Image Credit: Pink Sherbet Photography

On Miles’ first day in Dakota Crossing, he found a note scrawled in red marker on his door reading YOUR NOT WELCOME HERE. Below it, the writer had drawn a skull, a knife, and several squiggling lines of what Miles assumed were blood droplets.

He turned his head to see a rustling in the lilac bushes beside his mailbox. (And it was his mailbox, even if the name on the side still read ‘Smith’.) A couple dead petals scattered onto the patchy grass, and a flicker of black fabric showed between the branches.

“Hello! Is this yours?” Miles asked the bushes. He gestured to the note.

The bushes were silent.

“I like the drawings. They show a lot of talent,” he said. “But… did you mean ‘you are not welcome here’?”

They rustled again, irritably.

“No, I didn’t!” they cried, in a young boy’s voice. “I mean–” And they went quiet.

“Oh, okay.” Miles considered the note. It was written on torn notebook paper, curled up at the edges where the tape wasn’t keeping it secured. “Did you want this back? Or if you want to come in for a bit, I could make some–”

The bushes cut him off with a disgusted, “Ugh, nevermind!” And as Miles watched, a small figure dressed in black darted away from them, disappearing between the neighbor’s fence and recycling bins.

Miles waited a moment longer, just in case. But when the boy didn’t come back, he sighed and peeled off the note, then headed inside to unpack.

#

His orientation with Principal Williams didn’t go much better. He’d dressed up in his best button-up and slacks–both a little wrinkled, with the faint smell of Target clothing racks still on them–and had brushed his hair back into something resembling order, arriving five minutes early on the dot. She met him outside her office, where he’d barely gotten a “hello” out before she handed him a stack of paperwork and started leading the way down the hallway. She was a small, excitable woman, with a fast walk and a faster voice, and Miles stumbled to keep up.

“We really are so glad to have you, Mr. Freeman, especially on such short notice!” she chirped. Her bun of hair bounced as she moved, along with what looked like dozens of clunky necklaces. She turned right, then left, then right again, scurrying down another identical beige-and-green hallway. (What sort of school had beige as a school color?)

“It’s not a problem,” Miles said. He shifted the stack of paperwork, nearly dropped it, and scrambled to catch himself. His glasses slipped, and he wrinkled his nose to keep them from falling off. “I’m–ah–happy to help.”

“Excellent! I’m sure you’ll be right at home.” Principal Williams gestured to a set of metallic double-doors to the right. Through them, Miles could hear muffled voices, laughter, and the clattering of furniture. “There’s the cafeteria, by the way. Lunches are split into three groups: the eleven o’clock, the eleven-thirty, and the twelve o’clock. Since you’re taking over the two pm slot, that won’t apply to your class much, but it’ll help you avoid the rush. I wrote it down in your introduction booklet.”

Miles looked down at the stack of paperwork. There were at least seven booklets that he could see.

“Of course,” he said, “I’ll remember it.”

He’d no sooner spoken than Williams walked up to a corkboard by the cafeteria doors and plucked free a piece of paper, adding it to the top of the pile.

“I’m sure you will! Here’s this month’s lunch menu–the break room is of course always available for staff to bring their own lunch if you prefer, but cafeteria food is complimentary as well. And, ooh! Friday is pizza day, that’s exciting!”

Miles took a moment to imagine himself in the cafeteria; he imagined himself cramped at a table with a bunch of giggling middle schoolers, his legs folded up like a spider as he picked at a tray of—he checked the menu–‘nuggets & cheezy mac’.

“Ah… thank you, but packing my own lunch will be fine. But I appreciate the offer!” he said.

“Oh, no, Mr. Freeman. Thank you, really. I can’t tell you how appreciative we are to have a fill-in so late in the year. Alan’s–sorry, Mr. Smith’s quitting has us all kerfluffle, and you’ve saved us all one doozy of a headache.”

Kerfluffle? Doozy? Miles thought.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “I’m sorry he left you in such a way.”

“Oh, well, I can’t really blame him. Anyone under that much harassment would do the same, poor thing–”

“Harassment?” Miles asked. He stumbled, sending a couple papers fluttering to the tile, and grimaced before bending down to pluck them back up.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I don’t mean to worry you at all. And I shouldn’t gossip. It was a terrible tragedy, after all,” Williams said, cheerfully.

“I don’t mind.”

“Well, since you asked.” She clasped her hands together. “Mr. Smith worked here for over a decade, but he could be a bit… strict… so he wasn’t very liked by a few of the students. Some of them insisted on playing the most morbid pranks on him. I can barely even mention it. Fake blood on his driveway, threats in his mailbox, occult drawings on his windows… The poor thing was petrified. I can’t blame him at all for leaving town. Children can be so grim, sometimes.”

