Chapter 17: The Truth Will Out

Chapter 17 is ready, and it's a long one. And it's been a loooong time coming. 

This is a special chapter to me. As some of you may know, the character Mr. Hanlon is heavily inspired by one of my actual teachers- the events of chapter 1 (The Douche) are things that happened to me last year. I had a teacher correct me about the use of the word syllabuses. The character and the person he's based off of are both assholes. That's where the similarities end though. I did not correct my teacher the way Harold corrected Hanlon in my story. And I did not throw my bag at or otherwise assault my teacher, obviously that'd be wrong ;)

This particular teacher (Who will remain unnamed for obvious reasons!) is a total asshole, so I enjoyed giving his character a well earned beat down. 

BUT that's not all. I also want to dedicate this chapter to one of my friends from reddit. 

Schleef, I want you to know I'm rooting for you- I know if you practice writing- and just stick with it- you will consistently improve your craft. One day you'll achieve a sense of pride in your art, like I have. 

While you're reading this chapter pay attention to my word choice, story structure, and mood building. Take notes. 

Chapter 17: The Truth Will Out

                Another knock at the door.

                It cracked open, Administrator Marcy poked her head in.

                "Harold, I'd like to speak with you."

                "In your office?"

                "No need. We'll chat here. Mrs. Wallace, can we have a moment?"

                Mrs. Wallace nodded, and took her coffee cup to the hall.

                "Tell me."

                Harold raised his palms, "Tell you what?"

                "What do you think Harold? Tell me why you threw the bag at Hanlon. You didn't speak in my office, and I understand why. But we're alone now, so speak."

                Harold leaned back into his chair, and grunted. "He did deserve it. Hanlon is a complete jerk."

                He looked at Mrs. Marcy, and she gestured for him to go on.

                "Well. After your announcement, I was telling my... girlfriend- I was trying to comfort her. Mr. Hanlon called me out. And then he started telling the entire class that Joe died because we were idiots."

                Harold squeezed his knee to reign in his composure.

                She waited for him to continue.

                Eventually his grip slackened, and he sighed. "Hanlon told the class it was our fault- Joe and I's fault- he died. 

Because we had been trying to trap said animal. He said we were idiots, and the rest of the class should watch our example so they don't follow it."

                "It wasn't wise- he's right about that." Marcy leaned forward. "But it was wrong of him to... make an agenda out of what happened."

                "How did he even know what we were doing out there? Did the police tell everybody?"

                Marcy leaned back again. "Of course not. But they 

told us Joe had been killed by an animal. We had a faculty meeting. It seems Mrs. Isaac put two and two together. And if she remembers correctly, she warned you it could be dangerous to corner a wild animal... She says you promised you wouldn't."

                "Her memory is fine. But we never cornered the animal. It went after Joe when he was alone."

                She nodded. "I understand. And I want you to understand my purpose for talking to you about this is twofold. One: I wanted the full story of what transpired between you and Hanlon. And two: I wanted you to talk about this with somebody. I won't force you to talk any further, but I want you to know- really know- that you don't have to bear this burden alone. I'm an open door."

                "Thanks Mrs. Marcy. I know."

                "And one other thing." She caught his gaze and held it gently, "You need to know what happened to Joe is not your fault."

                "If we hadn't-"

                "But you did. And by all counts, you shouldn't have. Even so, none of you could have known what would happen, the blame rests squarely on the shoulders of bad luck and freak accidents. Predators large enough to do... that, they don't live around here. They aren't supposed to. You couldn't have known the danger would be so great. Nobody could have. It's a tragedy and you do not need to beat yourself up for it."

                Harold had nothing to say- he couldn't agree with what she was saying, and he knew she didn't want to hear his truth.

                But he felt it: Joe wouldn't have died, if Harold hadn't set up the night... hadn't let Joe walk Kait home without him... Hadn't fallen asleep while his friend was in need.

                Finally he managed another, "Thanks."

                And Mrs. Marcy stood to leave. Before she turned she said, "Hanlon crossed the line. I'm giving him in school suspension too. He's going to take his lunch break in here, so Mrs. Wallace can get some fresh air. He won't be happy to hear that, but again, he crossed the line. Okay by you, if he supervises for the next period?"

                Harold grinned. "Sure."

                "And, I'm taking you out of his class. We talked about that option on the first day, you remember. You said you wanted to stay, but that's no longer an option because you crossed a harder line than he did. Understood."

