 There is a town just off a forgotten exit on a lost highway. It is a town entombed by sycamores and shadows, trapped between our realm and another, in otherworldly hamlet misplaced on earth. It is a town that should be lost to legend and night terrors. Yet, unlike folk tales as tall as the sycamores that conceal it, the town of Weirdling Woods is In this ominous dimension, this playground for the wicked, life is a nesting doll layered in unrelenting mystery and macabre. Mythology is reality, and reality is a fractured spectrum of madness. Come for a visit and stay for eternity. There are thousands of stories in the cursed town, Weirdling Woods. This is but one of them. Now join me, as we take a walk through Weirdling Woods. Truant, Friday, March 21st, 1986, 8.54 am. Miss Matheson's high heels sounded like a metronome as they tap-danced through the oak corridor of Driftwood Academy, a dire cacophony against the hollow walls. Her sights were set on Headmistress Thorn's private office and first period meant the holes were lonely. Upon arrival, she didn't acknowledge Miss Bates, the administrative assistant, or Professor Wilkes, who was preparing a presentation. This was too important for pleasantries. Through the main office, she bustled, practically sprinting toward the Headmistress's personal study. Matheson flung the heavy door open to unveil Headmistress Thorn's office, a splendor of artifacts and peculiarities. The Headmistress looked up from her busy work in disdain, but this was not a normal course of affairs. Miss Matheson had no time to spare. Headmistress, she blurted with stunted breath, Charlie Giles, he isn't here, he hasn't shown up to school. Headmistress Thorn's menacing glare morphed into measured panic. Excuse me? I should think not. That's impossible. That's unacceptable. How can this be? Have the grounds been searched? Have you telephoned his home? Of course, Headmistress, Miss Matheson replied as she lowered her head. Headmistress Thorn was an intimidating force, with punishing eyes and a sadistic streak that chilled the spine. Proper and spotless, the Headmistress was the main character in any room she entered. She was tall, svelte, and wore a black and silver bun as tight as her control over Driftwood Academy. Giles' parents both work and the family must not have an answering machine. Charlie Giles is one of those scholarship students. Miss Matheson said this in lieu of blue collar. Headmistress Thorn rose from the gothic chair that might have doubled as Medusa's throne as Miss Matheson averted her eyes and cowered. Hmm, truancy on a Friday. Of course it had to be a scholarship kid. Our charter mandates one per class and they still cause more trouble than the rest of the student body combined. Thorn said as she gazed at the academy grounds through the window. I needn't remind you, Miss Matheson. Driftwood Academy has had perfect attendance in its entire 122-year history, never sullied by illness or weather or extenuating factors. It's written in our bylaws from the elders. You're aware of the obvious, one truancy, and we cease to exist? I don't know why and I don't question it. That is canon, and that is that. The matter at hand. Let's not waste words. We're facing demise and I'm understating the severity of this hostile act. We must engage with urgency before the school day ends. This simply cannot and will not stand. Giles must be found. I'll punish him appropriately, but first we must locate him. This is our only focus of the day. Our very existence is contingent upon it. Headmistress Thorn circled toward the front of her desk and Miss Matheson quickly acquiesced, extending almost a slight curtsy as she cleared a path for the private prep school's dictator. It was time to summon the minions. Miss Bates, Professor Wilkes, I require your presence immediately, Thorn beckoned to the underlings in the adjacent office. Both parties hustled into the headmistress's office, though it took Miss Bates a little longer given her age. Adding Miss Matheson, the three women stood at attention. Miss Matheson, who's watching your class at this moment? Miss Matheson shuddered. I left Julie James in charge. It's a logical choice. The class knows she'll immediately report malfeasance and since she will soon be valedictorian, I know we can trust her to uphold your standards, Headmistress Thorn. I do believe she's one of us. Thorn studied Miss Matheson and reveled in the fear she instilled in the young teacher who craved mentorship from her headmistress. Thorn's cruel lips curled. Straighten your posture. Am I speaking to a lady or not? Miss Matheson jolted upright immediately. Thorn carried on. On a typical day, without a doomsday clock, the berating would have lasted much longer. It appears we have a cancer in our midst, Thorn said as she paced before the trio. One Charlie Giles, as Miss Matheson has informed me, is absent today. Absent, Professor Wilkes asked in confusion, how is that possible? Thorn halted, her heels scraping, he polished marble