01 – Livia

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The Halloween Ball had been, as it had been every year, a resounding success. The students were worn out by six-thirty and the staff got to relish the only night of the year children had nightmares about them for a change.

The Manic Maze, a set of narrow cardboard tunnels and budget-costumed teachers from the darkest depths of the art and drama departments, led to the Lair of the Warlock, whose voice was uncannily similar to the caretaker’s. It was here, from a smoking cauldron of papier-mâché and dry ice, that he dispensed the standard surprise treats of last year’s lost toys in hessian sacks bearing the brand of local potato farmers and long-expired delivery dates.

In the main hall, music from every era and genre reverberated through the very fiber of the students. Witch cackles, demonic guffaws, and a school governor’s occasional report on the diminishing cake supply punctuated the noise. It invigorated one last burst of energy before the long road home through streets of sweets and trick-or-treat goodness.

Only a handful of children soured the festivities this year. They sat at the edge of the fun, worn out from study or perhaps approaching that age when ghouls and goblins had lost their magic.

But the rest of the students were happy. Their teachers were happy, and their parents were patient, waiting for them to sugar crash in bed so they could be happy too. That was their cunning plan, at least until the first plate was thrown.

Nobody knew who threw it, but everyone knew Chuck was the one who yelled, “FOOD FIGHT!” Before the echoes had faded, food rained down from every dark corner of the room.

Faces were plastered. Dresses were ruined. The buffet was gone in seconds. The teachers were not happy after that. The few kids still in the Manic Maze were escorted out to meet their parents, and those known not to be involved were allowed to join them.

The three usual suspects were rounded up from the shadows of the hall’s alcoves, the very picture of sweet and innocent. The brawn, McQueen and Hagman, and Chuck, their brains and leader.

“Well, you got three of us,” Chuck said to his drama teacher, “but you missed the others.”

The drama teacher folded her arms and did her best to look stern. It was a hard feat for anyone with cake on their face and even more of a challenge when dressed as a chicken, especially one whose Styrofoam wings refused her the ability to fold said arms correctly.

She tried anyway. “I want names.”

And Chuck gave her names. The sour wallflowers were rounded up, protesting, of course, pleading innocence and foul play. When the rest of the students were escorted out, they were left behind with the three bullies.

The youngest and smallest of the wrongly accused, Anton, stepped out from the cluster of the named and shamed and glared at them.

“I’ll get you for this,” he said.

Chuck smirked and clicked a finger. McQueen and Hagman stepped between him and Anton with a mirrored crack of their knuckles. Anton stepped back. They stepped forward. The other detainees retreated further, leaving Anton alone to face them.

Then the hall doors swung open and the caretaker stepped through, wheeling a large cart piled high with cleaning supplies.

“Good,” he said. “You’re all still here.”

The two goons snorted and stepped away, leaving Anton swaying in the middle of the room until his friends rushed to catch him as his legs gave out.

The caretaker stood between both groups and ignored the tension, surveying the damage. Cake and gelatinous foodstuffs, candy, chocolate, sandwich fillings, and other unidentifiable splats coated the walls and floor. He whistled and shook his head.

“I’m disappointed in you guys,” he said. “I thought you’d have more respect for this school.”

Chuck scoffed. “Why would anyone respect this dump?”

The caretaker wiped away a congealing splat from one wall. Beneath the mess was a wood carving set into a panel.

“There’s a history to this place,” he said. “A history that demands respect. This isn’t an ordinary building. It’s a place of learning and imagination. I may not have much of either, but that only serves to highlight how important they are.”

He rummaged in his cart and tossed a large cloth to each of them.

Chuck sneered at the rag. “You’re not expecting us to clean this, are you?”

“Too right I am,” the caretaker said. “And so are your teachers and your parents. You’re mine until this whole hall is sparkling.”

Chuck dropped the cloth on the floor. “I’m not your slave.”

The caretaker picked it up and shoved it back into his hand. “And I’m not yours.”

“It’s your job to clean the school.”

“No, it’s my job to take care of the school. That’s why I’m called the caretaker. I’ll do my job any way I see fit.”

“I’m going to get my dad to fire you,” Chuck spat.

