“Hey Buddy, all ready for tonight?” Michael ignored the excited chant as it punched through the
sombre atmosphere of the staffroom. The rain tapped on the ancient stained glass windows in
a chaotic symphony as a small group of teachers sat discussing children and their associated
behavioural incidences. Michael had wondered why it was always the disruptive children and
not the good ones that were talked about. The music teacher snorted, startling himself from his
slumber in the corner armchair. Wriggling his nose, he sniffed as he combed his hand through
his long greying beard. A loud rustling newspaper caught Michael"s attention and although he
could not see the reader, he guessed he was demanding quietness. He caught sight of the
newspaper headline and suddenly felt an immense sadness as the comprehension of what he
read sunk in. A thought went to the families of the 50 school children who drowned when a
local river burst its banks. He closed his eyes wondering when the rain would stop, just as he
felt a nudge on his arm.
“Hey, are you ignoring me or something?” Michael opened his eyes and, although a little
startled, smiled. The new arrival beamed a large grin back showing his brilliantly bright, white
teeth that looked more at home in Hollywood than Kirkfale. His ginger hair hung past his
shoulders and together with his boyish facial features, they gave him a look of youth, an image
Michael often yearned for as he approached his fourth decade.
“Sorry, Andy?” Michael spluttered, his mind still conjuring up images of the 50 children
drowning.
“Hey, you alright, you"re looking a bit peaky.” Michael was glad that his friend Andrew was a
fellow Englishman with an accent he could easily understand without having to concentrate too
hard, although, he was getting used to the Scottish accent more these days.
“Do I?” He could not think of anything else to say, “Perhaps I"m coming down with
something.” He instinctively felt his forehead for heat, but found nothing out of the ordinary.
“Tell you what, I"ll do your duty tonight and you go home to your lovely wife and get some
rest,” he ordered. “Clearly you are still adjusting to the new climate.”
Michael sniggered, “What, perpetual rain?”
“Hey, we do get some sunshine, you know.” Andrew said in a mocking tone before smiling.
“Oh yeah, I remember, one day a year, blink and you"ll miss it.” They both burst out
laughing, ignoring the loud rustle and „tut" from the teacher holding the newspaper.
“That"s better; at least there is some colour in your cheeks now.” Andrew nudged Michael"s
arm again, “so you all prepared for your rounds?”
“I think so, not much to prepare for though, really,” Michael said nodding.
“Just be on your guard for the Ghost of Wallace House.”
“What?” Michael eyed his friend, trying to ascertain whether he was being serious or not,
after all, he had not heard anything about this before.
“Yeah, the ghosts of past headmasters are said to roam Wallace House. Did you know that
was the original location of the headmaster"s office? Apparently, as the stories go, several of
the past headmasters committed suicide over stress and as a result are forced to roam the
corridors of what is now Wallace House.” Andrew looked down to overt eye contact with
Michael.
“Shut up, you Muppet! I"m not that daft!” Michael smiled and gently punched Andrew on the
shoulder when he burst out laughing, eliciting another newspaper rustle. “What you up to
tonight?”
“Got fencing practice down at the club,” Andrew said, “you know you should come next
week.” Michael was seriously tempted. He had been a keen fencer back in Preston, having
won several competitions over the years. Although, he had only taken up the hobby in the last
decade, he had developed a strong love for the sport and as such, had progressed quickly up
the ranks, but reluctantly gave it up after he and Mary got married.
“I might just take you up on that offer,” he said, although he knew Mary would never allow
him to. She was adamant it was too dangerous a sport that could cause extreme harm, despite
his explanations of the safety equipment and protocols involved. It had eventually come down
to whether he loved fencing more than his new, gorgeous wife. To Michael, there was not
competition.
***
Michael felt a shiver shoot down his back as he turned the corner making the spot of white light
from the torch dance around the dark corridor. Although he knew ghosts did not exist, the story
Andrew told him earlier in the staffroom played havoc on his subconscious. He understood the
need to turn off the corridor lights to simulate night within the school, but still felt it was too much
to ask night supervisors to walk around just with a torch. He had narrowly missed several
statues already by walking too close to the corridor walls or turning a blind corner. He was sure
he had missed checking a number of locked doors as well, just because he had not seen them
as the beam of light was concentrated on his path. He decided he would have to bring the topic
up at the next staff meeting, requesting dim lighting along the corridors, at least until the rounds
were completed. It was some comfort; however, he was only expected to explore the corridors
once during the night. He did not mind staying in the Wallace House common room for the rest
of the time; he could simply just sit in one of the comfy armchairs and snooze until morning.
Having checked most of the classrooms enroute, he was satisfied no children were roaming the
school without permission and his final check would be to confirm they were all tucked up in
bed, fast asleep.
