Stanhope School for Dead Boys

“DIE! DIE! DIE!” Dean screamed, violently thrashing. “Die you stupid plants!” Dean mashed down hard on the buttons of his handheld game. Tongue thrust out the side of his mouth. Grimacing hard, he jumped on the bed as if to gain more force behind each push of the button. “Gaaaahhh!” He flopped down exhausted on his bed. Hanging off the edge, tongue drooping to one side, eyes rolled back in his head.

“Died again?” A voice asked from across the room.

“Yeah. ‘Man Eating Plants From Space 3’ is so much harder than ‘Man Eating Plants From Space 2’.” Dean says as he sits up on the bed, putting his game aside, for now, on the nightstand.

“Isn’t that kind of the point?”

Scribbling on paper could now be heard without Deans’ shouts of death and defeat to cover them.

“Hammy, have you ever even played a video game before?” Dean asked as he walked over to his roommate Abrahams’ desk, perching himself on the corner. “And I don’t mean those kiddie learning games either.”

“Well, no,” said Abraham “but they are all fundamentally the same. So there is no point in wasting my time with a game I already know the ending to when I can be learning about something useful.”

“This is useful!” Dean said defensively as he hopped down off the desk and walked around to Abrahams other side where he had yet to look up from writing notes. “And I’m pretty sure if you keep learning stuff at this rate your head is gonna blow up!”

Dean grabbed his head and acted out it exploding and dying, flopping once more onto his bed. He looked over at the clock on the nightstand between Abrahams’ bed and his. It glows a fiery red, 10:30, at him. Way past lights out, but Dean was on level 9 and was sure he would beat it this time and Abraham still had some more notes to finish. They couldn’t possibly have gone to bed at lights out. But now Dean lied on his bed, defeated by plants from space looking up at the sticky glowing stars a previous student had put on the ceiling while listening to the taps and scratches of Abrahams’ pencil on paper. The glow of the desk lamp throwing shadows on the walls that Dean liked to imagine were creatures from his games. He drew his finger into a gun and held it up to his eye. Looking down the barrel of his finger he made quiet gunshots as he aimed at the large shadowy monsters. He aimed his finger gun at the crack that ran along the ceiling above the window between their beds. He followed it all the way down the side of the wooden window frame until it disappeared behind the nightstand. Stanhope had all kinds of cracks like that. Dean figured the place had to be 100 years old at least. And it’s not that Stanhope was falling apart, it just showed its age here and there. The cracks in the ceiling, a creaky door and a musty smell in some of the classrooms made the place seem old but lived in; like your favorite worn chair. It had character and made you feel safe and comfortable. Dean liked the school which was a surprise to him because when his parents first told him they were sending him to the Stanhope School for Boys he immediately hated it without giving it a second thought.

“What! Why! I don’t want to go live in some dumb old building and wear a stupid uniform and learn Latin or whatever useless old stuff no one needs to know.” Dean pleaded with his parents, brandishing a pamphlet about the school in his right hand as he talked. “Is this because of my grades? Or because I’m not good at piano?” Dean asked gesturing; the pamphlet flapped widely like an injured bird. He walked out of the dining room leaving his parents sitting at the table looking at each other wondering why Dean would have responded that way.

The problem was Dean was an average boy with above average parents. His father, a professor of Sociology at the University of Cranston routinely held intellectual discussions at their house and tried to include Dean, who knew nothing about sociology or cared to.

“Dean, my boy.” His father would say to him if he got caught walking by the group to the kitchen for a soda. His dad only called him this when his professor friends were over. “Come here. What do you think is the impact of modern sociological studies on the minds of the future civilization?”

Dean reluctantly slunk over to the group and leaned over the back of the couch next to where his father was sitting.

“Um. Yes?” Dean answered even though he didn’t have a clue what his dad had just asked. He looked at his dad who was sitting wide eyed anticipating his answer. Dean scrunched his forehead and said “No. Wait. Maybe? I don’t know. Can I have a soda now?”

Deans’ dad looked at him condescendingly and asked “Well I don’t know Dean, can you?” he raised his eyebrow real high waiting for what he knew would be the response.

Dean stood up from his slumped position on the back of the couch and rolled his eyes up and bobbed his head side to side as he said “May I have a soda please?” in a monotone voice.

“Yes you may.” His dad said smiling with accomplishment.