Miles thought back to the note on his door.

“I’m sure they can be,” he said. “But… ah, in my experience, a lot of children act out because of problems at home or in their lives. I believe if you reach out to them with understanding and without judgement, they can open up in inspiring ways.”

Williams beamed. Her clasped hands squeezed against each other, chipped nail polish glittering in the fluorescent light.

“And that’s exactly the sort of mentality we want to encourage, here!” she cried. “And that’s exactly why we’re happy to work with you, Mr. Freeman. I have full confidence that you’ll fill the void Mr. Smith left behind. Maybe be even better!”

Miles blushed, holding the paper stack closer to his chest.

“I’ll do my best. I know I’m something of an outsider, but…”

He trailed off. To his right, next to rows of battered lockers and a dripping water fountain, was a classroom door. Through the mottled glass window, he could see a blurry row of students. One seemed slumped forward, likely asleep at their desk, and another held a glowing light that was probably a cell phone.

On the outside of the door, construction paper jack-o-lanterns and autumn leaves competed for space. They’d been taped up, and several of them curled up at the edges, like a piece of notebook paper. HAVE A SPOOK-TACULAR HALLOWEEN!, one read.

Beside him, Williams clapped her hands.

“Nonsense. Sometimes we all need a little outside help,” she said.

And Miles smiled.

“I’ll do my best, then.”

He hoped, deep down, it would be enough.

#

When Miles got home, he walked up the sidewalk and turned to see a massive pentagram scrawled into his driveway. It glared up from the asphalt in dusty pastel pink–chalk pink, he realized. He bent down to run a finger over it, then sneezed as he breathed in the chalk dust.

This time, no bushes rustled as he stood back up. He looked around and saw nothing but dry trees in the yard, heard nothing but distant bird chirps and the low hum of traffic. He straightened up, and his back popped like a gunshot.

Silence.

He headed inside, crossing the kitchen and towards the hallway closet. He needed a mop bucket, some tap water. Maybe soap? Did soap clean up chalk? He dug a bucket free from beneath a stack of cardboard boxes, then filled it in the bathtub and lugged it back outside, sloshing droplets onto his shoes and across the grass.

As soon as he’d heaved it over the chalk, though, he realized it wouldn’t work as he’d planned. The water splashed and darkened the asphalt, shifting the pentagram from pink to a dim sort of red. As water trickled down the driveway, gathering in a murky puddle at the bottom, traces of dust went with it, turning it an oozing shade of red.

Was that part of the plan? Was he supposed to try and wash it away, only to reveal the darker version underneath?

Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared. It carried on too long, a low, flat noise in the dry air.

No, that was him overthinking it, he knew. This wasn’t planned so far ahead. He looked back at his house–at this small-but-promising two-story white clapboard in a small-but-promising town. It still seemed as tidy and nice as when he’d first seen it, if a bit dusty inside. The yard, while dry and patchy, could be brought to life with a few good waterings. And the mailbox…

The name SMITH stood out, in glaring block letters.

Smith, who’d been pranked and haunted by angry middle schoolers. Smith, who’d abandoned his decade-long position barely two months into the school year. Smith, who’d left behind a quaint little house on the market, an open position at the school, and what seemed like the perfect void to fill.

And, apparently, an enemy, too.

Miles bit his lip. There wasn’t anyone hiding in the bushes this time, and yet he felt a strange urge to call out, anyway.

“I’m not Alan Smith, you know,” he said, to no one in particular. “I’m just a fill-in for him. I’m not the person you should be upset with. That person is gone. Do you understand?”

No answer. Miles waited, then sighed and headed back inside, dragging his bucket with.

Still, a part of him could understand the confusion. As he put the bucket back in Smith’s closet, as he cooked dinner in Smith’s kitchen and ate at Smith’s counter, as he made his way to Smith’s bedroom, he could understand it quite well. Smith’s house settled around him, creaking and groaning in unfamiliar ways, as it would continue to groan when he woke up tomorrow and made his way to Smith’s job. His own things, piled in cardboard boxes, took up the living room, but the rest of the house yawned around him, echoing with ghosts.

I’m filling the void he left, that’s all. It’s not my fault I’m here. I have to do my job.  

The house seemed too large. It seemed too small. It seemed too off, corners and hallways unfamiliar to any he knew back home.

He slept.

#

Class started on Tuesday, just like that–Miles signed his W-2 form in the morning, and before he could even stop and buy pencils, he found himself with a lesson plan in hand and a bag on his shoulders, two pm sharp, standing at the front of Mr. Smith’s classroom.

