Abandoned by Abigail Livinghouse (the little red hen ebook txt) 📖

Summary

“A school building?” Tessie Porter asked her parents at the dinner table. They had just informed her that they had bought an old school building from a few years back. “Why?”

 

Mr. Porter grinned, twirling spaghetti with his salad fork. “Why not? It was the elementary school me and your mother went to. It’s full of memories. Plus, they were going to tear it down. We just had to save it.”

 

Tessie’s dark red eyebrows came together in a scowl. She knew her parents were dying to spend some of their lotto money on something. But an old school building sounded like such a waste to her. That was certainly not what she would’ve done with the money.

 

She sighed, playing with the untouched food on her plate. She ate little, considering the hefty breakfast she had had earlier. Her mother was a good cook, and believed that the way you showed your family you loved them was with a big, hot meal.

 

Mrs. Porter looked up at her daughter, her blue eyes warm. “You’ll like it Tessie. We’re going to remodel it into a beautiful home. By the time we’re done it’ll be a mansion.”

 

Tessie didn’t understand why they didn’t just buy a house. Or better yet, with the money it would take to restore a large school building, they could build their own house.

 

Her mother seemed to sense Tessie’s next question. “The place is filled with history. You can’t build history.”

 

“Why can’t we stay here? I like our house.”

 

“Sweetheart, we are running out of space. Besides, the contract is signed. It’s a done deal.” Her father said, taking a sip of his water.

 

Tessie excused herself, picking up her plate from the table and dumping the majority of her food in the trash. She headed up to her room, closing the door maybe a bit too loudly.         

Chapter 1

They pulled into the large parking lot of the school that was now owned by the Porters.

 

It was a modest brick building. A flag pole with the American flag flapping in the wind greeted them as they pulled up. The school was built on a hill, with about fifty steps leading up to the building. Engraved above the doors was Chester Elementary School 1879, reading in big, proud letters.

 

The Porters got out of the car, slamming their doors. Mr. Porter held up his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he stared up at the huge school.

 

 “Isn’t she beautiful?” He said as he hugged Mrs. Porter.

 

The building had many windows. Some of the bricks seemed to ooze black from age, staining the surface. Mr. Porter touched one of the bricks. His finger came back the color of ink.

 

“Nothing a good cleaning won’t fix.” He said, wiping his hand on his pants.

 

Tessie didn’t think much of the school. It was just a school to her.

 

“Let’s go inside.” Mr. Porter said, pulling jangling keys out of his pocket.

 

They made the climb up the stairs, where he stuck the key in the hole, turned it, and they entered the foyer of the building. There was another set of doors to unlock before they were actually in the school.

 

The air was stale with the moisture and smell of chalk. The closed windows did not help with the smell. Tessie wondered if there was mold.

 

She looked around, her eyes wide. Papers and pencils littered the concrete floor. Some of the walls were spray painted profanities, the empty cans on the floor. Most of the windows were either cracked or shattered. The place was in shambles. Tessie could not possibly see how they could ever live there.

 

Her parents seemed to feel the exact opposite. Her father lovingly touched one of the faded walls.

 

“I almost don’t want to remodel it.” He murmured.

 

Mrs. Porter linked her arm through his, resting her chin on his shoulder. “I know.”

 

She turned to Tessie. “You can look around, honey.”

 

Tessie nodded, then began walking through the halls that hadn’t been explored in years. She passed glass cases of old trophies and black and white pictures of long-dead classes and staff members.

 

There were cork boards with papers still pinned, others scattered across the floors. Some of the paint on the walls was peeling, some sections of the ceiling were also cracked. Tessie shoved her hands in her pockets, her steps echoing down the barren halls.

 

Why would her parents buy this place? She preferred it ripped down. She walked by classrooms with desks cluttered around the room, along with erasers, papers, and other writing utensils. She passed by each room, not bothering to peek inside. Each one was the same.

 

She had explored most of the building when she stopped at a classroom. Room 15. Tessie didn’t know why she found this classroom different. It was just a feeling she had. It was an uneasiness that she only got when something was wrong or off.

 

 Once, when her parents had gone out, the stove had not been completely shut off. She was only about eleven at the time, but she had sensed that something was not right. Something just told her to go to the kitchen, something was pulling her there.

 

When she arrived flames were licking up from one of the gas burners. She quickly shut it off but grabbed the fire extinguisher anyway, spraying the whole kitchen with foam. When her parents got home they were furious, but at least the house was still standing. Tessie had saved her home from burning down.

