teeth sprang free. The blood gagged her, and she wretched. She had no choice but to open her mouth, but she didn’t want her teeth to fall into the drain. Alma stepped back and watched as blood and teet
h fell from her mouth and hit the tile floor as if she were vomiting a macabre meal. She staggered to one of the student’s desks and fell into the seat. Blood covered her blouse and one of her teeth was stuck between her sock and loafer. There was glitter in the blood on her hands.

  Students laughed from the room’s entrance. She looked over to see a crowd of children at the door.

  “Get out of here!” She screamed at them. Blood and spittle trickled from her toothless gums.

  They pointed and laughed.

  A tall man stood behind them, shrouded by what appeared to be smoke in the hallway. She couldn’t see any details about him except his wide, smiling mouth. His teeth chattered as the children bellowed with laughter.

  Alma opened her eyes.

  Her pillow was wet from sweat and she pushed it aside as she sat up. It was still dark outside and she put her hand over her mouth to reassure herself that it was just a dream. This was a familiar occurrence. She’d suffered from the recurring dream of her teeth falling out for nearly as long as she could remember. The circumstances of the dream often changed, but the setting was usually the same. It almost always happened in a school, with children laughing at her as the tall man in the shadows watched it all unfold. No one ever helped her.

  Alma looked at the red LED display on the alarm clock beside her bed.

  3:14

  “Fuck you,” said Alma as she reached out for the clock. She lifted it and paused a moment to calm herself. Her instinct was to throw it across the room, but that seemed childish. Instead, she decided just to pull the cord hard enough to unplug it, but when she tried the clock slipped from her hands and bounced off the edge of the bed to the floor. It landed with the time face up, blaring the reminder of her mother’s insanity in bold, red light.

  She groaned in embarrassment, thankful that no one was around to see her pathetic attempt to pull the plug. Alma lay back on her pillow and stared at the ceiling as she recalled the details of yet another of her recurring dreams about her teeth.

  Alma stared at the ceiling, which was now illuminated by the red light of the clock on the floor. She was waiting for the color to flash, a sign that the time had changed. It would feel like a minor victory to wait for the minute to pass before putting the clock back on the nightstand. It was a ludicrous thought, and one she wouldn’t like to admit to anyone, but it felt sane to her. Perhaps it was a symptom of OCD, but her mother’s obsession with the date of Alma’s brother’s disappearance had turned into a curse.

  The red light flickered on the ceiling.

  Alma excitedly rolled to the side of the bed and stared down to see if the minute had passed yet. She felt like a child at Christmas, peeking down the stairs at her pile of presents.

  3:14

  “Mother fucker!” She threw the covers off and got out of bed. This time she would make sure the damn thing came out of the wall.

  The number had defeated her, and she was furious. She would later say that her manic behavior was because of her lack of sleep and bad dreams, but in truth her battle with the ever-present number was all-encompassing at times. Alma gripped the clock in one hand while grabbing the cord with the other. She pulled it hard enough that the nightstand fell over as the cord whipped away from the wall. The kitchen knife that she’d placed beside the clock bounced on the carpet.

  The clock’s number faded away, but that didn’t sate her. Alma threw the clock against the wall and it exploded into bits of plastic and pieces of electronics. She yelped as the shards flew back at her.

  She started to chuckle at her own insanity as she stared at the remnants of her alarm clock on the white carpet. Her awakening from the dream had left her in a fragile state, and her thoughts didn’t make sense to her anymore. As bizarre as it sounded, she’d been afraid that the number 314 would be angry when she broke the clock. She was worried it would try to hurt her.

  How ridiculous.

  Someone pounded on the front door.

  The sound terrified Alma. She cried out in surprise and then clapped her hands over her mouth. The door to her bedroom was open and the hallway led straight out to the front door.

  The person outside pounded harder.

  Alma looked for her phone, but it was in her purse on the counter beside the front door. She never bothered to get a landline, and instead used her cell phone for everything. Now she regretted that decision as she stared at her purse on the counter, just feet from the front door.

  “Alma, open the door,” said a stranger. “Or I’ll break it down.”

  She needed her phone, or better yet a weapon. A kitchen knife would do. She looked around for the knife that she’d left on the nightstand, but it had bounced away somewhere in the room and she couldn’t find it.

  “All right, I’m going to break it down,” said the stranger.

