[https://i.imgur.com/BFubgu9.png]
----------------------------------------
The Cove, a nickname given to this gothic monstrosity, was a moniker coined by the kids who walked its storied halls. It was a giant living thing, its sprawling structure, the body, the winding hallways, its limbs. And within those halls, its lifeblood flowed to and fro, and the chaotic energy of its students gave it voice.
Palmer had just narrowly avoided an extinction-level event with the head cheerleader. She brushed it off and climbed the stairs leading up to the school. This place always made her feel uneasy, these god-damned stairs reminded her of a giant tongue, splayed out into the yard. The zombie shuffle had begun again; they all mindlessly shambled up, step by step into the Cove's waiting maw.
She crested the stairs, marching through the main doors. Before her stood the main hall, still as intimidating today as it was on her first day of school. Its scale reminded her of her insignificance, as though it were designed to evoke this emotion, each brick pushing down on her. Palmer had always heard rumors that the original architect was a madman, some weirdo named Shandor, Ivo, or Ivor Shandor. The hall was lined with lockers, lights hung evenly spaced down the hall, its black and white tile floor extended as far as the eye could see. An orange and black banner hung across the expanse of the hall, advertising the coming Halloween dance, expertly branded as the Monster Mash.
"The party planning committee nailed it out of the park again. Their creativity knows no end," Palmer mused.
Halloween decorations adorned the walls; paper spiders and tissue paper ghosts were everywhere. The school, the whole town, went all-in for Halloween. It was the only thing Palmer loved about Pitchford Cove; All Hallows Eve was the one time of year that monsters could walk amongst them, even if they were just kids wearing rubber masks. Despite thinking that the name was unoriginal, she secretly wished she could go to the Monster Mash. The image of a grand Halloween ball danced through her mind; everyone dressed in gothic finery. She imagined herself dressed head to toe in black velvet and intricate lace, like some kind of twisted Disney princess. But she knew what would actually happen, and that image made her chuckle. Trammer and his troglodytes spiking the punch, Mikey Walsh dressed like Ray Stanz stumbling from the gym with spiked punch dribbling from his lips as he desperately searched for a receptacle for the vomit that was making its way up from the depth of his stomach. Stef Steinbrenner dressed head to toe like the Material Girl.
Her mind wandered with the possibilities. Bauhaus pumped from the auditorium, the DJ spinning Bela Lugosi's Dead, its twisted melodies spiraling down the old halls, filling every nook and cranny. Kids undulated to the unorthodox beat, a rhythmic sea of pubescent angst. The costumes and movement were like an ancient pagan ritual, designed to pierce the veil between the living and the dead. She drifted deeper into her fantasy, sailing down the halls. Deep in the shadows that painted the hallway, clawing and scratching spirits tried with each mad strike to break through, their twisted faces taking shape with each passing minute. The twangs and ticks of the beat reverberated off the tile walls; the old bones of the Cove hummed with an ancient power.
"Undead, undead, undead."
The chanting repeated over and over like the words of a forbidden incantation. The skulking dread echoed over the ticking rhythm. Now she was part of the crowd; she could feel its energy deep inside, her spirit mixing with the dark energy.
"Undead," the word flowed around her, binding her. She floated above the crowd, spinning and sinking deeper. She looked down into the depths of the crowd, the rainbow lights dancing across the ocean of bodies. The crowd opened, like a whirlpool, flowing around a focal point. In the center of it all was her body, dancing, roiling to the beat. Suddenly, she was slingshot back inside her own body. The crowd parted, and she saw the shadows moving like liquid across the dance floor. An inky black mass coalesced, and a large black body rose with a blank, expressionless face. A desiccated hand raised slowly, beckoning her.
"Come to me," the words pulled at her very soul. That voice, she knew that voice.
"Palmer... Palmer... Palmer… MISS STOKES!" Her name pierced the reality of this fantastic realm, shattering it all around her. The shards of her dream world started to melt away. Suddenly, she found herself sitting in Ms. Stillwater's English class.
