“I don’t understand any of that,” said Jaime.
“I don’t either, but I know he’s going to keep doing this over and over until he finds her.”
“Then what?” asked Jaime.
“I don’t know. For some reason he thinks that if he has her, then he can make this perfect.” She drew a circle in the air with the tip of her finger. “He’ll complete the circle. Until then we’ll keep dying. This will keep happening over and over.”
“Why do I know about it this time?” asked Jaime. “I can remember all the other times this happened, and I never felt this way before.”
They both stared through the books on the shelves at the chaos in the library. Students were crying as the teachers tried to overturn tables to keep the creatures in the fog from breaking through the glass. Anna knew it was useless. In minutes, the window would shatter and the demonic, twisted children would rush in. They were the children that The Skeleton Man gave up on. They became his soldiers, and their hatred mutated their fragile bodies into demonic, dog-like creatures.
She could hear their paws scratching at the windows.
“He searched us this time,” said Anna. “He let us know him because he wants to find the one he lost. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, or how old she is now. If he can find her, then he can start this all over in a way that he’s never done before. He let us know him the way the children do because he wants to find the girl he lost.”
“I know her name,” said Jaime.
Anna held her friend’s hand as they continued to look through the books. “I do too.”
Jaime said it, “Alma Harper.”
The glass broke.
Jaime and Anna embraced as they waited for their inevitable death. Then it would begin anew, slightly different from the times before, and they would forget the prying mind of The Skeleton Man as he continued to try to complete the circle.
16 Years Later
March 10th, 2012
Alma was in her classroom and an oversized, ornate harp was beside her desk. The instrument’s strings were black and thicker than they should’ve been.
“Miss Harper?” asked one of her students.
“Yes, Dave, what is it?”
Dave had his head on his desk and his arms draped at his sides. He didn’t lift his head as he spoke. “Are you pretty?”
“Excuse me?” asked Alma.
Claire Powell, a popular, pretty girl that sat at the front of the class, raised her hand and wiggled her fingers in the air. She didn’t wait for Alma to give her permission before she spoke. “He wants to know if you’re ugly.”
“What sort of question is that?” Alma’s heart raced and she felt as if she’d been transported back to high school where social standing was a constant concern. She desperately wanted to be one of the pretty girls, but she wasn’t. Llama Harper is what the kids used to call her and she never understood why. They used to cut out pictures of Llamas and tape them to her locker. It was the sort of careless bullying that provided short-lived amusement for the aggressors, and a lifetime of heartache and doubt for the victim.
“Your mouth is bleeding,” said Dave, his head still down.
Alma put her hand over her mouth and felt wetness. She inspected her palm and discovered a smear of dark red blood. The children laughed as she searched in her drawer for a handkerchief, but there was nothing but pens inside the desk. She rifled through the hundreds of pens in search of anything that could clean her blood, but there was nothing to be found. The children continued to laugh.
“It’s not funny,” said Alma as she gave up her search. When she closed the drawer, it rattled as if there had been change inside.
The bell rang and frightened Alma. Her mouth was in pain now and the clanging of the bell seemed to aggravate her mysterious wound. The children sprang from their seats, gathered their things, and rushed for the door. They laughed as they passed Alma, furthering her embarrassment.
Alma went to the counter at the rear of the room where there were paper towels and a sink. There were craft supplies littering the area from the art class that used this room part of the time and Alma shoved the bottles of glue and glitter away. She cupped her hands to collect the cold water and splashed it on her face. The blood and water swirled around the stainless steel drain, but didn’t seem to go down. It just kept spinning as the colors blended. Glitter, glue, and paint mixed with the blood and water to create a hypnotic spiral that wouldn’t dissipate.
Alma took a few paper towels from beside the sink and put them into her mouth to search for the source of the blood. She felt her shoes sticking to the floor and wondered if the glue had spilled on her feet. Her attention flitted between concerns as the spilled glitter and glue dripped from the edge of the counter.
She felt stinging pain from one of her lower incisors. The tooth wiggled at the slightest provocation. Alma took the paper towel out of her mouth and started to press at the back of the tooth with her tongue. It bent forward until it brushed against the inside of her lip.
The tooth wiggled back and forth as she prodded it. Blood continued to pour out of her mouth as she gripped the tooth between her thumb and index finger. It took no effort to dislodge the incisor and she rinsed it off before inspecting it. The tooth looked normal and healthy, white with lengthy roots.
“Alma?” Blair Drexler, the head of the PTA, was at the door.
Alma swiftly hid the tooth in her front pocket and then rinsed more blood from her face. The water still swirled in the sink, refusing to go down the drain. She didn’t turn to greet Blair and focused on the mess.
“Hi Blair,” said Alma as she struggled to clean herself.
“Is everything okay?” Blair’s high heels clicked on the tile as she walked toward Alma. Blair was an upper class housewife, always adorned with jewelry that was worth more than a month of Alma’s pay.
“Fine, fine, I’m fine,” said Alma as she tried to hide what had happened. She wiped the counter and tossed the bloody paper towel into the trash. Her blood smeared, as if it were made of oil. The glue and glitter were gone now, as if her blood had soaked it up.
Blair was at Alma’s back. “We’re all waiting for you.”
Alma didn’t turn, fearing that blood still stained her chin.
“Waiting for me? Why?”
“It’s time for your party. We can’t do this without you.”
Alma shook her head and got more paper towels to clean up with. “No, I’m not going. I can’t. Sorry, but I’m just too busy right now.”
“It’s your party.” Blair put her hand on Alma’s shoulder.
Someone started to play the harp, which startled Alma. She glanced over to see the principal, Mrs. White, seated beside the massive golden instrument, strumming the black strings. The instrument seemed warped now, as if it had been slowly melting behind her back.
“Don’t disappoint us,” said Mrs. White. She plucked the strings and the sound they emitted was unnaturally low. Each note seemed to fade in and out as if Alma was moving closer to the source and then away again, over and over.
“Okay,” said Alma. “I just need a little time. Maybe, like, ten minutes? Would that be okay?”
Blair looked perturbed, but nodded before walking away. Mrs. White got up from the seat beside the harp and met Blair at the door. Her hands were bloody, and Alma noticed that the instrument’s strings were dripping wet now.
“We’ll see you in the auditorium,” said Blair.
Mrs. White looked at Alma before she left the room. The principal’s teeth were chattering as she smiled and left.