Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller (13 page)

She turned left, and dashed into the corn.

H
e knew he
had blurted loudly in pain, feeling the sudden shock of his nose exploding in a white-hot flash. How could he have stifled wailing? As far as he knew, though, he had checked it fairly quickly. He had dropped to the ground, covered his bleeding nose with one palm, and blinked his watering eyes repeatedly and fast until the darkness became visible again.

His nose felt broken, he decided.

Not what he had planned.

He listened in stereo. To the left, the sound of a fleeing deer crashing through corn. To the right, the sound of a movie voice saying, “He comes to me at night—horrible, ugly, dirty.”

He glanced right and saw a silhouetted human form marching steadfastly toward him. Eric Cady, he knew, coming with certain determination in his stride and gait.

“Jackson?” Eric called across the yard.

Making his voice deep, Stuart Renly answered, “Yeah!”

Then he turned the opposite way like a devil cat and clawed his way into the corn. The corn’s flailing broadleaves had zero impact on his already battered face, and Stuart Renly felt nothing but the adrenaline rush of the predator chasing its prey.

Bailey Howard was not the woman he had believed her to be. She was a heartless, backstabbing slut like all the rest.

Stuart Renly stopped rushing against the corn, turned inside a row, and kneed down onto the hard-packed dirt. He gaped his mouth wide to breathe. The blood from his nose was draining over his upper lip and dripping to the ground. What blood had flowed into the corners of his mouth tasted warm and salty and bitter.

He listened into the corn.

Deeper in, and moving north, he heard the rustle of semi-dry stalks being frantically plowed through. That was Bailey Howard, he knew, moving through the corn at maximum speed to some safe place where she hoped to crouch and hide.

But he could catch her, couldn’t he?

Sure.

From the sound of it, she had gone too deep into the corn.

He could stay but a few rows in, moving quickly north along the field’s edge, and when Bailey Howard turned back in, there he would be. Yes, there he would be, just as planned, waiting like a popup scarecrow within the row. And what most people didn’t realized, although Stuart Renly did, was that scarecrows shifted within the corn. They shifted parallel to align with the sound of frightened prey.

He wiped the blood from his mouth to breathe, and made north in a fast crouch while ducking the broadleaves.

From the yard, he heard Eric Cady call out, “Bailey?”

Stuart Renly stopped.

He listened.

If Bailey answered, she was not the intelligent young lamb he had known her to be. Answering would give her position away, and without a doubt she knew she was being chased. She knew she couldn’t assault him without riling his aggression. Certainly, she knew
that
much about him, by now.

“Eric!” she called loudly.

Stuart Renly stood up quickly, ears perked high to hear over the corn in case the distress cry sounded again.

“I’m coming! Where are you?” returned the eager warrior.

Stuart detested, and almost felt sick over, the realization that Bailey Howard had just called out for Eric Cady, by name, as if Eric Cady was her chosen one, her white knight to save her in the night from the villainous lecher prowling about.

Was
he
, himself, the villain? Stuart wondered then.

No, not possible—that couldn’t be what she believed.

She had even assured him to the contrary.

She had said, “I’m sure it was an accident, Mr. Renly. I’m sure that jock slut Cummings and that weasel dick Saxton tripped in the night and crushed their own skulls.”

Something like that, she had said, he remembered.

And now he felt sick.

He was suddenly queasy and sweaty and lightheaded.

He pitched over and vomited into the corn, onto the springy broadleaves as he stooped, and then the acid puke came channeling back down, onto his head over the bald spot in his hair.

While vomiting, bleeding, and kneeling, he was peripherally aware of a sudden rush across his row, a thrashing escape from the corn, and not a dozen feet past his stooped head to the north, and then he heard the huffing voice of Bailey Howard, calling to Eric Cady, her savior hero.

“I’m here!” she shouted.

“Bailey, what are you doing?” Eric Cady said.

Stuart Renly overheard the sound of their clumsy thudding embrace, and then their scrambling about in the darkness to gather themselves and coordinate their bearings, and then Bailey Howard saying to the punk, “Mr. Renly is in the corn! Eric, come on! Jackson is dead! Renly did it! Carla, too!”

“Bailey, calm down! You’re hysterical!”

“I’m not, Eric! Come on!”

It sounded like she was dragging him away, Stuart Renly decided.

He couldn’t see the pair through the corn.

He needed to decide, and quickly, what to do. If only he had more time…

If only his head wasn’t spinning…

What needed to happen, he decided within the next moment, was that both of them needed to die. Yes, he realized absolutely, they needed to die, and quickly, to join their fellow students in hell.

He
was going to make that happen!

He worked his way to the edge of the corn, peeked out into the darkness toward the lighted gravel turnaround, and saw Bailey Howard pulling Eric Cady by the wrist, moving him in the direction of the implement shed.

He calculated his chances as fair, providing he acted now.

He emerged from the corn.

Eric Cady was trying to slow miss Howard’s fire. She kept pulling him until they reached the shed. Eric stepped ahead of her and pushed open the door. Then he reached in and flipped on a switch, lighting the shed’s interior.

Go!

Now!

Stuart Renly ran as fast as his legs allowed, which felt like rocket speed, in his imagination. The shortest distance between two points was a straight line, he knew.

And his shooting star was flaming hot!

In his mind, he actually gained mass!