                Harold nodded.

                She left.

                Mrs. Wallace came back in. Harold worked at his math assignment, and stifled a broad yawn. The subtle chill of exhaustion trembled between his shoulders and slid down the muscles of his back. He wanted to stretch out and nap.

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                Bill Maria sat in his den at his computer, skimming through the search results for 'fatal bear attacks in Pennsylvania’.

                His phone rang and he jumped.

                He whispered to himself, "The police." Then he stood up and picked up the receiver, "Bill Maria."

                "Hey, hi! This is Al!"

                "Al?"

                "Shi- I mean, yeah Al Parson, from over at the museum. I'm the guy who did the restorations over at the museum, you know... Yesterday."

                Bill sat back down. "What can I do for you Al?"

                "Well I tried calling, um, Harold's number. But it went to voicemail. The director gave me your number which was on file. That's how I, you know."

                Bill Maria rolled his eyes. "That's how you got a hold of me, sure. But what do you need."

                "Sorry. I'm calling because I figured out what that other lettering was."

                "Ok..."

                "You know, we translated the German and Latin, but do you remember there was some other alphabet?"

                "Yes, and?"

                "Sorry."

                Bill laid a fist on the table and spoke deliberately. "Don't be sorry, just tell me."

                "It's pretty cool, and I'm just excited. Sorry. So the writing comes from the Cherokee Syllabary- a pretty genius invention from a Cherokee named Sequoyah. It honestly out performs lots of other, older forms of writing. Obviously I can't read it. But I posted the picture the director took, I posted it onto an online forum where-"

                "Al? Al. It's not on you, but I'm dealing with a recent loss, and I don't have the energy for a long conversation here. Do me a favor. Just tell me what it said."

                "I am! So I can't read it myself so I can't authenticate it, but one of the users claims to read Cherokee, and he said... Hold on let me read it, 'the wolf spirit came for revenge and stayed for evil.' Pretty cool right, it kind a corroborates the other writing we found on the spear! And it sounds so damn metal."

                "Thanks for letting me know about this, I'll be sure to tell Harold-"

                "Hold on a sec, there's more."

                Bill leaned back in his chair and put a hand to his forehead. "More in the translation?"

                "Well. Um, no. There's more though, just not in the translation."

                He massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and shut his eyes, to let Al Parson run his race.

                "So the incredible thing is one of the specialists here just completed a study of Cherokee legends. She said the Cherokee considered it taboo to hunt and kill a wolf, and that they believed... I don't remember whether she said they believed the wolf's brothers would seek revenge on the hunters, or whether the wolf's spirit would seek revenge. But either way, it's pretty much all right there on the spear!"

                "Huh. Neat. Look, I'll make sure to have Harold give you a call, ok?"

                Bill laid his head on the desk, and resigned himself to a longer call than he wanted.

                "Hold on one more thing! The really weird thing is the Cherokee territory never ranged up into Pennsylvania. So she and I were talking it out trying to figure out why these three languages would be on the spear, and we see a couple options but there's no way to be sure. First, it seems like this came from around the period of the civil war. German mercenaries fought on both sides, and Cherokee peoples fought on both sides as well. We wonder if maybe a couple enlisted men from different backgrounds met during a campaign and then traveled together after? Stranger things have happened. Or maybe... Well this is a sadder possibility, but still pretty, um, possible... Maybe the... Well a lot of villages were destroyed during the war. The Cherokee who wrote this might have traveled north after being displaced by the war."

                "This is all quite fascinating, Al. Thank you, have a great rest of-"

                "But why were they so worked up over this wolf? Why'd they drive a spear into a wolf's skull, huh? It seems obviously ritualistic, but the reference to a Cherokee taboo alongside what obviously appears to be some kind of documentation from a Catholic rite of exorcism-"

                "Exorcism? What?"

                "Well, yeah, we think so. Why else would there be Latin, it's gotta be Catholic. Remember it said something about 'expulsion'. Hold on I look it up and-"

                "NO! Don't look it up. Just get to the point."

                "Well, the wording seems like it came from an exorcism, and... Well my friend and I keep trying to figure out and we're not sure."

                There was a long pause.

                "Are you... Is there anything else, or are we ending on 'not sure'?"

