Necromancer - 2. Nightwalker

That night I was reminiscing about school. I sat in my room at my desk, the algebraic fractions homework in front of me. My pen hanging limply from my mouth while I daydreamed. My bedroom door was open, and downstairs I could hear the TV playing a local news report about Tommy Phelps's grave robbery. No one was saying anything about Tommy digging himself out. It was all about the community's outrage and police imploring the local youth to be respectful of the Phelps family's loss.

They didn't give out a lot of information about the family, no statements or titbits. It made me think Tommy's Mum really had been schizophrenic. The whole family could've been looney and not good for this TV sympathy piece.

After all, I'd heard from everyone, so many different sources that it had to be credible: before hanging himself Tommy wrote on the wall in blood 'The Devil made me do it'. The blood came from a possum he'd shot with a hunting rifle. If that doesn't scream mental instability then what does?

My sister was scrambling about the hallway, racing between rooms and tripping on the dance shoes she always left out. Ballet ones with the long laces. I knitted my fingers together and rested my chin on my hands. Simon had been so rude in roll call. I'd said nothing to him in Maths, but I replayed our talk over and over for the rest of the day. Even forgetting my lines in rehearsals. Ms Worrall was not happy. You are Prince Demetri in the Enchanted Kingdom, you're a pivotal character! You must not forget your lines! Doesn't change the fact that between Acts Two to Eight I spend most of the play transformed into a tree and waiting to be rescued. Big whoop.

Simon was not the type of guy who cared about appearances. He didn't care if he was rude. He just said what was on his mind, instantly cutting through to the heart of any conversation. He wasn't cordial with me because we're not friends. But... I want to be. How do I say that to him though? It was my fault... I'd misread the situation and misread him. The angle I took when I chose to approach him wasn't the correct one, and now he had a bad first impression of me. I wondered what assumption he'd formulated in his head. My sister ran past my room and the pen slipped from my mouth.

I picked it up and dragged a hand down my face, blurring my tired eyes. I brought the pen to my margin and started to doodle a dark eye. Simon's dark eye. Downstairs I could hear my parents talking in the living room. I would keep trying to befriend Simon, even though he probably won't let me get close until he figures out why. I just want to figure out if he's gay without facing the embarrassment, rejection and crushing let-down if he isn't. I'm smart, I know I'll figure something out.

Suddenly I turned to my bedroom window, the curtains were parted and leaking moonlight. I set down my pen and got up for no reason, drifting over to the glass and peering into the forest that bordered our yard. The pines had leaves, but many other trees were crooked and skeletal in the black. A subtle mist left the night foggy and blurred the edges of the pane. Moisture glowing white as the moon sat unobscured amidst a cloudy night. I was hit with another strange burst of intuition. Nothing more than a feeling of eerie significance.

Something was out there. Wandering in the dark. I caught a glimpse of pale skin under moonlight. Grey with purpling veins from necrosis, soiled with dirt. Moving between my view of branches for just an instant. I wobbled between my bare feet on the carpet and blinked. A vision of reality where we suspend our fixed certainties, a moment no more real than a dream. I stopped entertaining it and went back to my desk.

*

That morning I drove to school with a thermos of coffee. I'd dreamed the night before but couldn't remember what. All that lingered in my memory was the feeling of unease. I'd decided to take a different route so I could drive by the local cemetery - it was the only amount of immature excitement I was going to allow myself. When the tall fencing came into view, those crisscrossing lines of metal, I turned my whole head to get a peek.

There was the fluttering yellow police tape surrounding Tommy's grave. I could just make out the edges of the hole over the slope, like a giant molehill. Bordering the graveyard was rubbish – plastic bottles and beer cans from thrill-seeking teens who'd wanted to get a look at the scene last night. Scone Cemetery would've been a hotspot for young people. Sorry police and news crew, respect for Tommy's family is too much to ask from the youth of Scone High.

I could see cars parked by the curb, maybe keeping a look-out. I brought my eyes back to the road and drove on by, making my way to school and not intending to tell anyone what I'd done. My green economy car swerved its way into the parking lot and I chugged the last of my coffee, stifling a belch. I got a decent park and saw Alannah Humberdross waving through my windscreen, she was standing on tip-toes by the shrubbery along the path to the administration block. Teenagers were gossiping again, but this was less serious than the look of urgent gossip, which apparently I'd memorised.