floor. Professor Wilkes, if I did not know any better, I would think you just interrupted me. Of course, you would not be capable of such an egregious act. Am I correct, Professor? I would hate to scuff my shoes upon crushing you under foot. Wilkes grew still and quiet. Thorn noticed her shaking knees and swallowed the deliciousness of it. Do not undermine me again. Now, as I was telling Miss Matheson here, our very existence as Weirdling Woods Academy for the Elite for over a century is contingent upon an agreement with the elders many, many moons ago. I'll make this short and sweet because we have until final bell three o'clock to rectify this. One second beyond that, Charlie Giles is marked absent, and I think you all know what that means. Driftwood will be no more and neither will anyone in this room. Now, Thorn glared at the trio, now you may speak, what are we going to do to locate Charlie Giles and properly deposit the hooligan in his proper place? The three looked at one another with abject fear and utter cluelessness. Worthless, Thorn sneered and discussed, Miss Matheson, you barged in here with a mouthful. Professor Wilkes, you thought it apropos to interrupt. Miss Bates, you've wisely not said a word, but now is the time to speak. Words. I want words, ladies. What are we to do about this? We must find Charlie Giles and return him by three o'clock. I rather enjoy being alive. Do you people share that sentiment? More silence. Further silence would enrage the headmistress the women knew. Professor Wilkes spoke first. Maybe we need to think like a 17-year-old boy, she offered. Where would a 17-year-old boy sneak off to on a school day? Yes, Miss Matheson added. Perhaps we should question his peers. Someone must know something. At the very least, we might gain insight into whatever teenagers do in their spare time. Should this happen again? Admistress Thorn slapped the back of a chair and discussed. Wasteful. Absolutely wasteful. Interviewing teenagers. They're kind to have a code. They don't cater to adults. And why should this happen again is even an attempt at a thought to you is giving me a migraine. Simpleton, we have six hours. Six. I need better, ladies. What about asking the police to put out an alert? Wilkes offered. Could we contact Giles' parents at work? Matheson questioned. Thorn unleashed a lethal lash onto her expensive, hand-carved mahogany desk. A furious sound from a leather Victorian writing crop that dominated the acoustics of the old school. I thought I made it clear. I have no patience for Simpletons. That's what you people are. Simpletons. There is no time for your inane responses. Professor Wilkes, you've earned your professorship in a classroom, but Madam, its application in the real world has failed. No one wanted to utter another syllable. Miss Bates, the octogenarian administrative assistant who had served three headmistresses since she was a teenager, raised her feeble hand. Thorn shot a dismissive look. Speak and don't make me regret it. Another three minutes has passed without action. I hate this, but, Madam headmistress, ma'am, Miss Bates softly offered. As you know, I've devoted my entire life to Driftwood Academy. I predate everyone here. It's been an honor to serve you, but you are the third headmistress I've served. Speak quicker and louder, Miss Bates. Four minutes of inaction is approaching. Yes, ma'am. I'm trying to say this situation is rare, but not entirely unique. It happened in 1972 and also 1955. Before me, it was rumored to have happened in 1901 and also 1888. The crisis was averted each time. We have, Madam, someone who can take care of this issue. We're Lingwood's elders. They planned for such an egregious act, praise their wisdom. We have, I guess we'll say, a truant officer. Thorn scoffed. Miss Bates, your mind is going. We have had no such thing at Driftwood Academy in my entire tenure as both student and headmistress. I'm the lifeblood here. Do you think I would somehow forget such a thing? You and I will be having a discussion about your future, if any of us have one after three o'clock. Miss Bates wouldn't cave. Headmistress the janitor, Dorian. He was the boy who went truant in 1972. Miss Bates pleaded, I speak truth, madam. I was here. I was witness. Thorn paused to take it in. Then, brutish laughter. Honestly, Miss Bates, I don't know what is wrong with you, but I have no time for this. The janitor? Newberry? Dorian? Newberry? The slow one who talks to himself and creates more messes with his bumbling ways than he actually cleans? He's a charitable right-off. You'll have me believe that pathetic man was a student at this establishment? I take back my initial request. You are now banned from speaking. Miss Bates allowed a deep sigh. She knew no one would believe her. They never did, until it was tangible. Such was life for the role she had chosen. But she didn't want to lose that role, so she cleared her throat and closed her eyes. She held this meditative stillness for nearly a minute until Thorn's