Dean knew his dad meant well but he just didn’t get it. He wasn’t interested in those things and they didn’t make sense to him. He just wanted to ride his bike down Redmens hill with no helmet and no hands. He wanted to play video games and eat junk food in his room. He just wanted to be a regular kid, but his parents had different ideas. They were always signing him up for Art History camps, music lessons from the members of the Cranston Orchestra where his mom was a cellist, and taking him to watch obscure sports like Polo or Fencing matches. None of these things interested him. And now the Stanhope School for Boys was their last ditch effort to integrate him into their world.

Dean sat at the bottom of the stairs looking at the pamphlet. There was a picture of an old stone building on the front and boys in uniforms with big cheesy smiles looking right at him on the inside. He closed the pamphlet feeling creeped out and set it down on the stair next to him. His mom and dad came from out of the dining room to the left and stopped at the bottom of the stairs to finish their conversation. Dean stood up and stepped up a few more stairs so he could look down toward them because he knew the decision had already been made so he would take this one moment of feeling powerful, if only in position.

“Honey, it’s not anything you did or didn’t do. Your father and I just think you would benefit from the Stanhope School for Boys.” Dean’s mother reassured him softly. Everything about her was soft. She was a dainty woman and always spoke lyrically much like the music she played. She cocked her head to one side and smiled with that smile Dean knew well. The smile that seemed to say to him, ‘Oh you little injured baby bird. You didn’t know the nest was so high up. Poor dear.’ He hated that smile. He wasn’t a poor baby bird. He was a 13 year old boy who just wanted to do 13 year old boy things.

“You know son, I attended the Stanhope School for Boys when I was your age and it taught me lots of things. Not just about school but life as well. Who knows, after a couple years you might end up just like your old man.” Dean’s dad said proudly head held high.

‘Yeah right.’ Dean thought, closing his eyes so he could roll them without his parents noticing.

But now after having spent a year at Stanhope, Dean loves it like a home and even though he finds some of the things he learns, like Latin, completely lame, he enjoys getting to hang out with Hammy and the other guys. In fact he even likes some things they get to do like archery, in which his roommate Abraham excels and often helps him with his skill. But he found his favorite thing to be ceramics. Something about banging out the big blobs of grey into a shape made him feel good. He liked getting dirty and building up the sculpture and tearing it down again like a sandcastle at the beach. And there was no way to mess it up. If he didn’t like the way a part looked he would just pound it back into its original blobyness and start over. Dean never realized art could be fun when you’re not being forced to go to a summer camp about realism in painting in the early 19th century.

There was a loud knock on the door that tore the boys from their activities.

“Jeez!” Dean jumped a little having been transfixed on the crack in the wall he must have dozed off for a moment.

“Who could that be?” Abraham asked without looking up from his books.

“I dunno.” Dean hopped up from his bed and walked across the room to the door. “Pizza man.” He said sarcastically.

Dean opened the door to see Clark one of the boys from the dorm room down the hall standing there in his robe and fuzzy pink slippers they always tormented him about. Clark had told them they were white but he had spilled fruit punch on them a long time ago and his mom tried to run them through the wash to get it out but it just turned them pink all over. But the boys didn’t care, fuzzy pink slippers, were fuzzy pink slippers no matter how they got that way and he was teased relentlessly about it. Dean had asked him why he didn’t just buy new ones but Clark would always say “Why? These still work just fine.”

“Hey you guys wanna hit the caf?” Clark asked. He was always sneaking out to get late night snacks.

“Nah. I’m turning in and Hammy can’t eat past 7 or he gasses up the place.” Dean said smirking and nodding in Abrahams’ direction making a face like he could smell the putrid fumes now.

