Devil In A White Dress

Thirty-One

"I know, sir. But we were going on this stupid class field trip. I just ran away and was on my way to head home."

"Hm," Monsieur Pascal grunted. Timothy was unsure of what that reaction was but the one thing he was now sure of was that the woman in WHITE with blood on her face wasn't standing there. The cars parked out there and being empty gave him the early reminder.

"Where are the teachers, sir?", Timothy inquired, "Their cars are still here." Fear emerged from within. For a moment, he believed the French professor, red haired and curly lipped in brown t-shirt and black jeans, would reach out and knock him out with some handkerchief like they kidnapped people in those thriller movies he'd watch on Netflix.

Taking a good scan at Monsieur Pascal and the awkward eyes he was giving the kid at approximately 11:18, anyone who saw them would be making the 911 dial as of now. Pascal observed Timothy with the creepiest eyes. Inside his head, he fell so intimately in love with the boy but the latter never took to his early notice. Pascal dreamt of this day ever since he set his eyes on Timothy from the first grade.

Pascal, a man in his late forties, was alone with his thirteen-year old crush in the silence of Hamilton Elementary. This is going to be a dream come true, Pascal muttered aloud in his head. The French man stared passionately into the young boy's blue eyes and never felt love at first sight since his high school prom with the guy that stabbed him with broken glass.

The scar from the attack was still etched on the skin of his lower tummy if you saw him take off his shirt in the bathroom. Pascal married and divorced over five gay men in their late forties and early fifties, because most of them were thoroughly disgusted by his sexually violent nature. Anytime his spouses bought home strippers for late night threesomes, Pascal was either obsessively rude or cruelly violent.

Today was going to be different this time. Of all the young male students Monsieur Pascal fantasized about, he finally found Timothy Summers right before him. The kid started to feel very uneasy, yet he was unaware of Monsieur's true intentions.

"I heard your parents can't do each other anymore, Is zat true?", Pascal chuckled awkwardly. Why bring that topic up at a time like this?

"What?", Timothy questioned.

"You know," Pascal repeated, "The thing. Why can't your mother and father do ze thing anymore, Timothy Summers? Tell me. No one is here."

"Where the hell is everybody?", Timothy repeated, getting more annoyed, "S'all I need to know."

"Tell me, Timothy Summers," Pascal repeated again with cold eyes glaring into the kid's soul, "Why can't your parents do ze thing anymore?"

"How the hell do you know that?", Timothy shot back.

"We have been talking about it."

"Who's the 'We'?", Timothy inquired.

"We," Pascal repeated in a more confusing statement, "As in, the entire Staff. We have been talking about how your parents can't do ze thing anymore."

This is bad, Timothy muttered silently, if they are in a cult, then what if mom and dad are on their list of sacrifices now? Maybe they've already got to my house. They must be attacking them.

"Answer ze question, Timothy Summers," Pascal went on. His tone suddenly lowering into an angry one.

"How should I know?", Timothy answered, speaking in a calm, understandable tone so as not to provoke the strange professor, "I'm just a kid. Sir."

"Don't be so sarcastic, Timothy Summers. I know kids your age know plenty of...things. But don't worry. I'll give two options. Are they actually sterile? I mean, have they been this whole time, or have they simply lost interest in themselves?"

Timothy felt like knocking him in those nasty, cigarette-smoking yellow teeth but chose to keep civil when he answered, "I think they've just lost interest, sir."

An even more awkward smile stretched on Monsieur Pascal's face. His hand reached towards Timothy's blonde hair and began stroking him intimately.

"I know, Timothy Summers," he smiled, "I never ever doubted you being so stupid like the others. You are very smart. And so beautiful. Have I ever told you how beautiful you are, Timothy Summers?"

His icky fingers were now stroking Timothy's chin, making him realize this was nothing like the thriller movies on Netflix. There didn't seem to be a cult after all.

"Where are all the teachers, sir?", he asked again.

"They've gone to gamble, Timothy Summers. That was the secret, special occasion they were so excited about. Y'see? Now I told you their secret. And since it's not secret anymore, I believe you tell me yours now."

Timothy began fidgeting when he felt Pascal's hand go from his neck to squeezing his left breast. Without any more words, Timothy shoved his hand with force and ran into the building. No more thoughts of bloody-faced woman in WHITE. Just the thought of what would happen to him if he didn't escape the grasp of Monsieur Pascal.

"Take your clothes off now, Timothy Summers!", Pascal ordered in a loud symphony before shutting the entrance tight, "You shouldn't run! I hate it when zey run! It pisses me off!"

He yanked his belt off then unzipped his trousers as he chased after young Timothy in the corridor. They both run past the lockers and the janitor's closet, exactly where Emma Woodburn chased after Jenny hours ago.

You're almost there, Timo, the voice spoke to him again. Almost there. Just let the asshole keep up the pace and you'll find what's dark and depressing.

"TIMOTHY SUMMERS!" Pascal yelled again, " I said start stripping this instant or else I will give to you seventy strokes with this belt!"

The brown leather belt was raised in the air ready to land onto Timothy's back, but his inner voice led him straight to the girls' locker room where the dark and depressing thing was hidden. He hurled the door opened and what he saw immediately froze him on the spot. Pascal saw this as well and also froze but he felt like squealing for the first time.

Jenny's dead body was hanged perpendicular on the wall at the far end. The floor was flooded with her blood and on the numerous bite marks on her arms and legs, flies were buzzing all around. Her pulp-bloodied face was left missing a chunk of skin and flesh, exposing half of her skull. As well as the color of her skin, which turned a pale black and blue. Her torn and tattered dress was soaked in blood which dripped down her half-eaten legs.

Around her neck was black tape which stitched the deep cut that was given to her by the axe. This in fact, was a dark and depressing scene neither Timothy nor Monsieur Pascal would ever forget.