The Imaginary

Chapter 1: I Got Myself a Very Cool Alien Friend Part 3

THE IMAGINARY

CHAPTER ONE: I GOT MYSELF A VERY COOL ALIEN FRIEND

PART 3 (FINAL)

When I had reached Room 211, Mr. Clark did the signal, and he removed the stickers, grabbing them barbarically. We entered the room, no words spoken. It was as I expected: ancient civilization. It was ruin-like, with lots of cobwebs, piling dust, and a few broken desks. The only missing pieces were the shrine and the coffins to make this fit the description of an ancient ritual place. It was still usable, if you’d clean it, or put better class stuff. But I wouldn’t do that. I’d leave this place alone. The atmosphere was different, it was ghostly, like it was rotting with them spirits. In other words, it could be called a haunted room.

On one side, near the chalkboard, was this faint figure of a fat old lady. She had scruffy long hair. It looked like a fishnet. She’d make sounds of weeping and sneezing, sometimes "Oh-ho-oh, Charlie. My Charlie." That was Madame Graham. She was just as Tom had described her. Should I had been cautious, then?

"You’ve brought another one, eh, Clarky-boy?" she said. She morphed to a maniac in sudden. Another? So there were more curious kids? "Surely this one’s just as tasty?"

"My, Madame, aren’t the young always tasty, fresh like new harvest?" said Mr. Clark. This was, well, weird. What an intelligent conversation, Sir.

He took glimpses of random sections in the room, as if inspecting.

"Not at all, Clarky-boy. There are those that go bad fast. Rotten, rotten souls. Why, I’d sometimes prefer the newborn than the young’ns."

"That’s a heresy, Madame." He raised a finger, like doing the "Ah!" expression, then walked a bit. Madame Graham did an equal rise, but of the head. The raised rod made a few twitches again. "You know, the newborn are still sacred angels, clothed in their pure white blankets. Though eventually, they do grow to be little devils sprouting horns and tails. I can tell you that much."

"So certain, are you now?" She sounded proud. "I see you’ve grown wiser, eh, Clarky-boy? Not that little rascal anymore?"

"Excuse me." I joined in, and they were petrified. Did I say something taboo?

"Adult talk, boy."

"Ah, yes, ma’am, but you’re a sp-spirit, aren’t you?" It took me some courage to speak to her. I scanned the area. Where was she? "I heard they don’t age, so that means you’re not exactly an adult, ma’am." I paused. She turned silent, but I could hear rumbling sounds of pre-rage anger. "Ma’am, are you Old Lady Graham?"

"This child, Clarky-boy!" The voice was growing larger. "This child! Boy, you dare call me an Old Lady?" She paused, and the hostility simmered down. "I am Madame Graham Bellwing, guardian spirit of Moonridge." She whispered to Mr. Clark, but I could still hear. She was a loud hen, see. "Clarky-boy, you haven’t been teaching this boy well."

"Pardon, Madame." This too was a murmur. "That’s what kids these days call you. Too much creativity in their minds."

Mr. Clark cleared his throat. He pointed to the seat by the third row and the third line, the middle seat. Why that, of all?

"Now, Mr. Blackwood, if you would sit." I followed. I didn’t care that it was dusty. "I’ll be leaving him in your care, Madame. I supposed that’d be all right?"

"Of course." I saw the air shake. So she nodded? Great. "If this young’n here would so agree."

Mr. Clark took an object from the cracked bookshelf, a notebook, and he placed it on the desk of the seat. I couldn’t be wrong. That was the same notebook in the vision. It had the handwritten name and those stick drawings. I think it was Julia Skyshell’s diary.