Abraham didn’t notice he just kept on writing his notes. He had to work hard if he wanted to keep up the highest GPA in Stanhope. Abraham was always striving to be the best in everything he did. And he did a lot. He never missed a single day of school, making him the recipient of the Perfect Attendance Award; he was the top of his archery class, Treasurer of the Stanhope School for Boys Historical Society, Vice President of the Chemaholics chemistry club and founder of the Stanhope LARPers. He was an above average boy whose parents wanted nothing more than for him to be perfectly average. That’s why Abraham had to send himself to the Stanhope School for Boys, partly because he was too smart for his old public middle school, where the apathetic teachers babysat the unmanageable hoard of pubescent preteens who cared more about acne and how to attract the opposite sex than learning about the important things like Archimedes or King Henry the XIII. But mostly it was to get out from under his overcritical smothering parents. It’s not that they didn’t care mind you. They cared too much. Always arranging "play dates" with a 9 year old from down the street so he would "have friends".  The final blow that made his decision for him though was his bar mitzvah. Abraham wanted a Robin Hood Theme, combining his love of classic literature, history and fantasy with his aptitude for archery, however, his parents had a different approach. They spent all of their savings on a yacht and invited everyone from his grade. This might have been a dream for most 13 year old boys but not Abraham. He had a propensity to vomit violently when on anything that moved, making his 5th birthday one ‘Prancer the Pony’ will never forget. And had he only known one person invited, other than his cousin Dougy who was the largest 12 year old anyone had ever seen and tormented him relentlessly, he might have enjoyed himself a little. The only thing that made the day a slight success was his Robin Hood costume. His parents pleaded that he at least wore swim trunks like the other boys. So, he agreed but in rebellion he wore them over his tights. Abraham loved his parents but he loved them even more now that they were all the way in Philadelphia and he was here in Cranston at Stanhope.

 

“Ok. Cool. See ya.” Clark said and started down the hall to make his way to the cafeteria. Dean could hear his fuzzy pink slippers shuffle away as he closed the door. He walked back to his bed and flopped down putting his hands behind his head. He looked at the clock once more. 10:40, it read now. His game sat perfectly placed next to it just asking for him to play it.

“Well maybe one more.” Dean said quietly aloud as if he were trying to convince himself. He grabbed the game and rolled onto his stomach, elbows propped on this pillow.

“I thought you said you were turning in?” Abraham said from across the room, still not looking from his work.

“And I thought you were working.” Dean said, tongue pressed firmly to one corner of this mouth as he tried veraciously to kill the plants once more.

Meanwhile...

“What’s going on?” A heavy set woman dressed in a pink bathrobe with matching colored curlers in her hair asked of a tall bald man with a mustache as she walked down the  dark hallway towards a doorway on her right where a glow of a television shown through the frosted window of the door that read ‘Teacher’s Lounge’.

“I’m not sure. Mr. Gibbs just called me and said it was an emergency that we all meet in the lounge immediately.” The mustached man replied walking towards her from the opposite end of the hallway, his bathrobe waving behind him as he walked swiftly toward the Teacher’s Lounge, moccasins making shuffling noises.

“That’s what Loretta told me too.” She said with a bit of concern in her voice.

The mustached man reached the door first and waited with his hand on the doorknob for the woman to reach him.

“I’m sure it’s nothing Janey. No need to worry.” He said with a reassuring smile putting his hand on her shoulder as she reached the door. He opened it for her and waived his hand to usher in.

“Thanks Jeff.” She smiled back at him feeling a little better.

The TV was on and the staff was all seated around the room.  A few in their pajamas, having been woken like Janey and Jeff with a phone call urging them to come. Others were still in the clothes they wore that day during school hours only slightly more disheveled. Shirt tails were now untucked, ties untied, women with their shoes off and cups of coffee in a few hands. Mostly just to give them something to hold rather than drink. They didn’t need the caffeine to keep them awake now. Not after what they heard on the news.

“Oh good you’re here.” A woman still dressed in her long black skirt, white blouse untucked and unbuttoned, her heals off showing her stockings had a hole in the toe of the right foot and had a bit of black pen ink on her face from chewing on the cap while finishing paperwork. She hurried over to the door as they came in.

“Loretta. What’s going on?” Janey asked rushing to her and grabbing her out stretched hands. “You sounded panicked on the phone.”

There was a low murmur in the room from the staff members talking to each other. One woman in the corner of the room sat at a small round wooden table by herself. She was on her cell phone with tears in her eyes lightly dabbing her cheeks with a tissue absorbing the water that streamed down. She rubbed her feet together fervently the thick socks slouched and the toes hung limp off her feet. Most of the staff were all staring at the television next to her, their eyes bloodshot and glazed from both the late hour and the nature of the news.  Jeff scanned the room trying to take in everything, putting together stories in his head of what possibly could have happened. Was there a bombing, a war, some kind of accident, were people hurt, should he be calling his family? He watched Loretta take Janey around the shoulder and get her some coffee. He stood with his hands in his robe pockets, face stern and puzzling.

All these and more only 3 payments of 9.99 and you could have your own Kitchen Kompanion.

The voice from the T.V. said making its case for those watching to purchase what it was selling.