                "Yeah, we're pretty much ending on, um, not sure. That's the fun of history- the mystery! We have a best guess though, we think a ravening wolf probably killed some livestock, or some people- maybe the German's family- the Cherokee who happened to be part of the community mentioned the myth about wolf spirit's getting revenge. The German, might have blended that with his own superstitions. One way or another, they killed the wolf. Obviously. But they also enlisted the help of the priest to exorcise the wolf's vengeful spirit, or the demon that was possessing the wolf. Interesting theory, but right now it's still just, uh... Mostly conjecture. We'll do some more digging on our end and if we figure anything out we'll give you a call. OK, bye!"

                The call ended with a click.

                Bill Maria looked at the phone and shook his head. "What a fuckin' weirdo."

--------------------------

                Harold was starting to doze around that time. Math hovered on his peripheries, and his conscious mind shied away. He drifted further into the comfort of a yawning void, and as the last remnant of wakefullness slid into the chasm of sleep, there was a knock at the door.

                Neurons fired, and he could almost feel them, the wires in his brain were crossed and hot.

                But the cool release of sleep crumbled dried up and crumbled away from him. After a watching it fall away he was, once again, alert.  

                Hanlon entered the room, thermos in his hands.

                His chest was puffed up, more than usual. "I'm here to Supervise, Mrs. Wallace, enjoy your lunch."

                Mrs. Wallace laughed. On her way out, she shot him a quick, "That's awful kind of you Ed."

                Hanlon seemed to bristle at the sound of his first name. His shoulders crunched up, and his eyes got bolder. Mrs. Wallace chuckled, and left.

                Harold looked at Hanlon, he wasn't sure what to feel so he didn't bother to say anything.

                It was his teacher, who spoke first.

                "Mr. Maria."

                Harold raised his eyebrows, but remained silent.

                "I'm here to say..." He pulled at the collar of his neck, and slicked a hand over his scalp. "I-I'm sorry."

                Harold smiled.

                Mr. Hanlon cast his eyes down. He took a swig from his thermos, and swallowed it down. He took a deep breath.

                "I shouldn't-" he shook his head, picked up his thermos and looked at it longingly. Then he set it down again. "I shouldn't have singled you out. I shouldn't have... told the class anything about the circumstances surrounding Joe's... I'm sorry, I was wrong. My behavior was inappropriate.”

                Harold beamed. He wanted to gloat, but he couldn't think of anything to say. And after a brief deliberation, he figured leaving Hanlon without a response would make him more uncomfortable anyway.

                So he went back to his math, and after a while he started to drift again towards sleep. There on the brink emptiness, he thought of something to say. "Hanlon, I didn't get any sleep last night. I'm gonna try now. Consider this my lunch break."

                He opened one eye to gauge Hanlon's response.

                Hanlon's chest heaved, he looked at the clock, and then he took a long drink from his thermos.

                Harold watched in through a haze of exhaustion. He shut his eyes and listened.

                He heard Mr. Hanlon push his chair back and walk to the door. "I'm gonna run to the restroom, Mr. Maria."

                Harold made no response.

                The teacher continued, in a lower voice, "I'll be back before you wake up anyway, you little punk."

                Then Harold heard the door open and shut. Tension sloughed off his shoulders, and his toes flexed. He fell into a cushion of sleep.

------------------

                It was lunchtime. But Emily wasn't hungry.

                She checked her phone. Harold had told her not to worry, not to feel bad. And it had the dual effect of making her feel worse for doubting him and ecstatic that he was still with her.

                She had sent back a '<3' but there was no read-receipt, so she figured he had his phone off. She wanted to see him.

                So she started to walk the halls.

                But she didn't know where to look. So she wandered between area A. She peeked in on classes in session, and skipped to the next room.

                At the end of the hall, she saw Hanlon round a corner, coming towards her. She hated to see him.

                He staggered a little bit, and she could only think of how incredibly stupid and clumsy he was.

                But she didn't want a confrontation. Not after what had happened in class.

                She wanted to fade away, so she ducked into the girls room.

                Emily knew he had seen her, and she figured he probably knew she only ducked out of the hall to avoid his wretched ass.... And she didn't care. He could take offense at her passive avoidance if he wanted to. It was still better than having an argument- or even a discussion- with a teacher had so little respect for.

                She let the bathroom door shut behind her, and listened.

                Emily heard, Hanlon's footsteps beyond the door.

                Then she heard him chuckle to himself. He muttered something, but she couldn't make out what it was.

