“So!” Aubrey clapped and said, “Who’s bringing what?” She pointed at Damien.

“A fully charged laptop,” he said and then she pointed at Sophia.

“The snacks,” she said.

“And I’ll be the one drivin’ yo asses around,” Aubrey said with a smile. “I’ll buy food and probably bring board games as well.”

“What food?”

“Either pizza or a gatsby.”

“Gatsby,” Damien said.

“Gatsby it is. Can any of you get a fire extinguisher? These demon incid—”

“Arsonistic incidents,” Damien interrupted.

“Okay fine. These arsonistic incidents are no joke. Maybe we need to fight a man with a flamethrower. And in a forest.”

“We’re going to a forest?” Sophia asked.

“Ja. We found this small home in the forest a while ago, abandoned. Where did you think we were going?”

“I thought we were just going to one of your houses.”

“We can argue that it is our house. Nobody’s been in it for who knows how long and nobody’s come to claim it since we found it.”

“I don’t think my parents will be fine with this.”

“Don’t tell them,” Aubrey said, “Trust us. It’s safe. We’ve been sleeping over for a long time now and it’s like the place doesn’t even exist to the rest of the world.”

“Maybe this one time it isn’t safe.”

“Sophia. This place is safe. If there were any danger there at all, we would’ve known about it by now.”

“I’m still not sure I want to go,” Sophia said, “Maybe I just shouldn’t come.”

“She isn’t wrong,” Damien said, “If something were to go bad, it would’ve happened by now.” Sophia looked at Damien. “Trust us. There were times when crimes and stuff shot up and that house was probably the safest place to be. Like Aubrey said, it’s as if the house is in a world of its own.”

Sophia sighed, then nodded and asked, “Is there anything in particular I should bring?”

“There isn’t a bath or shower. Just bring a really good deodorant.”

“And a flashlight,” Damien added, “There’s no electricity in or near that place. It’s like camping in a house.”

“And you have no idea who owned the house?”

“No.”

“But it’s old as heck,” Aubrey said, “The way it was built and the leftover clothing in it leads us to believe it’s medieval... which is strange. A European, medieval home in a South African forest.”

The intercom beeped and the bell rang. Aubrey looked at her watch. “Right on time!” she said. They all picked up their bags.

“Where’s mister Halliday’s classroom?” Sophia asked, “I’m in his tutor group.”

“So am I!” Aubrey answered enthusiastically, “Just come with me. Before we go to the class, we have the house assembly.”

______

Twist it a bit. No, that’s wrong! Stretch it? Flip it? FOR FUCK’S SAKE. I lost it! Why won’t it connect? Is it because I swore?

The intercom beeped and the bell rang.

Victor flipped his book closed and stuffed it into his bag. I’ll have to deal with you later. He threw on his blazer and walked to the school hall, greeting some of the students in the corridor on the way. The students of the house Baxter gathered in the hall and the teachers, including Victor, were seated on the stage. The students were silenced by the head-of-house who spoke into the mic. He welcomed them into the new year, especially the new intake and went on about his expectations of students in academics, culture, and sports. Victor tried to pay attention, but he’d heard it all before. Some of the students started to notice him sinking into his seat like a turtle retreating into its shell, his hanging eyelids and how he boredly rested his chin on his fist. He might as well have been sleeping, but the things going on in his mind...

He couldn’t stop thinking about the book. For a decade, he’d tried reading the magical script. The words he saw were distorted by the spell of the person who wrote it. Ever since he found the book, nobody that he could get in touch with was able to read the method of distortion and undo it. He closed his eyes and pictured the letters in his mind, trying to find a common manipulation among them that he could reverse to make the symbols into something sensible. “Halliday,” he heard. He felt an elbow nudge his arm and he opened his eyes. The teacher next to him thought he fell asleep and tried to wake him up. Victor restlessly sat up in his seat. I didn’t figure it out in ten years. I won’t figure it out now.