Alannah was a chubby girl in Theatre club. She was playing the role of my father in the upcoming production, King Heros of the Enchanted Kingdom. A male role, but we don't have enough boy actors in the production. Several times I'd pondered calling her Daddy, but she seemed too meek a girl for that kind of joke. I swung out, slung my bag over my shoulder and locked the car with the beeper. I approached my theatre friend.

"Morning Peter! How're things?" She had a collection of zits by her chin.

"Hey Alannah, I'm good. How're you?"

"Just dropping off my money for the History excursion."

"Oh yeah, Melanie's going to that."

"Melanie Campbell?"

"Yeah, she's my friend."

"Cool." We started walking. "Did you practice your lines after school yesterday?"

"That's what rehearsals are for."

"Ms Worrall really let you have it at lunch yesterday, didn't she?"

"She sure did."

"It wasn't fair. You hardly ever mess up your lines."

"It's not a big deal. Improvising is a thing in acting, but she's such a control freak about us following exactly the lines that she wrote."

I think that Alannah has a crush on me. She's a sweet girl, but she mustn't yet know that I'm gay. Seems like the news wasn't something Theatre club felt like gossiping about. Or maybe they figured it obvious I liked men, seeing as I was doing Drama in the first place. Apparently it wasn't obvious to Alannah. I'm a nice guy, so I can tell when girls have that bright eagerness when they talk to me. Enjoying mature conversation with a friendly, and let's say it, good-looking guy.

I followed Alannah around the edge of campus toward the library, and fully intended on leaving her by the stairway entry. When the grassy oval came into view I recognized Simon sitting alone at a wooden table under the bark-dropping trees. He was facing away from me, body tense, shoulders raised. The way he often sat. My footwork stuttered but I made myself walk. He was about twenty feet away. I almost decided not to say anything, but it slipped out anyway.

"Isn't that Simon Chernosky?"

Alannah turned to stare. The track team was making its round along the grassy circumference, past the football posts. Even in the weak sun the dew gleamed.

"Yeah."

"Does he always sit by himself?"

"Pretty much. He sits alone in my Chemistry class."

Chemistry is a brainy subject. I remember Erin constantly complaining about how hard everything was, all the constant formulas. She'd dropped the subject last year. I was surprised at Alannah, I didn't take her for the brainy type. But I was also surprised at Simon.

"I wonder why he's always alone."

"He's not always alone." Alannah corrected with a frown. "He talks to some people."

Our path curved as we continued journeying to the library. I shot one last look at him, he was staring at the tabletop. When I faced forward again I felt the need to change the subject. A group of girls were gossiping nearby under a laurel tree.

"What's everyone talking about now?"

"Just stupid talk..." Alannah sighed. I waited for her to continue. "A bunch of the footy guys and some of the Language club girls are saying they saw Tommy Phelps at the cemetery last night... that he was running around in the suit they buried him in..."

"Oh wow."

"If you ask me, some jackass played dress-up and wanted to scare everyone who showed up at the cemetery last night."

"That's pretty weird. Like, if Tommy Phelps really did come back from the dead, why would he be hanging around the graveyard anyway?"

"Who knows?" Alannah answered with her eyes on the ground. She wasn't comfortable with this line of talk. Too indulgent. I let it drop, we were coming up to the library steps anyway.

Later in the day it wasn't hard to catch snippets of the drama firsthand. Tommy Phelps was going to be on everybody's lips for a while. I know that I was a little excited myself, but by the time fourth period English came around, I was well and truly sick of it. Legitimately sickened, as I tried to focus on highlighting metaphorical techniques in extracts of our chosen text. My stomach squeamy as a bunch of kids from the debate club swapped stories about what the reanimated Tommy Phelps looked like.

"...has like bruises on his neck, from where he hung himself."

"I heard one of his eyeballs was hanging out, attached to the socket by a cord..."

I almost snapped at them then, almost told them to shut the hell up. But I stopped myself, it wouldn't do any good. I wondered how 'serious Simon' felt about this whole mess. I wondered if Simon would've told them to shut up.