His feet hammered loudly, but the couple couldn’t hear it, not over the sounds of the movie coming from the barn. The distance closed.

20…

10…

5…

Miss Howard spun toward him, screaming loudly. She ducked aside as Stuart cast his shoulder past the open doorway and into the back of Eric Cady. Cady went down with a crash. A second scream sounded from Bailey. Stuart gathered himself, spit blood, grabbed a shovel, and chased her out into the yard.

She ran fast around the blue toilet, and as Stuart came around that, too, he watched his knock-kneed lamb turn and go between the cars.

The shovel was awkward to carry, but as he ran, he arrested it with both hands, keeping it parallel to the ground. To club Bailey would be the only way. To stop her from fleeing, and to quickly drag her into the corn.

Yes, that was the only way!

No witnesses! None!

Had Eric Cady seen his face?

Not that Stuart knew.

Grinning now, he ran with utter resolve.

A whump of shoulder hit his back!

Before he realized what had happened, his body was sprawled flat in the grass on the ground behind the portable toilet. He gained his hands and knees, the shovel still clutched in his grasp. Now, he watched Eric Cady clawing the ground, lifting on muscled legs, and charging forward at him. Stuart came up fast, as well, dodging sideways but getting caught, caught by the hand of Cady. The jock’s momentum swung him around, and Stuart landed the shovel flat against the back of Cady’s head.

The clunk sounded.

Cady dropped.

The quarterback’s game was over.

Huffing air, Stuart turned back to face Bailey Howard, who stood there watching, having witnessed his dominance, hands against a car.

“Wasn’t my plan, Bailey,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

She bolted.

B
ehind the bed
of a truck, she stopped, looked back, and saw Mr. Renly rotating toward Eric again. She couldn’t see Eric, but she knew he was still on the ground. Mr. Renly had hit him hard, the shovel clanging loudly. Now, Mr. Renly had the shovel’s handle over his shoulder, and he was starting to limp in Eric’s direction.

Bailey had watched Eric tackle Mr. Renly in the grass behind the toilet, and then Renly had gotten up, pivoted, and miraculously landed a shovel swing. It had been her instinct to flee.

But Mr. Renly wasn’t chasing her anymore.

Instead, he was going back to finish Eric.

Realizing that, a different fear overcame her, a gut-wrenching fear that Mr. Renly would reach him and hammer him to death.

She shouted, “Hey, Renly, come get me, you puke!”

He was definitely limping now, Bailey observed. He turned to face her slowly, darkness behind him, and he donned a look of confusion.

“Pardon me, Bailey?” he asked.

“Your breath smells like puke!” she told him.

“That’s unkind to say,” he answered.

“You also masturbate in class!” she added.

At that, he cocked his head, seeming to take offense. “I certainly don’t,” he said.

“Yes, you do!” Bailey answered. “You do it at your desk! I’ve seen you! It’s creepy! I’m telling principal Jenkins!”

Someone shouted from the barn, having seen them standing amongst the cars under the pole light.

Mr. Renly glanced over. So did Bailey. She couldn’t see who it was, but the flickering silhouette was large.

The grass raked as Mr. Renly charged toward her, toward the truck she stood behind. He reached the gravel almost immediately. Bailey darted toward her car.

If she reached her car, she thought, she could lead Mr. Renly away. He might chase her down the highway, giving Eric a chance to gain his feet and call the police. Bailey had shown Eric Carla’s body.

Ford Escort.

Green.

Precious piece of junk.

She rounded the hatchback, got inside, and quickly locked the doors.

Keys.

Keys.

Keys.

She dragged her purse from under the seat. The zipper was broken. She reached in, shaking the purse to rattle the keys. They jangled and she found them.

The driver’s door jarred suddenly from the outside. She snapped her face to the left, panic-stricken, jumpy, heart charging. Mr. Renly’s dark form hovered behind the glass.

He banged the top of the car. Hard.

The bursting sound—plus his violent expression—inspired Bailey to wail a scream that pierced the silence inside her car.

The keys fell from her quaking fingers, dropped onto the floorboard, and bounced sideways. She reached blindly and felt, but the keys weren’t there. She kicked her feet until they sounded, jangling, then she dragged them with her heel until her fingers could reach them.

“Close your eyes, Bailey!” Mr. Renly shouted.

She ignored him, worked the keys in her shaky fingers, and plied the larger ignition key from the rest.

He slammed the shovel into the window beside her ear. The glass burst instantly, throwing shards into the car, and against the side of her face. Her eyes closed with protective reflex, and when she reopened them, she saw the pale white serpent of his arm, with vicious fangs, reaching in.

He grabbed her shoulder, but she tore away, leaning hard to the right. His hand pulled back, fingering for the lock release on the inside of the door.

Frantically, Bailey cocked her leg, bringing it in front of the steering wheel, and slammed her foot against his hand, pinning it, grinding it, and trying to smash it raw. At the same time, she worked the car key into the ignition and cranked it to the right.

The starter whined with rotary tension, but the engine wouldn’t pop.

Then it did!

Sputtering miraculously to life!

Sitting upright, Bailey dropped her left foot to the floor, releasing Renly’s hand. He removed his arm from inside the window, as Bailey levered the drivetrain into reverse. She stomped the accelerator, throwing gravel, and cranked the steering wheel hard. Her car jerked backward, its front end going left, and Stuart Renly reached in after her again.