I recently saw your post on behalf of a teacher, concerning a student at Buchner Collegiate. His name is Roy Vine.
The account - Part I - concerns me deeply because I believe it comes from a new custodian at the school, posing as a teacher.
I am the head custodian and only got the job last summer myself. In fact, a lot of the staff is new, including the principals and some of the teaching staff.
Apparently, there was an incident last year, around this time in fact, involving missing students and the previous vice principal. There isn’t much more than gossip, however, as a judge instituted a media ban concerning whatever happened.
Must have been really bad though. Half the staff is gone, retired, quit, or transfered.
Those that remain don’t talk about it.
But I digress.
This is about Charlotte. And Roy.
She’s in her early twenties and never graduated high school. I didn’t hold that against her. Neither did the new principal. Charlotte is quiet, polite, and completes her work without complaint.
That’s what’s so surprising about her standing at the head of a darkened classroom, on our night shift, teaching grammar to no one. Or, almost no one.
I watched her through the wire laced window at the side of the door. She looked as anxious as usual, angry even. I couldn’t make out what she was saying as she strode around the room, handing out sheets of blank paper.
It was kind of cute, at first. Charlotte was living out some fantasy; she wanted to be a teacher. Cool.
But then she returned to the head of the class and dropped a pile of papers on the student desk at the front.
“Enough!” Charlotte shrieked. It was loud enough to make me flinch. “There’s nobody there!”
I didn’t move. She looked sweaty, and angry enough to make me afraid to be noticed.
That’s when I realized Charlotte wasn’t alone. A shadow so dark and small sat in the desk I thought was empty.
Its head turned, revealing red cinder eyes suggesting an undersized child’s head. Any thought of this being a real kid vanished within the void that split its face, a grin that would agonize any real person, so dark the interior drank the light cast by its eyes.
I’m not ashamed to let you know, I walked away, and fast. It’s not like horror movies. My brain checked out, and I went right back to sweeping the floor along the hallways. The shock of the experience didn’t hit me until I tried to sleep, and found that thing behind my eyelids, smiling at the despair it caused.
I didn’t sleep then, and had trouble for weeks after. These troubles, however, paled in comparison to what was coming.
Charlotte didn’t seem overly bothered. She remained quiet and solitary. The only odd thing I noticed on dayshift was her worrying over papers, marking them up, and muttering under her breath. She was subtle about it; I think I’m the only one who noticed because I saw her “teaching.”
The night shift cleanings afterward, I glimpsed in the same classroom and saw her but didn’t stop to look in. Once was enough.
I did find a phone number on one of the pages she left in our breakroom. At the time, I hadn’t seen the email Charlotte had written to you, Mr. Cleriot. I didn’t know.
Charlotte’s behaviour obviously bothered me. When I saw the number, I thought I could call it and get a clue about the kind of person she was or, I admit, find something that might result in her firing. No Charlotte, no Roy, right? I know now what I didn’t know then.
I dialed.
A torrent of static and interference answered, as described in the previous email. There was a voice beneath it all too, a woman’s I think. She only said one thing clearly, however: My name. Over and over, my name, first and last.
Charlotte wrote that misfortune befell those whose names were spoken.
She was right. Misfortune came. And won’t go away.
In between my phone call and seeing her post and emailing you, I have become completely afraid of everything in Buchner Collegiate.
It started with a simple “accident” or something one would normally attribute to an accident: My mop snapped in half just as I averted my gaze from the classroom in question and Charlotte within.
I’d been pressing down on the mop, obviously, and, when it gave, I fell over, impaling myself in the gut. The wound was far from fatal but there was blood and the broken shaft was stuck into my body, so I screamed.
Charlotte arrived and started first aid. She didn’t list that as one of her skills. Her voice was more confident than usual too and soothing. Like a teacher’s.
I saw Roy, that thing, lurking behind her. I writhed to get away but she wouldn’t let me. The charred hand of the shadow boy reached and touched the top of my foot.
I think I passed out.
The paramedics were suddenly there, and, somehow, Charlotte and Roy were not. I was taken to the hospital to have the handle removed. That’s where I discovered an odd discolouration on my foot, a burn the size of a dime or fingertip.
I was off work for a few days but had to return, sadly limping around and in pain. I needed the money. The principal called me to the office that day. Charlotte was there. She wouldn’t look at me. I stood in the doorway, frozen, even after being invited to sit down.
“Still feeling rough,” he said. “That’s why I called you here. Charlotte filled in while you were in hospital, and, well, we know you need to work, so the solution is for Charlotte to take over as temporary head custodian while you recover. Your salary will be the same, of course, but you’ll be on light duty, and won’t have to deal with scheduling and supplies. How does that sound?”
I hadn’t stopped looking at Charlotte and would have agreed to anything to get away from her.
I should have told them to stuff it because suddenly I was scheduled to work every night shift. Normally, all the custodians took such a week in pairs once a month.
Now it’s all me and Charlotte and Roy.
Charlotte continues to “teach” every night. As soon as she locks up Buchner, she goes to the classroom, leaving me to do everything. I don’t dare complain, even as every shadow in the halls seems to whisper and move and watch.
The brooms feel brittle. The burn doesn’t heal. Roy - whatever it is - occupies my thoughts and doesn’t let me sleep.
I can’t quit. Yes, I need the money, but I’m more afraid of pissing it off again. I think it wants me to stay, but won’t hesitate to harm me if I try to disrupt its time with Charlotte.
It caused the mop to break. I know that. But it expected me to bear the wound silently. The whispers tell me so.
I am taking a huge risk in contacting you, Cleriot.
I need help.
Any suggestions would be appreciated.
This can’t go on forever.