The Imaginary

Chapter 3: Madmen Are Original Hipsters, They Write Letters Part 2

THE IMAGINARY

CHAPTER THREE: MADMEN ARE ORIGINAL HIPSTERS, THEY WRITE LETTERS

PART 2

I should explain our game. We had five vertical hoops, one in the middle, then four others. They formed a diamond. You shoot the ball in one, you get a point. The middle one had the most, three points. It was the farthest hoop. Easy, huh. Well, no! The ball was equipped with this "durable string." It looked like a rope with a loop. And you can only throw the ball with that. If you were the attacker, you can swing it to the defenders. That would eliminate them in the play. Like in Dodgeball.

"Jake, I have a new ghost rumor," said Tom. Can’t this wait until tomorrow? "The Little Johnny chain message. You know that?"

"No, haven’t heard of it," I said. I drank from my water jug. Now I was refreshed. "But chain messages are pretty common. They’re all fake."

"Man, this one’s real." His eyes were sparkling. "Genuine. It happens. The threat happens. Heard it from Alex."

"I didn’t know Alex was interested in ghost rumors."

"He likes his night adventures. With his jarwicks. They hunt for fun. Anyway, it’s spooky. It’s about the masked madman." The madman part made me think of the old man at the station. "If you don’t follow what the chain message says, he’ll appear at your room at night."

"Stop. Stop." The sounds were inaudible. They came from somewhere near.

"He floats. His cape dances. He shatters your window. He’ll laugh maniacally. Then, he’ll take out his--"

"Stop, I said!" Billy was the one who yelled. His face distorted to fear, sweat drops frantic.

"What’s wrong, Billy?"

"I’m sorry."

"You met the masked madman, didn’t you?" said Rex. He didn’t have to tease him. "Goosebumps. Introduce us, Billy."

"Shut up. Those rumors are false."

"Boys, do some rounds!" The second eruption. "Run around your half! Four circles!" There were instant groans. "No buts! Go!"

*****

I was all smiles. I just had to be an optimistic kid today. There were no mind-boggling sessions, so I was free of the delusional state. Ms. Stacy added to the amusement. She was picking on Tom.

"Mr. Wordsworth, are you on page thirty-eight?" she said. Ms. Stacy was our English teacher, who was usually in some sort of trance. She looked like a bird with long beak.

"Yes, ma’am." Tom checked the book. "Yes. It’s correct. Page thirty-eight."

"We are on the same page? Same book? Tremble Javelin’s Sergio and Monette?" She fixed her spectacles, then read the book for a while. "Now, then. Please read the third verse in that page. Sergio’s dialogue. It starts at line seven."

"O, hymns--wait, is this the right one, ma’am?"

"Yes, Mr. Wordsworth. Continue. Let’s hear it. Dramatize."

"O, hymns, most powerful hymns!" The drama sounded the same way he told us his ghost rumors. "Thou bequeath ye soul. Ye cul-cultrells hath spoken. In violence, thou speak. O, hymns, grant ye beseech, my Monette, so dearest!"

"That was fantastic, Mr. Wordsworth. Don’t you agree?" We all clapped, some did the standing ovation. Tom sure was in disbelief.

I survived the hunt for more chant victims. Class ended without me reciting a verse. There were instances where Ms. Stacy’s eyes stuck on me. I avoided contact every time. Genius me.

"You did good," I said. Dismissal time. Tom was packing his stuff. "Where’d you learn that? That method."

"Are you serious, man? They were making fun of me. They thought I could be a stage actor."

"Why not? Give it a chance."

"You’re making fun of me." I chuckled, he copied me.

"Billy’s absent. Don’t you find that strange? He never did, before. He’s the perfect-attendance kid."

"I don’t. It’s the masked madman. He’s met him. He called me last night, said he was forced to see some pictures. It had an otherworldly feel to it."

"What kind of pictures?"

"He didn’t say. People? Maybe girls? The madman’s a stalker. It wouldn’t be odd."

"The madman can create thoughts?" I was shocked at the familiarity.

"Create what? Thoughts? I don’t know, man. You know something? But you should keep guard. Billy told me, he’s seen your picture."

"You can’t scare me, Tom."

"Honest, man. Honest." He pledged. He raised a hand, wide-open. "I’ll go now. I don’t want to get a letter. Nor do I want to see him walking on the streets. Bye." He took off, hurrying.

Before I left, I saw Lucas look at me. He had an abnormal stare, like he was angry. Did he want me to return the paper from last Friday that badly?

"You think he’s being--what he says--honest?" I did this to erase the dark mood. But he was gone by then. He had vanished. "Uh, Lucas?"

Later at home, I was lying on the couch, reading the comic. Savage was scurrying, a madman in cape chased after him. He glided in the night, laughing, hysterical. Savage was pushed to a wall, his face distorted. Then, in the climax, the madman said, "Dear me, my Tootsy-Poots." Where did that come from?

I looked over the window. The sky was orange. Mr. Beak was by my fence, in an awkward angle. His arms and legs were knotted, and his bicycle joined the dilemma. Dear me. I went out.

"You okay, Mr. Beak?"

"Dear me, yes, yes." He wiped the dust off his clothes, as he stood.

He rummaged through his bag, like a disorganized kid ransacking his cabinet. Out came an envelope. It was small and white, and had faint fold marks on its edges. He handed it to me.

"There you go. Mail for you, lad."

I knew it! It was from Sis. I examined its rear. It showed her name: Alice Blackwood. It was handwritten in messy, left-handed fashion. That sure was fast. It had just been days.

"Work just fine, Mr. Beak?"

"Why lad, yes." He searched for more envelopes. It had to be the letter. "A little busy today. Mr. Littlepot’s been less grouchy these days. Gave me a few days off. To spend with the family. And now, all these work--these deadly, gruesome yolks of unfinished chores piled up. We got a few complaints, and lad, they were utter jargon of Murderland, very nasty. Why, even the jabber of the wonky made more means. But, all is well."

"You certainly don’t look well, Mr. Beak. Would you like some juice?"

"All is well. Thank you for the trouble, lad." He was counting the letters. "But, I must refuse your kind offer. Dear me, there are more mails to send." He finished the count. "Thirteen. Right." Then, he handed me those. "Here you are. Thirteen more. For you, young Jake."

"That’s weird. Why are there so many of them?"

"I think they’re fan letters."

They were from my classmates. One was from an anonymous person. It had a symbol on its front, looked liked the letter P.

"That’s done, then." He made his bike stand. "Poor Toosty, poor thing. He’s in much damage now. I shall take my leave, lad." He mounted it. "Farewell! Off to Murderland!"

"Farewell."

A silent send-off with a spiritless wave. I heard the bang and the crackle again. Oh, Mr. Beak.