I am never good with categories, or for that matter specific tags, it all just seems to wander off in different directions. Everything contained within these pages are works of complete fiction. The characters in this story are themselves entirely fictional. They do not exist, never have, and never will and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, whether by name or by description, is purely coincidental and unintentional.
The author does not condone behaviour like those exhibited within these pages other than in a world of pure fiction. When the term girl is used, it is a derogatory label, and everyone in this work of fiction is over eighteen.
However, all that said, this is just a story dragged up from the wild and violent tides of overthinking, which have taken a heavy toll; these thoughts dim the light and usher in the black dog that asks, 'What if?'
~~oOo~~
A Brush With The Past
Phoebe was always the nerdy girl at the exclusive college for young women; it set her apart, and although she had fairly good friends in the past, once her mother fell ill, they all gradually drifted away.
She was known as the quiet one, and while she knew most of the alpha group, she never seemed to be that interested or that interesting for anyone to make the effort to include her.
It was the same with boys; she was by any standard pretty but lacked the necessary chest measurements to attract many boys, and the ones that did make the effort were usually irritating and just showing off to their friends.
She certainly wasn't a leader, preferring to merge into the background and not make waves.
Sports were a disaster; she never really knew what she should be doing or where to stand. The one thing she was good at was cross country running, out on her own in front of the rest of the field, five or six miles across mud, ditches, fields, and bridle paths.
She was studious and concentrated hard on her studies and was the college's best and only hope for a prestigious Oxford Scholarship.
She had therefore been surprised when she had received an invitation to the Alpha Girls demolition party and even more surprised when she then decided to turn up.
When she set off from home, the full moon had shone fitfully from behind the ever-decreasing gaps of fast-moving ominous storm clouds.
Now though she was regretting her decision as night was descending, and it was growing darker and wetter by the minute as she hurried between the iridescent islands of sodium light cast against the slick, wet black tarmac.
Like silent sentinels, the bone-white metal lampposts rose from the ground, marking the disappearing distance as the wind drove the bitterly cold rain horizontally, biting at her face. She heard the distinct hint of annoyance and ridicule in the familiar high nasal tones driving her forward: "Phoebe Gates, scared little mouse, you always will be too timid; you're not adventurous enough; I don't know why you bother." Her so-called friends had said to put her down.
Well, she would show them; she would prove them wrong for once in her life.
This time it was different; this time they had hit a nerve, and frankly, she had nothing left to lose, and she was desperate to fill the huge, gaping hole left by the death of her mother, the mother she had cared for, the mother whose destructive illness meant she couldn't continue her scholarship, couldn't find her own way, couldn't make her own mistakes, and couldn't live a young woman's life.
Her thoughts seemed to be in a constant state of flux, each a complex strand woven together so that every emotion and raw nerve was examined in minute detail. Her emotions seemingly at random rearranged themselves, transforming where the subtle emphasis lay so that in her heart they reassembled into a visceral pain.
She clenched her fists and pressed them to her eyes, telling herself she was pushing the rain away. She took a deep breath and moved forward.
Her old college was due to be demolished in January, and she and her so-called friends had all gathered in a gesture towards a reunion--the last student party before it was gone forever--a demolition party.
Five years ago, the day they graduated, the college closed; the next day it was boarded up, and the staff and students scattered into the wilderness. Then the usual gang of common vandals did their work, spray painting, smashing windows, and tearing up floors, before nature moved in again. The once lush grounds gave way to a tangle of brambles and hawthorns, stinging nettles, couch grass, and dandelions.
Now the corporate vandals have struck, and in two months' time work will begin on the demolition of the once elegant and graceful four-story Victorian building, to be replaced by a modern steel and concrete multiplex with a trendy new shopping arcade.
The owners of the coffee shop where she worked as a barista had already leased one of the new units, and she was expected to work there.
She thought it ironic that once she was the nerd who was the college's brightest academic achiever, she will now, according to her supervisor, be able to provide exceptional service and create a positive and dynamic impression for the business by preparing a variety of excellent coffee beverages for their valued customers in a unique new development.
'Moron' she thought privately as the receding hairline and greasy-skinned face of blustering Bill, her supposed superior, disappeared into the small stockroom out back, where he would idle his time away over cheap porn magazines.