The head-of-house droned on about motivational nothing, supported by the house-prefect. It sounded similar to the propaganda from the books he taught out of. There was a lot, “unity,” and, “try your best,” and, “support your house!” Victor wasn’t against any of it, but in his second year working at the school he realised how early politics started.

Once the head-of-house dismissed them, Victor returned to his class less motivated than when he left. Sitting at his desk, he looked at the cover of the closed book in his hand. A part of him wanted to open it and another part of him wanted to bury it - again. Over the decade he spent trying to read the book, it had been forgotten and dug up over and over again. In between these periods of overcommitment, he went in search of treasures that potentially held the solution to his problem. They were priceless artefacts, yet they were worthless to Victor.

The things his friend had said over the phone gave him a new light to see the book in; a new light to see himself in. He believed he wanted to uncover the secrets of the book and yet he was desperate to let it go. The aggravated and neglected side of him wanted to see it burn, but his senses reminded him that the book had nothing to do with his decisions and it was not to blame.

Victor took a deep breath and slowly slipped the book into his bag. He’s right. He zipped the bag and left the decision of what to do with the book for another time. He wanted to believe it didn’t exist for a while. I am too committed to the wrong life. A few minutes later the students of his tutor class filled in from the corridor. He saw new eighth grade faces and new students in other grades as well. He wanted to introduce the new students, but he couldn’t care less whether or not the rest of the class knew them. He turned on his desk fan and started quietly taking register. Putting the book away felt like relieving himself of a burden, but he mourned the loss of that burden. Focusing on the burden distracted him from every other burden. While Victor grew up, his habits didn’t and he was still a child chasing dreams.

“Is he a nice teacher?” Sophia asked, looking at the big, grumpy, Mister V Halliday.

“A personal favourite of mine,” Aubrey said, “But he doesn’t seem as happy today.”

“Happy? I always saw teachers as being angry all the time. At least that is what they were like at my schools.”

“Mister Halliday’s different. He’s one of those rare few that don’t act like they regret becoming a teacher... He isn’t even calling our names. He’s just looking to see who’s here.”

“He doesn’t seem very nice.”

“Believe me, he is... Anyway, about tomorrow. Bring a bag to school with whatever you need. You might want your parents to come fetch your school clothes. We change into something more casual after school. I’ll drive us to my grandma’s house to get the snacks and after that go buy a gatsby. Then we’re on our way to the house.”

“What’s a gatsby?”

Aubrey looked at Sophia with wide eyes. “You poor thing,” she said, “You’ll find out tomorrow. It’s awesome... So once we get to the house we just play some games, talk, watch movies. Sometimes we even just sit outside.”

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

“Do you ever get scared?”

“At first we did. We still do, come to think of it. How can you not get scared in a mountain forest at night? Sometimes it gets vrek windy and we hear all kinds of stuff outside. How do you cope with scary noises?”

“I freak out at every creak and knock that I hear in my house.”

______

Damien sat at his table with his head in his arms. Usually he’d work on drawings or something relevant, but he had a restless night. He slept, but not well enough. Growing up he had random dreams of a similar theme. He could never remember what they were about the next morning, ever. All he knew was that each dream was like the sequel to the previous one. His dreams were a fantasy series he couldn’t remember.

He felt something hitting the back of his head every few seconds. It was either pieces of an eraser or small crumpled balls of paper. He knew exactly who was throwing them. A few seats behind him and in the row next to his sat two boys whose names he didn’t even know. He wouldn’t call them his bullies, but they definitely weren’t his friends. He felt another piece hit his head and sighed into his arms. It’s not worth the effort, is what he told himself rather than, I can’t stand up for myself.

Every time they passed each other in the corridors, they would yell his name and greet him. He never completely understood why it made him angry or offended him, but he thought it had something to do with him not knowing their names. He never met them. They went out of their way to find out his name and act as if they were his friends by obnoxiously yelling his name as they passed… But that’s just me.

