The Eighth Gate

14 | Cryptic Graffiti

The wooden shelf burst through the window with an earsplitting shatter, sending shards of glass tinkering onto the floor. Mary was momentarily proud of her aim, and her ability to throw a heavy object hard enough to break surface; it seemed like all those summers spent playing volleyball at the beach paid off.

“Get out of here!” Mary called out to her friends, who had ceased their chants the moments the window glass broke. She started running towards the window. “The window’s open; go!”

Tamara scrambled out through the window first, a bag of salt in her hands that she clearly intended to use on the demon. Mary was close on her heels, ducking out through the window, into the cold December air. Her leg got caught on one of the jagged shards outlining the edge of the window; it tore through the fabric of her jeans while another razor edge sliced into the trench coat at her shoulder.

Mary was breathing heavily, puffs of white exiting her nose and mouth with each labored breath. A brief wave of joy swept over her: she was free; they were all free, out in the vast world with a maze of streets and people--people everywhere; people who could help. She knew their best bet at getting rid of the powerful demon was by finding Father Whitlock; Mary knew where he lived, it wasn’t that far from where they were—

A sharp gasp snapped Mary from her frantic scheming. She turned to Tamara, whose face was pale under the moonlight, her chapped lips parted in shock. Her shimmering eyes were fixed ahead of her, towards the window they had just escaped from, filled with fear. Mary followed her gaze, prepared to see the demon coming towards them.

Instead she saw Noah, his usual warm brown eyes glowing a menacing red, a bone chilling grin shaping his lips as he stalked towards them.

                                                           †††

Mary’s hand tightened around the strap of her backpack as she gazed upon the word scribbled hastily across the door of her locker:

FREAK!

It was in all caps, underlined not once but twice, and was large enough to take up the locker’s entire center. The insult was bold, too, as if someone had gone over the word once or twice using a black Sharpie.

“Not again,” Noah groaned, eyeing the word with plain disgust. “Didn’t they do this to you—what? Two weeks ago? Except it said ‘PSYCHO’.”

Mary shrugged. “Something like that.” She sighed tiredly and reached to spin the dial of her lock, entering her combination. The pungent smell of Sharpie grazed her nose; the graffiti had been done very recently, probably sometime during lunch since it hadn’t been there when she was at her locker this morning.

“You know, there’s a bully box for jerks like this.”

Mary pulled out her World Religions textbook and shut the locker. “The school administration would probably think I put it there,” she said bitterly. “You know, since I’m crazy and all.”

“Mary—“ Noah started to say, clearly exasperated.

 “Word of advice,” a familiar velvety voice began; it was Mason, Mary quickly assessed as he came up to her. He leaned casually against the locker, blocking Noah, who made an irritated noise. “Don’t talk to your dead ghost friend in the middle of a bustling hallway at a public school. Believe it or not, it’s not a normal thing around here.”

“Mason,” Mary said, voice low and drained. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His green eyes swept her once, and he pulled his eyebrows together. “You okay?” His gaze landed on the word written over her locker and his eyes narrowed. “Who did this?” he demanded.