The Scream of the Interlopers: Chapter I

It was an ordinary school day on the bustling Saint Oliver’s Kloussauhff High School campus, or so it had seemed. Students walked from building to building, some engrossed in their studies, others lounging about slothfully as if the school were a beach. Everyone basked in the glamour of the recently constructed fine arts building, which dwarfed the other structures of the "SOK" campus. Seated in my religion class, on the far end of the school grounds, withdrawn from all the excitement, I was oblivious to the cabalistic evil that threatened to rise up and consume every living thing.

Bent over the classroom VCR, fumbling with the buttons as she had been for the past fifteen minutes, Dr. Fuach, the absent-minded religion teacher, still hadn’t ascertained that the tape had been removed by one of her prankster students.

“Feel this you old hag!” said Jothaniel, a crude, stocky boy as he sent another sharp tipped dart spiraling into the teacher’s back from his desk. Even with ten darts protruding from her backside, Dr. Fuach remained oblivious to the pandemonium that was her class roaring behind her.

“Class,” she said at last, turning around to stare cross-eyed several feet above our heads, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop the noise--”

“Penis!” squealed a hyperactive, mushroom-headed boy from the back of the classroom.

“All you need is happiness!” grunted a long-haired hippie.

“Uh-huh,” began Jothaniel rythmically.

“Uhn-huh,” finished his musical counterpart, a lanky fellow on another end of the room.

“Ni!” squealed Grover, the most studious pupil in the class.

“Clih...” initiated the hyperactive boy.

“Taurous!” concluded Jothaniel.

“You guys are sick,” said a sardonic blond girl.

Having been reticent and withdrawn throughout the class, I seized the opportunity to steal a moments glory and said: “Happiness!”

“Do you try to be an idiot, or were you born like that?” snarled Jothaniel.

“Please don’t talk; it sickens me,” said Andy, a plump, pigeon faced lad seated in the desk adjacent to mine.

“Sorry for breathing your air,” I grumbled to myself.

“Cooo, cooo,” swooned the peculiar Walden from a nearby desk, mimicking a dove’s mating call.

Throughout the raunchy banter, Dr. Fuach had kept to her lecture, a particularly absurd oration on the efficiency of spoon-on-the-lid yogurt containers--all the while negligent to the antics of my peers.

Another student in the class, Adimal Scrotum, who was usually the rowdiest of the whole bunch, had remained completely taciturn. He sat motionless at his desk, eyes fixed forward, expressionless and vacant.

Presently, the brisk footsteps of someone from the hallway adjoining the classroom became audible. As the scrapping of shoes--loafers, it would seem, to the trained ear--against the hallway carpet drew near, Adimal came to his feet as if receiving an epiphany and let out a horrendous, ear piercing scream that sounded like a pig being slaughtered: “Eaaaeeeaweah!!”

The clamor of the rambunctious class stopped immediately; it was like the flame of a candle being extinguished by a sharp gust of utter silence. Stricken, the class gawked at Adimal Scrotum and followed his staid gaze to the classroom doorway. The footsteps stopped, and a dark, portentous figure appeared in the doorway and cast its shadow on the whole class. It was Mr. Graeny, president of the SOK campus. Notorious for his extortion scandals, ruthless business tactics, monopolistic trusts, and general animosity toward his fellow man, Mr. Graeny’s acrid reputation had spread far and wide; even outside of the tri-county area it would not be uncommon to hear his name spat out with enmity. And with the completion of the grand new tech center, Graeny had more money, power--and almost regal prestige--than ever before.

He stood stoically beneath doorway for several moments, staring down the class silently with those cold, sunken eyes above the protuberant nose. Dr. Fuach’s student's fidgeted nervously in their seats, not sure of what to do. Adimal and Graeny stared eachother down in the muteness of the class; the tension was palpable and I wasn’t the only one in the room with beads of sweat trickling over the forehead. Graeny nodded, and something unspoken passed between the two. Adimal took his seat and resumed his poker-faced staring off into space.