“What do we do?” one man on the couch asked of the person sitting beside him, having suddenly snapped out of his stare into his coffee.

“I…Uh.” The woman replied having not really comprehended the question. She too starred at her cup clenched between both hands as if it were going to slip away at any moment so she better hold tight.

“Alright everyone.” A loud voice said from behind Jeff. Mr. Gibbs had just walked in, still wearing his brown suit from earlier that day. He, unlike the others did not look disheveled. His suit was still crisp, his tie tied tight and straight. Pocket hanky folded neatly, sticking up from his breast pocket shoes worn but clean and polished. The only thing out of place was a small yellow stain on his right sleeve most likely from his lunch. He was well groomed but his face was more furrowed than usual. Every line seemed much deeper now, as though he had just aged another 10 years in this one night. “We are officially in Lockdown.”

The room murmured loudly for a moment, people asking questions all at once to the headmaster.

“George, what’s going on here? Lockdown? Is it really that serious?” Jeff asked of the headmaster, stepping closer to him to speak more personally.

“I’m afraid so Jeff.” He told him as he walked around him, focused on the television. He stood next to it and turned the volume up high as the intro music to the News bulletin played.

Everyone in the room snapped from whatever state they were in and stared endlessly into the eyes of the woman behind the News desk. She too looked as though she had previously ended her night only for it to start again behind this desk. Her hair was not as quaffed as it once had been, a few stray hairs shown in the lighting. Her blazer was off now revealing that her loose white blouse was wrinkled. Even though the camera was on her she looked down at her desk for just a moment longer than she should. She cleared her throat and looked right back at all the people watching. No matter where you were how many people you were with it felt like the whole world was hearing the same thing you were. One hard gulp and she began.

“We now have word that this mornings’ attack on a local church was not an isolated event. We have confirmed reports of 23 different attacks in or around graveyards throughout the city. Doctors at Cranston General have told us that the victims were bitten by their attackers and are now showing signs of serious infection causing deliria and aggression. Many patients have been sedated for their safety and for the safety of others. The medical staff has issued a statement along with the Cranston Police Department asking people to stay indoors.”

She pauses for a brief moment as a man comes on screen beside her also disheveled in appearance and leans down whispers a brief statement to the reporter and shoves a piece of paper in her hand. He looks uneasy as he quickly removes himself from frame.

Janey is the first to break the silence. “Stay indoors? What? Why?”

She was quickly shushed back into silence as the reporter continues.

“Continued reports of attacks are coming in at an increased rate.” Looking over the information she was just given, she tries to keep composure. “Several witnesses have described the attackers as,” she breathes deeply “‘the living dead’. It has been witnessed that the dead are climbing out of graves to attack people all over the city. This is not a hoax. These living corpses are extremely aggressive. We urge you to lock your doors and barricade your windows.” Her voice quickened and her eyes pleaded, she was losing herself. Someone yelled something from of screen and the camera dipped down as it flipped quickly to a logo and ticker for the broadcast station urging us to “wait a moment as they are having technical difficulties.”

Not a sound was made in the room. It was as if everyone had the same thought. What? They were suspended in disbelief. A few looked around the room to the others as if they knew what was going on, but no such luck. Mr. Gibbs who had stood like a statue one hand holding the wrist of the other in front of him, not watching the News report himself but instead watching those who were, turned around and lowered the volume down on the T.V. This shook the remaining staff out of their hypnotic gaze. They stared at him wide eyed and open mouthed waiting for the first words to cross his lips. Jeff looked to Janey who was holding hands tightly with Loretta. The woman seemed so much frailer to Jeff now. He quickly started putting together ideas in his head about what to do, where to go or not go and how to keep everyone safe. He became weighed down by the gravity of his own realizations that he could not save everyone. People were going to die, had died, were dead and alive all at once. What does that mean? If he died would he even know it?

“Alright, so we all know what’s going on now. Our first responsibility is for the safety of the students. I know you all have families out there but our priorities are here.” He searched around the room to find someone. “Groundskeeper.” He said looking at the gruff man in coveralls and a knit cap. He stood leaned against the doorway with a gritty expression on his face. “You’ll need to lock all exterior doors.” The groundskeeper gave a small nod of compliance. Mr. Gibbs addressed the whole room, “The rest of you will…”

Before Mr. Gibbs could finish his sentence there was a scream. Every head snapped quickly to look in the direction it came from. Minds raced as they tried to decide if the scream came from on the grounds or in the school.

