This is the first part. Please comment below and let me know what you think.
Curt’s journal
September 4, 1994
My life is now a surrealist nightmare. For no apparent reason, a malevolent force has reached out of the cosmos to shatter my existence. Shatter—then reassemble it as a grotesque and cruel joke.
I am (or was till last Thursday) Dr. Curt Maxwell, the 45-year-old principal of a rural school in southern Indiana. It started out like any ordinary opening day.
As usual I had a School Spirit pep meeting before addressing the student body.
“At the last school board meeting on the Saturday evening before, a number of your parents addressed me. They presented issues they have with my style. Claimed that my restrictions were unduly harsh. That my Zero Tolerance Policy for bullying offers less protection for the victims than the bullies themselves.
“They asked me to ease up on my micromanagement style. Asked for something less excessive than the 200-page handbook I issued for last year. Such a request deserves an answer. Here it is.”
I dropped the new 600-page student handbook on the podium and smiled at all the groans. As if I didn’t know who thought of sending all those moms with their synchronized sprinkler systems to the board meeting.
Ha! Those idiots think I answer to them. As if I would have risen so far in the field of public education without making the proper connections. I’m no more accountable to the parents than the students themselves.
All the groans began to annoy me. “You know why this handbook is necessary? Because of all the unacceptable behaviors running rampant in this school. Unacceptable behaviors and unacceptable thoughts!”
I admit that I grew animated at this part of my speech. Some wag in the back called out, “Seik heil mein Fuhrer! What a loser.”
Amidst all the catcalls, insults, and overwhelming groans I smiled and waved while leaving the riser. They were angry and there was nothing they could do about it. Bwahaha.
The rest of the morning went badly. My Madame Cafe gave out after only 3 cups, so I developed a caffeine headache. And everyone else was acting more stupidly than usual.
A senior honors student, Bruce Bingham, dropped in to interview me for an essay he was writing. The theme was the life of a successful professional he admired.
After discussing the subject with him for two hours, we were interrupted by the intercom. It seems Bartlett, the social studies teacher, had brought in John Rawlings—a foster kid.
Bruce immediately left to see the nurse. The Rawlings boy looked as though he had been fighting.
Only fourteen or fifteen and small for his age. Very stupid of those runts to get into fights since they always get the worst of it.
The boy stammered for a long while. After I urged him to hurry, he placed a tape recorder on the front desk and played. The sounds of taunts and physical fighting were hard to figure out.
“Did any of these kids know you were recording this?” I asked.
John shook his head no.
I handed him a box of tissues so he could avoid making a mess on our recently cleaned carpet. Then I phoned the police.
Due to the near proximity of the school to Della’s Diner—known for its coffee and fried donuts—the police arrived in minutes. I told them they needed to arrest the Rawlings boy.
A nasty confusion followed. Bartlett protested the boy needed to be looked at since his upper front tooth seemed loose. I had to explain repeatedly to the officers why he should be arrested for violating state law in taping a private conversation without consent.
To add to the confusion, the kid began sobbing loudly making my headache worse. Even Ms. Ellis, the school secretary felt she had to add her two cents instead of transcribing the notes from the last faculty meeting according to her job description.
Finally, the problem ended. John Rawlings was escorted out and I drew a sigh of relief. Bartlett had followed the police for some reason.
Instead of typing, Ms. Ellis sat staring at me. I have long suspected her of a secret infatuation—due to my good looks and charisma—which she conceals behind eye rolls and grimaces. Yet in ten years of working together I have not once taken advantage of the situation. That would be unprofessional.
“Clock out for morning break if you aren’t going to work,” I told her and reentered my office.
I shuffled some papers around and headed for the filing cabinet. On opening it to insert a folio I noticed a light shining out of the A-D drawer.
It turned out to be a piece of paper or parchment. But it shone with its own light. Reluctantly I picked it up and then regretted it. For all I knew it might give me radiation poisoning.
Curtis Newman Maxwell, Son of Jonathon Eliot Maxwell, Renounce your sins. Do what is right. Be kind to the oppressed. The LORD God Almighty may spare you. Nathan Messenger
Placing it gingerly on my desk, I hurried out to look for help. Ms. Ellis was standing around munching a croissant.
“Step inside my office.”
“I didn’t have breakfast and my break isn’t over yet,” she answered.
I glanced at my watch. “You had at least ten minutes. This is an emergency. Take your croissant, but don’t scatter crumbs.”
Upon being shown the parchment, she looked it over. One side and another.