“Dr. Fuach,” said Mr. Graeny, shattering the silence like a hammer on glass. His tone of voice was bilateral at best; warm and reassuring on the outer shell--but mean and contemptuous beneath the feign of altruism. “Would you like to step out into the hall with me for a moment?”

“Hello? Who’s there? Oh, Mr. Graeny, I’d love to,” said the witless Dr. Fuach, woddeling out into the hall, Jothaniel’s darts still sticking from her now blood-soaked back like a pincushion. She shut the door behind her, and instantly the class resumed its usual raucous, heedless of the enigmatic Adimal Scrotum.

I put my head to the door and tried to catch a word or two, but nothing was clear. Then came the shriek from Dr. Fuach and the sound of a scuffle, and then only silence from without.

I squirmed in my seat, indeceive. “Guys, I think something is wrong out there--” no sooner did the words come out of my mouth, then did Dr. Fuach fling open the door to the classroom with an air of authority--completely out of character for her. Something was very unusual about the religion teacher, I noticed right away as she stood before us. Her posture, the way she put her hands on her hips, the way she bore into us with a decisive stare--all of it seemed queer. It looked as if she had a aquired whole new, austere disposition.

“You senile bitch!” shouted Jothaniel.

In an instant, Dr. Fuach had him by the throat and in the air, choking the life out of him. The students in the class howled in dismay--except Adimal, who remained motionless in his desk, face a mask of sobriety. Gripping Jothaniel by the neck with only one outstretched hand--evidently strength that belied her elderly appearance came along with this new temperament--Dr. Fuach held him so that his feet dangled several inches off the floor of the classroom. When Jothaniel’s chunky face began to take on a dark purple hue, Dr. Fuach released him and cast him indiscreetly to the floor. Jothaniel lie there, gasping for breath, much resembling a beached whale.

A dozen of his classmates were at his side in a second, feeling his pulse, attempting CPR, and casting shocked looks at the once sedate religion teacher who had gone berserk. “Disrespect will not be tolerated,” she said, her voice a pure monotone. “Class is dismissed. Adimal: take Jothaniel to Mr. Graeny’s office.”

“Do you think it’s her time of the month or something?” I asked Grover, and old comrade, as we walked out of the religion building, Pubert Hall, and towards the cafeteria together. The horrific incident from religion were still fresh in our minds, and the members of the class packed close together on the campus sidewalk.

“That old hag?” said Grover, incredulous. “I’m sure she had her menopause long ago, in a galaxy far, far away...”

“That’d explain her,” I said with a chuckle.

“Hey look, it’s Herman--and he’s walking!” shouted the long-haired hippie from nearby. Immediately, cheers and obnoxious rooting broke out. Sure enough, Herman was approaching. New to SOK, Herman had won the school over with his innate, comic aura. He was pail, gaunt, and freckled, but the somewhat awkward features were no setback for Herman; people flocked to him nonetheless.

“Herman, do your dirty knee!” squealed the hyperactive, mushroom-headed boy as Herman drew near.

However, for some uncanny reason, on this particular day Herman chose to ignore his fans and continue on his way towards Pubert Hall, stone faced. His impassive expression struck a vibe in my retrospection and at once reminded me of the way Adimal Scrotum had behaved during religion. We watched him go, aghast.

“Most be something in the water,” I said to Grover, continuing the trek to the cafeteria, leaving my bewildered classmates behind.

“Hey guys, listen: it lasts longer while you chew it!” shot back Jeromy, all muscle and tattoo, chiding Miller’s latest comment. We crammed the lunch table like a litter of piglets trying to suckle from their mother. I fought to keep at least half of my ass on the far end of the bench.

“Goddamn, I tell ya,’ I didn’t throw it!” said Leroy, the redneck, as Miller clutched him by the collar.

“Oh I miss summer barbecues...all the fresh pineapples and apricots...ohhh myyy,” reminisced the illustrious Gaeron.

“Listen damn you: it lasts longer while you chew it!” said Jeromy.

“I couldn’t go to the bathroom, because the doctor said no heavy lifting,” boasted Miller.