voice subsided in the background. Static flickered on the PA as a tree branch snapped outside of the window, simultaneously. A frigid draft imprisoned the room and in the main office lightbulbs shattered, leaving a dearth of illumination. Miss Bates opened her eyes and nearly collapsed with Professor Wilkes and Miss Matheson catching her. Now it would be tangible. Through faint breaths, she whispered, Headmistress Thorn, may I have the privilege of introducing you to our truant officer, Miss Desjardins. All heads turned toward the blackened lobby. Thorn's eyes widened with glee as she inched closer towards a hazy mist that birthed a person the others couldn't see yet. Headmistress Thorn whispered, She's magnificent! A weak voice belonging to Miss Bates whimpered, Welcome back, Miss Desjardins. 9.12 AM Charlie Giles stretched and yawned as he rolled out of bed. That stupid phone wouldn't stop ringing, otherwise he'd still be asleep. He laughed, imagining Headmistress Thorn's ire as he burrowed inside the warm confines of his many layers of blankets. An episode of Card Sharks followed half of an episode of the $25,000 pyramid, and when the game shows grew redundant, it was time to start the day he'd long dreamt about. He said good morning to the Susanna Hoffs poster, always in crush mode with the lead songstress from the bangles, and took a quick shower. Then it was time to primp. Whirlingwood's highest frequency radio station, 666am K-Dead, played classic Top 40 during the weekdays, and finally he could jam out without having to sneak his bulky yellow walkman around school. Charlie danced along to the electric slide, followed by hairbrush karaoke to Tony Basil's Hey Mickey. A blow-dry on his short bangs and a fluff of the longest hair growing from the back of his neck was followed by cementing the perfect hold with copious amounts of LA looks gel. Sliding into a pink eyes-on polo shirt, Charlie popped the collar toward the heavens and wiggled into his favorite acid-washed jeans, adding a matching jean jacket for effect. After tying the fat checkered laces on his British knight's high-top sneakers, he guzzled a glass of tang and swiped the very off-limit keys to his father's brand-new rose-red Pontiac Fiero GT coupe, 1048am. Robert Palmer crooned addicted to love, but not quite loud enough when Charlie fired the ignition, so the volume dial went as far right as possible and dad's Ray-Ban's cupped his ears as the feisty sports car revved into the customary peel-out down Roxbury Street. Unnoticed was the looming figure, rooted like a stump on the sidewalk as he passed, peering with vacant eyes, watching. Soon he would learn she was always watching. Charlie wouldn't have noticed an atomic bomb on this morning because his energy was directed towards the day he had anticipated for two months. His destination? The only plausible one for a 17-year-old in 1986, 11.11am. The mall was packed quite early, which was surprising, given the mess left behind from the Tiffany concert last night. Weirdling Woods Galleria smelled like a bouquet of cigarettes, food court tasties, and the promise of romance. Charlie smiled. It was senior skip day at Weirdling East High School. The school he would and should have attended had his parents not foistered their yuppie dreams onto him by sending him to Driftwood. Weirdling East was where his friends were, the people he grew up with. It wasn't as eerie as Driftwood, though he was told Weirdling East was haunted. Still, in this town, that was akin to getting termites. Weirdling East was where the girls he liked went, and it was their school dances and football games he attended. Driftwood was an uptight creep show, from the strange old-money gothic buildings to the strict cult-like staff to the zombified students. He was never going to be a piece in their odd puzzle. Driftwood Academy would never have a skip day at the mall. Heck, such a thought would not even occur. But Weirdling East did have a skip day, and it was happening now. Where's your tuxedo, preppy? Charlie Windowshopped a new wardrobe in front of the merry-go-round clothing store and didn't bother to turn around, because he'd known the voice for 17 years. Bite me, Terry. Charlie imitated the hand-circle gesture game as the two began to stroll past the stores. As usual, Terry fell for it and immediately was slugged in the shoulder by Charlie. Tell me she's here, Terry. My air is perfect and my Draycar noir is just strong enough to notice without being too much. I don't know how long I can hold it, though. The clock is ticking. I'm not Tom Selleck. I need to get moving while my look is on point. Terry ran his fingers through his budding, sandy mustache and flashed an impish smile. She who is she? Cosmic timing. Charlie pulled a plastic key-man sword from the bin in front of KB Toys and pointed the tip at Terry's jugular. You're a funny guy, Terry. That's why I'm going to kill you last, he quipped, quoting Schwarzenegger from their favorite shoot-em-up movie, Commando. Take it, Shoe