Little School of Horrors

Knock, knock knock! No one had knocked on my door for eight years. Now, the rapping is loud, insistent. Its echo stirs my desolate corridors. I used to hear laughter. And shouting, and whispers too. I comforted occasional weeping in a quiet corner, and I sheltered little people from rain. I was their ship that sailed them to a future of letters, numbers, creativity; I was a conduit for friendships, connections, and finished projects.

I hear nothing now, but the whistle of the wind seeping through cracks and keyholes, or the rattle of rain on my mildewed windows. Under the frequent grey of a heavy northern-english sky, in an underpopulated Yorkshire village, I feel like Atlas. Often I hear silence, or I shudder at scratches of tiny mouse feet scurrying to shelter behind peeling gloss-layered skirting boards. I am a school without children. I am a primary school omitted from CV’s. Too costly, the council declared, so now I'm an empty belly. When you've served and sheltered so many young children, you will hear the quieter creaks of old, now useless bones, feel the ache of loss, long for high pitched voices to bounce from your walls. I fear a long slow death, with no burial, no memorial. Perhaps I'll live as a sepia backdrop in a faded sports day photo in someone's attic?

This seemed to be where I was heading, until tonight when I hear voices. I tense with the anticipation as the chatter of young teens grows louder. They're coming to me I think, finally, a balm for my loneliness. I breathe out with such rigour that I whip-up a wind, mobilising the birch trees that line the school perimeter. They swoosh the sky, sweeping the clouds, like brooms. Remaining litter skittles along shoe-smoothed paths, and swirls through the air like an explosion of missiles. Faded crisp packets, lost socks, and discarded artwork fly into hornbeam hedges, wedged like detritus blooms in their branches.

As the debris swarms around them, the voices of the young adults change pitch, reach higher octaves, screams of exhilaration,

'Quick, let’s hide in that old school.'

Footsteps running. Giggles.

‘Ha ha! Do you think there’s anyone in? We should knock. There might be a squatter.’

More laughter.

'Stop pissing about and get that door open Ollie; I'm about to get blown to heaven!'

'You? Heaven? Ha! I think they've got a restraining order against you up there Beth', Ollie laughs while Beth shoves him hard into the door.

Their knocking on my door is a song; a hand pushing it is a caress; shoes walking on my parquet floor, a massage. Twelve feet, I count as the group bursts in. Six voices screeching and laughing, coating my walls and ceilings with moist breath.

'This is perfect! Ollie, you've got the vodka right?’ One of the voices asks, eager to get started.

I want to breathe out at last, hug them tight within my crumbling plaster, rotting timber, and shaky foundations. I want to embrace them like a loving grandmother. I want to knit them into the folds of my threadbare blanket and fill their eager young minds with all my stories, all the wisdom I've gleaned over the years of learning. I listened well in all the classes. I listened to every clandestine conversation and read every anonimous message scratched into desk lids and benches.

More laughter erupts. I laugh along too--after all, I love a good party. The eddies increase, slam my door shut; my exhale seals my windows; solders my cracks. I sing! My haunting hum of satisfaction raises the young voices until they scream, finally, filling my belly.