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, he dispensed the standard surprise treats of last year’s lost toys in hessian sacks bearing the brand of local potato farmers and delivery dates.

In the main hall, music from every era and genre, interspersed with witch’s cackles and demonic guffaws and a school governor’s occasional report on the diminishing cake supply, reverberated through the very fibre of the students, invigorating 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 where 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!” And before the echoes had faded, food rained down from every dark corner of the room.

Faces were plastered, dresses were ruined and the buffet was gone in seconds. The teachers weren’t happy after that. The few kids still in the Manic Maze were escorted out to meet their parents and those children known to not 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, a hard feat for anyone with cake on their face but 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, but 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 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 but they stepped forward more, and the other detainees stepped further back, 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 left Anton in the middle of the room for his friends to gather around his swaying body before his legs gave up supporting him.

The Caretaker stood between both groups and ignored the tension, surveying the damage to the room. Cake and gelatinous foodstuffs, candies, chocolate and sandwich fillings, among 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, you know. It’s a place of learning and imagination. Now I may not have much of either, but that only serves to highlight to me how important they are.”

He fished in his cart and chucked 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 so are 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 into his hand again. “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, and 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 of other children.

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

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

The Caretaker gave her a nod. “More specifically, they said they wouldn’t return until I told them the hall was clean again, so the sooner you all pitch in, the sooner you can go home.”

Chuck huffed. “I’m supposed to be Trick or Treating tonight.”

The Caretaker drew a full bucket from the cart. “Well you should have thought of that before you decided to make a mess of the place, shouldn’t you?”

He splashed the bucket’s contents across at the wall and most of the mess came down with it.

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

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 in its fingers onto the wood carving. He then stood behind Chuck, breathing down his neck until the boy realized he wouldn’t get away without putting in his share of work.

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

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

The Caretaker stroked the carving.

“This one’s very special,” he said. “Back in the last World War, the woods outside the school was hit by a bomb. Instead of panicking, however, one brave pilot saw the light of the fire and followed it here, shooting down invading planes before the bombardment hit here. The school was always grateful to him after that.”

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

“He followed the light?” she said.

The Caretaker nodded.

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

“Do what?” the Caretaker said.

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

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

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

Everyone nodded.

“It happened when I was walking though 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 in the 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, so there were no dangers from strangers or getting lost. At least I didn’t think so. Not until that afternoon.

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

Behind me, cars screeched, followed by panicked shouts and honking. I shouldn’t have headed away from the angry drivers. Cars and stores had lights. A local cafe wouldn’t mind a kid hogging a table until the street lamps came on. Instead I continued on. After all, I knew the park. I knew its paths. So I walked.

And I walked. And then I walked some more, and after the ten minutes it should have taken to get home, found myself back where I’d started. So much for knowing the paths.

The honk and screams had stopped now. I strained to find the glow of the streets through the trees, but nothing caught my eye, and with the sky as dark as it was, even the ground was barely visible beneath me. The center of the park was a little higher than the rest, not quite a hill but maybe a mound, so I concentrated on following its incline to find my bearings. Once at the top, I peered into the darkness to see if I could make anything out. At the bottom, on the opposite side of the not-a-hill was a small light, bobbing as if it were being held. I let out a sigh of relief and hurried its way.

“Excuse me, are you the park keeper? I’m lost,” I said. The light swivelled but nobody replied. As I trudged closer, it faded away. “No, wait! Hello?”

I was answered by an electric hum and more lights flickered on, this time from above. Streetlamps. I was on the right path! Maybe all I’d seen was them trying to power on.

Now 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 sleeping. Had I been wandering for hours?

I cut through Uncle John’s block to see if he’d walk home with me. I didn’t want another round trip through the dark. The streetlights didn’t agree with me, through. As I steered towards his condo, they flickered loud and a sharp buzz filled the air, accompanied by stinking smoke, and all the lights blew.

Once again I stranded Who Knows Where. The buildings became nothing but vague shapes across a vaguer sky and the ground was an abyss I should surely be falling through.

Hoping each measured step took me closer to my uncle’s, what should have taken a minute to walk in daylight took a half hour being cautious.

Then in the distance, a flicker caught my eye. 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, but the flame moved the direction I needed. I quickened my pace after it, trying to keep up, but the faster I ran, the faster it moved. When I slowed to catch my breath, the candle slowed as well. Maybe whoever was holding it didn’t want to talk to me. After all, I could be anyone.

It stayed ahead for a minute longer before coming to a stop in a familiar passage. This time it didn’t move as I approached. Something glinted below it, though, and when I was within an arm’s reach, the light faded out completely.

“Hey,” I called. The flame faded in again a little way down the street, its light reflecting in the object by my feet. It was a coin. I picked it up. “Hey, you dropped your change.”

The candle faded again, reappearing twice as far away. I followed and found another coin, it faded to another location, and left yet another. It had to be Uncle John. Nobody else played practical jokes like this or spoiled me with money.

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

I followed his light, collecting a coin every time it materialized somewhere else. Before long, I found myself by the canal. The light reappeared on 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. The pipes were thick, only half a foot lower than the sidewalk. Normally I strolled across, but I’d never done it in the dark before. My stroll became an amble, a toddle while I focused on staying balanced.

Unlike before, the light didn’t fade away. Instead it grew brighter, but gentle. By the time I reached it, the light was coming from everywhere and I was no longer balancing on a pipe, but standing on what felt like solid ground. Except I could see through it.

The glow came from thousands, millions of tiny points, bubbles rising through a sea of black around me, as if I was in a bubble of my own in the depths of the ocean. Where was I?

The wall of the bubble was paper thin but strong. Was I trapped here? Why was I led to this place? It couldn’t have been Uncle John.

“Hello,” I called out, where am I?”

The bubbles around me stopped. Two or three circled the bubble I was in. Close up, they were small orbs of light. They surround me and merged, melding, becoming smoke, a glowing nebula pressing in on my invisible confines. They moulded the walls of the sphere into arms reaching in, arms that grew fingers, each pointing right at me from behind and in front, from above me and below. They were on my right and… they weren’t on my left. On my left stood a patch of darkness. What could I expect from that?

Within the patch I could make out shapes. Lines leading towards me, twinkling as if the lights pressing in on me were reflected off water. Then more lights flickered on. Streetlamps! Windows! The dark patch was where I’d come from! It was a door!

My legs shot towards it before I’d even told them where to go. The hands forming from the walls reached me just as I reached the exit. One wrapped around my ankle but my momentum carried me back to the world, yanking my foot from its grip. I hit the pipes face first and bounced. There was a moment of freefall and I crashed into the canal.

“Hold on,” someone called. At least I think that’s what they said. The water rushed in around my ears and up my nose, stinging, blinding, spinning the world, and I screamed bubbles.

Strong hands grabbed mine and pulled. My head broke the surface and I sucked in as much air as I could, more than I could. The hands dragged me to the sidewalk and sat me down. A dog, presumably one whose walk I’d interrupted, sniffed and licked me, tail wagging. Its owner pushed it to one side and checked 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 but they continued across the canal as normal with no portal of darkness or flickering bubbles waiting at its center.

Had I dreamt it? Did I hit my head during the fall? Uncle John carried me home and sent me to the shower while he called my folks. I must have brushed my teeth three times. Somehow the taste of the canal lingered even after. He sat me in front of the TV with a tankard of hot chocolate and lit some candles where the power cut had blown his bulbs, and I sipped my drink and cuddled the dog, while we waited for my parents to arrive.

When they walked me to the car five minutes later, I looked back at the canal. The patch of darkness was gone, yet for one brief second, I thought I could make out a flickering light before it faded from existence.