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Thursday
April 17, 2014
2:43am EDT


Rated: 13+ | Short Story | Contest Entry | #1898271
For Writer's Cramp ... Can I find the missing boys from the abandoned reform school?
Father and I are now proud owners of an abandon boy’s school in Florida, my job, to clean the little white house behind the main building. The building itself was built of cement blocks painted white, but the interior of the building was disgusting; full of what appeared to be coagulated blood, long ago dried and left as a gift for me to find.

When we toured the property the real estate agent refused to walk us through the forest, and claimed she didn’t have a key for the little white house. Our gruesome discoveries of eighteen grave markers in the woods and dried blood in the white house left us feeling quite disturbed.

So many thoughts ran through my mind as I knelt on hands and knees scrubbing the floor. Maybe this building was used for butchering of meat to feed the reform school boys. Yes, that must be it, there is no other sane explanation for the amount of blood I am crawling through and scrubbing at.

I hear a squeaking noise coming from about three feet behind me. I spin around on my knees and the squeaking stops. Returning to my duty I hear the squeaking again. It must be the smell of bleach and the creepy surroundings getting to me, and so, I continue to scrub. I’m putting a bit more elbow grease into the task; I’m in such a hurry to get done.

I’m working on a three foot square area and my arms are almost numb for the work I’ve done so far. The squeaking is still going on, with an occasional thump followed by more squeaking in a rhythmic style. Deciding I’ve had enough bleach killing off my brain cells I turn to step outside, but my path was blocked.

There stood a group of young boys, and as I turned I saw the cause for the thumping noise as a boy shut the trap door I hadn’t even noticed until now. I stumbled backwards, through the bleach and blood I had just been scrubbing.

“Wh … what are you doing here?” I ask with obvious fear.

All of the boys yell out, “We are here to pay you back.”

“For what?” Now, I’m horribly confused as I mentally count the wrongs I’ve done in my lifetime and search the boy’s faces for familiarity.

The trap door opens again and another boy joins the crowd. “You let us die,” they say.

Suddenly the boys circle around me, clasping hands with each other they chant, “We are here, we are here, we will haunt you ‘til you listen.”

This is no joke, I realize as I take note of the transparency of each boy. They are ghosts and they will haunt me. My body quivers and I tearfully tell them that I will listen.

One boy, he appears to be the leader, steps out of the circle and closer to me, I feel for the wall behind me and realize that the wall is no longer there, hasn’t been there since the boys gathered into their circle. I step back, looking over my shoulder for the wall when I feel a cold chill and realize I have touched two of the entities. I couldn’t help myself; I scream as loud as possible, “HELP! Help me please.”

The boys guffaw at the thought of me asking for help. “We tried that, each of us, many years ago, when our teachers were beating us to death, but no one listens to the sounds from the white house,” the leader smirks as he speaks his words.

The entire group steps closer to me, and the leader speaks again, “We were killed here, and no one knows, they think we ran away. It is up to you to seek justice on our behalf. We were bad, we ran away, we smoked cigarettes, we robbed stores, but none of us deserved to die at such a young age.”

I know they will never let me go, until I agree, so I do. “Yes, yes, I will help you,” my voice quakes out.

The entities began to dance around me as they chanted, “Justice for us, Harem House is going down!” With that, one of the entities opens the trap door and all fifty or so boys are swooped into the chute, I run out of the building silently swearing I will never return there, and realizing it was their blood I had been kneeling in.

As I run around the main building of the school I find the gas can Dad was using for the mower, I had a fleeting thought of burning the building down, but the boys already lived a life of hell, it’s up to me to make sure they get justice and see their way to Heaven.
© Copyright 2012 Laura Eitniear (UN: llearyeitniear at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Laura Eitniear has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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