Whisper Down the Lane Clay Chapman (i read a book txt) 📖

when he wasn’t supposed to. He was afraid, very afraid for his life, and his mom’s life, because Sean knew Mr. Woodhouse’s secret.

The jury heard bits and pieces of Sean’s recorded interviews, but the story now belonged to the prosecutor and Miss Kinderman. Each added their own narrative flourish—making sure that Sean’s words were heard—spinning his story further and further out. Perhaps this unknown assailant heard the prosecutor tell Sean’s story in the courtroom; or heard snippets of it on the six o’clock news from their local anchor; or read about it in the newspaper. At a certain point it didn’t matter who was telling the story. The story belonged to everyone now.

This unknown assailant must have pictured these ritualistic sex acts committed right there on the floor during circle time, as he—or she—poured an accelerant over the carpet. Kerosene splashed across the blackboards. Over the desks. Along the walls with all their hand-drawn pictures. The Crayola stick figures. Their spiraling eyes.

This unknown assailant backed out of the room, using the last of the kerosene to draw a highly flammable tail across the hallway floor.

The fire woke closer to the cafeteria. A slithering snake of flame wound all the way back to Mr. Woodhouse’s classroom and made its hissing presence known.

The self-portraits turned to kindling. The desks collapsed. The fiberglass tiles along the ceiling blistered and fell, exposing heating ducts and wires.

The glass within the framed photograph on Mr. Woodhouse’s desk cracked, then burned. The picture of his wife and daughter, smiling for the camera, curled into flame.

Shortly before two a.m., a truck delivering the local newspaper noticed the smoke. The driver phoned the fire in from the closest gas station.

By the time the fire department arrived, the blaze had spread through most of the school’s northern hall, where the kindergarten and Head Start classrooms were located.

Sean woke to the sound of sirens tearing through the street. The rumble of a fire truck passed his window, the flimsy sheet of cardboard taped to the frame losing its grip and slipping to the floor. He lifted his head just in time to see the truck zoom by their house.

Greenfield only had a volunteer fire service, necessitating the usage of the neighboring county’s department, twenty miles away. By the time their trucks pulled up, most of the building was on fire. The families were already there. They stood before the blaze, faces bathed in its glow. The Gilmores. The Cardiffs. The Dellacorts and Denningses. The Blackmers. The Evanses.

They came to watch the school burn.

DAMNED IF YOU DON’T

 RICHARD: 2013

You’ve made other people very, very angry. Mom’s words keep echoing through my head. Others. She said there are others. Others watching me.

But it wasn’t Mom. It couldn’t be.

“Good morning, Richard,” someone says as I pass them in the hall. I don’t see their face. I don’t even know who said it. I couldn’t sleep last night. I can’t focus on who’s in front of me.

“Morning,” I respond automatically. Was it a teacher? Do they even work here?

Nod. Smile. Repeat: Good morning, good morning, good morning…

“Morning, Rich.”

“Morning.”

You’re talking to yourself again, Tamara would say if she were here with me, slipping her head into my field of vision and finding my eyes, snapping me back into focus.

Was I? I’d usually ask, trying to play it off. Sorry…Just got a lot on my mind, I guess.

Talking to myself. Talking in my sleep. Talking to someone who’s not even there.

Kinderman. It has to be Miss Kinderman. The more I think about it, the more the notion takes root. There’s no one else. Who else knew all these pieces of my past? Memories I can’t even remember. She’s the only one. Now she’s pretending to be my mother.

It has to be her. I can’t shake it now, the certainty of it. But why?

When winter hits and it’s too cold for me to bike, Tamara, Elijah, and I drive to school together in the family Jeep. But this morning I was out the door before Tamara had even crawled out of bed. I didn’t say goodbye to either of them. I needed to leave before Eli woke. I had to think about how I was going to handle this. The kid thought I killed his cat, for Christ’s sake. There was something he knew. Something he wasn’t telling me.

Did you think I wouldn’t find you? she’d said. That you could hide from me?

Kinderman is the only person who makes sense. Has to be her. Had she gotten to Eli somehow? Asked him to play along?

The Polaroids. How the hell could Kinderman have taken all those photos of Sandy? Five-year-old’s aren’t alone for even a second these days.

Is Sandy in danger? Why isn’t she saying anything?

“Morning, Richard.”

“Morning, Hallie.” Was that Hallie?

“Morning, Rich.”

Miss Castevet is no longer the first to arrive at school. Ever since Professor Howdy passed, she’s drifted. She doesn’t say a word when we walk by one another. Her face is downright sour. Jesus, can that biddy scowl. What did I do to her? Why is she looking at me like that?

Others. The word echoes in my mind.

Teachers shuffle to the faculty lounge for a top-up, filling their travel mugs to the hilt with coffee before heading to class and beginning their day.

I should go straight to my room. I should avoid everyone. But my body is locked on autopilot, letting my feet lead me wherever they want, where they always go at this hour.

Welcome to the teachers’ lounge. Our Alamo. The lounge holds all the essentials for our survival: a fridge full of milk containers and Tupperware lunches. A coffeepot simmers throughout the day, the odor of burnt Folgers filling the room.

Mr. Dunstan hums to himself on the couch. His face is hidden behind a newspaper, but I know it’s him.

Miss Castevet sits at the round table by the kitchen area nursing a mug of tea. She’s staring off into space. Her eyes hold on to nothing. Lost.

Hadn’t I just passed