CHAPTER ONE
1389 Words
CHAPTER ONE
Raindrops pattered against the half-open window, and Arthur Hubbard watched droplets fleck through the screen across the peeling windowsill. He reclined in his padded office chair, feet on his faux oak desk as he tracked the trail of water now spilling down the wall and pooling on the dusty tiled ground.
The paint beneath the windowsill was already cracked and warped. Maintenance had promised to fix the window three weeks ago but, so far, he'd seen neither hide nor tail.
Art grunted, shifting a bit and causing his chair to squeak. He gave a lethargic kick towards the mop bucket they'd provided. The plastic lip pressed against a puffed portion of warped paint, but the water just trickled around this, still pooling on the ground.
“Seems about right,” he muttered, listening to the rain. “Just two years left...” He murmured to himself. “Two years...”
Retirement now dangled before him like a carrot on a very short stick. High school teachers in Eugene, Oregon, didn't have much else to look forward to in Arthur's opinion. He reached up, dusting some “everything bagel” crumbs from his unbuttoned collared shirt, and then, shifting his girth, he wheezed and turned back to his computer, away from the offending window.
His eyes traced the buzzing screen, but it was starting to give him a headache. All this infernal damn technology. Things weren't like they used to be back in the old days. Thirty years now, stuck in the same job, and they couldn't fix a stinking window.
He glanced towards the analog Daffy Duck clock on his wall—a gift from his niece. Nearly ten PM.
Late. Always late. He glanced at the computer screen again, his eyes glazing over as he tried to re-read another page of an essay. Not a single paragraph break in the damn thing. Two of the sentences had punctuation three font sizes larger than the rest of the document. He'd also checked the spaces between the words: double. Kids these days thought they were clever. But really, teachers just couldn't be bothered to call them on their s**t half the time.
He sighed, clicked down to the bottom of the three-page paragraph camouflaged as a five-page essay, and typed in red letters, “Grade: C. Solid stuff, John—keep an eye on those paragraphs!”
He glanced at the clock. 10:02.
Time to get home. The rest of the papers would have to wait. He clicked off his computer and reached for his laptop bag. At that moment, though, he frowned, hearing a soft squeak. His chair again?
He wiggled his hips, and the chair gave another squeak. The tapping raindrops through the window had now reached something of a crescendo. A flash of lightning streaked the sky outside, and moments later, thunder rumbled.
Slowly, he arose from his chair.
He heard another squeak, like a rubber sole against tiled floor.
He turned sharply, glancing over his shoulder towards his open office door. “Hello?” Art called out into the hallway. “Anyone there?” He frowned now, turning slowly and feeling a crick in his back.
Damn chairs without lumbar support... damn rain... damn windows...
He stared towards the gaping doorway, peering out into the dark hall. His vision struggled to adjust following a five-hour session sitting in front of blue light. But as he stared at the hall, he heard another sound... footsteps.
“Hello?” he called, louder now. “Gabby, is that you? Ross?”
No reply.
“Ross—I thought you left for the night!” he called, taking a tentative step towards the door. Even the janitors got out before he did.
But again, no reply.
Now, no longer startled, Arthur could feel his bad mood returning. He glanced towards the Daffy Duck clock, and then, eyes narrowed, he reached down and hefted his briefcase. With one hand on his twinging back, he moved towards the door. The sound of the raindrops missing the mop bucket behind him only further increased his irritation.
“No one is supposed to be here after hours,” he called, his tone hardening. Students, probably. On a dare. Damn kids. Couldn't even leave him in peace at night. He reached the door, pausing for a moment as the sound of footsteps continued. “Only two more years...” he muttered to himself, picturing sunny Florida beaches and Mrs. Hubbard in that sexy little one piece she wore.
There was something off about the footsteps, though. As he'd called out, they hadn't picked up pace. Students, normally, when caught would flee or blubber.
But these footsteps weren't retreating, and no voice was forthcoming. Just a steady tap of rubber soles against tiled ground.
“H-hello?” he stammered, a slow chill suddenly spreading up his spine. “Ross?”
Then, at last, he heard a voice. It didn't speak, but it started whistling. A quiet, humming tune like Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Or perhaps The ABC Song.
The sound drew nearer, then nearer still.
For a brief second, as Arthur Hubbard stood in the doorway, he reconsidered his approach. One hand moved hesitantly towards his door handle. Perhaps he'd best call security, or even the police. Something was off here.
The whistling drew nearer, along with the steady rhythmic trot of the footsteps. Now, the horrifying chill up his spine even overshadowed his twinging back pain.
“H-hello,” he said, a squeak in his voice all of a sudden.
The footsteps stopped. The whistling ceased.
All he could hear now was the tap of raindrops behind him. A flash of lightning illuminated the room. But the thunder never came.
Or, at least, he never heard it.
No whistling, no steps... Had someone stopped right outside his door? Was that breathing he could hear on the other side of the wall? “Ross?” he whispered.
Mr. Hubbard swallowed, feeling the prickle along his back; should he check the hall?
Something in him, some deep instinct born from thirty years of interacting with rooms full of mischief-makers told him to slam the door and lock it. But while his instincts were still on point, his arthritis offered other suggestions.
His fingers tremored as he reached for the door handle, prepared to swing it shut.
Then, a sudden blur swished around the doorframe, lunging at him. Arthur yelled and was sent tumbling back, toppling over his chair and striking the red bucket. His shoulders hit the wet floor, and his back jolted with pain.
He felt more raindrops against his cheeks, against his face. His eyelashes fluttered and a groan escaped his lips.
Then, the shadow from earlier approached him, looming for a second. The face was fuzzy thanks to the raindrops and Arthur's pounding head. He groaned, trying to sit up, but the person extended a foot, pressing it gently against Arthur's chest.
Arthur gasped, trying to breathe, spluttering as he did. “Get off me!” he groaned. “Get off!”
The whistling started again... The same tune of A...B...C...D... Twinkle, twinkle, little star... The form above him turned, slowly. Not to walk away, though. Instead, he positioned himself, then slowly lowered, sitting on Arthur's chest and trapping the older teacher's arms.
Arthur groaned, trying to sit up. But in his wife's words, he had the arms of a thinking man. He'd never so much as lifted a weight in his life. Now, his arms were trapped, and his legs too. He began kicking, desperately.
Who was this? A student? One of the janitors? Some sort of sick prank? Why was this person sitting on his chest? He could barely breathe.
“I—I can't,” he tried to protest, wheezing now.
And then, he watched something slip from his attacker's waistband. A gloved hand emerged, holding something glinting and thick.
Another flash of lightning and Arthur's chest flooded with horror.
His attacker was carrying a hacksaw.
A...B...C...D... Still whistling that same cheerful tune, without so much as a word, the fellow on his chest moved the saw out of sight. He was sitting facing Mr. Hubbard's legs.
Arthur continued gasping, wheezing, blinded by raindrops, shoulders soaked now, head pulsing. The lightning was gone, and with it came only darkness.
- Writer
