Spare the Rod

3969 Words

Spare the Rod

By: Ronovan



“This is where you met Mom?”

“Mhmm.”

“You know, she’s never spoken of that last day.”

“Beth’s time here wasn’t good.  This place…it traps you with its cultured ambience before you know the truth.”  Thirty years had not been kind to the old place, it had gone downhill since Mom and Dad had met, fallen in love, and eventually fled screaming through the gates.  All you felt now was a sense of neglect an old building takes on after years of disrepair.  Surprisingly, classes still took place, albeit only a very few, in the other wing of the building, and I doubted they had laptops and wifi. 

“This the room where it happened?”  It looked like the classroom hadn’t been touched since Mom had her ‘experience’.  It smelled stale and musty.  Dust coated everything.

“Yes, sealed up since then, everything left just the same.”

“Why start here then?”

Maggie had called the night before, freaking out, and I don’t blame her.  Not easy being a sixteen year old girl, but it was worse when your Mom goes nuts.  Maggie never called her big brother unless it was serious.  I dropped everything and came running.  The magazine I wrote for would have to wait. 

Mom had always been weird, but Dad was the rock.  Since Mom’s most recent breakdown, Dad hadn’t been the same.  But then I had never seen Mom this bad.  I wasn’t even sure she could see the room.  She just sat there in her wheelchair, staring with that glazed look, although she wasn’t on anything.

         I noticed Dad staring at one desk in particular, not going near it, but couldn’t stop looking at it.  “Was that Mom’s?”

         He nodded.  During Mom’s spells Dad tended to get quieter than usual, which with Dad meant no words at all.  Little puffs of dust rose around my shoes as I walked over to the desk.  “Subject?”

         “Early American Literature, we had to read the diary of some early American.  Mine was George Washington, of course.”  Dad was a history professor now, and back then he was a history junkie.

         Walking to Mom’s desk I looked at Dad.  “What was Mom’s?”

         Dad’s eyes lowered to the floor.  I followed his gaze to a book lying there.  “That’s it.  Excerpts from old students from about 230 years ago now, right around the end of the Revolution.”

         “I bet they were interesting.”

         “She never read it.  She opened it, read the first words, and that’s when it all started.”

         “The ‘ghosts’?”

         He looked around the room as he nodded.  Maybe he was expecting to see those ghosts again, but no ghosts appeared.

         “No!”  Dad’s shout made me jump.

         “What?”

         “Don’t touch it.”  I had bent down to pick up Mom’s book; I guess that snapped Dad out of whatever weird thing he was slipping into.

         “Dad, it’s just a book.  Nothing’s going to happen.”  I picked up the book.

         My fingers still remember how it felt to pick up that book covered in thirty years of dust, thick and clinging.  Every time I feel anything like that these days I get sick to my stomach.  I looked at the cover and read aloud, ‘The Secret History of Pembrook School for Boys’.  So this was a boy’s school?  Makes sense considering when it was founded.”  I opened the cover and Dad took a step back. “It’s okay Dad.”  Then I turned to the first diary entry. 

‘Grayson Bloodlaw, Thursday, 27th October, 1785’ 

The pages blurred and I looked up at the room around me.

         “Young David, you will learn to obey.  Do you understand?”

         The room had suddenly changed.  I could still make out the old crumbling mess of the classroom Dad and I had entered, but now there was a veiled overlay of another time.  There was also a smell…like cinnamon…so strong it almost burned my nose.

         “Close the book!  Close it now!”  Dad was almost hysterical.  I couldn’t blame him.  The scene was not pleasant.  A young boy was being pressed face first against a wall, his peers on both sides, holding his arms stretched out, and an instructor holding a wooden rod.  This was 18th Century punishment apparently.

         “David, do you understand me?  We do not speak of such things here.”

         “…mmm…”  The boy could hardly make a reply.

The fairly youngish looking teacher didn’t seem to hear anything.  He was staring at the back of the boy he was punishing.  I didn’t like the look in his eyes.  I decided I had seen enough, and turned the page.

         ‘Benjamin Taylor, Thursday, 28th October, 1802’

         The scene was similar, except the teacher was older this time.

         “Headmaster, I swear to you I did not do this thing.  It is an abomination against all that is holy.” 

         “Little Benjamin, I am certain you believe you have done nothing wrong, but I dare say I know best.”  The headmaster nodded to the other man standing in the room.  He grabbed the boy’s hands from across the desk and pulled him down so he could not move.  The headmaster took his wooden rod in his hands.  I looked at the other man holding the boy.  It was young David.

         “Please, Master Bartholomew.  Please help me.”  Bartholomew closed his eyes.

         And I closed mine, and turned the page, the strong smell of cinnamon that had once again assaulted my nasal passages dissipated.  I felt a hand on my shoulder.  “Robbie, close the book.”

