10:15, page 2
The face. That horrible, disturbing face.
It was covered in a layer of skin that tightly clung to the skull, in a color that could best be described as uneven shades of white. The jaw line came down in a grotesque, unnatural angle, giving the pointed chin an odd, elongated look. Spread out just above the chin were the pressed lips of a wide, toothless smile that made the corners of the mouth appear as if they were pushing the smile wider than the actual face. Above the smile, a nose pushed outward, coming to an unusually crooked point.
And then the eyes…
The eyes, the most disturbing part of it all. Two lidless, bloody orbs with black pits for pupils at their centers, so large and bulging that Miss Stevens feared that they might explode from their sockets. And with them, it looked at her, right at her, with such a ravenous sense of intent that it could have been paralyzed her with panic.
But it didn’t. One moment it was there, looking at her with that strange and unnerving close-lipped smile and those haunting, unblinking eyes; and then it wasn’t. No sooner had the gasp come out of Miss Stevens’ mouth than the apparition winked out of existence.
Miss Stevens huffed out a few hurried breaths, her stare fixed upon the spot where the strange being had been only a second ago. She blinked rapidly-her eyes had welled up with salty water-and wiped the potential tears with the back of her sleeve. It did not return. Her face tore away from the spot, spinning around the gym in a frantic search, half expecting to see it somewhere else: on the bleachers, under the basketball hoop, near the alcove, right next to her-
Nowhere. Whatever it was, it was gone now. Another figment of her imagination.
No.
It had been there. It was real enough; she could even recall it casting a slight shadow on the wall behind it. She wouldn’t have dreamed of conjuring up such a hideous sight-nothing like that. No, her imagination invented things more traditional: monsters with teeth and claws that shred the living to easily cooked strips, fit for deep frying in soybean oil. But this thing, this “balloon-head”, was something else, something frightening in a different way, not in the sense that it looked like it intended to eat her (although that may not have been out of the question), but that it had some sort of other devious plan in mind for her. Some sort of plan that made the idea of being eaten alive by Miss Stevens’ imaginary friends seem alluring compared to the diabolical workings written on the haunted, happy face of Balloon-head.
The tingle of adrenaline in her bloodstream urged her to get out of there, to run to the exit and leave-and not just out of the gym. Forget the office, forget about the disappearance of the now non-existent students and staff, forget it all: just run out, and run toward that set of double doors. Go into the night, take her chances getting to the van, and drive home.
Drive home? To what? More darkness? What if this phenomenon isn’t just a local thing? What if it’s all over the town, or the country, or even the world? What if it’s somehow connected to Balloon-Head? Is he involved with any of it? Is he the mastermind behind all of it?
Is he orchestrating this all to get me?
Miss Stevens advanced toward the exit, breaking into a modest trot, almost afraid to look behind her, for fear that two large red eyes and a white-faced smile would be perched upon her shoulder.
**
Still silent and empty were the classroom halls, and Miss Stevens was now grateful in part for that. Solitude wasn’t such a terrible condition when the alternative was to share company with a nightmare. Better to have nobody good around than to have something bad to keep you company.
Under another grey clock she walked, still frozen at quarter after ten. Time was still dammed up by this strange occurrence, the rest of humanity had been swept away with the receding tide, and she had been left to flounder in the drying out bed. Apparently, nobody told her that she needed to be prepared for such a possible oversight (We’re sorry, Miss Stevens, but you should have purchased your ticket at the local store advertising irrational and unexplained phenomena. Oh, and watch out for Balloon Head, too. Have a nice day!). A thousand questions could be asked about this whole, abnormal mess, and it wouldn’t change the fact that she felt as if she were running for her life.
The glass double doors were up ahead: good. Her keys were in her skirt pocket, pressing against her thigh with an uncomfortable pressure that she didn’t really mind right now, as they reminded her that they were her way out of here. Her dark brown leather purse remained in her classroom. Forget it; just get out. She’d been in this building long enough.
Her right hand plunged into the pocket, fingers wrapping around cool, jagged metal. The left hand planted itself squarely into the “Push” panel of the door.
Balloon Head was standing there, between the first and second set of doors, in the foyer.