Second lunch I spent doing rehearsals in the theatre. The last class of the day was General Maths. Unlike in roll call, Simon sat behind me at the end of the classroom, so it wasn't easy to let my eyes rest on him while daydreaming. Occasionally I could turn my head and catch his reflection in the window. I thought about what Alannah said, about Simon being in her Chemistry class. I remember the teachers saying at the beginning of Year Eleven that Advanced Mathematics was a good supplementary class to the harder subjects like Physics and Chemistry.

Here was Simon though, doing General Maths instead of Advanced. Maybe he dropped down? A science guy, but not a maths one. I sighed. As far as I could tell, Simon didn't say a word to the girls he sat with all through the beginning of the lesson. They jabbered and worked beside him, and he just tuned them out. What was his deal?

I almost jumped when Mr Mawson stopped halfway through his talk, marker still raised at the whiteboard "Yes, Simon?"

"...I'm not feeling well. C-can I go to the nurse's station?"

"Of course."

The slim guy breezed past my desk, body tense as he made his way out the door. I'd never known him to be sick during class before. The gossip died down behind me, a few boys wondering what Simon's deal was. Mr Mawson raised his voice, bringing our attention back to his lesson.

Fifteen minutes later I raised my arm and asked to go to the bathroom. While pacing beside the brick walls I wondered about what I would say if I saw Simon spewing his guts up in the toilet. Or maybe he really had gone to the nurse's station like he'd said. Somehow I doubted it. Simon didn't like talking or letting people in, I doubted he'd take himself there. Maybe to the admin block to get approval to walk himself home, if he was really sick.

The nearest boys' toilets were full of graffitied stalls and puddles of urine, but no Simon. Penises scrawled like chicken-scratch on the walls. I turned and took a different route. A few students were drifting down walkways on the other end of campus, on a study break or tending to some other duties. It really was a shame Simon hadn't been in that empty bathroom. Maybe if I'd offered to help him he would've started to like me. Or maybe he would've shouted at me until I left. Who could say?

I saw Simon slowly pacing in the tree coverage by the oval. Near the wooden table he'd sat at this morning. I took five seconds to think before heading out after him. If I was a truant for ditching Maths class, so was he.

"Simon!" I watched him whip around to face me. He'd been taking careful breaths, his dark eyes looked alarmed. Seeing him out here... it reminded me of that irrational fear yesterday. That he might end up hanging himself, just like the deranged Tommy Phelps.

"What are you doing here?" He wasn't happy.

"What are you doing here?" I asked more slowly, slowing my approach. He regarded me for a moment and I wondered what he was thinking. I tried a smile "You okay?"

"Fine." His eyes flickered aside. Then he moved quickly to the bench and sat down, facing the school through the coverage of spindly bush. Hands in his jacket pockets. He swallowed.

"Um..." I drifted to the table and kicked it gently. "Something on your mind?"

"What are you doing?" Simon demanded, those serious eyes back on me.

"Nothing." I floundered, cleared my throat. "Just saw you hanging out here and wondered if something was wrong."

He faced forward again, I stared at the back of his matted hair and could feel him thinking. He breathed in through his mouth and out again. I moved around the table and sat on the same side as him, two feet away. Simon wasn't looking at me, and it made me curious.

"You can tell me if something's wrong." I whispered the promise. "I won't tell anyone."

His eyes flickered across the campus. He opened his mouth and paused. My eyes were narrowed on him, I almost thought he wasn't going to speak until he broke the silence.

"Those rumours going around... what do you think of them?"

"...the rumours?" I inclined my head, he was still facing forward. "About Tommy Phelps?" His silence was a confirmation. "You mean about him being a zombie?" I asked louder.

"I saw him too." Simon turned to glare at me, and although he looked mad his eyes were wet. "I was walking around town after midnight and I saw Tommy Phelps. He came crashing through the trees in front of me, then he stopped and stared. We said nothing, and he just ran off." He reached up to wipe his eyes with the hem of his sleeve.

"You saw him?" I breathed in disbelief. Simon still covered his eyes. "You mean... he looked-"

"Dead." Simon whipped his face at me again. "He looked dead."