         I looked up and the old Dad was there.  His eyes were clear, no fear or hesitation.  “Dad, we have to keep going or we may never find out how to help Mom.”

         “I know, but there is something more evil at work than what that headmaster was doing.  I had heard stories of someone like him.  Your grandparents had too, and it took the school a lot to convince them to let me come here.”

         “Is this what you saw before?”

         “Yes.  Exactly the same, but your mother didn’t turn the page.  She saw things that she couldn’t handle.”

         “This is some seriously disturbing stuff.”

         “And remember how young she was.  She came from a very sheltered home.  Everything she saw was so strange and alien to her, that something snapped inside her brain.  She functioned fine for the most part, but couldn’t handle stressful situations any longer.”

         “The cinnamon smell, always wondered why she hated the holiday scented things.”

         “Yes.  Neither of us likes it.  I can handle it better than she can, but I think that’s because she was the one it hit the hardest.”

         “Why was it so strong?”

         “I can’t be certain, but you saw what he was.  That was strongly frowned upon in those days.  I wonder if it was to cover the smell of things.  I’ve looked into it some and found his name is Archibald; he was a history instructor here at first and then eventually headmaster.  Before that he was bookkeeper for a shipping fleet.  I suppose that’s where he acquired a taste for things.”

         “So how do we end this?  Do we have to go through the whole book to the end?  I think Mom has to see the end to all of this somehow.”

         “I’ve spoken to a lot of doctors over the years.  She does have to see an end to it.  Some say destroy the book, others say read through to the end, and some even say destroy this room.”

         “Don’t see the school liking that last idea much.  I know it’s just a small private academy now, but still...”

         “Yes.  They would object.”  Dad almost had humor in his voice, almost.

         “I don’t think destroying the book will do any good, yet.  Maybe if we finished it first, then no one else has to ever deal with it.  We can just flip through as fast as we can without even opening our eyes.  See if that works.”  I didn’t really want to see any more of the scenes.

         “We could, but what if we miss something important that would help solve the problem?”

         Dad had a point.  We had to know more to get this solved.  We looked at each other, and I could see Dad set himself.  He nodded.

         The world spun.  Dad and I focused on the book, but the screams could not be blocked out. I turned the pages as quickly as I could, until I came to a penciled in note.  Things went quiet.

         We both looked up.  Standing before us was the figure of a teenage boy, dressed in the attire of someone from the late 1700’s.  He stared at us; at least it seemed like it.

         “You are peculiar looking, aren’t you?”

         I turned to see who was behind us, but we were the only ones in the room.  When we turned back the boy was still looking at us.

         “Yes, I do mean the two of you.  Don’t tell me, you have never spoken to one of the others that have popped up from this book.”

         I remained silent for a bit longer.  Was I going insane as well?  “No, you’re the first to even acknowledge us.”

         “Well, you are turning those pages somewhat rapidly for them to have an opportunity, although, I would dare say you would not want to hear what they had to say.”

         “Yeah.”

         “I see a woman over there that seems not to be well at all.”

         “My mother.”

         “I believe I recognize her from some time ago, somewhat older though.  She opened the book, and that was the last visitors we had until today.”

         “Yes, she’s the reason we’re here.”

         “She could not handle what she saw.  This book is full of the most awful things.”

         “What is this book anyway?  I mean it’s pure evil.”

         “Yes it is.  You see, at first, it was thought the book would be useful in keeping future headmasters from doing as this one did.  However, it became corrupted.  The headmaster found out about it upon his deathbed, and made a deal with the devil himself.  Now, whenever the book is opened those events are displayed for all to see, and allows those within to escape for a time.”

         “You seem to be well adjusted.”

         “Well, I am a ghost.  Difficult not to be well adjusted when there is nothing to worry about anymore.  But I would think you would be wondering what I am doing here.”

         “The thought had crossed my mind.  You are obviously not one of the victims.”

         “Let’s just say I am associated with a victim, and leave it at that.  But as to the reason I am here, I wish to help.  In order for all of this to end, the book must be placed back in the library.  Only there, can the deal made be contained.  When the book is opened in any other part of the school things happen, as you see.  But the library…there is something different about that room.”

         “It’s older.”  This was the first Dad had spoken since the boy had started talking to us.

         “What?”

         “The library was the original school.  Back when it was just one room.  As things became bigger the rest of the school was built.  It was an old church.”

         “That would explain it.  The headmaster was never one for church.  It put him at odds with much of the faculty as well as the parents.  But they all feared him too much to do anything about it.”

         “Then all we have to do is take it the library?”

         ”It does sound simple, but there are problems.  He knows you are here, and what you are planning.  He is all around you now, and will try and stop you.  You were harmless before, but now you are a threat.”

         “And the library is at the other end of the school, as far from this classroom as possible.”  Dad didn’t sound exasperated, but he did sound tired.  But the look on his face showed hope. 