"...what the fuck?" she thought to herself incredulously. "It's third period, how could it be third period?" she questioned.
"Yes... yes, Ms. Stillwater?" she stammered, confusion written all over her strained words.
"Well… we're waiting, we are all waiting on you, Ms. Stokes!" Stillwater was not a patient woman, patient was not a word that would ever be associated with her. And right now, she appeared to be on the edge of a full-blown meltdown. Her eyes narrowed as the countdown began.
Her classmates laughed in support.
"QUIET!" Stillwater spat.
BBBBBDDDDDDDDDRRRRRRIIIIINGGGGG
"End of the period... Thank, Christ. Man, I love that fucking bell today," she muttered under her breath, paying close attention to the decibel rating of her words. There was no way she could risk them reaching Stillwater's old ears.
"Ms. Stokes, I'd like you to write me a small paper on the importance of respecting one's class..." Stillwater droned on.
The old PA system squawked to life. Clarke Devereaux's voice now tinny and hollow as it passed through the old speakers. "Attention: the party planning committee meeting is being moved to room 237. Mr. Torrance will be taking attendance... Be there... or be… square."
"What the fuck is happening to me... first the buss, now this!" her thoughts reeling. She grabbed her shit and fled the class before Stillwater could attack.
She weaved through the hall, desperately trying to piece together what the hell had happened. She'd had daydreams before... who hadn't. But losing three whole hours.
"How is that even possible?" she questioned.
She passed the office on her way to her locker. The communication board, covered in posters, like the leaves of a tree… rustling as students rush back and forth. But today a crowd gathered… All eyes on Mrs. Wheelberg, or Grace as she insisted the kids call her, as she tore one inappropriate poster after the next from the board. One crumpled poster fell at Palmer’s feet, she reached down and unfurled it, flattening the devastated edges to return it to its former glory - apparently someone had plastered numerous Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter movie posters all over. The posters showed the title scrawled in dripping blood, with Jason's mask on the ground, ringed by a pool of blood, a terrible knife through his right eye. Written on the poster: Tonight... only at the Colonial.
"That would be so awesome!" she thought to herself as she moved down the hall. The walls of the hallway were covered in posters and decorations, rustling as the crowds rushed by. She rounded the next corner; another crowd gathered around a familiar spot. This time… the gathering huddled around her locker. As she approached the crowd dispersed. As it split and diffused her locker slowly came into view, the word "SLUT" written unevenly in black marker down the face of her dented locker. Instantly her shoulders slumped, the breath knocked from her lungs by the invisible sting of four black letters. At this point she had grown accustomed to the whispers and looks but the accusation of that word… Well, she couldn't help but feel its power.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
"Could this day get any better?" she questioned.
Taking her gym uniform from her bag, she bundled it up and spat on the isolated corner. She scrubbed and scrubbed in a futile attempt, the black stain, this Scarlet letter stared her in the face. She hadn't done anything, it's all so fucking stupid. She slammed the locker with her fists in frustration, spinning… she throws her back against the locker, sliding down. With a subtle defeated thwump, she lands in a heap on the floor and buries her head in her hands. Salty tears drip through her interlocked fingers as muffled sobs echo down the hungry halls. Palmer sat there for a few moments, desperately trying to compose herself. One after the other, dragging the rough sleeves of her denim jacket across her tear soaked cheeks… adrift in a sea of self depreciation the distant sound of laughter snapped her back back to her cruel reality. Looking up she saw Laurie and her friends down the hall, laughing and whispering. Laurie's face, covered with a wicked smile, proud and victorious. Yet in the moment she saw Palmer's tears there was a hint of remorse, a glimmer of shame… shame for what she had done. But like all glimmers it was fleeting… Laurie and her little coven spun as one, cheerleading skirts fanning out as if they had choreographed it. They marched away, hips swaying, their movements had their own cadence. It's amazing what jealousy will make young minds do.