“Hey, hey, what would you do if Susan Sox over there came up to you, sat down on your lap, and said--” began Faun, the jittery Muslim.

“Not while I’m talking,” Jeromy cut him short. “Listen, yo: it lasts longer while you chew it!”

“Have any of you guys noticed any really strange behavior from some people?” I asked, cutting into the mainstream of idle conversation.

“The only thing strange I see around here is you--and the Muslim,” said Miller.

“There is absolutely nothing strange,” said a voice from behind. I reeled around to see Roderick standing over me, red headed above his prominent nose, his gaze unusually icy and obdurate.

“Hello Rod,” I said. “I saw some strange things in Dr. Fuach’s class like--”

“No,” Roderick cut me short. His voice was flat and expressionless. The entire table was looking now. “All is well. You can assure everyone of that. Carry on.” He rotated to walk away, his movements mechanical, dragging the gawks of everyone else at the table along with him. When he was near the door of the crowded cafeteria, he turned about a final time to say, with almost a little emotional emphasis, “I hope to see you all again--soon.” And with that he was gone.

“Listen: it lasts longer while you chew it!”

“I heard you the first goddamn time,” said Miller, bitch slapping Jeromy.

The oddities only escalated the next day. Seated in my first period science class, ready to unearth all the secrets of physics, I ended up only burying them deeper. The topic for the day was the reflection of light, and Mrs. Gorefinland, the sharp wited, caustic humored science teacher--a complete opposite of Dr. Fuach--had a mirror ready for demonstration.

“All right, you’re my first class, so I’m going to test this experiment out on you,” said Mrs. Gorefinland. Most of the class chuckled, but there were about five or six obstinate students who sat as inert as ancient statues. Just like Adimal Scrotum, I thought darkly.

“Okay, to do this experiment,” continued Mrs. Gorefinland, “it’s just a matter of lifting up this mirror for all of you to see and--let me just bend over and take a quick peak at you first--ahhh!” she screamed and dropped the mirror to the floor. It shattered, sending jagged shards slicing through the air in every direction, cutting a number of students in the front row--including myself. She had dropped the mirror almost a soon as she had held it up; no one had gotten a good look.

“What the hell is wrong missus Gorefin’and?” asked a chubby black student named Trojan, pulling a glass fragment from his cheek.

The science teacher’s face was anemic beyond belief. “You...you...and you...” she said, indicating several of the stoic students. “You had no reflections! Just a dark shadow and red eyes...”

“Mrs. Gorefinland,” said one of them coming to his feet, a normally boisterous burnout, his speech toneless and unanimated. “You must be sick. I suggest you go rest and allow yourself to be taken into a better existence.”

“Okay...” said Mrs. Gorefinland, still in shock.

Another of the stoic group stood up. “Eaaaeeeaweah!!” she screamed.

Seconds later, Mr. Pecker, the school’s brawny disciplinarian, was at the classroom doorway. He nodded to the austere collection of students, and they sat back down. “Come with me Mrs. Gorefinland,” said Mr. Pecker, taking the science teacher by the arm. “Come with me and you will find a new life.” He led her out of the classroom, leaving us baffled.

“Das’ some crazy shit,” said Trojan.

“I hope she’s all right,” said a girl.

A glass shard had nicked my temple, and I held a tissue up to stop the bleeding. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the strange students, whose number I had estimated earlier to be about five or six, turned out to be closer to ten or twelve--a good half the class. I slowly became aware that the were looking at me, communicating amongst eachother with ultrasonic vibes beyond human hearing range, and ever so slowly, their sober expressions started to change. Like the grinding of stone wheels, their eyes went wider and their mouths gaped. They were experiencing apprehension. Fear, it seemed, directed at me.

“That’s it, I’m out of here,” I said, strutting out of the classroom. There were no teachers to stop me. As soon as I stepped out into the hallway, someone slammed the door shut behind me. A girl in the class let out a bloodcurdling scream, the plea for help muffled by the closed door. I could hear desks being knocked over, people thrashing and grunting, and then only silence. I listened a moment longer, shivered, then scurried out of the building.

TO BE CONTINUED