He turned into another corridor and gave out a sigh of relief when he realised the only exit
lead straight to the common room, however, as he approached, he noticed a slim line of light
escaping round the edge of the badly fitted wooden door. As he padded closer, his first instinct
was to burst in and scare whoever was in the room out of their skins. He recalled using a
similar tactic on new year-7 classes in previous jobs, to ensure his authority was secure in their
minds. However, he stopped just outside the door and listened as dull voices penetrated the
wood. He could only make out the odd word, but not enough to make sense of it and so placed
his hand on the handle ready to push it open. He knew the old door squeaked, like most doors
in the school, but he figured he would be able to open to door before anyone scarpered up the
stairs to the sleeping quarters. He was about to push when the light went out. He wondered if
they had heard him and instinctively moved his hand away from the door. Moments later, he
heard a scraping sound but had no idea what would have caused it. Perhaps they, whoever
they were, have gone to bed. He gently pushed the door, and, sure enough, it gave out a
squeal of complaint.
The common room was empty. He listened out for soft thuds on the wooden steps to the
sleeping quarters, but heard none, and although he knew that was not a definitive answer, he
was satisfied with it. A clunk grabbed his attention towards the fire place, though on first glance,
the source was nowhere to be found. He knelt down to see if he could find anything that would
explain the sound, but found nothing. “You"re losing it, Michael,” he said sitting on the hearth.
He rested his head against the stone fire-surround and allowed the stone"s coolness to sooth
his back muscles, whilst he looked around the room. Heaving out a large breath, he conceded
that he had heard nothing earlier, and the light was merely a trick caused by the reflection from
his torch. It seemed he had been hearing things; perhaps there are ghosts in Wallace House.
He smirked.
He slowly allowed his eyes to close, although he knew the consequences of poor circulation
to his legs and bottom when he awoke, the soothing sensation of the stone hearth felt
comfortable and eased him swiftly into a deep sleep.
Michael awoke to find himself walking the corridors at a hurried pace and although he did not
understand what was going on, initially, he continued walking. He looked over his shoulder just
as he turned a corner and was glad nothing was following, but missed that something was in
front of him and stumbled backwards when he caught sight of his assailant. His heart began
beating faster and harder, almost as if it were trying to escape his chest to flee the apparition
before him. From the oak floor, Michael watched as the ghostly figure glided forward. Although
it was distinctly white, to Michael it resembled mist in the early morning slowly moving over the
mountains around Kirkfale. As it crept closer, Michael spotted the dark piercing eyes that
looked directly at him, wanting to penetrate his very soul. That alone was enough to scare him
half to death, but to make matters worse, he could not move.
He tried to stand, but somehow, the apparition held him in a trance. He was captivated by
the trenchant eyes of the ethereal figure and lost all sensation in every muscle of his entire
body. All he could do was wait for the ghost to engulf him and do whatever a ghost did. Just as
all hope seemed lost, he heard several dull voices from behind…
Michael opened his eyes to the welcomed sight of the darkened common room and realised
he had fallen asleep. Moving his right leg, he immediately seized it with both hands as pin
pricks shot all along it. His first instinct was to cry out in pain, but clenched his teeth and eyes
instead. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he forced himself to stand, hoping the blood would
return quicker. However, before he reached the chair, he heard a scraping sound from behind
him. Quickly twisting his head toward the fire, Michael held back a gasp as he witnessed the
large surround sliding to the right, apparently with no external help. He darted behind the sofa
and crouched down. Holding his breath, he dared hope that he had not been spotted or heard.
He peered round the side of the sofa, ensuring he was still well hidden in the shadows and
watched as two senior boys appeared from behind the fire, or at least where the fire had been
and headed out towards the dormitory.
Michael listened to the decreasing echo of their footsteps. Only when he had heard the door
of their sleeping quarters squeal open and slam shut did he crawl out from behind the sofa.
How did they get in there? This was stuff that you saw only in films. Running his hands over
the darkened grooves of the fireplace, he searched for some switch that controlled the fire.
There was no such switch, just my luck. He rested his right hand on the mantelpiece and
inadvertently nudged the candle stick on display. He tutted at his lack of thinking and shook his
head. Of course, it’s always a candle stick or the last book on the bottom shelf that releases the
trapped doors. The candle stick slid effortlessly to the side and within seconds the fire began
moving with the scraping, he just hoped no one would hear and come to investigate. When the
fire disappeared, the back wall opened up to reveal a dimly lit tunnel leading to a stone stairwell.
Despite his nerves exploding in trepidation, his historical interest enticed him to proceed.
Steadily, Michael descended the dusty steps and shook his head, the whole idea of secret
passages in an ancient building was a complete cliché and it was all he could do to stop
laughing. At the bottom of the stairs, he continued along another dimly lit corridor. The
occasional fire-torch hung from both walls and was covered in white, stringy cobwebs. The
ground was dusty and with every step, Michael sent up a small plume of dust and sand, which
quickly settled back into place.
A few metres along the corridor, he began hearing faint voices up ahead. Picking up the
pace, he reached a small wooden door that had been left ajar, no doubt by the boys who had
been down there moments before. Michael peered through the thin gap between the door and
its post but could see nothing, so pushed. He scrunched his face hoping the door would not
creak. When the door remained silent, he let out a small sigh, and continued to push.
However, he did not want to push his luck too far and held back from swinging the door fully
open… this will have to do.
