Spoiler
Not a lot of action here, but definitely building up to something BIG and totally AWESOME. I can't wait to share it, but right now my computer is lagging and any sort of serious writing takes twenty times as long as it should. (It's taken me like three minutes to write this blurb) Enjoy!
II
Saint Michael's Christian Academy was considered the finest private school in Baldwin County, not just by an article on the Internet that Dwight's mother had casually skimmed across, but by almost everyone in in the state of Alabama. Indeed, many felt that it could very well among the finest institutions in the South, if not the whole country. Situated at the southern edge of the United States, in a small beach town called Sunset Falls, Saint Michael's was one of only a handful of schools that could boast a beach as its playground; the fact that there was no recess was a fact that never came up.
Frederick Lovelace, the founder and retired principal of this fine, fine establishment, had once declared that the beach was the perfect metaphor for education, that it represented “the crossing of two worlds, one of childhood and one of adulthood. Children must step from the comfortable sands of the world they know and venture into an ocean of unknown territory, a mysterious realm that is filled with hazards to be fought and treasures to be won.”
III
Days in Sunset Falls passed like the mangled clouds that had greeted him on that first day: it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began, but either way, most of what you were getting was depressing, muddled crap. At first, the town had reminded him (almost fondly) of New Orleans, except completely drained of color and personality. Dwight had lived in a small town all his life, and had nothing against them. He had simply realized that there was a strong and radical difference between a small town and his small town. They were the same basic animals but with wildly different heartbeats.
As for the fabled Saint Michael's, let's just say that Dwight had soon come to realize that private schools (even the finest one in the county six years running, according to the good folks on the all-knowing Internet) was more or less just a public school with uniforms and a steaming pile of pretension thrown on top. That, mandatory chapel every week, and a monthly tuition with six figures was all that separated this place from any random public school.
And, as Dwight came to believe if not yet realize in the months following that cloudy day in early August, very little prejudice against the minions of darkness. The man on the roof (the fiddler with no fiddle and eyes as red as bloody hell) had only been the start of it. More than once, he had spotted shadowy things in the corners of his eye, only to turn and see nothing. On one occasion, he had dropped a quarter and it had flown (not bounced, flown) off the ground almost immediately and attached itself to the ceiling. It had stayed there for a moment before plummeting back down to the floor, gravity's prisoner once again. Sometimes, a chill suddenly swept over him and his heart beat fast and his breath felt like cold liquid spilling out of his mouth. Nothing as overt or even as physical as the demon-thing on the roof, just small little horrors that were banding together in their unholy quest to drive him insane. Maybe they had succeeded. His mother certainly seemed to think so.
“Honestly, Dwi', you are just like your father,” she had said. “Imagination flying out your freakin' butt. Can't tell the difference between what's real and what some Hollywood folk jerry-rigged with a white sheet and a fog machine.” He remembered (even now, staring out into the endless ocean) that specific pain in his stomach that he had felt when she poured herself yet another glass of wine and downed it entirely before continuing. It had been this way since his dad had passed. Alcohol and cigarettes had become her new soul-mate, and the lines in her face and the paleness of her skin suggested they weren't they only things she now found comfort in. When she finally spoke, her voice quivered, as if his thoughts were laid as bare as her newfound friends. “Lay off the books for a while, that's all. Turn off that damned TV. Take a walk on the beach or something. This a good place, and Saint Michael's is a good school. You've read too many ghosts stories. Especially your fathers.”
And that was it. That was all the motherly advice that Sally Radcliffe (she had shortly ago abandoned her late husband's surname in favor of her own) had been capable of imparting. As clichéd and even cheesy as it sounded, Dwight couldn't hold back the feeling that his father would have almost surely understood, perhaps even believed. Dwight didn't dwell on it, simply because he couldn't bear to. He was alone, and he had to admit that it was the worst feeling in the world. Worse than moving, worse than losing someone you loved, worse having ghosts haunt your every move. Worse than going insane.
As horrible as it sounded, he had kept himself open that possibility. After all, it was the only thing that seemed to make sense. He knew there was no such thing as ghosts and angels and fluff like. Perhaps that was the only thing he didn't have in common with his father; Dwight's mother had been correct when she said that he had been unable to tell the difference between what was real and what clearly wasn't. Even Dwight, who had not and never would stop loving his father, had begun to wonder how much of his stories the man had invented and how much he thought had actually been real.
Well, he thought now, swallowing hard and pressing his head against the glass. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Even if the tree is full of nuts.
But it wouldn't do well to dwell on Liam Markos. That was a wound he'd rather leave unscratched. Then again, wouldn't a wound have to be healed first before it could be re-opened? He supposed that some wounds never did heal, at least not at completely and certainly not at first. Six months was hardly enough time to get over the death of a parent, but it was apparently enough time to go completely and utterly insane.
At least, he hoped he was insane.