----------------------------------------
Palmer sat on the bleachers, munching on her lunch, as the football team practiced below for their upcoming game against the Haddonfield Huskers, the ancient enemy. The sound of Billy Idol's "White Wedding" reverberated in her skull, drowning out the world around her. She gazed out at the sky, which had turned dark and gray, as if her mood had infected the world and snuffed out the light. The anger she felt towards Laurie and Becky seemed to permeate everything, and death seemed to be creeping into the world, its fingers slowly draining the life from all living things.
Despite the grayness of the sky, the trees still blazed with fiery oranges and reds, as if desperately holding on to their last bit of life. The remaining greenery seemed to be trying to escape, with its lifeblood pooling in the far reaches of the leaves, creating vibrant hues against the cold, restless sky. It was like a beautiful painting that foretold the impending dread of a cold, empty winter. The colors were ferocious, almost defiant, in the face of death, and Palmer couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at their resilience.
Palmer looked down at the players running drills, little ants running coordinated attacks. "Why was this so important to them?" she thought to herself. Its importance couldn’t be denied, it was everything, their whole world, little toy soldiers out to destroy the armies of rival fiefdoms. It all seemed so weird and funny to her. Thundering against one another, a fight for dominance within their own little tribe. One always rose to the top, and there he was again... their chief. Trammer and his buddies high-fiving one another, rehearsing their victory dance. What had they been victorious at? Well, she had no idea. The thought of that made her chuckle. They all started removing their helmets, the sweaty faced cavemen all snarling and cheering. Slapping each other's asses in some homoerotic dance. And there, standing beside Ben was his number two, Glen Lantz... his brunette hair was coiffed to a degree that made it immune to the effects of his sweaty football helmet.
"It's probably full of that Farrah Fawcett hair spray," she thought to herself, chuckling again.
The only thing he loved more than his hair was his car, an old cherry red wreck that he spent his days and nights trying to restore. Glen had boyish good looks, but the man inside was bursting to get out. He was strong and fast. The wide receiver, he blazed across the field, hands strong and sure. Palmer was transfixed, her gaze laser-focused. Glen looked up as if sensing her eyes upon him. Stranger eyes met for a split second and Palmer looked away, blood rushing, cheeks turning rosy red. An awkward wave crashed over her and she nervously started to gather her things.
"Why?" she thought to herself... he has never been nice to her. Always Ben's number two. Always along for the ride.
"It's in his eyes!" she thought.
"WHITE WEDDING..." the rebel yell rang in her ears.
She sailed through the rest of the day. A vacant ghost, her mind elsewhere, the classes blended together. Mr. Torrance was his normal zany self in Math, ranting about the universal constant of numbers. Mr. Spengler droned on in Science, talking about spores, molds, and fungi. Then there was Sex Ed, taught by Ms. Peterson, her fire-red hair, body molded from clay by Venus herself. Her class was a very popular elective for many of the kids, boys full of lust, girls full of envy. She stirred emotions across the spectrum. Above all else she made the topic accessible, her humor breaking down the walls that made the topic typically so uncomfortable. The kids worshipped her, she was a fucking legend at the Cove.
Palmer switched off... body and mind on autopilot. She knew she couldn't mentally handle this day and she was done with it. Whenever possible she lost herself in her music. She strolled across the yard as the waiting squadrons of yellow transports patiently waited for their occupants. There he was again, patiently waiting for his children, Fred's leering gaze fell upon her... clearly, he wasn't looking at her eyes.
"Fuck this! And FUCK him!" she blurted.
In that moment, Palmer made a snap decision to walk home, determined to avoid Fred and his menacing yellow vehicle. She quickly found Tommy in the line, informing him of her plan to walk. His response was lackadaisical, as he told her that his buddy Lawrence was coming over to play Nintendo in the dimly lit wood paneled basement. She didn't really care, so she shrugged it off and walked away.
