Many there be who die in throes,
\n<\/span>??And groans, and fearful anguish:
\n<\/span>And there be those, who waste in woes;
\n<\/span>??And many there be who languish;
\n<\/span>But few there be, who die like me,
\n<\/span>??Then wake again to sorrow;
\n<\/span>Who strive with death, and feel them free,
\n<\/span>??But are bound again to-morrow;
\n<\/span>Who wrestle through all its agony,
\n<\/span>And strive no more in its chains to be,
\n<\/span>But are born again to misery,
\n<\/span>??In the dying years they borrow.<\/span><\/p>\nHalloween, A Romaunt with Lays Meditative and Devotional,
\n<\/span>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0by Arthur Cleveland Coxe<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\nBallad of the Broken Hearts at the Danse Macabre
\nby Kevin Lucia<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n1.<\/span><\/p>\nI\u2019ve read that houses have long memories. I believe the same is true of schools, especially after ten years as a custodian at All Saints. Of course, the idea didn’t occur to me when I accepted the job. I was a poor graduate student taking time off to pay some bills. That a school building might have a <\/span>memory<\/span> wasn’t a concern.<\/span><\/p>\nNot until I worked my first evening shift. The head custodian — a grizzled man named Tom Grant — announced after hiring me that he was tired of the extra duties. Claimed arthritis was stiffening up his joints, and he wanted to pass the torch on. To me, in particular.<\/span><\/p>\nI accepted. The sooner I saved up funds, the sooner I could pay my bills off and return to grad school. Get my Master’s Degree in Early American Literature, and starve on a whole new level as an adjunct instructor somewhere.<\/span><\/p>\nIt turned out to be more than an opportunity to earn money, however. Over the course of these past ten years, I’ve glimpsed rare snatches of the best and worst teenagers have to offer at these after-school events. As a custodian you’re mostly invisible, so because you’re not not part of their world, they don’t wear their social masks when you’re around. I’ve seen them unvarnished and bare. The good, the bad, and the ugly, you could say.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nOver these years, I’ve learned that, as I said, schools have long memories, just as houses do. And, like memories stained into banisters, stairs, attics and porch swings; memories absorbed by lockers, gymnasiums, cafeterias and hallways don’t always rest easy.<\/span><\/p>\nI learned this lesson with particular vividness my first after-school custodian job, working the annual Halloween dance.<\/span><\/p>\n2.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cThat’s the last of it,\u201d Tom Grant said as he settled into the chair at his large metal desk in the custodian’s office. Shuffling through invoices, he glanced up. \u201cAny last minute questions? Cold feet? Speak now, or forever hold your peace. No shame in deciding it’s a bit too much to take on, especially being so new.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nIt was early Friday evening. We’d just gone over my duties for the Halloween Dance Saturday night. Most of it I knew, of course. Where the custodian’s closets were, how to spot-mop the gym floor and cafeteria after everyone left, where the hand sanitizer refills were stocked. He’d showed me everything anyway, like it was my first day on the job. He didn’t mean anything by it. That was just his way.<\/span><\/p>\nI learned a few new things, however. Like how to set the night alarm. Or how to turn on the building’s gigantic ceiling fans if it got stuffy in the gym. You had to climb rickety stairs to a narrow loft above the gym and flip dusty switches which looked as if they’d never been touched.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nI shook my head and replied, \u201cSeems pretty straight forward.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nTom grunted. \u201cDon’t forget to use that hex wrench on the key ring to lock the front doors. One year I was under the weather for Halloween and my assistant had to cover for me. Did an okay job, but forgot to lock the front doors. Nothing happened to the school, but administration lost it when they came in Monday morning to a wide-open building. He got fired pretty quick.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI nodded. \u201cDefinitely won’t forget.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nTom pursed his lips and looked at me thoughtfully. He grunted again, waved to a chair next to his. \u201cHave a seat. Got a few more things.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI sat. Tom quietly shuffled the papers on his desk for a few minutes, then set them down and turned an unexpectedly intense gaze upon me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cI want you to understand something. Being a custodian means more than cleaning up after folks. That’s what <\/span>janitors<\/span> do. It’s also more than fixing things. That’s what <\/span>maintenance<\/span> does. We’re custodians. We look after this place. It’s our responsibility. You’ve studied English, right? What’s some other words for custodian?