“Interesting. Calligraphy is a hobby of mine. I’m familiar with three different kinds. This is nothing like any of them, but there are a variety. And this doesn’t look like it was made by a metal nub.”
“Is there any way someone could have gotten in last night without leaving evidence?”
“There is no sign of tampering with the locks of either the front door or your door or the office door. You stayed after everyone else last night as always. And the question is why would anyone go to such lengths just to pull a prank?”
I shrugged. “Maybe we should call the police to have the scene investigated.”
“Do you think it would be a good idea? So soon I mean.”
“So soon after the Rawlings kid? You have a point.”
Out of the blue—for the first time since she started working here—Ms. Ellis turned on me. “Where is your sense of compassion, Dr. Maxwell? Johnny had already been beaten black, blue and bloody. He’s small enough to begin with. And you called the police. On him.”
“Look. It’s nice that you have a kind heart, but if they don’t give him medical care before the judge sees him, I’m sure he’ll be seen by a doctor by the time he reaches juvie. Relax. There’s no way our school could be held legally accountable—even if there were anyone who would press charges.”
This failed to appease her though. She walked out between my sentences and went back to work.
Before I could start a belated lunch, Sylvia Henderson and her guardians dropped by. I believe they are her grandparents. Last spring, she spent two weeks at Beacons. Crying incessantly is a symptom of her mental illness. Off her meds no doubt.
The Henderson girl is a thin-skinned neurotic—perhaps even a paranoid schizophrenic—suffering no doubt from a biological brain defect causing depression and anxiety. And we have to put up with this loathsome mental disease.
Admittedly I was not in the best of humors.
“Tom and Milly Henderson,” I referred to the rolodex of names on my desk before extending my hand and stretching my mouth to smile. “What seems to be the problem today?”
“About a dozen boys are following me around the halls, Mr. Maxwell…”
“Dr. Maxwell,” I firmly corrected her. Due to my firm tone or the proximity of my face to hers, all emotional continence ended. I handed her the tissue box. Also handy for cleaning those thick glasses she wears.
“They keep saying…stuff.”
“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”
“Horrible, obscene things.” She glanced at her grandparents.
“Unless you tell me exactly what was said I cannot help you.”
After pressuring her for several minutes I was about to ask them to leave till Tom joined in. He promised they wouldn’t get angry or shocked. After Milly agreed to leave the office, Sylvia stammered out several graphic descriptions of sex acts. Sniffling and sobbing all the time. I admit one or two were unfamiliar to me.
Amazing. I never would have thought this naive looking girl could be capable of these pornographic fantasies.
“Who are these boys? A few names wouldn’t hurt.”
“Steve Davis and Bruce B-bingham.”
“Are you taking your meds?” I turned to her grandpa. “She’s off her meds, isn’t she?”
Tom Henderson pulled himself up to his full height. “Her doctor took her off of them. And they didn’t seem to work. She goes to all the trouble of repeating the nasty filth those sleaze balls shout at her, starts to name names and you dismiss it.”
I took comfort at his lack of stature and fitness. “Mr. Henderson what do you expect us to do about this? Maybe you should take Sylvia back to Beacon’s Institute. Or at least put her back on her pills. She obviously needs them.”
“Are you calling my granddaughter crazy?” Tom’s face turned a darker hue of red.
“As a professional educator I don’t use stigmatizing words like crazy. Paranoid schizophrenic would be my guess. But in layman’s terms, yes.”
“Look. Sylvie’s going through a rough time. But she’s as sane as you or I.”
“Speak for yourself.”
As they left my office, Sylvia paused to glare directly at me. I gave a little smile and waved goodbye. She hates my guts. Who cares?
I had not quite finished lunch when I received a call from Purdue University about Chad Webb who had applied for a football scholarship. I suggested they rethink giving it to him because I’d seen him make a Nazi salute just that morning. The woman expressed shock and said they would probably have to cancel it, but she would have the president call me next week to verify what I saw in person.
Around half past two, our guidance counselor, Bob Goodman, dropped in to discuss Ken Bradley. This basketball player refuses to apply himself and has convinced Goodman to test him for dyslexia.
“Go ahead and test him,” I said. “But I fail to see what good it will do.”
“It may help him to avoid repeating his senior year. Maybe even get him into college.”
I sighed. “Why do you even bother?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a waste of time. I work so hard trying to make this a better school. Striving to transform it into a smooth, well-oiled machine efficiently meeting needs of the collective whole. If only the stupid students didn’t keep messing everything up.”
Goodman looked me over. “Have you thought of taking a sabbatical?”
“This time of the year? You must be out of your mind.”