Pill, dude. She's here, nerd. The untouchable, steamy, dreamy Heather Shivers is here. Somewhere. She'll probably be here until the party tonight like the rest of the universe. They're having a seance at the party, dude. It's the same house that family was killed in by that psycho they never caught. Then again, they never catch any of the psychos in Weirdling. Why are you stuck on her anyway? Aren't all your teachers at Harvard Junior Female? You should try for an older babe. You get so stuck on one high school girl, it's embarrassing to be your friend. But anyway, you promised me the movie first. It's so rad, man. We're going to see chopping mall in a shopping mall. Here, aid up, dude. Charlie laughed as he put the toy sword back. I still say we sneak into nine and a half weeks, but a promise is a promise. I'm picking the movie next time, though. It was true, the all-female staff at Driftwood comment. They're definitely a strange and secretive bunch. Scary in so many ways, Charlie thought. Crush on one of them. Bogus, gag me with a spoon. The two sat on a bench in front of glamour shots. Neither noticed the stunning ghostly figure from a bygone era walking toward them at a disturbing, calm pace. Walking and watching. Always watching. As the woman reached them, the duo rose and narrowly missed touching her, unaware completely of her existence. They cruised to the mall before landing at one of those magic eye kiosks. These are impossible, dude, Charlie opined as he and Terry stared at the zigzag lines inside the painting. You have to focus, man. Relax your eyes and let them almost cross into each other and the image appears. Terry replied. Do you see any images? Charlie asked. Terry took a long beat. Man, I've never seen anything. These things are supposed to be gnarly, but I don't get it. What a jet. Next, they hung by the cigarette vending machine, so Terry could take a few drags from his camel. Charlie covered him in case a mole cop walked by. Then they took a seat on the ledge of the wishing fountain, wasting time high-fiving other skipped-day participants as they passed and tossed coins into the water. So, chicken man, I got a sixer of Mountain Berry Bartles and James Wine Coolers, a sixer of Stroes, and three banana-red Mad Dog 2020s. This party is going to be nuts. Heather is absolutely going to the party, right? She will be when you ask her after the movie, obsessed guy. You're sure you can't take the fiero tonight? Nah, Charlie answered. I gotta get it back by six. My dad would kill me. No problems with the prison wardens at your school, I take it? Very idiots. I'm playing them like… uh, something. What's that saying? Anyway, you get it. I'll forge mom's signature on a note Monday, just like I did in elementary school back in the day when I went to a normal school. It's funny. All those geeks at Driftwood are intrigued right now, and I'm about to kick your duff in Donkey Kong. Driftwood has no clue where I am, and guess who accidentally unplugged the answering machine? Forget those freaks. Come on, Terry. Let's grab an orange Julius and hit the arcade. You owe me three dollars still, so I want a large on you. Charlie and Terry jumped into a power walk towards the food court. Unseen once more was the strawberry-haired enchantress nearby, clad in unreasonable beauty and a cannery Edwardian hobble skirt from the early 20th century. She was simply walking and watching. Always watching. 12.48 PM Who is DRM? Why is it every time I get the high score in this game, this DRM guy tops it on my next visit? Nobody Kongs like me? Charlie cried in frustration. Let's go play Space Shuttle Pinball. The arcade was overrun with a sea of teens from Weirdling East, most who knew Charlie and most whom Charlie knew. Joysticks arcade was the name on the marquee. A clever pun, the arcade had a cartoon Joystick mascot. First name Joy, last name Sticks. Charlie and Terry played until the quarters ran out, then argued over Heather's whereabouts. A friend of a friend of Heather's swore she saw her skirt shopping at Benetton for the party. Another girl from her social studies class knew for a fact that Heather was buying her dad a birthday gift at Sears. Against the lone outmanned arcade workers will, some jocks moved the air hockey machine next to the broken Miss Pac-Man machine in the corner so the cheerleaders could sway on a makeshift dance floor while the song Tarzan Boy bellowed from the jukebox. Mr. Mr's hit Kyrie played next, and that was when Charlie finally noticed the misplaced majestic figure straddled between the Kubert and Pole Position games. She was captivating and heavenly, almost too stunning to notice the turn of the century garb, wavy, billowing cherry hair and skin that had to have been bathed in milk made her nearly mythical. Charlie was entranced immediately, yet it seemed no one else saw her. In a crowd of teenaged hormones, the boys should have been gawking. Her crystal blue eyes locked into Charlie's, a gaze both mesmerizing and dangerous. Charlie