“Did you hear that?” the female teacher who had been on her phone earlier asked of the worried staff.

“Yes, but there aren’t any girls at this school.” Jeff said trying to break the tension. It didn’t work, the room glared at him for his indiscretion. They were all frozen. Had they really heard a scream, it was so faint.

Another scream.

This time it was louder and more real spurring everyone into action. They all moved at once as if orchestrated in a dance. They passed each other not speaking and poured one at a time out of the room. The groundskeeper and Mr. Gibbs dashed towards the scream and teacher’s vanished into the darkened ends of the hallways.

Mr. Tolle sat slumped in an old wooden chair with a worn leather cushion, leaning over a large book, keeping pace on the page with his index finger. When he reached the bottom of the page he would lightly slide his middle finger along the edge and pinch it with his thumb lifting ever so gently and laying it over to the other side as if the pages were ancient parchment and too vigorous of movement would render them dust.  The soft light of his desk lamp made the room glow with a golden hue, making the pillars of books and tomes that surrounded him look like they were emanating their own heat threatening to combust the whole office in flames of paper and knowledge. Mr. Tolle’s office was his sanctuary. He built up the walls with notes and papers. The dark flowery pattern of the couch behind him barely peeked through the books lain open with notes and bookmarks. A crumpled velvet throw pillow in need of a little more stuffing had been shoved to the floor where it lay on top of a sad excuse for a blanket that Mr. Tolle wrapped himself in many nights to sleep among his books, as if absorbing the knowledge they held passively while he dreamt of a time when scholars were revered as kings. But tonight wouldn’t be a night filled with the fantasies of a librarian.

Moonlight streamed through the large glass windows of the library lighting the towering shelves and catching the swirling dust particles. The grandeur of the room was somehow enhanced by the blue and black shadows leaving parts of the library secret. The only other light was the fiery glow of Mr. Tolle’s office at the end of the long hall of books. As he finished a thought from the text on the page he stood slowly and arched backwards, hands on his hips, then above him lacing his fingers together and pushing his palms up stretching out his rigid body, yawning, his mouth a gape to capacity. He took his large glasses of his thin nose and set them onto the page he had been studying. Mr. Tolle rubbed his eyes to try and relieve the hours of strain then pushed the heavy gray woolen sleeve of his left arm up to expose his wristwatch so he could see exactly to what hour he had been reading this time.

“Whoo!” He said breathily and shocked to himself. “Better finish up.” He turned to head to the doorway to the library on his left, his sluggish legs tripping him slightly as he made his way through the maze of books.

Mr. Tolle’s long body resembling that of a sloth as he languidly moved through the library picking up books carelessly left out by the students as they rushed off to wherever they had to be that was more important. Everything about Henry Tolle said Librarian, from his permanently slumped shoulders from years of leaning over books, to the frumpy clothes and meek demeanor. No, Henry would never be an athlete or great leader but he would forever keep the knowledge stored within the rough pages of leather bound books alive, even if he were the only one reading them.

“uuUUUUUAAAAAAHHHHHHhhhh” A wail rang through the libraries pitched ceilings stopping Henry in his tracks. He looked up slowly from his books not sure that he had heard what he thought he did. He looked in every direction as the eerie sound seemed as though it came from everywhere in the echoy hall. He placed the books on the table and stepped out from around it into the center of the floor.

“Hello?” he asked quietly to no one, unsure as to whether or not he actually wanted a response.

“AAAAAAAHHHH!” Another scream. This time more earthly and definitely coming from his left, out the door of the library.

He walked with a quick few steps toward it, breath held, listening for another yell; when two men rushed past the open door.

“Get that door closed!” one man yelled to the other. ‘That was Mr. Gibbs voice’, Henry realized and rushed to the hallway, stopping in the doorway. Mr. Gibbs was talking to a young man, pale as milk, his forehead soaked in sweat, panic in his face as he huffed out unintelligible words, pointing at the door. Henry took a few steps out into the hall and saw the groundskeeper, to whom Mr. Gibbs had yelled, locking the large double doors at the end of the corridor. The groundskeeper seemed to double check every lock and the large bolts at the tops and bottom of each door for its security; all the while looking out the thin windows onto the courtyard intensely searching for something.

“See anything?” Mr. Gibbs yelled.

“No Sir.” The Groundskeeper said in a gruff voice back, never breaking from his search of the grounds outside.