         “But we now have a goal.  What can a ghost do to us?  They are intangible.  We just ignore them.”

         “Ahem.”

         “Oh, sorry about that.  What is your name anyway?”

         “Just call me Johnny.  And ghosts are a somewhat more tangible than you think.  After all, have you not smelled the cinnamon?  Would that not be intangible as well?  Scents are made up of particles that should be just like a ghost, and yet you can smell it.”

         “I guess you’re right.  What do you think we can expect from this headmaster?”

         “He was a teacher of history, and had a flare for torture performed on various victims, from the French during their revolution to those Baltic countries and the terrible pikes.  He has his own take on that, as you have no doubt noticed.”

         “Yeah, we noticed.  So expect torture objects in the way.  I bet booby trap things and ambushes.  Does he have anyone helping him, like David?”

         “David was an unfortunate result.  He came to like the headmaster’s attention.  He also chose to die with the headmaster, hanging himself in the room with him as the last breath left the old man’s body.  He is here as well.”

         “What about Mom?”

         “I can move her outside the building for now.  She can’t be in this.”

         “Johnny, can you help us?”

         “Hmm, now how would I go about that?  I was never the warrior, I just knew of warriors and such.”

         “Maybe warn us if you see one of them about to attack or something.  Anything would help.”

         “I suppose there is something I can do while you gallivant down the corridor.”  And with that, Johnny disappeared.

         I held the book tightly in my fist, as though a monster might escape.  I followed Dad to the outside door where he parked Mom in her wheelchair. She was still quiet and staring in the distance.  I tried to follow out the door, but was pulled back inside, being dragged by the book into the corridor.  “I don’t think the book wants to leave the building.”

         “Well there went that idea.  I was hoping we could just walk around the buildings.”

         “Let’s get this over with.”  As I turned back to look down the corridor, everything changed.  The walls were coal black, the windows were blacked out, and every few feet there were pits of purest black or fiery hell.  We could hear screams coming from those pits.  The hair stood up on my arms and I could feel the back of my head tingle from fear. And as ever, the burning scent of cinnamon.

         “Smell that?”  Dad sniffed the air as he asked.

         “Cinnamon, looks like game on.”

         “Some game.”

         We started walking down the corridor, which seemed a lot longer than it did before.  The fiery pits were easy to avoid, but the black ones were well hidden when they wanted to be.

         “Watch out!”  Dad’s warning was just in time.  I was about to step too far.

         “Ayee!!”  I screamed without meaning to, but the hand that slipped from the pit, and grabbing at my ankle was freaky enough, but the touch was ice cold.  Dad grabbed me and pulled me loose.

         “Wow, wasn’t expecting that.”  I was breathing heavy from the excitement.  It was also getting hotter.  Sweat started to bead up on our foreheads.

         “Maybe we should run for it.  Harder to grab what that way.  Put those old gridiron moves to use.”  Dad smiled at me.  He had enjoyed my high school and college days playing running back.  If not for a third effort for a score, things might have been different.

         “Haven’t run like that in years.  Not sure the knee can do it, but not really a choice.”  And before Dad knew it, I was running down the corridor, dodging around one pit after the other.  Hands grabbed at my feet, but they didn’t have a chance.  I tried not to see the faces peering up from the pits.  Young eyes pleading for help.

         “Robbie!”  I turned back at Dad’s yell.  David Bartholomew was standing between the two of us.  In his hand was a long wooden rod.  His back was to me as he made his way toward Dad.

         I ran back up the corridor.  If David was a threat to us, then we could be a threat to him.  I lowered my shoulder and plowed into the unreal body.  There was a squishy thud sound.  Dad ran past me as David fell.  I turned and followed, David was preoccupied with fending off the hands grabbing hungrily from the pits.

         The screams were getting louder, and not just from the pits.  “You think you can escape?  You think you have the power to contain me?”  It was the headmaster’s voice.  We could hear it over the screams.

         “We are almost there.”  I followed Dad’s nod.  Just ahead were two large wooden doors.  I just prayed they were unlocked.

         Then we heard the loud metallic click, and knew the doors had been bolted somehow.  “Hit it with all you’ve got.”

         We both prepared ourselves.

         “Now!”  And with that one shout we both launched through the air.  The doors cracked and groaned, and finally popped open.

         Safety, you could feel it.  Not two feet away the screams became shouts of anger.  I reached out and slammed the doors shut.  “Now what?  The book is here, but they are still out there.”

         “It needs to be put in its place I bet.  Let’s find where it goes on the shelves.”  Dad was probably right, but something was off.  Something was gnawing at my brain.

         “Oh no.”

         “What?”

         “Dad, look on the wall, the pictures.”  There was a line of old portraits on the wall, of headmasters from the very first one to now.  “It’s him.”  I pointed to one near the beginning.