Once the piece of paper or rubber stopped he was hit with some inspiration.

He took out a sketchbook from his bag and a clutch pencil. He started sketching an original character of his - a nameless, powerful cyberpunk explorer. Damien remembered the day he made the character. It was the morning after a dream. He remembered how he barely thought about the character as he made it. It was as if he were subconsciously pulling it together from memory. In hindsight, the character may have been linked to a dream. An occasional dream would have something to do with time; and those dreams always happened after a really chaotic dream. It was like a dream of dying. An abstract painting of bloody red streaks across a black night.

The longer he thought about the character, the more he changed it. At one point the character was a ruthless time travelling bounty hunter. Now he was just a man in search of knowledge and nothing more.

______

“Is this your first time?” Aubrey asked, looking down at Damien.

“No...”, Damien answered.

“Well you suck at this.”

“Whatever,” he sighed, exhausted.

“If you can only do 7 sit-ups, then that’s what I’ll work with.” Aubrey took her hands off of his feet and stood up. “Let’s see how far we can boost that by the end of the term. C’mon. Time for push-ups.”

Damien sighed, rolled over and started push-ups. Each time his head went down he caught a whiff of the old soil brought in by the cleats of rugby players. Somehow the noise of weights being dropped and metal clanging made the exercise psychologically harder.

“The hell are you doing?” Aubrey asked.

“Push-ups. What does it look like?”

“Your ass is flying.” She put her foot on his bum and pressed down. “Have you ever seen somebody do a plank? It’s like that.” Aubrey looked over to the half of the gym where the benches and weights were kept. The protein-shake brutes filled that side, while she and Damien did their work on the blue mats. Some of the boys were looking at Damien, laughing at him. “Mind your business asshats,” she said and flipped them off, but they couldn’t hear her over the sound of the blasting music.

Damien tried again with a straight body, but his arms trembled and he fell to his chest.

“Ugh... I wasn’t counting. How many was that?”

“None.”

“What? That was at least three.”

“It doesn’t count as a push-up if you’re not doing it right.”

Damien rolled over again and sat up. “Surprisingly, you aren’t completely useless,” Aubrey said, “You actually have an impressive back and went up to fifteen pullups. You could probably reach twenty if you could handle the hand burn.”

“Don’t you have weightlifting gloves?”

“I do not. When you get your own, make sure it matches your purse.”

Aubrey put out her hand and helped Damien to his feet. “How frequently do you want to do this?” she asked.

“What do you think would be best?”

“Three days a week. You’re gonna have to be on your own once sports start. I won’t have time to train you, but I can suggest workouts and sources for workouts.”

They walked out of the school’s gym, headed for the art class. It was unusual for the students to see Damien wearing something other than school uniform - especially gym wear. They passed some brutes on the way. They all looked like veiny balloons about to pop, and they were all bigger than any of the teachers.

In the art class, while waiting to go home, Damien tried to relax after what he thought was an intense workout. He laid like a starfish on a table directly under one of the classroom’s ceiling fans. Aubrey sketched a dress at the table beside his. She played music through the class’ speakers. As long as she was in the classroom, the speakers belonged to her. Even when the teacher was around, he didn’t mind her playing music.

Aubrey dropped her pen on her sketch and ran to her phone connected to the speakers. Damien lazily lifted his head to see why. “What’s wrong?” he asked. The music stopped and Aubrey swiped her screen. “There’s this song I have,” she said, “My parents love it. I think it’s their song.”

“And you like it too?”

“You know, I strangely do. It’ll be my song too if I ever find a girl to dance with me to it.”

“Damien put his head back down and closed his eyes. “Lesbian tings.”

______

Victor dropped his bag onto the floor. There it is again. He left the bag and ran out of his class, not bothered by the fact that his laptop was in the bag. What’s it doing inside the school? He ran faster, breaking a sweat. He almost knocked into a teacher coming out of her classroom on the way. Victor didn’t stop to apologise. He sprinted up the stairs to the class he sensed the presence coming from.