“Well then get to those other doors, quickly!” he said sternly and the groundskeeper doubled back flying past Mr. Gibbs and the boy, who flinched slightly as the wind from the hurried man hit him and the loud jingle of keys struck with each hard thud of his feet. Mr. Gibbs had kept a hand on the boys shoulder to calm him, acting as a sort of grounding wire, letting the boy expel his fear into Mr. Gibbs enough for him to compose himself.

“Now, tell me what happened.” He asked of the frightened student.

“I…I…He, I mean, IT was a… dead guy.” He said with a look as if he questioned what he had just heard himself say. His brow furrowed as he seemed to concentrate on what he had seen. “I mean like dead a long time, all dry and dirty with skin hanging off.” The young man looked up from staring at his fuzzy, pink slippers to see a shadowy figure lurking in the doorway across the hall. His eyes widened and he inhaled sharply holding his breath unable to look away from the shape moving closer to him. Mr. Gibbs noticing the boys fear, took a moment to collect himself then reeled around quickly to face the coming attack.

“Gah!” he jumped and grabbed his chest, exhaling in relief. “Christ Henry I thought you were…what are you doing out here?”

“I was just shelving some books and I heard screams. What’s going on Mr. Gibbs? Did he say a man was dead?” Mr. Tolle asked while looking at the still very shaken boy.

“When you weren’t at the meeting I thought you must have gone home already. Have you seen the news at all today Henry?”

Henry just shook his head no, still studying the boy as if he could gain some knowledge by reading him like he did from his books.

“Well there has been an incident I guess. It seems…uh…that the dead are attacking people.” Mr. Gibbs said unconfidently to Mr. Tolle.

Henry shook his head to break loose his studying gaze of the boy. “I’m sorry sir but what?”

“It’s been all over the news Henry, all we know is that it appears that the already dead are getting up out of their graves and trying to attack and bite the living. And that this bite is making people sick.” Mr. Gibbs now said with almost an annoyance at the facts as he gave them out to Henry.

“That’s not possible sir.” Mr. Tolle said with a hint of disgust that Mr. Gibbs and this boy would even suggest something so ridiculous.

“Look I’m not going to argue with you about what is or is not possible right now, but this IS happening and I need your help to keep the students safe. Now go lock up every exterior door in the Library and meet me back in the Teachers’ Lounge.” As Mr. Gibbs spoke he regained his authoritative tone and structured spine. Now looking more determined he turned around and grabbed the student by the shoulder and guided him down the hall, Henry could hear the boy’s slippers scuff across the floor in quick steps back toward the heart of the school.

Mr. Tolle stood there with a puzzled look trying to piece together everything presented to him and came to the conclusion that at the very least he was told to do something by the headmaster and was to do so. No need to put his job at risk, even if he thought the headmaster was clearly insane. He quickly turned around to do as he was told but before he stepped through the threshold of the Library he couldn’t help but have a little scientific curiosity as to what the boy thought he saw and the groundskeeper seemed so determined to keep out. He lingered for a moment looking down the now seemingly even darker hallway toward the double doors. He waited there rubbing his long woolen sleeve between his thumb and forefinger as it hung over his hand. He had done this as so often when he was pondering over his actions that the sleeve was wearing thin in that spot. He noticed that soon he would be able to touch his fingers together through the thread bear spot. That was it. He had decided he was going to go look out the windows for himself. He walked with intentional strides as if to convince himself of his confidence. Suddenly he was at the large doors must faster than he thought he would be and his confidence disappeared as quickly as it had been manufactured. He looked all the locks over, shaking each one as the groundskeeper had, though he wasn’t sure why. After checking the floor bolts and feeling that they were definitely secure he stood up slowly standing perpendicular to the doors, he turned ever so slowly on the heel of his shoe, he closed his eyes shut tight and winced his shoulders. ‘This is silly’ he thought to himself, ‘there’s nothing out there. I’ll just open my eyes and see nothing. Yep that’s what will happen,’ but he still did not open his eyes. He took a deep breath. ‘Ok. One. Two. Three!’ He opened his eyes hard as if to widen them so much he could take it all in at once. “Bah!” he yelled and clapped his hand over his mouth. A tall figure stood out on the shadowy courtyard, fog covering the ground around its feet. It pointed at him as if to suggest it was going to come just for him. It wanted him to…”Uh,” he sighed “Oh, it’s just the statue.” Feeling relieved and a little silly he turned around and walked back to his library now confident in the fact that there was nothing out there.