         “Yes, I recognize him.”

         “No, Dad.  It’s him.  It’s Johnny.  John Archibald.  I didn’t look at the ghost of the headmaster really, but now I see it.  Dad, we left Mom alone.”  Dad’s face went white.  He forced himself not to lose his breakfast.  “You find where the book goes. I am going back for Mom.”

         “Hurry, son.  She may be outside, but I have a bad feeling.”

         “When I go out you slam and lock the doors behind me. Then get that book on the right shelf.”  I took several deep breathes, ignored the pain shooting from my knee, and nodded to Dad.

         “Go!”  The doors flew open and out I went, hearing the slam behind me.

         The corridor was even more chaotic than before.  It was like all of the anger, and anguish had been unleashed, and they were attacking the most available target.  “Get him!  Stop him now, or I promise you these last two hundred years will be nothing compared to the next.”

         “We’re onto you Johnny!”  I didn’t care anymore.  I wasn’t afraid of him. I knew what he was.  He had a name now.

         “Too late.boy.  It is almost done.”  His laughter, that had at one time been enough to turn my stomach, now seemed empty.  Something had changed.  I had changed.

         “Be afraid, Johnny, I’m coming for you.”

         I could see Johnny at the other end of the corridor.  His hold on the corridor was slipping.  I could faintly see images through the windows now.  Johnny was looking out of the door, coaxing.  He was trying to get Mom inside.  I could see Mom, her eyes were on him.  Then Mom did something I had not seen in years.  She stood up.

         “Yes, very good, young lady.  Come.  I will take you to your son and husband.  They need your help.”

         David hit me then.  Little David, all grown up, and a miniature of Johnny.  That wooden rod hurt even if it wasn’t real.  My knee collapsed and I hit the floor.  What was taking Dad so long?  Just put it on a shelf.  But I couldn’t depend on that now.  What if it didn’t work?  I threw David off of me.  He tumbled backwards, arms windmilling, but he had no chance.  He fell down into one of the black pits.  Cackles of laughter could be heard and one long, unending scream.  David had spent centuries walking the corridors, and dishing out torture to his prisoners in the pits.  Now they had him.

         I made to get back to my feet, and start limp-hopping down the corridor when my hand fell upon David’s wooden rod.  Mom was almost to the door.  Johnny had his hand outstretched to her.  I made it to my feet and ran, ignoring the pain.

         “You are almost there.  Just a few more steps and your men will be saf…Nooooo!”  His scream was satisfying.  The wooden rod he had passed onto David connected with his head.  Johnny grabbed his face.  I could see his eyes between his fingers.  They had turned red, evil.

         “Get away from my mother.”  I leapt out and grabbed Mom.  I led her back to the wheelchair as quickly as I could.

         “This isn’t over boy.”  The boy Johnny no longer stood there.  In his place was the headmaster with a slash across his face from where I had hit him.

         “Mom, you stay here.  Don’t move.”  I turned back to the door to find the headmaster gone.  I knew he had gone for Dad, but I had something that could stop him.

         ”Come out if you want your wife and son alive.”

         “Dad, we’re okay. Don’t listen to him. Find the shelf.”

         “Idiot, there is no shelf.”

         “But you’re still afraid of the library, the old church.  So, at least part of the story was true.  And I know what else will stop you.”  I raised the wooden rod and slashed at him again.  He reached down, grabbing up a small figure of a boy and throwing him at me. 

As I pushed the boy off me, Archibald shoved his way past.  But I was quicker.  I lashed out with the rod again.  His screams were more satisfying than I care to admit.  With each touch of the wooden rod John Archibald screamed again, and again.  With each of his screams, the pits cheered.  After the first few hits from the rod, Archibald fell; the mere touch of the rod was enough.  The decades of abuse from that wooden rod were now being exorcised back into the monster responsible.  I forced Archibald back up the corridor.  He cringed, and held one hand up, begging me to stop.  It wasn’t me he had to worry about.  Then they had him.  The bodies rose up, enveloped the headmaster, and pulled him down into the pit.

         Slowly the pits closed, and were replaced by the old stone floor.  Dad didn’t waste any time.  He threw open the library doors and ran past me toward Mom.  I limped as fast as I could after him.  My hand burned where I had been holding the wooden rod.  I can still feel it at times to this day.

         Dad came to a stop so suddenly at the door that I almost ran into him.  I looked past him and didn’t see Mom.  “Where did she go?”

         “I know where she is.”  I looked at Dad’s face.  I hadn’t seen that look in a long time.  He was smiling.  Not just a cover smile, but a real one. He ran across the large side lawn of the school to a line of trees that acted as a border for the lawn.  We made it through the trees and saw a small pond.  There was Mom, standing with her feet in the shallows.  A smile on her face, arms spread wide, and head thrown back to the sky.