He slammed through the door and stopped when he saw nothing but two absolutely average teenagers.

“Are you okay, mister Halliday?” Aubrey asked.

Victor gasped for air and tried to calm himself down. Crimson and Clover played over the speakers.

“I’m fine, Aubreyanna,” he said, “Where’s the art teacher?” He acted like he was there for a normal reason.

“He left,” Aubrey said, “Sir, you know this. He’s the first teacher to leave the school every single day.” She smiled.

Victor nodded and walked away.

“What was that?” Damien asked.

“No idea. He seems like he’s in a bad mood today,” Aubrey answered. She put the song a bit louder and then walked back to her sketch.

“This song sounds familiar,” Damien said.

Victor felt as if whatever it was that was giving off the pulses had no purpose other than to drive him mad. The source diminished the instant he slammed through the door. Victor considered the possibility that it was all in his head. His imagination faked some kind of a purpose for him because deep down, he still wasn’t ready to let go of his alternative life. He didn’t want to let go of the book; he didn’t want to stop chasing treasures; he didn’t want to live among the humans. He wasn’t ready.

When Victor got into his car, his hands tightened around the steering wheel. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t even go a day without the book. He couldn’t last a day without thinking of something supernatural. It had only been six hours and he was suffering the withdrawal symptoms of trying to forget magic.

He turned on his car. He felt that focusing on the road would take his mind off of it.

It made no difference. Rather, his focus on his problem was at the expense of his focus on the road. He made some late stops, jumped red lights and almost intentionally tried to drive over people crossing the road. The trip home was nothing but stress, heavy breathing and self-restraint. Victor, get yourself together. He pulled into his driveway and rested his forehead against the wheel. What’s wrong with me?

He couldn’t think why he was feeling so insane, but he was angry. He wanted to tear something apart, and he knew exactly where he wanted to put all the rage. Victor got out of his car and marched through his house to his bedroom. Lesley followed him from behind when he got in.

Victor walked to the corner of his room, where his maps and research were. He unsheathed the sword from next to the table. You did this. He raised the sword above his head and swung it down as if it were an axe. The blade crashed through the table and splinters shot up. He didn’t stop. He didn’t want to break the table. He wanted to destroy it. He wanted to burn the part of life away, literally. He smashed it to pieces and then he smashed it some more for good measure. The books were on the floor, their papers scattered, and the table was in shards. Victor tore the map down from its pins and threw it down on the mess like a carpet to hide it. He cast a flame onto the pile and let it eat away at his life’s work. Lesley watched the fire from the doorway as if it were a witch being burnt. Victor opened some windows to get the smoke out. He kept his attention on the flame, keeping it on the pile and stopping it from spreading to the rest of his home.

He sat at the door with his back against the wall, staring at the flame. Lesley looked at him. The cat was proud, but confused. Victor slowly shook his head. “What the hell’s wrong with me?” he asked.

Lesley looked back at the flame.

You’re angry, Victor thought.

“At what?”

Yourself.

“For doing what?”

Victor thought of the conversation he had on the phone the day before.

“That means nothing to me.”

Lesley softly sighed through his nose and started licking his paw.

When discipline arrives late, it must take radical actions.

Victor said nothing. He stared in the direction of the flame, but he was so deep in thought that he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing through it; he wasn’t seeing at all. “Maybe tomorrow I will wake up and this will all be over.”

Lesley turned around and walked out of Victor’s room.

Don’t go to work tomorrow, Victor thought, It’s a fickle time in your life.

Somebody knocked. Victor snapped out of his dissociative state and heard the panicked mumbling coming from his front door. He noticed how the thick black cloud had grown. “Shit,” he muttered. He stood up, aimed his palm at the fire, and made a fist. The fire went out like a pinched candle.