“Not right now. Just in a year or so. Pool can do a decent job running things during your absence.”
My fists clenched and I ground my teeth. Brad Pool the butt kisser. Our smarmy assistant principal who hides his Machiavellian aspirations behind a goofy, lovable demeanor with those ratty cardigans that always clash with his tie, shirt or both. Out of all the faculty only I can see through his fake veneer. Saying “Golly!” or “Gee whillikers” when normal people swear. Pool constantly talks about his large family and happy marriage and how he loves attending church with them. Ha!
“This school wouldn’t get by for one week without me. As you know.”
“You need to learn to chill. This school has been around for a while. Long before you arrived.”
“I’m not about to let go so the whole thing falls apart, Goodman. Not now. Not ever.” Before I could continue those shooting pains in my left arm began. Right on schedule at three.
“Before I leave, I thought I should let you know. I allowed a student to enroll today. A freshman.”
“School has already started but there’s no problem. Better late than never.”
“What you’ll probably object to is that I haven’t met with the boy or his guardian. The guardian called me this morning and enrolled the kid by email. He’s in the foster system which would account for the irregularities.”
Everything he said was reasonable. Forcing them to put the student on hold after enrollment would only make me look like the bad guy. Maybe getting me in trouble with my superiors. I managed to hide my annoyance.
I shrugged. “What’s done is done. Have a good evening, Goodman.”
Instead of going home, he stayed to chat with the secretary. I found them as I left for the teacher’s lounge for a cup of coffee.
“Dr. Maxwell, someone left a bowl of food out for that stray cat that’s been wandering around,” said Ellis.
Embarrassed I struggled to put a story together about the custodian. If I hadn’t put it there the creature might have slipped into the building leading to confusion.
Around five I came out and saw Ellis puttering around her desk. “What’s wrong with you, Dr. Maxwell?” She sounded tired and sad for some reason.
“Why do you ask?”
“You have always been hard nosed. But you used to care. Now you seem to despise—maybe even hate—the students you are supposed to help. I remember when I could respect, though not like, you. I wish I still could.”
Feeling magnanimous I suggested she go home an hour early.
Ms. Ellis is an efficient, reliable worker. She keeps the office tidy, makes excellent spreadsheets and types 90 words a minute. Except for drinking Maalox from the bottle, she has no bad habits.
She even learned to make a decent pot of coffee that first months. It took brewing and pitching four or five pots every morning for weeks till she got it right. One day she suggested that I—a highly educated professional—should make it. A joke. And not a funny one.
Alone at last, I tried to console myself for the rough day, by remembering all my achievements. Two doctorates. The first at twenty-six. A number of articles published in respected journals and even a couple textbook anthologies. An award for achievement in educational administration in 1989.
Surveying the plaque with satisfaction, I said, “Where would this school be without me? I made this institution what it is today. No help from anyone.”
I truly felt on top of the world. For the last time.
Ms. Ellis suddenly opened the door to the administrative lobby and stuck her head in. “Dr. Maxwell, someone is here to see you.”
“Whom?”
“A tall man in a white suit.” She smiled and sighed. “He’s gorgeous.”
“It’s late for anyone to show up. Especially without an appointment. Probably that software vendor I wished to consult. Show him in.”
When the stranger entered, I saw why most women would consider him handsome. At least 6 ft 4 and massively built. Black hair, dark eyes and olive skin. Chiseled features and a boxlike jaw. He appeared somewhere between 35 and 40 but had an air of vigor common in younger men.
“Hello. I’m Nathan Messenger.”
I noticed then that he had no briefcase, and his white suit had an uncanny brilliance that made my eyes water. The name and suit gave me a sense of de ja vu.
“Pleased to meet you, Messenger. I’m Dr. Maxwell. Do you have any product descriptions with you?”
“No. I do not.” He took hold of my extended hand and gripped it so hard I winced. When he released it, I cradled it in my lap.
“My apologies, Doc. I forgot how frail your kind are.”
I have always prided myself on my viselike grip when I shake. Without intending to or trying, this being had sprained my right hand. What might he have done if he tried? I couldn’t suppress a shudder.
“Listen to what I have to say. I left the note early this morning.”
“How—how did you get past the security system?” I reached for my cell.
“It only goes off if you use doors or windows for entry. I just bypassed the three dimensions of your world. And don’t bother with your phone. The battery’s dead.”
He was right. Feeling dizzy I sat down and plugged it in to hide my nervousness.
“I’m not here to sell you anything. My mission is to give you one last chance to mend your ways. The Lord God is merciful. Even now He will withhold your punishment if you repent.”