The caretaker patted his head. “I didn’t know your father was so well connected, but he seemed only too happy to volunteer you to clean the mess you made.”

“What?” a small voice called from the crowd.

The caretaker glanced back to see a tiny girl, Helen, raising her hand.

“Did our parents say we have to clean the whole school?” she asked.

The caretaker nodded. “More specifically, they said they wouldn’t return until I told them the hall was clean again. So the sooner you pitch in, the sooner you can go home.”

Chuck huffed. “I’m supposed to be trick-or-treating tonight.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you decided to make a mess of the place,” the caretaker said.

He drew a full bucket from the cart and splashed its contents across the wall. Most of the mess slid down with it.

He pointed to the panels. “Take a panel each and clean it. We’ll be done soon.”

All the children, except Chuck and his two lackeys, stepped forward to polish off the remaining splatter. The caretaker took Chuck’s hand and forced the rag against the wood carving. He stood behind him, breathing down his neck until Chuck realized he would not get away without doing his share.

Chuck growled but wiped the panel. The mess slid off easily, revealing the carving beneath.

“What’s that even supposed to be?” he said.

The caretaker stroked the carving.

“This one’s special,” he said. “Back in the last World War, the woods outside the school were hit by a bomb. Instead of panicking, one brave pilot saw the firelight and followed it here. He shot down invading planes before the bombardment reached the school. We were always grateful to him.”

From the far end of the hall, another girl called out.

“He followed the light?” Livia asked.

The caretaker nodded.

Livia nodded to herself. “So other people would too.”

“Do what?” the caretaker asked.

“Follow lights. I followed one last week. I’ve been wondering if that was stupid.”

“Why were you following a light?” Anton asked.

“Well, do you remember the power cut last week?”

Everyone nodded.

“It happened when I was walking through the park after school…”

Livia’s Story

I knew the days were getting shorter, but that afternoon the autumn sky was blanketed in deepening clouds. It cut my playtime with friends short by an hour.

Our town is tiny, barely a couple of miles across and taken up mostly by the park at its center. They say that in cities kids my age still get picked up by their parents, but that was never a problem here. Everyone knew everyone, and everyone else lived next door. There were no dangers from strangers or getting lost. At least, I did not think so. Not until that afternoon.

I said goodbye to my friends and took the usual route home. My house was not far from the park, a couple of streets over on the other side, across the canal from Uncle John’s block. The walk took ten minutes at most. As my friends disappeared from sight, the rest of the world disappeared with them. Thick clouds rolled in from nowhere and turned the fading light into midnight black in seconds.

Behind me, cars screeched, followed by panicked shouts and honking. I should not have headed away from the angry drivers. Cars and stores had lights. A local café would not have minded a kid hogging a table until the streetlamps came on. Instead, I continued on. I knew the park. I knew its paths. So I walked.

And I walked. Then I walked some more. After the ten minutes it should have taken to get home, I found myself back where I had started. So much for knowing the paths.

The honking and screams had stopped. I strained to find the glow of the streets through the trees, but nothing caught my eye. With the sky as dark as it was, even the ground was barely visible beneath my feet. The center of the park was a little higher than the rest. Not quite a hill, but close enough. I focused on following the incline to find my bearings.

Once at the top, I peered into the darkness. At the bottom, on the far side of the not-a-hill, a small light bobbed as if someone were holding it. I let out a sigh of relief and hurried toward it.

“Excuse me, are you the park keeper? I’m lost,” I said.

The light swiveled, but nobody replied. As I trudged closer, it faded away.

“No, wait. Hello?”

An electric hum answered me. More lights flickered on, this time from above. Streetlamps. I was on the right path. Maybe all I had seen was them trying to power on.

With my bearings regained, I headed home. The lamps outside the park were just coming on when I crossed the road. I listened for cars, but the air was silent, as if it were midnight and everyone was asleep. Had I been wandering for hours?

I cut through Uncle John’s block to see if he would walk home with me. I did not want another trip through the dark alone. The streetlights did not agree with me, though. As I headed toward his condo, they flickered loudly. A sharp buzz filled the air, accompanied by stinking smoke, and every light blew at once.

