The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.
– Albert Einstein
Approximately ten minutes before he found the dead body in the cellar, Dwight Markos stood at the edge of the overlook window, his misery kindling once again as he stared out at shifting waters of the gulf. Almost unconsciously, he swept back his hair, a tangled mess of curly blond that was probably too long by normal standards and certainly too long by the standards of Saint Michael's. The window was locked shut – just like all the windows in the school were locked shut – but that wasn't quite enough to ruin the view. Not quite. He remembered what it was like to stand where the land and water come together, the salty air and the sand between his toes, and – for this small moment – that was enough. So he stood there, leaning against a window foggy with his breath, and thought of that faraway place called home.
Here and now, it seemed like he had come a long way from his small little hamlet in Mississippi to this gulf town on the coast of Alabama. He had come much farther before; years ago, he and his parents had made casual visits to places like Florida, New York, even London, but that was before. Now, the homesickness in his belly was enough to make him nauseous, outright sick even. He had the constant feeling of being swept away, twisted and turned by a raging sea that just raged and raged and raged and he was crying out for help but no one would cast out a line. He was drowning here, and that's all there was to it.
And the ghosts hadn't really helped things.
It had all started three months ago, in a time when Dwight's sanity had been a sure and unquestionable thing. He remembered little of the time between the hauntings – ever since he and his mother had exiled themselves to this small little town at the gulf of America, the passage of time had become an almost translucent thing – but the encounters themselves were as clear as daylight in his memory.
His first day at Saint Michael's, his mother had gone to the trouble of driving him herself. Even though the school was only about five minutes driving distance from the condo his mother had rented out, she had neglected to do the same trick twice. She hadn't driven him anywhere since. Hell, he wasn't sure she had driven anywhere, period.
“C'mon, Dwi',” Sally Markos had said, apparently spotting his hesitation. “This is a good place. Good people. I checked the website, and this place has been voted the finest private school in the county six years running. Better than that crappy Junior High back in Sallow.”
“Huh,” was all Dwight managed. His attention was fixed on the school as they drove up. It looked more like a prison than a school, and more like an insane asylum than a prison. It was like a giant had walked over his grave, and the giant was him.
“How long is the move for?” he asked, knowing the answer deep down in his heart. Of course he knew.
“I dunno,” said Sally, a familiar tone of impatience strong in her voice. She lifted a cigarette to her lips and drew deeply. The smoke billowed out of her nose and, to Dwight, she looked like a dragon that had lost all its weight and its wings. “Not for long, I reckon. Just promise me you'll give it a chance, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Stick a needle in my eye,” he said, trying his best to pull off a smile. It wasn't enough, at least not for him, but it seemed to fool Sally just fine.
“That's my boy,” she said, affecting a sense of pride. “Tough as nails, just like your old woman.”
Storm clouds had followed them all the short way from their condo a few blocks away, and had settled above the school as if ready to burst. Dwight noticed that a man (probably a technician) stood on the roof of the school, no more than a hazy figure against an uncertain sky. The man turned, his features still unsure, and Dwight had the most peculiar sense that the man was looking directly at him. At that moment, the storm released the first of its lightning, and Dwight saw – for the smallest fraction of a second – the truth of the man, a ragged thing dressed in black, standing on the roof of Saint Michael's, his eyes a fiery red and his skin pale as the stars in the sky. But that was only for a moment, and as soon as the lightning was gone, the man (the thing?) was no more than a shadowy figure, perhaps a technician working on an air conditioning unit, and his mother was talking again.
“What are the odds?” she said, sounding legitimately flabbergasted as she settled the car awkwardly into a parking spot. He eyes were cast upwards, towards the sky. “First day at a new school, and even the Devil himself doesn't want us to feel welcome.”
“Maybe it's God,” said Dwight heavily. Had she seen what he had seen? Had anyone seen? Had he even seen? “Maybe He doesn't want us here.”
“Oh, Dwi', everybody knows the Devil controls the weather,” said Sally. She opened her door and flicked her cigarette out onto the pavement. “You should crack open the Good Book every now and again.”
“Huh,” Dwight mumbled. An icy cold chilled his stomach. “Yeah, maybe I should.” As soon as he had stepped out of the car, his eyes almost automatically darted back to the roof.
He followed his mother into the school, that feeling of of homesickness, of dislocation, now worse than ever before. And in the coming weeks, it would only become stronger.
For a second there, I thought she was really holding a cigarette to Dwight's mouth! But anyways. I also think that 'Dwi" is a very interesting nick name for Dwight. Very creative. Once again, this was an amazing read and I can't wait to see more! Keep writing! BRAVO