Giles was frozen in the moment, his agency lost. Hey, goof troupe, did you hear me? It's time to hit the theater! Terry interrupted. Charlie couldn't break eye contact with the exquisite wonder. Terry, forget Heather and everything else in this world, he said, grabbing his best friend by the collar without turning away from the woman's glorious visage. He guided Terry's face toward the woman, who remained statuesque in both beauty and stillness. You're saying about older women? Look at that! Have you ever seen anything so breathtaking in your life? Terry looked around, then looked back at Charlie with a quizzical expression. Are you on the wacky-to-backy, dude? What's so beautiful about Cubert? Spaz? Charlie used every ounce of willpower to turn from the radiance beaming across the room. I'm talking about that hot redhead in the Titanic outfit. She's captivating. She's just a big bag of wow. I'd push Christie Brinkley to the ground to get to her, and I think she's given me the glance. Terry looked once more. What are you talking about? There's no chick over there. What are you staring at, maniac? You're creeping me out. Charlie turned back, and the woman was gone. Frantic, he scanned the room. His mind wandered. A mirage? Mistaken identity? Impossible. Even the cutest cheerleader from Weirdling East is child's play compared to the vision I just saw. This woman, this goddess, it was like looking directly into the sun. Continuing his thoughts, he wondered, just where did she go? Was it real or just a sweet drift into a daydream? She certainly was real. Her image is imprinted on my pupils. Terry grabbed Charlie by the arm to wake him from his stupor and dragged him from the arcade past Waldenbrooks, then past Brookstone to the shortcut down the southern corridor to the theater. Terry rambled, but Charlie was in a silent stupor. Passing the information kiosk, neither boy noticed the seductress watching Charlie from behind a mall directory. Watching. Always. Watching. 137 p.m. At Driftwood Academy, Miss Matheson and Professor Wilkes had returned to their respective classes. Unyielding apprehension and panic bliketed them. What would happen? How could they assume business as usual? Just who was this truant officer who appeared from the mist? In Thorne's office, Miss Bates stood behind the headmistress and massaged her neck as Thorne inhaled anison headache tablets. I'm sorry, ma'am. Ever since the foundation of Weirdling Woods, one person in one person only was meant to keep the secret and only use it in an emergency. I signed a blood oath. Soon I'll be tasked to pass the tradition down. Don't worry, headmistress. Miss Desjardins has never failed. Not even a young Reuben Marlar could remain absent from the Driftwood roll call, and he was obviously a genius as we now know. She is quite skilled in what she does. The Board of Elders know what they're doing. They always have. 138 p.m. 3 bucks for a ticket? A buck for popcorn and 75 cents for a tab cola? That's almost $5 for a trip to the movies. Have you ever heard of such prices? It's insane. I'll bet you right now you'll never see a movie cost this much again in your lifetime. People would just stop coming. Mark my words. Charlie heard sound as he sat in the theater, but Terry's complaints did not register. One thought existed in Charlie Guile's mind, and she wore a dress older than his great grandmother. Who is she? Where is she? Terry said, Dude, I believe you saw something. Probably a ghost. I see them all the time. Have you forgotten our area code? It's normal. Ghosts don't put out, so forget about her and focus on this movie. I'll bet you right now it wins an Oscar. The yuppie kid from head of the class is in it. Shopping mall began to play after a series of previews, including one for an upcoming film called Ferris Bueller's Day Off, which seemed like destiny based on the day's events. Halfway through the slasher film, Charlie began to awaken just as the smoky theater started to get to him. He could feel the itchy crimson reaction to the cigarette fumes on his retinas. He began to rub them, causing him to turn his head slightly to the right. As he did so, he faced the lower aisles and his heart plummeted when a smoke plume disintegrated and unveiled a revelation. Turned in her chair in absolute stillness, there she was, the bewitching, fetching, cherry-haired woman. Her intense focus was laser-like and pinned solely on Charlie as if it had been for hours. Infatuation lasted until it didn't. Something began to stir Charlie's instincts. The very existence of such unfathomable beauty was bizarre and seemed alien to reality. The mystique began to fade into ominous disquiet. Something just didn't feel right. In a flash, he turned to his left, tugging on Terry's member's only jacket. Certainly, Terry would see her this time. Yet, as Charlie did so, an unsettling, fractured universe emerged. His hand dematerialized through Terry like a generic movie portrayal of a ghost. A few more failed attempts at touch led to