Miss Stevens shrieked, stumbling backward, almost losing her balance. She caught herself, face frozen with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. Balloon Head began to approach her, and it struck Miss Stevens in the back of her mind (although only peripherally, as it was not an area of great curiosity at the moment) that the legs did not move at all. It coasted toward her, as if being blown by a leisurely breeze. The blazing red eyes and menacing smile did not take their attention off her in the slightest.
It passed through the doors-through them, without opening them-and closed in on her.
Another scream filled the halls from Miss Stevens. She turned, beginning to run, moving as fast as she could. A heel broke, turning her ankle sideways. It hurt-not a sprain, but not particularly comfortable, either. She shook her shoes off in succession before continuing her shoeless sprint, grimacing at the residual stab that caused a throbbing in her ankle. She didn’t look behind her; she didn’t dare look behind her. But she didn’t have to. She knew, she could feel, that it was still following her, floating after her in that strange, ghostly way.
There-on the right, her door stuck out into the hallway, still open. Heart mercilessly beating against her chest, she broke into her fastest run, stocking-covered legs pumping and rising, watching as the distance between her and the door closed rapidly.
At the door she stopped, her hand slipping around the external knob, giving it a quick turn. It remained locked; she always kept it locked from the outside, in case she needed to not be disturbed. It prevented unwanted intruders from simply opening the door and coming in, as happened on other occasions, when Miss Stevens had neglected to do so.
Now was the perfect time to keep out an unwanted intruder.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something black and white moving down the hall, getting larger, closer. Gritting her teeth, she slipped into the classroom, pulling the door shut as hard as she could, the slam resonating like a gunshot through the hallway.
Miss Stevens dropped to the floor, drawing her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her nylon-encased knees. Heavy breathing gave way to soft sobs, then a full-blown bout of weeping, her eyes shutting tight, praying and hoping that this was some sort of bad dream, that all of this did not exist, and that it would all be back to normal as soon as she opened her eyes. Tears ran down her face, cutting through the eye shadow and the blush, leaving their tracks traced on her cheeks.
The crying slowed down, as did the breathing. Spasms of sobs interrupted her deep breaths. She opened her eyes, unwrapping her knees and pulling herself up to a full standing position, glancing at the window with cautious curiosity. Was Balloon Head still out there, waiting for her, to push its hands through the glass and pull her through it, as soon as she looked outside?
No, it could have come in already. It had moved through the still shut double doors; it could have done the same here, couldn’t it? Or could it only move through glass? Was there something about the overall makeup of wood that prevented it from getting her?
She moved her head closer to the window, peering out its corner. No Balloon Head. More and more of her face filled the pane, her head rolling from one side to the other, eyes shifting down the other end of the call: still no Balloon Head. For whatever reason, it had declined to pursue her, and had left her alone. Her forehead rested upon the window, the feeling of smooth, chilled glass spreading across her skin, relieving the flushed weariness away from her. By now, the sobs had gone, replaced by smooth inhaling and exhaling.
Relief, what a beautiful thing.
No, this hadn’t answered her questions about what was going on; she still wondered what had become of everybody else, and why night seemed to have come during mid-morning. It hadn’t even allayed her fears about the floating monstrosity that had been stalking her outside, but at least for now Miss Stevens felt as if she had overcome a major terror, that it was temporarily put on the back burner. For now, she felt safety and refuge in her classroom.
Ironic, really-she had heard all of these lectures about her classroom being a place of safety for her students, a place of refuge for those who didn’t come from a good home. She had certainly endeavored to do so, with limited success-not all students took the invitation to consider this room a temporary escape from the drudgeries and problems of life, but for those who did, Miss Stevens did her best to make them feel welcome, to help them rejuvenate and refresh as much as they could in this tiny little oasis, planted at the center of a desert that spanned several areas of their lives.
And now, here it was for her, safety from something else, something more than just a psychological or an emotional problem. It was something very real, very unknown, and not at all appearing to be friendly.
But she couldn’t stay in here forever. No telling exactly whether or not Balloon Man and this phenomenon would pass on soon, or if they intended to hang around here for a little while and continue to plan whatever they intended to plan to do to her.