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI sat back, realizing he was right. The word custodian did carry\u00a0 some weight. \u201cKeeper, I suppose. Guardian? When it comes to children and such. Steward or protector.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nTom offered me a rare, thin smile. \u201cThat’s right. You’re a custodian of this school. Tonight you’re working the night shift. Going to see a side of this school most never see, going to be responsible for her in a way most folks aren’t. Get it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI nodded and lied. \u201cSure, I get it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI didn’t get it, of course.<\/span><\/p>\nBut I soon would.<\/span><\/p>\n3.<\/span><\/p>\nI arrived at All Saints around six o’clock that Saturday evening to open the school for parent volunteers so they could finish decorating\u00a0 for the Halloween dance, which started at eight. As I toured the halls, I was struck immediately by the absolute silence permeating the air.<\/span><\/p>\nI was the only living soul in the building. For the thirty minutes before parents arrived, the building’s silence pressed down upon me like a physical thing. My footsteps echoed, bouncing off the walls. The ice machine in the cafeteria grumbled intermittently, sounding like doors closing. Beneath it all, fluorescent ceiling lights buzzed with the faint, electrical hum. The silence amplified these sounds, emphasizing how empty the building was. How <\/span>alone<\/span> I was. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, the air felt heavy.<\/span><\/p>\nMaybe it was my imagination, but as I sat near the side entrance waiting for parents to arrive, reading my careworn copy of Stephen King’s <\/span>Skeleton Crew<\/span><\/em>, I felt what I can only describe as a watchfulness. A waiting. The silence felt pregnant with expectation. As if, very soon, if no one else came, the emptiness would become less empty as something showed itself to me, filling an unnatural void which felt so very wrong in a building meant to house hundreds of teenagers.<\/span><\/p>\nAnd just as I felt (in some primal part of me) that something was on the verge of making itself known, the doors of the side entrance opened as the first wave of parents arrived.<\/span><\/p>\n4.<\/span><\/p>\nI was helping a group of parents move chairs and tables in the cafeteria to make room for the novelty photo booth (students could pose in front of a green screen and have it digitally replaced by a Halloween-themed background of their choice), when Mrs. Haskel, the art teacher, poked her head into the cafeteria.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cWilliam? We need some extension cords in the gym for the DJ’s sound system. Could you get a few, please?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cSure. Be out there in a second.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nMrs. Haskel smiled gratefully before she left, presumably returning to gym. \u201cThanks!\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nUnfortunately, not all the faculty members are as respectful as Mrs. Haskel. As with teenagers, I’m fairly invisible to teachers, unless they need something. None of them treat me badly, by any means. It’s just that, to most of them, I’m not really there. I’m the faceless figure whom they call if something’s been spilled in their room. In any case, I knew where to find the extension cords. Several hung on a hook in the workshop behind the custodian’s office.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nIn all honestly, I’ve never felt comfortable there. Still don’t. It’s right next to the boiler room, and the steady rumbling of the boilers cuts off sound from the rest of school. It’s as if nothing else in the world exists except for those steadily rumbling boilers.<\/span><\/p>\nI wanted to get in and out of there as quickly as possible.\u00a0 I walked quickly through the workshop to where the extension cords hung on the wall. I got there in several steps and was reaching for them when, swear to God, I felt something looking at me.<\/span><\/p>\nThat’s an important distinction, too. Not someone. <\/span><\/p>\nSomething.<\/span><\/p>\nMy outstretched hand closed over the cords. I pulled them slowly off the wall, glancing over my left shoulder as I did. There, standing in the far corner of the boiling room, I saw, very clearly, what appeared to be a little blond boy. Maybe ten or eleven years old. He stood turned away from me. As if he was being made to stand in the corner as punishment.<\/span><\/p>\nI swallowed.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nMy throat felt tight and dry. Like I was choking down a wad of bread with no water. I had no impulse to speak, ask the child his name, or inquire as to what he was doing there. My only impulse was to leave. Get out of the workshop as quickly as possible…<\/span><\/p>\nBefore the boy turned and looked at me.