As she strode past the front of the bus, Fred gave the horn a little chirp, causing her to jump in surprise. It was his way of reminding her that his eyes were still on her, and she couldn't shake the feeling of unease that came with it.
She threw up her middle finger in protest.
She worked her way across the street and down the sidewalk, the chaos of the schoolyard started to fade, the sound dying away, the distant laughs of kids walking home still audible over the quiet of the neighborhood streets.
The decorations were everywhere, Halloween was quickly approaching and the town was yearning to celebrate. As if they were appeasing some ancient God, paying homage, their reverence painted across their lawns. Pumpkins lined walkways and stacked on staircases, some still waiting to be sacrificed, others already carved, displaying their horrified anguish. Their insides had been removed, roasting slowly in ovens across the neighborhood, the smell of their organs filled the night air. It was quite morbid when you actually sat and thought about it. But that was the point... In the end, it was a dark night, when the monsters in us all came out to play.
Palmer reached down and pressed play, the tape started to turn, music traveled through the cord to her waiting ears. Thriller pulsing in her ears...
"How fitting," she thought to herself.
She danced down the street, the worries of her day deposited in the concrete below… disappearing with each effortless step. She thought about Ben and Laurie, they'd be there tomorrow, no point worrying about them now. They seemed insignificant compared to the questions that raced through her mind. Questions she couldn't possibly answer, but she knew deep inside… felt it in her bones. That's when those answers did come… They would change her world forever.
"Isn't that a rosy thought, not even a little ominous!" she joked to herself, trying to lighten her thoughts.
"Thriller.. thriller night!" she bopped along. Once again she lost herself in the moments that passed, probably far too many moments as it took her forever to get to her destination.
She skipped up her front walkway, their yard not nearly as decorated as the others, a stark contrast in comparison. Two lonely pumpkins sat atop the newel posts at the top of the landing leading to her front door. She blasted through the door.
"I'm home ya little booger!" she called out.
She could hear the electronic boops and beeps bouncing up the basement stairs. The sound of a digital dirt bike revving too long in the red.
"Goddammit!" she heard Tommy yell.
Opening the fridge, she retrieved some day-old leftovers. Throwing them in the oven she danced around until they were ready. She could hear the sounds accompanying the varied highs and lows of Excitebike through the basement door. The minutes passed as the sounds wormed their way through her head.
DING.. the oven's timer reverberated.
"They aren't going to die from starvation, so my work is officially done!" She retrieved the grub, shuffling it from hand to hand like a Hot Potato. She sent it sliding across the countertop. It spun down the surface of the counter, squeaking on the tile as it slid, coming to a gentle stop.
"Tommy, Lawrence.. chows on the counter. Get it while it's hot! Ya snooze ya lose ya little bratt!" her offering bounced down the basement stairs. The 8-bit light from the TV danced across the rec room floor. Palmer heard some grunts in response. "Good enough for me!" she thought.
Up the stairs, she went. She straightened and fixed the pictures she had disturbed earlier this morning. She stood before the gate to her little kingdom. It was decorated with all forms of adornments, band logos, happy face stickers, Papa Smurf, Gremlins, and that little Mogwai.
"God that Gizmo was cute!" she thought to herself, a smile crossing her face. She even had a thing for Stripe! Those damned bad boys.
And more important than anything else… a giant sign that read,
STAY OUT!
Palmer turned the handle and crossed the threshold into her domain. Instantly she felt better, she felt secure. She threw herself onto her bed, her stress melted away. Warm and safe. The stress of the day had been too much for her, her eyes heavy, the gravity of the events pulling down on her eye-lids. She reached over and pressed play on her Boombox. The haunting melody of Don't Fear the Reaper drifting through the air, the melody wrapping around her. She was fighting the inevitable. Thinking about the "paper" she had to write for 'ol Stillwater.
"Baby take my hand…"
And with that, she was gone.