                The next thing she heard was utter confusion: A flurry of sound, like a rush of footsteps, and something like a snarl.

                She leaned closer to the door to hear a little clearer.

                There was a thud, and a crack. A scuffle. And a high, desperate scream.

                "Fuck! Get off me!" And then another, shriek- she could hear Hanlon's pain.

                She flinched, and started to shake.

                Was it an attack? A stabbing? In the school! She hated Hanlon, but wouldn't wish this on him.

                She heard frantic cries, and hall doors slamming shut.

                Then a deadly silence.

                She locked the bathroom door, and huddled in the corner.

                Emily tried to take out her phone but her hands were trembling.

                The sounds came back and this time they were vicious. She heard wet smacks, and a throaty growl, a body being dragged. Hanlon's voice, now weak, "No, oh no, oh nooooo. Oh god, p-p-please god..."

                Then a booming voice, probably security. "What the fuck is going- what... the fuck?"

                A terrible snarl, and the sounds of footsteps running, and security yelling, "HQ! Call the fucking cops!"

                A distant radio cackle, and security's voice echoing down the hall, "No, not a shooter, I think it's a goddamn bear! Get an ambulance for- Aaaagghhh!"

                She could hear the pain in his voice. She forced her phone out of her pocket and but she took too violently to text. She pawed the voice recognition button and stammered, "Call Harry!"

                It rang. Then she remembered Hanlon, out there... maybe dying. She put the phone on speaker and lay it on the bathroom floor.

                The sounds of a desperate fight farther down the hall filtered in through the cracks.

                When she realized it was a losing fight, she deliberately shut the sounds out and puffed up her resolve.

                She clicked the latch of the restroom door, and felt the little safety it had offered evaporate. She opened the door and peeked.

                The security guard was flailing against a mass of writhing fur, he raised his broken hands to protect his face, and they were shredded by snapping yellow teeth. Claws raked his sides.

                She was transfixed by terror. She saw tears streaming down the security guards face, his lips were trembling. He offered one last pitiful yelp, before fangs sank into his cheeks and muffled his cries.

                She tore her eyes away, and searched for Hanlon. He was a mess off gore, but his eyes were wide, he was staring at her, pleading with his eyes. She looked over her shoulder once, to judge the distance.

                The animal was tearing off chunks.

                She grabbed Hanlon by the pant leg, and pulled with all her might.

                He weighed a lot.

                He weighed too much.

                She grunted, and started to cry.

                Hanlon shook his head.

                She pulled harder, he flopped up and down and tried to pull himself along with his un-mangled arm.

                There was an ear splitting howl.

                She looked back and saw the beast, fury in its eyes, looking at her.

                Her panic reached a crescendo, she pulled with every fiber of her strength, and slid Hanlon over the threshold.

                His leg was on the bathroom tile. She pulled.

                His other leg caught against the door frame.

                "FUCK!" She started to sob, and pulled as hard as she could. "Move your fucking leg you idiot!"

                But he lay limp.

                She dared not look down the hall. Dared not see how close the beast had come.

                She grabbed Hanlon's other pant leg and jerked it forward.

                Emily hauled with all her might, with a strength she could never have conjured if she weren't sure her life depended on it.

                He was through the door!

                She shoved him aside, and slammed the door shut.

                Her hands were nearly impossible to control, but she jammed her fingers against the lock again and again, and breathed a trembling moan when she heard it finally click.

                She tried to listen for the thing in the hall.

                'Harold Maria is not available at this time, if you'd like to leave a message do so-' She hung up and called 911 instead.

                Then she looked at Hanlon. She could not tell if whether he was alive.

                She tried to find his pulse, but the blood squirting made it hard to do. Then she realized the blood squirting meant the heart was working, and tried to squeeze his wounds shut.

                There was a heavy thud against the door, but her terrified sobs drowned it out.

                Then there were horrible sound as of claws, scraping along the door.

                Another massive thud, the door strained against its hinges.

                She pinched off the blood flow as best she could. Hanlon's eyes roved in stupid shock.

                A rumbling growl from beyond reverberated in the tiled bathroom.

                Another, heavy thud on the other side of the door, the housing on the lock began to flex.

                Sirens in the distance.

                The thudding stopped. She heard a scamper of feet, running back down the hall.

                Hanlon coughed, and groaned, "I'm dead, I'm dead."

                He smelled like shit, whiskey, and raw meat.

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