She had to get to the van. It was the only possible way to escape. This place was… haunted. No, that wasn’t quite the right word. This thing didn’t strike Miss Stevens as a ghost, per se, but rather as something else. Something more evil. Still, “haunted” seemed to be as good a word as any to describe it. It haunted the school, roamed the area, looking to do evil, looking for her. And it-
A strange feeling interrupted her thoughts, an odd awareness.
A presence.
She abruptly turned around.
Balloon Man was smiling back at her, almost upon her.
Miss Stevens began to scream…
**
When Mrs. Tabor had opened Miss Stevens’ room with her key, she and Mr. Wolverton hustled into the room, advising the waiting students to remain outside until they came back and said it was alright to come in, both of them hearing the loud scream that emanated from the room only seconds earlier. They found Miss Stevens collapsed upon her desk, her face a mess of streaked makeup, her stocking-clad feet without shoes, and her room phone off the hook, an angry tone buzzing from the receiver to confirm the obvious. They helped her up, repeatedly asking her if she was alright; she, not sure how to respond at first, babbled about whether or not they were okay, that she was glad that they had all made it back safely, and something about red eyes and a smile. At the mention of the last, she broke into another round of defeated sobs and tears.
Mrs. Tabor told her that she would go tell the office what would happen, and that a substitute would be called as soon as possible. Mrs. Beaufort was on her prep time, and would be able to sit with the class until then. Mr. Wolverton took Miss Stevens’ arm, and helped her out, noting that she walked with a slight hobble as they passed the now sizeable crowd of students and negotiated their way toward the office.
Miss Stevens held her head low, barely noticing the expressions on the faces of the students she passed, most of them wearing concern and confusion, a few of them staring impassively at her. She occasionally glanced up, offering a feeble smile, the corners of her mouth forced upward as bravely as they could be, but not supported by the weary defeat worn by the rest of her sad face.
On they went, down the hallway, past a wall of lockers, most of which had been shut, but a few remaining wide open, probably startled by the scream Miss Stevens had let out as the passing time was coming to an end, Mr. Wolverton explained. She was hearing him, but not listening, instead staring at the contents of the opened lockers-disorganized piles of papers and books, hanging jackets, graffiti littered inside the panels, and the posters of hunks and babes who graced television and the movies.
Of particular interest was the very last locker that Miss Stevens passed before entering the locker-free main hallway which led to the office. A scattered trail of paperwork bled out and onto the floor, leading to a pile of textbooks stacked in the lower part of the locker chamber. Above, a crumpled paper bag sat on a shelf, next to an unopened juice drink. Several pictures adorned the interior of the locker door, and below that, a poster.
Miss Stevens’ eyes dropped to the poster, seeing a glimpse of something that drew her from her absent-minded state.
The poster was a picture of a face-a blocky, bloated face, possessing a pointed chin, with skin colored by varying hues of white, upon which was plastered an abnormally large close-lipped smile, situated under a pointed nose and two bright red eyes.
The picture of Balloon Man grinned at her.
Miss Stevens let out another piercing scream.
The clock read Ten-nineteen.
**
Dear Reader,
I want to thank you for taking the time to enjoy my short story, and hope that you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it. This story will be included as part of a future short story collection, which will be distributed on digital text in the near future. If you liked this story, or any of the other stories I have placed on Smashwords please feel free to give it a public review, and let me know what you thought as well personally by leaving me a comment on My author blog or Email at jaiello@admin.clio.k12.mi.us . I appreciate your feedback and also invite you to check out the first novel of my epic series, The Summoning of Clade Josso, as well as my other works, also available on Smashwords.
Sincerely,
J. Dean
About the author: J. Dean is the author of the Vein project, his first serious venture into the realm of professional writing. A graduate of the University of Michigan, he teaches foreign language in public school and also gives private tutoring sessions, but is hoping that the Vein project will serve as a springboard for becoming a full-time writer. Mr. Dean plays bass guitar and co-writes music for the progressive rock band Episodic, and enjoys other hobbies such as target shooting, martial arts, and cuisine experimentation in the kitchen. He and his wife have two children and live in Michigan.
J Dean, 10:15