<\/span><\/p>\nI stepped toward the custodian’s office. The scrape of my shoes on concrete seemed to echo nearly as loud as the rumbling boilers. The boy didn’t move, so I took another step, following it quickly with another.<\/span><\/p>\nThe boy’s head shivered.<\/span><\/p>\nHis shoulders twitched.<\/span><\/p>\nHe was turning around.<\/span><\/p>\nHe was going to <\/span>look<\/span> at me.<\/span><\/p>\nI didn’t exactly break into a run, but I walked quickly, looking straight at the door to the custodian’s office. I exited and headed for the gym. Didn’t look to the side or behind me. Except for the distant rumbling of the boilers, I heard nothing.<\/span><\/p>\n5.<\/span><\/p>\nMrs. Haskel must’ve seen something in my face, because she frowned as I entered the gym. She left the other parents and approached me. \u201cWilliam. Are you all right? You’re white as a sheet.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nHanding her the extension cords, I offered a weak smile. \u201cUh. No big deal. Just got startled is all. Heard a sound, thought it was…hey…\u201d I gestured at the parents decorating the gym, \u201cdid anyone bring their kids with them to help out?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nMrs. Haskel accepted the cords from me, her frown deepening. \u201cNo. There shouldn’t be any children in the building, and the dance is for high school students only.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nShe looked at me closely, her expression thoughtful. \u201cDid you see someone?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI hesitated before answering. It’s the most overused convention of horror and ghost stories, right? The reluctant witness who’s afraid of looking silly, or even delusional. How many horrible cinematic deaths could’ve been avoided if that one person had just fessed up and said, \u201cYou know what, call me crazy, but I just saw the weirdest thing…\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nBut I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I just smiled, shook my head and said, \u201cNaw. Guess I saw a shadow, thought maybe some kids were messing around, but if no one brought kids with them…\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nMrs. Haskel nodded slowly, no longer frowning, but still looking oddly thoughtful. \u201cYou sure?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nMy smile felt more genuine. \u201cYeah. Just got the spooks is all. Never worked the late shift before, y’know? Kind of creepy back there near the boiler room.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nJust like that, Mrs. Haskel smiled and looked normal again. \u201cTell me about it. I’ll do anything to give the custodial staff a hand…except go near the boilers. No thank you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nShe held up the extension cords as she turned back to the parents talking to the DJ. \u201cThanks. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nShe walked away.<\/span><\/p>\nSuddenly, I felt foolish and very glad I hadn’t told Mrs. Haskel what I’d thought I’d seen. I had no idea why I’d imagine a boy standing with his face in the corner, but it seemed a far more plausible explanation than actually seeing something. I felt much better than I had moments before.<\/span><\/p>\nRegardless, I found a reason to stay away from the workshop for the next hour, checking garbage cans around the gym and in the halls, and checking the restrooms. When I finally went back there again — more extension cords were needed for the novelty photo booth — I made myself look in that corner. Despite an expectant tightening of my gut, I saw nothing there.<\/span><\/p>\n6.<\/span><\/p>\nBy eight, the gym and cafeteria were decorated and ready for students. I’d gotten busy enough to push aside my hallucination or whatever it was. At seven-thirty, the DJ blew half the fuses in the gym with a sound check, which had me scrambling until about ten of eight, looking for the fuse box, which had been the <\/span>one<\/span> thing Tom had neglected to show me. I finally found it up on the stage in the gym, in the far left corner. The fuses were poorly labeled, of course, and it took several minutes of flipping (shutting off three banks of gym lights in the process, and they take a good ten minutes to warm back up) to find the right fuses.<\/span><\/p>\nFortunately, the parents had been busy decorating from the moment they’d stepped into the school, so they were mostly finished when I accidentally switched half the lights off. They’d done an impressive job, to say the least. Rivers of black and orange streamers ran around the gym walls. A huge net full of black and orange balloons had been secured to the gymnasium ceiling by netting, to be dropped during the last dance. Actual carved Jack-o’-lanterns had been placed around the gym on pedestals (lit by electric candles and not flame candles, of course), and life-size cardboard cutouts of all the classic Universal Monsters — Frankenstein, the Mummy, Wolfman, Dracula, Creature of the Black Lagoon, even Bride of Frankenstein — had been mounted on the walls and the retracted bleachers.