Once again, I was stranded in who-knows-where. The buildings became vague shapes against a vaguer sky. The ground felt like an abyss I should have been falling into.

I measured every step, hoping each one brought me closer to my uncle’s place. What should have taken a minute in daylight took half an hour in the dark.

Then I saw it. A flicker in the distance. A small flame glided across my path.

Was someone holding a candle?

“Hello?” I called.

The candle stopped.

“Hello, could you show me where the main entrance is, please?”

Like before, no one responded. The flame drifted in the direction I needed. I hurried after it, trying to keep up. The faster I ran, the faster it moved. When I slowed to catch my breath, the candle slowed too. Maybe whoever held it did not want to talk to me. After all, I could have been anyone.

It stayed ahead for another minute before stopping in a familiar passage. This time it did not move as I approached. Something glinted beneath it. When I was within arm’s reach, the light faded out completely.

“Hey,” I called.

The flame appeared again farther down the street. Its glow reflected off the object by my feet. A coin.

I picked it up. “Hey, you dropped your change.”

The candle faded again and reappeared twice as far away. I followed and found another coin. Then another. It had to be Uncle John. Nobody else played jokes like this or spoiled me with money.

I chuckled with relief. “Okay. If that’s how you want to play it.”

I followed the light, collecting a coin every time it appeared somewhere new. Before long, I found myself by the canal. The flame hovered over a set of thick pipes running across it. I knew where I was. This was the shortcut I used to get home.

I stepped onto the pipes and steadied myself with outstretched arms. They were thick, only half a foot lower than the sidewalk. Normally I strolled across, but I had never done it in the dark. My stroll became an amble, then a careful toddle as I focused on staying balanced.

This time, the light did not fade. It grew brighter, but gentle. By the time I reached it, the glow came from everywhere. I was no longer balancing on a pipe. I was standing on something solid.

Except I could see through it.

The light came from thousands, maybe millions, of tiny points. Bubbles rose through a sea of black around me, as if I were suspended in a glowing pocket deep underwater.

Where was I?

The wall of the bubble was paper-thin but strong. Was I trapped? Why had I been led here? It could not have been Uncle John.

“Hello,” I called. “Where am I?”

The bubbles stopped. Two or three drifted closer. Up close, they were small orbs of light. They surrounded me and merged, becoming smoke. A glowing nebula pressed against the invisible walls. The light shaped itself into arms. Arms grew fingers. Fingers pointed at me from every direction.

Every direction except one.

To my left was a patch of darkness.

What could I expect from that?

Within it, shapes began to form. Lines stretched toward me, twinkling as if reflected on water. More lights flickered on.

Streetlamps. Windows.

The dark patch was where I had come from.

It was a door.

My legs moved before I told them to. The hands lunged as I reached the exit. One wrapped around my ankle, but my momentum carried me through. I tore free and fell.

I hit the pipes face-first and bounced. There was a moment of weightlessness. Then I crashed into the canal.

“Hold on,” someone shouted. At least, I think that is what they said.

Water rushed into my ears and up my nose. It stung and blinded me. The world spun and I screamed bubbles.

Strong hands grabbed mine and pulled. My head broke the surface and I sucked in air. Too much air. The hands dragged me onto the sidewalk and sat me down.

A dog sniffed me and licked my face, tail wagging. Its owner pulled it aside and checked that I was breathing.

“Jeez, Livi. Is that you?”

I looked up at my savior in the amber lamplight. “Uncle John?”

“What were you thinking, crossing here in the dark?” he said. “No, don’t answer. Come back to mine and get warm.”

I took his hand and he hauled me to my feet. I glanced back at the pipes. They stretched across the canal as they always had. No darkness. No bubbles. Nothing waiting at the center.

Had I dreamed it? Had I hit my head?

Uncle John took me home and sent me straight to the shower while he called my parents. I brushed my teeth three times. Somehow the taste of the canal still lingered. He sat me in front of the TV with a tankard of hot chocolate and lit candles where the power cut had blown his bulbs. I sipped my drink and cuddled the dog while we waited.

When my parents arrived five minutes later, I looked back at the canal from the car.

The darkness was gone.

Yet for one brief second, I thought I saw a flickering light before it faded from existence.