Out on the courtyard the statue of Elliot M. Stanhope stood pointing assertively toward the future, which was apparently somewhere around the third floor science lab. A layer of heavy fog covered the grounds leaving only the tops of the picnic tables exposed looking like little wooden lily pads floating on a ponds surface. A few dim lights glowed through closed curtains of the dormitory windows on the right side of the courtyard. A few boys either still being awake at the late hour or awoken by the screams of the terrified student who was out of his bed when he shouldn’t have been.

Dean looked up from his game when he heard the screams come from outside.

“Did you hear that?” he asked Abraham, who was still nose deep into his work. Dean stood up and peaked between the blinds out the window overlooking the courtyard. The fog covered the grass in a misshapen gray blanket slowly rolling over the ground. He could just make out the outline of the bleachers at the lacrosse field where he spent many afternoons running punishment laps or getting his head on straight, as Coach McMillan put it. Dean hated Phys Ed and wasn’t shy about letting his feelings being known. He would make up fake injuries or illnesses, but a lot of the time that just got him sent to see Ms. Krisp who was so kind and caring but smothering and he really just wanted to be left alone. She would insist on giving repeated hugs into her giant chest and her thick arms crushed his back. He hated the way she called him 'sweet baby’ and ‘pudding’ or any other such saccharine based nickname. So, when he couldn’t handle that he would just hide from Coach instead. He had gotten good at finding different places in the athletic building to stow away and play his video game or read his graphic novels. He had little stashes of games and junk food all over the school too. He tended to hide from a lot of his classes. But on particular days he just didn’t have the effort to even hide and went for blatant refusal. That’s when he had to do laps. As it turns out teachers don’t like being called ‘fascists’ and Dean would rather run his laps then have his parents called. Besides, running laps wasn’t all that bad anymore since he had done so many he was actually pretty good at it. When he was bored of just running he would time himself to see how many laps he could do in five or ten minutes. He wouldn’t even get tired anymore, but he couldn’t let coach know that. He would just make him do pushups or something else instead. So Dean would wait until the class was almost over and when Coach wasn’t looking he would pour water on his head and splash it under his arms. Then, when Coach called him over to join the class again he would huff and puff and buckle over from ‘exhaustion’.  Coach would just give a grumble of disappointment and then dismiss the class to the showers. Dean had become somewhat of an expert at skirting the rules to get what he wanted.

‘Huh? What is that guy doing out on the lacrosse field?’

“Hey Hammy, there’s some guy out on the Lacrosse field just wandering around. I think he’s drunk or something.” Dean chuckled at the drunken man as he tripped over his own feet.

“What?” Abraham asked but without looking away from his studies.

“I’m serious, come look. It’s hilarious. He just kinda keeps walking in circles, stumbling around.” Dean smiled and kept watch of the clumsy man.

Abraham was now intrigued. Standing up for the first time in hours he was stiff. He put his hands on his hips and arched backward hard as if to straighten his spine out by bending in the opposite direction. He marked his spot in his text book with a colorful sticky note and made a small notation on it.

“All right, what’s going on?” Abraham asked, as he had not really been listening before.

“Look,” Dean pointed out at the lacrosse field tapping the glass of the window, "There."

“Hmm. Maybe we should tell Jack.” Abraham suggested responsibly to Dean.

“What? What is Jack going to do about it? He’ll just tell Mr. Burger. We can do that.”

“Fine, let’s go now then so I can get back to work.”

Dean and Abraham left their posts at the window and headed downstairs. As they passed door by door they could hear other students talking, playing video games and otherwise not sleeping. The boys started down the two flights of stairs to Mr. Burger's room talking about what they had seen when a short boy stood right in front of them. His hair was dark and combed neatly to the side, skin shinny from just being washed, matching pajama set perfectly pressed and his grooming kit tucked under his arm. Every detail in perfect order.

"And where are you two headed at this hour?" the boy asked with an air of over importance.

"Oh, hey Jack." Dean sighed reluctantly. "Just going to see Mr. Burger."

"Is that so?" Jack stood up even straighter than before, somehow. "Well, Mr. Burger is not to be bothered at this hour. And really I should write you up for being out of bed." He said cocking his head slightly, looking at them like a disapproving parent. "So what is SO important that you are breaking curfew? Hmm?"