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nThose weren’t the only monsters taped up, however. Michael Landon’s varsity jacketed Teenage Werewolf loomed there, as well as a creeping Nosferatu. Accompanying the cut-outs were posters from the fifties and sixties. <\/span>I Was A Teenage Werewolf<\/span>, <\/span>I Was A Teenage Frankenstein<\/span>, <\/span>I Married A Monster from Outer Space<\/span>, <\/span>The Fly<\/span><\/em>. Interspersed among those were more modern posters for <\/span>The Evil Dead<\/span><\/em>, <\/span>Nightmare on Elm Street<\/span><\/em>, <\/span>Friday the 13<\/span>th<\/span><\/em>,<\/span> and of course, appropriately, <\/span>Halloween<\/span><\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\nBy eight-thirty, the gym teemed with students dressed as werewolves, Frankenstein monsters, zombies, vampires, mummies, ghosts, Freddy Krueger, Jason Vorhees, Michael Myers, and even an Ash Williams, with a plastic chainsaw secured to one of his hands. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to appreciate our students’ creativity the first forty-five minutes of the dance. The green-screen photo booth in the cafeteria blew a fuse in there, a soap dispenser in the boy’s bathroom broke and was leaking gel hand soap, so I had to replace that. Also, by eight-thirty some of the garbage cans had started filling up, so I needed to change those also. It wasn’t until about eight-forty-five that I got a break and was able to enjoy the sights.<\/span><\/p>\nThat was when I first saw them fighting.<\/span><\/p>\nThey stood in the corner, near the front hallway entrance to the gym. The guy wore a varsity letter football jacket from the fifties, with only a white t-shirt underneath. The jacket had a big Q on the shoulder, so I assumed he was a quarterback. His black hair looked like it had initially been styled into a slick pompadour but at some point had come unraveled. His pasty-white skin looked much more natural than some of other students’, whose white face-paint looked caked on and greasy in comparison. A\u00a0 well-done gash cut down the side of his face. I was far away, but it looked like a makeup job worthy of an FX specialist.<\/span><\/p>\nThe girl looked like she was dressed for a Sock Hop, also from the fifties. She wore black and white penny loafers, a pleated skirt, and a blouse consistent with the time period. I guessed the two came as a couple because she was done up as a zombie also. Her pale white skin matched the guy’s in its realism. From where I stood, I couldn’t see any marks on her face. It wouldn’t be until I got closer that I’d be able to see what FX magic had been worked on her.<\/span><\/p>\nSomething about the strenuousness of their argument bothered me. The pain in their faces seemed too profound for what was most likely a lover’s spat. However, a hand gripped my elbow, interrupting my thoughts.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cWilliam! Glad I caught you.\u201d It was Mrs. Haskel, her face a picture of relief. \u201cMinor crisis in the cafeteria. Someone knocked the punch bowl over. It shattered, I’m afraid, so now there’s punch and glass everywhere.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI glanced back at the arguing zombie quarterback and his girlfriend, but with some effort, I pulled my gaze away. \u201cSure,\u201d I told Mrs. Haskel with a smile. \u201cLead the way.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n7.<\/span><\/p>\nTurned out the \u201cminor crisis\u201d was exceedingly minor, after all. The punch bowl hadn’t shattered into a million pieces, just a few splinters. They were easily collected and the punch mopped up. Of course, nice as Mrs. Haskel has always been to me, she falls prey to the same syndrome most do when a custodian is available. Messes <\/span>they<\/span> could’ve cleaned up themselves suddenly because \u201cminor crises\u201d which require my attention.<\/span><\/p>\nWith the mess cleaned up, I was heading out of the cafeteria and back to the gym when a soft sob just around the corner brought me up short, followed by, \u201cC’mon, Sherry. Ya’ gotta believe me. She’s a math tutor, that’s all. We’re going to State next week, and Coach says if don’t pass this next test, I can’t play!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI stopped at the corner. Couldn’t see around it, but for some reason I knew exactly who was talking. It was the zombie quarterback and his zombie girlfriend. Had to be.<\/span><\/p>\nA sniff and another sob. \u201cI don’t believe you. Amy Sanders said she’s seen you and Shirley at Dooley’s Ice Cream all the time for the past month. What’s she been doing? Teaching you fractions over banana splits?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cIt was her idea! It was hard payin’ attention in the library after school. I was fallin’ asleep. She suggested we go somewhere different, so I could pay attention better.