Charlie slapping at Terry like a boxer to a speedbag to no effect. In a state of panic, he called for his friend, but was rendered mute. Then a desperate and fierce shout that should have drawn the ire of the entire theater delivered nothing but an empty cartoon speech bubble. Sweat trickled from Charlie's brow. Well, what's happening? He cried, unheard. Chaos swirled. Then it happened. Charlie turned to his right and felt as if he had been drained of blood. In a seat next to him, appearing from nothingness, she sat. Her eyes did not blink as they reigned upon him. Watching. Always watching. Paralysis set in and the flesh fantasy vanquished. No motion nor emotion spilled from her. Just an icy, immovable gaze far more frightening than the horror on screen. Fruit could have ripened and rotted during the intense, unnerving eye lock. Suddenly, the ravishing woman's face began to change. To melt. First, her scarlet tresses morphed into a matted gray shock. Then her forehead contorted into empty riverbeds of wrinkles, traveling about the rest of her face like crackling glass. Twisting into an unnatural maze, her nose grew pointy at the end as her lips turned ashen and her skin seemed to die. Lastly, her once hypnotic eyes grew wild and uneven. The crystal blue persuasion now dead black ovals of coal. As if this abrupt rattle to his foundation was not enough, her once inviting mouth opened and unleashed a banshee shriek that knocked Charlie out of his paralysis. The surrounding world continued as if nothing was happening. Charlie did not bother wasting time with thought. He jumped over a seat and sprinted to the exit. 2.15 p.m. The hallway in the mall was serenaded by his sprinting feet and the song West End Girls. The mall rats and shoppers seemed to only hear the catchy tune from the pet shop boys that blasted from Camelot music, though. Charlie was coherent enough to notice he wasn't visible or audible to anyone. Stopping at the row of pay phones between Spencer Gifts and Hickory Farms, he wedged between two partitions. But as his breath caught up to his incredulity, he peeked from his nook and saw her down the hall near the Radio Shack entrance in her true, vile form, gliding in calm menace, those unblinking eyes forever centered on him. Watching. Always watching. Can anyone hear me? They couldn't. Dashing off again, he shouted at the stalking abomination, Get away! Stay away from me, you freak! 2.21 p.m. Charlie tried to lose the malevolent albatross in the food court. Hopping the counter at Sbarro, he cowered below until he dared look up. Leering down at him were those black eyes. His instinct was to avoid being trapped once more in her gaze and he flung his arm over his face to avoid it. Over the short connected wall he dove, a clumsy affair, first into a hot dog on a stick, then a Mrs. Fields cookie shop. She followed in a haunting gallop on the other side of the counters. Desperate, Charlie picked up a batter mixer and lunged it towards her, but the mixer veered at the last second and was returned to its natural setting within a blink. Not one person saw it. 2.27 p.m. Down the west corridor, Charlie grabbed a woman's high-heeled pump from the display rack at Kinney Shoes and launched it at his pursuer. This pathetic gesture fared as well as his prior attempt to maim the ghastly predator. He didn't notice Heather Shivers shopping for a pair of slingbacks and she certainly didn't notice him. Charlie continued to flee, bursting through the middle of a flattened cardboard floor mat where a break dancer popped and locked his fellow B-boys watched and the accompanying boombox went heavy on the base to a run DMC diddy. Tears of fright and despair streamed as Charlie flung his jean jacket behind him and the horrible figure continued her unrelenting stalk. 2.32 p.m. Inside JCPenney, Charlie stumbled and huffed in a zigzag pattern, much like the magic eye paintings he could not decipher, hoping to disorient the entity. Fight or flight rarely leaves room for the mind to reconcile the moment, but one last gasp of clarity floated into his thoughts as his energy drained. Where is the last place a teenaged boy would be found in a mall? The agility of spry youth helped him slide down a banister to the ground level and Charlie wheeled himself toward the little girls department in Marshall fields, finally collapsing inside of an empty dressing room. With his remaining might he locked the latch and pulled his legs up onto the tiny bench as to hide them from the open bottom half of the door. Then Charlie Giles waited. It was all he could do. A throbbing sound exploded through his chest so loud he could hear it. Abject horror, shock and endless running had elevated his heart rate. The hunted teen, the prey of this unknown monster for an unknown reason, shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. He had quiet himself. In through the nose and gently out through the mouth his mind commanded his body. Quiet concentrated breaths. Maybe the VCR would save his life. He had