"We need to talk to Mr. Burger." Abraham said matter of factly.

"You can't right now." Jack said shooting his nose up into the air.

"It's important."

"Then you can tell me and I'll relay it to him at a more appropriate time."

"No. We're going now." Dean said defiantly stepping past Jack and heading down the stairs. Abraham paused for a moment as Jack snorted at the nerve of Dean and whipped his head back to him, glaring. Abraham hesitated not wanting to get in trouble, but eventually fell in right behind Dean down the stairwell. He didn't want to be written up, but he also hated Jacks over inflated sense of self-importance.

"You can't do that!" Jack shouted from the landing between the second and third floors watching the boys descend the stairs.

"Watch me!" Dean shouted up from the bottom of the stairs half-heartedly.

"I'm the dorms student leader! You have to listen to me!" Jack grit his teeth and grumbled. He was a man of words not action so he reluctantly continued up the stairs. Each step he took was as if he was trying to put is foot through the stair. His suede slipper soles slapping the tile, the little tassels violently bouncing.

"Ugh. What a tight ass." Dean shook his head.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, rounded the corner and headed down the hall towards Mr. Burger's room.

"You think that guy is still there?" Abraham asked cutting the silence of their long walk.

"I dunno."

"Well, should we even bother Mr. Burger if there's not even a guy anymore?"

"What, you wanna check if he's still there?" He asked with a look of questioning disbelief.

"I mean, if we are going to risk getting into trouble for breaking the rules it might as well be for a legitimate reason right? I don't want a week of early lights out because we thought we might have seen a guy."

Abraham made sense to Dean, as he usually and annoyingly did, but it kept him from getting into a lot more trouble than he could have.

The boys stopped, now at the end of the hall and just outside of Mr. Burger's room.

"Alright." Dean sighed, "Let’s go check." He nodded towards the large double doors in front of them that lead outside. His hand was poised on the handle.

"We can walk over to the field and see if he's still wandering around."

"Hold it right there Mr. McCullah." A low monotone voice said from next to him. Dean and Abraham were startled to suddenly hear Mr. Burger's voice and see him standing right next to them in his open doorway. "Where do you think you are going? It's past lights out."

Mr. Burger's round shape filled the whole doorway, only letting slivers of light out from around him. Dean thought he kind of looked like a planet eclipsing the sun.

"Well Mr. McCullah?" Mr. Burger asked again snapping Dean from his bemused thoughts of Planet Burgers where the surface of the planet felt like walking on waterbeds, the trees were made up of bushy brown moustaches with little yellow tinges of mustard on them and the air smelled of nose hair singeing clove cologne and stale French fries.

"Hmm? Oh yeah," Dean quickly slipped into his good boy voice. A trait he learned was necessary for some of the teachers who still believed he was 'making an effort', "well sir, we heard Jack say he didn't want to bother you with such things, but we thought you ought to know that someone saw some student throwing water balloons at a car."

"Oh really, while I appreciate your interest in such things Mr. McCullah," Mr. Burger said knowing full well Dean was putting on his concerned citizen act, "Jack was correct, this could have waited till the morning. Now both of you back to your room."

"Alright Mr. Burger. I just thought whoever’s classic car that was might want know who was throwing water balloons full of paint at it." Dean said with a shrug baiting Mr. Burger who he knew loved his '67 Camaro more than life.

The color drained from Mr. Burger's face and he made a sad guttural whimper and took off running toward the stairs. Dean and Abraham stood and watched in awe as the portly man sprinted down the hall. They were shocked to see that it was even possible to move something that large, that quickly on what were unusually thin legs for the rest of his globe like body.

As Mr. Burger disappeared up the stairs the boys broke concentration on the sight and looked at each other.

"Welp, lets go." Dean said satisfied in his work.

"Why didn't you just tell him what we saw?" Abraham asked.

"Like you said, there's no point getting in trouble for something that we don't even really know exists."

"Yes, but once Mr. Burger realizes his car isn't covered in paint and there were no water balloons. Won't you get in trouble for lying about it?" Abraham posed to him with a look of reason.

"Eh, I'll worry about that when it happens. Right now we have a drunk to find." Dean said as if it was a grand adventure and Abraham was satisfied with his answer as Dean had an affinity for worming his way out of trouble. Dean and Abraham looked out the glass of the doors one last time before pushing them open slowly and stepping

out into the foggy, cool, damp night air to search for the shambling man they had seen on the field.