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nA disgusted snort. \u201cI bet you were paying attention better. But not to math.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cHey, wait…\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI stood there, feeling bad about my accidental eavesdropping but still unable to walk away. Adrenaline spiked through me, however, when I realized the zombie girl — apparently Sherry — was walking in my direction, heading to the cafeteria. I’m sorry to say I froze, looking like the proverbial deer caught in headlights as Sherry rounded the corner, wiping at her eyes.<\/span><\/p>\nShe was pretty, in that small-town schoolgirl kind of way. She’d dressed the part of the fifties high school girl to the hilt, jet black hair pulled back in a pony tail with a big red ribbon tied in it. Her mascara was running \u2013– she was crying openly\u00a0 \u2013– but whoever had done her pasty-white zombie face paint had done an excellent job, because it wasn’t running at all. As she walked by me, I got a glimpse at the rest of her costume.<\/span><\/p>\nIt was marvelously done, and subtle, too. The front of her white cheerleader sweater was stained with blotches of red, and her chest looked…crumpled. That’s the best way I can describe it. Wasn’t sure at the time how the effect was created \u2013– padding attached to her bra, or something — but it looked clever enough, making one think of someone who’d died in a car crash, their chest crushed by the steering wheel.<\/span><\/p>\nSherry continued past me and disappeared into the cafeteria. Realizing I couldn’t stand there forever, I took a deep breath and rounded the corner. Leaning against the wall was the zombie quarterback. One hand jammed into his jeans pocket (his jeans were ripped and splashed with fake blood, and peeking through a rip in his left thigh was the glint of fake bone; a very nice touch), the other rubbing the back of his head. He was scowling and staring at nothing.<\/span><\/p>\nI stood there, wondering what I could possibly say. I was a custodian, after all. It wasn’t like he’d want to talk to me. Would he think it…creepy? Honestly, was it? I didn’t think so, because I wanted to teach someday myself, so I found myself naturally interested in these kids and their lives. But he might feel that way.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nAnd in high school, the only sport I’d ever participated in had been Cross Country. I’d never been a star athlete leading his team to a state championship. In fact, I was still so disconnected from sports, I hadn’t even known All Saints’ football team had done so well. Also, my short-lived high school relationships hadn’t been nearly as dramatic as the zombie quarterback’s current predicament.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nEven so, I wanted to offer some sort of consolation. To at least say something. Ask the guy how he was doing. Before I could open my mouth to speak, however, he snorted, pushed off the wall and sauntered\u00a0 back down the hall toward the gymnasium. He melted into the crowd of students, leaving me standing there, alone.<\/span><\/p>\n8.<\/span><\/p>\nI checked my watch and saw it was nearly nine. Time for another round. Check the garbage cans, bathrooms, and recycling bins. Many of the garbage cans were at least half full. There were four in the gym I had to empty and re-bag, two in the front hallway, and three in the cafeteria. That took me twenty minutes total. After that, I took a ten minute break in the custodian’s office, sitting in Tom’s chair, feet on the desk.<\/span><\/p>\nI’m not going to lie and say the entire time I <\/span>wasn’t<\/span> thinking about the boy I’d imagined seeing before the dance started. The thought was an itch in the back of my mind. A handful of times I caught myself sneaking glances through the door into the workshop out back. Each time I felt an odd mixture of relief and disappointment when I saw nothing.<\/span><\/p>\nAbout nine-fifteen, Mrs. Haskel knocked on the door-frame to the custodian’s office. \u201cWilliam, the banner above the entrance is starting to sag. Could you grab a ladder and..?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cSure,\u201d I said, thinking that the ladder was in the workshop, against the far wall where the extension cords had been, and my path there would take me right past the corner I’d seen the boy standing in, \u201cgive me a minute.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nIt probably only took forty-five seconds, as quickly as I strode into the workshop, took the ladder off the wall, and walked back, looking straight ahead, and certainly not into the corner. If Mrs. Haskel noticed my haste she didn’t show it. She smiled and nodded toward the gym. I followed her, feeling relief as I put distance between myself and the workshop.<\/span><\/p>\n9.<\/span><\/p>\n
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