Her thoughts were dragged back to her current situation, the only sound being a howling wind vibrating the lampposts. She can feel her heart and lungs pounding; she can feel her jeans sticking to her legs, but she couldn't feel her face; it was numb with cold. Silently, she berated herself. Any other night, Phoebe Gates, she thought, but no, it had to be tonight, all Hallows Eve. No trick or treating, no witches, spooks, and ghosts; just breaking and entering. All because of that stupid Vanessa, with her private wealth fund and overbearing dictatorial challenges. The other six at the demolition party all gave in to her demands immediately to garner favour and stay within the realm of the queen bee. 'Queen has been' more likely she had thought to herself.
Vanessa had always been the bully, using Daddies wealth like a battering ram; she had no real friends; she simply held court, and the sycophants jumped to her bidding.
She honestly didn't know why she had gone to the party or why she had entangled herself in Vanessa's machinations. But she did, and she had, and the worsening weather only demonstrated what a terrible decision she had made to join the stupid scavenger hunt. Part of her reason was to witness firsthand the rumours that Vanessa's prized beauty, always emphasised by her suspect blonde hair and blue eyes, was rapidly draining away and that her figure was in real danger of crossing over the size twelve fine line. Phoebe was the last to choose from the hat, and when she put her hand in, she noticed a particular gleam in Vanessa's usually cold, dead eyes as she flashed her a basilisk look of pure contempt before casting her eyes upwards in an effort to hide the malice.
Phoebe read out the mission, 'Go behind enemy lines, retrieve the college mascot.' The other young women all gasped, knowing what it meant. Break into the derelict building, go to the old headmistress's office, and if the carved wooden gryphon was still on the wall, bring it out. If it wasn't there, then photographic proof was required.
She stopped momentarily,Stupid, stupid, stupid!' She muttered to herself, then with her head down, she continued moving until even the lampposts gave up on her and petered out.
Finally she saw the wrought iron gates, with their imposing gryphon statues on the two stone pillars. The legendary creatures with the body, tail, and back legs of a lion and the head and outspread wings of an eagle with its talons gripping a stone sphere. The college's emblem is a throwback to the Victorian industrialist who founded the place back in 1865. Every student had to learn the rags to riches story on their first day at the college.
A thick chain and imposing padlock barred the way, but as everyone who attended the college knew, entrance could be gained easily by squeezing through the laurel hedge on the left-hand side.
Once through the hedge, the wind seemed to abate; darkness had descended, and no light could penetrate the murky gloom stretching before her.
She fumbled with her backpack, bringing out her torch. Even the thin, bright LED beam did little to dispel the gloom.
Phoebe knew exactly how many steps to the main door there were: 334, then four steps up. When Mr. Jobsworth worked as the caretaker, the grounds were immaculately kept; Phoebe could walk the path blindfolded, but now that the passage of time and neglect made the journey treacherous, she kept the beam of her torch firmly on the ground immediately in front of her.
She kept glancing behind, into the dense blackness that had swallowed her, in real fear of discovery, keeping her torch resolutely aimed at the ground.
The journey took twice as long as it was meant to. The main entrance looked sad and forlorn, unused, and weed choked; the polished brass handles had disappeared. She walked to the right, and as she had anticipated, the first window she came to had been boarded up. Once again she reached into her backpack, this time bringing out the largest screwdriver she could find in the garden shed. With surprising ease, she jimmied the wood away from the frame, making enough space for her small frame to fit through. As she suspected, there was no glass and no window frame to speak of, the obvious choice of entry for every vandal in town.
Suddenly there is a detonation of sound as a deafening thunderclap shakes the building, and brilliant white light seeps through every crack and hole in the boarded-up windows. The promised storm had arrived with vengeance. Fortunately, it wasn't meant to last long, 'quickly moving through,' the weatherman had assured in his evening bulletin.
When the vibrations stopped, it was as if her hearing had regained its acuity and returned heightened. She heard the far-off drip of water and the whistle of wind through the smallest of gaps. Then she heard the scratching of tiny claws on hollow floors.
A stygian darkness spread before her; the smell of rotting decay assaulted her senses; it hung in the still air of the abandoned hallway like some foul miasma.
Phoebe wanted to cry; her memories of her old college were precious to her; she adored learning in this place; it always smelt of books and wood polish, and now it had all gone.
She swallowed her thoughts, determined to achieve her goal.
The geometric polished parquet flooring had disappeared completely, leaving a wasteland. She started up the first flight of stairs, 24 steps in all, then she scurried down the landing to the next set of steps, another 24 rising. These were in better shape than the previous set, so she made quicker progress.