“What do I have to repent of?”
“A lot of prayers have gone up on your behalf.”
“That’s nice.”
Messenger shook his head. “They are begging for relief from your oppression. Repent or your tyranny will end tonight. With consequences you will not like.”
“Consequences?” I glanced at my watch. Hoping this visit would soon end so I could use the facilities.
“You will experience the greatest humiliation imaginable. Nearly all you value as your natural rights and gifts will be stripped away. Your good looks, your strength, your size, your professional status, your social position, all your basic rights and liberties will vanish. You will become painfully small, weak, helpless to attend to your basic needs. Utter poverty will creep upon you. In desperation you shall beg those who now serve you for help…barely daring to speak, aghast at what comes out of your mouth. Those who do not despise and mock you will pity you. Infantilize and patronize you. You will submit to those who now submit to you. Only your mind shall remain unchanged. All your memories, knowledge, and experience will remain intact to drive you mad. And prove the futility of your own understanding.
“Say that you are sorry, Dr. Maxwell. This is your only warning.”
“Say I’m sorry? For what? I’m a decent, law-abiding man who’s always played by the rules. I work hard to enforce the rules that hold this school and society together.”
“Have it your way. It would be better to say you’re sorry and become like a little child of your own free will, Dr. Maxwell. But you chose the rules. By the rules you shall be judged. Like every student here. These rules shall crush you down and hold you prisoner. Until you realize Who is really in charge. And it’s not Curtis Maxwell.”
“You’re insane.”
“Severity is your only hope.” He looked gravely upon me shaking his head. “If it works out you will thank Him. In the end.”
“You’re threatening me with some supernatural judgment?” I pointed to the ceiling and laughed. “Aside from a little parlor magic I see no proof of your ridiculous claims.”
“You will receive your ultimate proof tomorrow, young Curtis.” Something about his smile made me shudder. “Before then, here’s a glimpse of my true form. Unveiled.”
Many wings flapping around dozens—no hundreds of ancient eyes. Ruthlessly penetrating to my soul as though to consume or unmake me. A white-hot fire at the center. Overpowering heat…
All this passed before my vision in less than two seconds. I couldn’t see once it ended. I couldn’t stop screaming. But at least getting to the restroom on time was no longer an issue.
Overwhelmed by the terror I had seen I collapsed to the floor in a faint. I lay there all night as though comatose.
Now I come to the horrific part of my story. The waking nightmare my rational mind cries out against in disbelief. Yet it continues…as part of me.
Light came through the window in my office. Daylight. I must have stumbled through the door before passing out.
My vision had improved drastically. My new bifocals remained on the desk where I’d placed them during the visit. Yet my eyesight was 20/20.
I passed my hand over my head and was amazed at how thick my hair had grown. No bald spot in back.
Strokes leave their marks in paralysis, inability to speak, or other limitations. Yet I wiggled all my digits with ease. My circulation was fine, and my arthritis had vanished. Pain free after a night on the cement floor.
Marveling at my newfound flexibility and energy levels I sprang to my feet. Then I found something was horribly, horribly wrong.
Loose folds of cloth enveloped me. As I stretched, I saw how large the furniture and room had grown. The swaddling was just my suit now grown too big.
Sweating, I rolled up a sleeve and trembled at the scrawny, hairless arm underneath. I closed my eyes, counted to ten, and willed things back to normal.
It didn’t work.
I groaned. “No. No. No.” It was then I truly panicked.
I have always taken pride in my speaking voice. A bedroom voice. A golden voice. My professional and perfectly modulated baritone.
This was a quavering treble and rose sharply on the last word. Not my voice.
Putting my hand to my face nervously, I felt no morning stubble. Only bare, oily skin with three raised bumps that itched at my touch. Horrified I yanked my hand away.
My mouth felt wrong. My tongue explored the wiry mesh now covering my teeth. Like the braces I had worn many years ago. As a high school freshman.
The quiet of the empty school ended as the doors slammed. Someone had entered. Probably the custodian.
I sped to the bathroom and flicked on the light. For a few seconds I just stared at the mirror. My old nemesis. That round cheeked, big-eyed face was just begging for some bigger kid to punch it.
Recoiling at the sight I vomited into the sink. Washing off forced me to view the boy’s terrified face staring helplessly out at me again.
Pathetic brat. How I loathe him.
This punishment is more than I can bear.
Very intense. Kept my attention. By the way, Sieg Heil is spelled with a g, not a k, and the h in Heil is capitalized because Heil is a noun and you capitalize nouns in German.