  “Stay out! Get away from here!” Alma knew she had to act. She ran down the hall and into the kitchen just as the stranger kicked the door. It rattled on its hinges and Alma screamed in shock. She tried to grab her purse, but then decided it was too late to try and call the police. The purse spun on the counter as she abandoned it in search of a knife. Her phone, wallet, keys, and Rachel’s business card spread out over the counter as the front door rattled again.

  “Alma,” said the stranger. “Stay back. I’m coming in!”

  “Who the hell?” Her hands were shaking as she pulled a knife from the butcher’s block. “Who are you? Stop it! What are you doing?”

  The trim around the deadbolt splintered and the door flung open. Alma was on the other side of the breakfast counter with the knife held out in front of her as a tall, thick man clad in a winter coat and stocking cap came bounding haphazardly in. He stumbled forward and lost his balance before cursing as he fell to his knees.

  Alma wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to get the upper hand. She ran around the counter as the man crouched with his hand on one of the bar stools. He started to ask, “Are you okay?”

  Alma was quick to fight, and heard his question after already starting to kick. Her strike faltered when she realized he wasn’t threatening her, but her foot still collided with his face. The chubby intruder fell backward onto his butt and clasped his nose with one hand and held out the other to tell her to stop.

  “Hey! Hold up, Alma. I’m a friend of Paul’s.”

  “What?” Alma held the knife with both hands, unwilling to believe the stranger and ready to kill him if he dared try anything.

  “I’m a friend of Paul’s. I’m Jack, well actually Hank, but everyone calls me Jack, it’s short for Jacker. Which is a nickname I got in high school because I liked computers, which is probably more than you needed to know. Point is, I’m a friend. Jesus H. Christ, girl, you nearly took my head off.” He spoke frantically, as if frightened or nervous.

  “What are you doing here?” Alma was suddenly embarrassed, not by the fact that she’d attacked an innocent stranger, but because she was only wearing a long t-shirt and underwear. She pulled the t-shirt down further to cover herself as she backed around the breakfast counter from the stranger.

  “Paul needed some sleep.” Jacker inspected his hand after holding his nose, seeming to expect blood. He sniffled and then rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. He was a rotund guy, tall and boyish looking. His whiskers were scant, but he seemed to be trying to grow a beard anyhow. He wore small, round glasses that would’ve been more suited for a German scientist than a man like him. He was embarrassed by what he’d done to the door and his cheeks were turning red, which gave him a cherub appearance. Curly black hair escaped his stocking cap, pointing out in all directions.

  “Sleep?” asked Alma. She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  Jacker pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “He’s down in my van, getting some shut eye and I came up here to keep an eye on you. Well, I mean, not actually keep an eye on you; not spying or anything. I’m not a peeping tom, or my nickname would’ve been Tommy.” He chuckled, b
ut Alma didn’t reciprocate and he continued to try and explain. “All right, I’m striking out here. You’re obviously okay, and I obviously, well, I over-reacted a little.” He motioned at the broken door. His mannerisms were frantic, as if he’d taken caffeine pills to stay awake.

  Alma nodded and stared at him with wide eyes. “Yeah, ya think?”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Why are you here? Why is Paul sleeping in a van in the parking lot?”

  Jacker was baffled and he scratched at his sparse, scraggly whiskers. “He said we had to keep guard; didn’t say why. He just said to keep an eye out for creepy old guys around the complex, and to listen for you to scream for help or something. So that’s why, well, yeah,” he motioned at the door. “That’s why that just happened.” He rubbed his nose again.

  Alma finally relaxed and put the kitchen knife back into the butcher’s block. “For crying out loud, you scared the living crap out of me.”

  “Well, you paid me back with a swift kick to the nose.” Jacker wiggled his nose back and forth and then snickered.

  “Sorry, but you kind of deserved it,” said Alma, but her harshness softened. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, I’m fine,” said Jack. “Although, swear to God, I think you got your pinkie toe like straight up in there.” They both laughed and Jacker continued, “Seriously, I think you scratched my brain. When I pay for your door I’ll make sure to throw in a couple extra bucks for you to get a pedicure.”

  Alma laughed, but then pointed at him as if in warning. “Watch it, mister. I don’t know you well enough to put up with jokes about my feet.”

  Jacker put up his hands in defeat and then walked to door to inspect it.

  “Everything okay down there?” asked the widow that lived upstairs as she peered down from the stairwell. Alma walked around the breakfast counter and past Jacker so that she could see Mrs. Peterson. The old woman was in her slippers and a pink robe. She was crouched near the top of the stairs and was bent down just far enough to peer into Alma’s apartment. “Should I call the cops?”