Tim Curran - The Devil Next Door

“ Well,” Warren said, wiping blood from his cheek “What do you offer?”

Kathleen grinned and her teeth locked tightly together. They felt long and sharp and ready. “Upstairs,” she told them. “Upstairs is the one you want.”

The crowd moved up the stairs, leaving a blood-smell and a meat-smell in their wake. They smelled as she did, only more so. Just dirty and rank and repulsive. A bouquet of death lilies and graveyard roses and mortuary orchids pressed into cold, waxen fingers. A good smell, a fine smell, a real and true smell.

As they filed up the stairs, Kathleen grinned.

The sun outside was so hot, so very hot, burning and blinding. She wanted sunset and shadows and steaming darkness, the feel of cooling pavement under her hands and feet, night-smells and night-tastes. The pure and atavistic joy of running wild and free and hungry with the pack.

Upstairs there was the pathetic, broken scream of an old woman.

Kathleen grinned.

Hurry sundown.

Hurry…

Well, that’s how it ends. That’s how it all crashes down around you.

This is what Benny Shore, Principal of Greenlawn High School, was thinking as he left school that day, just amazed at all of it. Yes, beside himself with the horror of it, surely, but more than that, just amazed. Like they said, what a difference a day could make. He’d come to work that morning, chipper and happy, whistling some silly tune…and now he was leaving, depressed and hopeless, wanting to slit his wrists.

Yes, one day could make all the difference in the world.

There was little to do now but wait and see what came next.

The school board were beside themselves, the city and state and county cops just scratching their heads. Shore’s phone had been pretty much ringing off the hook ever since it all happened and then, for the last hour or so…it had been oddly quiet. He was expecting to be besieged by parents once their workday had ground to a halt, but it had been quiet.

The calm before the storm?

Or a sign of something worse?

The sign of a world going into the shitter, that’s what. It’s breaking out everywhere now…random violence, bloodshed, savagery. And, for once, old boy, you don’t need to turn on CNN to see it: because it’s HERE. It’s in the STREETS…

Shore hopped into his Jeep and buried his head in his hands.

He sat there like that for maybe ten minutes and then just stared out into the deserted parking lot. There were a few police vehicles there, but that was about it. He was thinking about what Ray Hansel had been telling him as the State Police CSI unit combed through the wreckage, about the violence not only at the school but in the town as well. So much of it in one day that it made even the most skeptical onlooker more than a bit nervous. Was there an underlying cause to it all as Hansel had suggested? Was there a pattern very much evident, but one they could not see because it did not fit the usual parameters? And probably the worst and most unthinkable thing of all, was it possible, as Hansel had hinted at, that this was only the beginning of something much larger?

Would this infection of violence gut the world?

Shore shook his head.

Too much, too much. His head was beginning to hurt from it all. There had been a nasty headache threatening all day and now it was coming, landing hard in his head with reinforcements.

He dug a bottle of Ibuprofen from the glove compartment and chewed a few tablets up, washed it all down with a swig of coffee from this morning that had been sitting in the Jeep all day. It was awful tasting, but he did not notice. He fumbled a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and blew smoke out through his nostrils.

He felt so…helpless.

So utterly helpless.

He’d been principal at Greenlawn High for nearly eleven years, before that assistant principal and guidance counselor. This school was his school and he did not like the idea that he could do absolutely nothing. That this was all in the hands of others, most of them with no true personal interest in the school, the kids, their combined impact on the community at large. He felt like he was giving up without a fight.

He unrolled his window the rest of the way and stared up at the school.

Two stories of red brick that had been standing since 1903, right on the spot where the old schoolhouse-tall and narrow, whitewashed clapboard with a rising belfry-had been until it burned to the ground in the winter of ’01. He thought of all the classes that had passed through those high, arched doors, the class pictures that had been taken out in the grassy courtyard. All the football games and track meets that had been held in the athletic field behind. He could almost hear the cheering and laughter, the boom of drums and thunder of the high school band. Yes, he could smell autumn in the air, leaves and bonfires and apples.

That’s what it was all about, he suddenly knew.

Tradition.

It was all about tradition.

And those goddamn kids in Biolab had taken that all away.

Not just from Shore himself, but from the whole goddamn town and the generations that had yet to set foot in the school. Those kids had tarnished that and it would never be the same again. For the next hundred years, maybe, if the school stood that long and the world was still turning, kids would be telling stories of that terrible day. Horror stories. That was the ultimate legacy of this day, this Friday the 13 ^ th, grist for horror stories.

Shore felt the headache building in his skull. Fucking kids, he thought. What the hell were they thinking? What the hell came over them? How dare they do something like this, turn my school into a goddamn sideshow!

The headache amplified and Shore actually cried out, pressing his hands to his temples. The cigarette fell from his lips and landed on the seat between his legs, burning a hole there, but he neither noticed nor cared. The pain passed and he swore under his breath. He was actually hoping that none of those little shitting monsters from 5 ^ th hour Biolab was ever found. He hoped they did the right thing and threw themselves into the deepest, darkest hole they could find and pulled the dirt in after them. Hell, yes. Let the evil of this day die with them and then nobody would point their fingers at Greenlawn High, they’d just speculate and speculate and finally accept the fact that those kids were all fucked-up on drugs.

Shore smiled at the idea.

He started the Jeep and threw it in reverse, then drive, coasting it slowly through the parking lot. He lit another cigarette and brushed the burning one on the seat to the floor. He pulled around behind the building, taking the circle drive, so he could take a good long look at his school.

He liked to see it.

It made him feel good inside, important maybe.

Necessary.

This was his territory.

His.

As he came around the corner, passing through the faculty lot, he decided he had better not see any of those damn dirtbags smoking cigarettes or necking in the trees behind the lot. If he did…well, if he did, he was going to come down on them like never before. He’d bust their heads open. He’d bust their goddamn heads right open.

But he saw no one.

At least until he came around the back of the school and then he saw a kid standing there, right in the middle of the road. Some dumb kid staring at the oncoming Jeep like he had no idea what a moving vehicle was. Shore grimaced and hit the horn a couple times. The sound made his head throb.

Dumb kid…what the hell was he doing?

Then Shore got a good look at him.

No, just not any kid. That was Billy Swanson. Goddamn Billy Swanson from 5 ^ th hour Biolab.

“Billy,” Shore said under his breath. “Well, well, well.”