 

That odd feeling was back now, something was just attracting her into that room. She felt she must go in. She stepped into the classroom. It did not look special. There were about six windows in the room, with the same desks, papers, pencils, and erasers. There was also a chalkboard taking up the north wall.

 

She leaned against the wall where the air vents were. She shivered, rubbing her arm, moving her hand over the vent to feel if the air conditioning had been turned on. No air came out. The windows were open though, maybe that was why she was cold. Even though it was only late September.

 

Tessie’s skin prickled, the hair on the back of her neck standing up. She looked over her shoulder, staring out the window at the schoolyard where a rusty swing-set sagged sadly on the yellowing grass. She studied every corner of the playground. No one was there.

 

She still felt odd, like she was not alone. She felt the urge to call out. Her eyes darted around the room, still searching. There was someone in here. There had to be. How could there not?

 

Tessie felt like she was in an auditorium, onstage, and all eyes were on her. It was an uncomfortable feeling, which increased further when a rat scurried across the floor and over her foot.

 

 She clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. Tessie’s heart thundered loudly, she placed her hand over it, and felt the erratic pulse. Calm down, Tessie, she told herself. There’s no one else in here. You’re alone.

 

But no matter what the facts, she felt that she couldn’t be alone. The feeling of watchful eyes seeing Tessie’s every move would not recede. It became so terrible that she broke out in a sweat. She had to leave the room. She could no longer stand to be in there.

 

 She took a few steps toward the door, but halted at a desk. Her eyes roved over the wooden surface. It was scratched, curses forever engraved in the wood. Tessie ran her hand over it, feeling the rough texture of the scrapes of many unruly children sitting in the desk.

 

She walked over to the side of the desk, where the chair opened up, welcoming her to sit down. She did. Tessie studied the desk a few more minutes, then looked up at the chalkboard.

 

 A rush of ecstasy washed over her, so much that she felt that she would fall out of the chair. Memories that were not hers flooded her mind. Teachers writing on the board, the chalk scratching against the black surface. Educators rambling on about things the children didn’t care about.

 

Some other students hurriedly scribbling notes while others doodled aimlessly. Writing, writing for hours at a time. Ignoring everything the teacher said. Writing in a notebook, drawing, dreaming . . .

 

The visions abruptly stopped, cut off suddenly as if the film had been ripped away before the ending could be revealed. Tessie bent her head forward, her forehead touching the top of the cool desk.

 

 This had happened before, it was not a surprise to her. When Tessie was about six, she had been on a plane going home from California where she had visited her grandmother. She had known nothing about the plane, which had once crashed, killing about twenty people. It had been retired to the junkyard before being remodeled so that it could fly again.

 

Tessie was just a little girl, she had been playing with her Barbie dolls when it happened. It was like she was daydreaming, moving pictures just came to her. She felt like she was watching a television show that only she could see. She saw breathing assistors come down from the ceiling as the pilot called for them to remain calm. She felt her hands clutch the seat cushions as alarms beeped and the plane spiraled out of control.

 

The vision stopped when the plane crashed, suddenly engulfed in flames. Her mother was shaking her, Tessie had been screaming and crying. Her mother had been terrified, and had even called the flight attendant over, giving her water to splash on Tessie’s face.

 

When she woke up, tears were streaming down her cheeks and her throat was sore from screaming. She had been afraid of planes ever since. It was the last time she stepped foot in an airplane.

 

The vision Tessie had just had was odd. Usually, the vision continued until there was no more to be seen. This one just fell off suddenly. It was like there was something she wasn’t supposed to see.

 

 She placed her hand over her clammy forehead, trying to catch her breath. Of course, she should’ve expected this. It was such a historic building.

 

Tessie took a deep breath, staring down at the desk. There was a small arrow drawn near the bottom. She scowled, looking down, and reached into the desk. Her hand touched a smooth surface which she grasped and pulled out.

 

Tessie’s eyes widened slightly. She placed the notebook on the desktop. Should she open it? Tessie’s heart skipped as she held the page with her quivering fingers. She laid the cover gently on the desk.

 

The faded page was taken up by a handwritten story, in calligraphy. Tessie blinked, staring at the paper in surprise and awe. A child could not have written this.

 

 The story had no title, but as Tessie read the first paragraph, which told about an ailing girl who would not survive the year and wished to live to her eighth birthday, she felt that it did not need one. It was strange, the page was not signed, but the girl in the story