to calm his body and mind and he knew how. Mom's Jane Fonda yoga tapes taught him that, though that was hardly the reason he watched them. It worked. Slowly the oxygen began to flow back to his lungs and brain. Moments passed, followed by more moments. Then more still to be safe. No sign of whatever she or it was. All was quiet. His mind wandered back to a semblance of sanity and his pulse plummeted below the danger zone. Had he? Yes, he had. He had defeated her, that woman, that thing, whatever she was. He could figure that part out later. Or he could forget about her forever. Or he could be glued to a shrink the rest of his life. Anything was better than what the outcome almost was. What a story for the party tonight. He managed to conclude in his narrow teenaged mind as if it would be believed. In time he allowed his legs to straighten and his feet to hit the ground as he sat on the bench in the little girl's dressing room. What a trip. Still beats going to school, he mused. Charlie Giles leaned forward to rock his body upright and reclaim the day. He froze halfway. In the open bottom of the door, a pair of brown leather Oxford shoes from a bygone era were pointed inches from his face. Then the latch on the dressing room door snapped open. 2.57 PM The door to Miss Matheson's English Lit Class opened and all eyes were directed at the striking ruby-haired figure in vintage garb. From across the hall, Professor Wilkes ignored her own students and wandered into the hall to watch. Just down the hall, but close enough, Miss Bates stood like a leashed pet in front of an approving headmistress thorn. With grace in class, the demure woman escorted the silent young man to his seat. A preternatural lobotomy comes with side effects. Charlie's uniform was as disheveled as his near-comatose mind. He drooled as his cloudy eyes rolled backwards. Still, he was seated. He was seated and present, even if only in the physical sense. Thank you, Mr. Desjardins. Miss Matheson said, rattled with fear and awe. Mr. Desjardins exited the room without a word. Professor Wilkes made an abrupt overcorrection and ran back into her classroom as Miss Desjardins passed. The stoic beauty strode by the headmistress and Miss Bates without a glance. Wonderful to see you again, Miss Desjardins. Miss Bates whispered with frightened respect. An absolute divine pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear Mr. Desjardins, had Mr. Storn exclaimed with fervor. Mr. Desjardins disappeared down the hallway in soul-stirring quietude, back into the reappearing mist that spawned her, 2.59 p.m. Mr. Storn looked at Miss Bates and offered a rare smile. Well done indeed, Miss Bates. You may mark Charley Giles as present on this school day. Now, if you will, she said, as she examined her timepiece. I believe it's time to ring the final bell. Classes are dismissed for the weekend. Charley Giles finished his senior year as the most abiding, submissive member of the Driftwood Academy student body. Remnants of his old mind existed, but will never again claw back to the surface. To this day, this very moment in modern times as you inhale his story, he remains a slave to Driftwood Academy and the headmistress who reigns over it. He is now the weird janitor who mumbles incoherent, conspiratorial nothings while mopping and dusting and enduring any task commanded by the savage and oppressive headmistress Matheson. When the headmistress isn't around to browbeat the downtrodden man, her loyal underling, Miss Julie James, is there to pick up any slack. One Friday in March of 1986, Charley Giles expected an adventure on Skip Day. He never expected that his entire essence, his life, his very soul, would be cast under the malevolent spell of a witch who roamed the forbidden nook in the woods known only as the Unsettled. The witch has always watched the students of Driftwood Academy and always will, watching, always watching. This was just one of numerous stories to be released in the Weirdling Woods universe written by John Allen. More stories will of course be featured here in the Weird Darkness podcast in the weeks and months to come. You can also find all of the stories in the Weirdling Woods book, in paperback and e-book versions. In the pages, you'll also find a bonus story at the end which will not be used in the podcast, along with a fun list of Easter eggs to look out for within the stories. You can contact me, Darren Marlar, other John Allen, or learn more about this series at WeirdlingWoods.com. All stories in the Weirdling Woods series are written by John Allen, theme music written and recorded by Nicholas Gasparini, also known as Horror Composer Me You on YouTube. If you like this series, please share it with others and leave a rating and review of the series in the podcast app you listen from. Doing so helps Weirdling Woods get noticed. Weirdling Woods is a registered trademark, copyright Weird Darkness. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for walking with me through Weirdling Woods.