Seven rows of tired-eyed students stared back. The classroom around them was starkly plain, with white walls and a battered projector in the corner, and it still smelled faintly of dry erase markers and shoe rubber. Miles cleared his throat, brushing a hand over his sweater.

“Ah, good afternoon, everyone! I hope you all had a good lunch.” He smiled. “I’m Mr. Freeman, and I’ll be filling in as your Biology teacher for the rest of the year.” He turned to the board, where he could still see grayish traces of Smith’s half-erased notes. He uncapped a marker and wrote over them in swooping, dark letters: MR. FREEMAN.

A girl raised her hand. That was fast.

“Yes?”

“Are we gonna watch a movie again?” She drew the last word out–mooveeeeh–with a drawl.

“I’m afraid not. We have a lot of catching up to do!”

The kids groaned.

“So I was thinking we could do a pop quiz on what you know already–”

They groaned harder.

“–With candy rewards for every question answered right.”

They went quiet. Miles smiled. Kids could be strange at times, but they still were kids, and they were easy enough to please if you knew how to work with them. He crossed over to the desk–nudging aside the computer monitor and a couple scattered pens–and set down his bag. Its sides unfolded like an accordion, and he reached inside to pull out a bag of discount Halloween candy.

He hadn’t had time to grab pencils, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t thought ahead entirely.

The kids’ heads snapped up as he gave the bag a shake, two dozen pairs of eyes locked on the prize. Miles held it up high, then crossed to the center of the room with cool, confident strides.

“Let’s get started. Who can tell me the official name for… hmm… cell division?” He shook out a piece of chocolate, tossing it up and down.

Several hands shot up. Miles watched two girls in the front row raise their hands, then glare at each other. Excellent. Nothing encouraged participation like competition.

“Yes! You there, in the green shirt!”

“Mitosis!”

“Very good! Here, catch!” Miles tossed the candy piece, and at least three students scrambled to catch it. Still, the boy in green got it first, and held it up in smug victory.

“Next: what carries genetic data for the body?”

“DNA!”

“Who can define ecology?”

“The study of ecosystems and plants and stuff!”

“What do you call an animal that only eats meat?”

“A carnivore!”

“What is a gamete?”

“A sex cell!” a girl blurted out, and the class exploded into laughter.

On it went. Miles paced back and forth, shooting off questions and lobbing off candy in reply. He noticed more than a few students discreetly checking their jacket pockets or their laps, but he pretended not to notice their phones. Quick research skills, he figured, were as much a part of learning as memorizing textbooks. And if it got more kids to participate, he couldn’t say no.

In fact, only one student didn’t seem interested in at least trying. He hunched in his seat in the back, his sweatshirt hood pulled up and his arms crossed.

At first, Miles figured he must be sleeping. But as Miles walked closer, he saw the boy’s head was high and his eyes alert… and locked, unblinkingly, on Miles. They stared through a curtain of untidy brown bangs, not eager like the rest of the class, but more focused.

Miles tilted his head, then shook out the last piece of candy.

“Last question for now: can anyone tell me what the liver does, in a human body?” he asked. Several hands shot up, but Miles focused on the boy in the sweatshirt. “How about you, in the back? Do you know?”

Heads turned. A handful of kids watched the kid in the back, who twitched, apparently not expecting to be called out. His stare shifted, from focused to hateful.

Miles waited. The other kids waited. Still, the boy in the sweatshirt didn’t speak a word. An uneasy silence fell over the classroom, save for a few squeaking chairs and rustling movements. Miles cleared his throat.

“Come on, there’s no need to be shy, we–”

The boy cut him off.

“I sent Mr. Smith to Hell.” 

Miles stopped. A few kids laughed, uneasy and nervous titters of noise. The boy grinned, too, but there was no amusement in it.

“And I’ll send you there, too,” he said.

The tittering laughter trailed off. Kids shifted in their chairs, muttering to each other. Somewhere in the hallway, another class went on, a clock ticked, a paper rustled. The world went on. Here, though… here, Miles froze, watching this kid stare back at him with cold, hard eyes.

He cleared his throat. Cleared it again. Tried a smile.

“Yes, I know, we’ve all been to middle school,” he said.

That broke it; kids laughed, muttering more loudly between each other. One of them even slapped his desk, grinning at the hooded boy. Miles heard the words weirdo and creep and even one suck it, edgelord. The boy’s eyes widened, surprised, then narrowed back into hate. He sank down further at his desk, and Miles looked away again, towards the whiteboard.

“Okay, now that I have an idea of where we are, on with the lesson plan…”

#

PART TWO: HERE