Night in the room below

So a few months ago, right around Halloween, I wrote a short ghost story, read and enjoy on this chilly night. :)
p.s. I've never actually seen Goonies, but meh...



From childhood until adolescence I attended a small private Catholic school in Denver. St. James was by no means the richest nor strictest parochial school in Colorado, we were spectacularly average in nearly every way possible. However, St. James was an institution founded in the mid 1940s, and with time comes tradition, tradition then begets legend, and legend begets the whispers murmured between wide-eyed youth passing between the old stone halls.
The most famous legend of the school started with a student in 1954. This particular student’s name was George, and though his name was passed down through the decades between mere school children, the basics of his tale remain the same: George was a bright, confident eighth-grader on his way to graduating with honors. On the annual retreat to the mountains at the end of the semester, while trying to impress a girl, George tripped, hit his head, and drowned in a lake.
George’s name still remains on a small bronze plaque hanging over the entrance to the gymnasium, a small, silent reminder of a boy long gone. though it was a long forty years between the hanging of that memorial and my attendance, many still believe Georgie was still with the school, in spirit. Students would often speak of strange happenings and would write them off as Georgie trying to get attention. He was the one student with a pristine attendance record, there every day to flush toilets, rattle fans, turn out lights and slam doors. Most of the “occurrences” happen in and around one place, below the cold marble and stained glass, in a room no one dared enter without a friend and a prayer, let alone at night.
The anatomy of the school centered around three locations, a large grand hall built in the late sixties which served as the cafeteria and event room, an ornate gymnasium complete with a full dramatic stage and meticulously painted wood floors, and below the gym, a large empty dark room that no official could really decide what to do with. These places were quite literally the foundation of the entire school.
The room below consisted of several sections: a marble lobby with empty trophy cases, two restrooms, a large locker room for the boys and the main hall. The hall was generic enough, with tile floors and fluorescent lighting, remnants of a mid seventies makeover neglected by the present. upon the farthest wall lay a small, carpeted stage elevated from the tile, with marble shelves jutting out of the wall from behind. It was originally a makeshift church-come-bomb shelter, the cornerstone of a wartime religious institution. When the mod-style church was erected across the street, the room became a Bingo hall, then a cafeteria, then once the main hall was finally finished, it was simply abandoned. I remember it mostly as storage, a mash up of old theatre set pieces and extra tables with metal folding chairs neatly stacked in rows throughout the piles.It was in this once holy sanctuary I came to know the boy who never left.
It was a cold November and I was on the Junior Varsity basketball team. Before the game we gathered in the boys’ locker room for a team talk, then disbursed for the varsity game, due to a limited budget we only had one set of coaches, and we were left to our own devices below. Some of us snacked and chatted, others stretched and went to watch the older boys play, My friends Brenden, Ryan and I were the former.
We laughed and teased as we stared at the towering stacks of lockers in the flickering yellow light. I wondered fleetingly if they had ever actually been used, along with showers and extra toilets, for that matter. As long as i had attended St. James, from kindergarten through eighth grade, the locker room was used for brief sports meetings, a refuge for lecherous students, and a charity Haunted House at Halloween time. Everyone knew it was never used as a genuine locker room anymore, there were more efficient facilities behind the gym nowadays, but it was never renovated, scraped, or changed in the slightest. It was an abandoned relic of a past era, and my mind briefly settled on that odd sentiment, like hearing a grandparent speak of an old, dead friend.
We heard faint cheering and the pounding of footsteps followed by a buzzer, the game had reached half, it was almost showtime for the fifth graders. We ventured into the hall and gathered our sports bags when a set of footsteps strayed from the commotion upstairs, someone was coming down below. Initially we thought it to be a teammate, but dark, torn jeans and skateboard sneakers belied my expectations.
Sean Peck was in High School at this point, he was never the brightest, or toughest, or really the best at anything in his time as a student at St. James, always blending into the background (He did, however, earn the nickname “Wolfman” due to his sharp features and wiley mane). He found new promise in high school, a stereotypical rebel teen with even longer, unrulier hair and a purposefully wicked grin at his disposal. This night he had grown bored of watching his brother play basketball, and his parents, like all ours, were either shilling concessions or helping officiate, Catholic youth sports were bizarrely autonomous, so Wolfman Peck had decided to wander down to see what prey he might be able to play with.
The Big Bad Wolf trotted further down the marble steps to find three little piggies exactly how he’d like them; vulnerable and gullible. He barked a slur our way and hurled insults like they were knives. The sight of a foul mouthed ninth grader drawing near was too much for Brenden, the smallest and youngest of us, who cut and run with hardly a huff or puff, leaving only two of us.
Knowing my parents were nary a shout away, I played it cool, praying the scoreboard clock reached zero and the parents were free. Ryan, on the other hand, was a genuinely tough kid who had a bit of a hard upbringing, from his point of view the night got a little more interesting, and decided to respond to Wolfman’s unprovoked provoking with more of the same; playful insults followed by a faux-cool “wassup.”
The Wolf was faking boredom and asked if we’d like to go explore, he conversed with us as children who were five, not twelve. Ryan agreed in an instant, jumping at the chance to be cooler and more mature. I was hesitant, the game was almost over and I couldn’t afford to risk missing warm ups and get benched, that or end up beaten up in the alleyway out back by a sadistic older kid, neither was a viable option. The Wolf then strode over to the seemingly locked doors leading to the old cafeteria, Ryan trailing close behind, and with a swift jerking motion opened the door. A cold breeze rushed out, like a sigh of a waking giant whose eyes had just been forced open. i knew the night had taken a turn for the worse, and that’s when he threw our bags in.
I could barely believe he’d open that door, he broke a primal rule and broke a, practically, ancient seal, and in one step made us accessories to his sin. He gestured for us to go in, we just had to race a couple feet and grab our things, then it was up to the game to let out some pent up aggression, or vomit, whichever came first I assumed.
I literally felt the fearful expression on my face as I hesitantly moved towards the door, it was instinct, not reason that propelled me to go in instead of get help. Ryan was a foot in front of me. Shooting a nasty glare at the Wolf, he strode into the dark and i scrambled to follow. Trying not to look around I made a B-line for my scattered belongings and scooped them up as quick as possible. There was a sharp clang of metal on metal that shoved me out of my comfort zone. The darkness was all consuming as the slamming door cut off our light and safety. The small window in the large metal door was our only source of light, partially obscured by the Wolf’s laughing head and massive hair, panic had set in and tears were sure to follow.
We saw Wolfman Peck make his grand exit up the stairs, a little more pep in his step, and with him all my semblances of hope and logic. I immediately tried the door, still locked, looking back it seemed locked tighter on the inside, not a fortress but a prison. Ryan was facing the other way, staring at a faint, green light in the distance, beyond what I knew to be the old Bingo stand. It was an exit sign, the back exit was there, lying beyond cardboard volcanoes and anachronistic holiday decor, seemingly miles away.
I felt an intense sense of foreboding as we began our journey across the blackness, i felt like we were intruding, nihilistic students tempting fate itself. This place belonged to somebody, and that somebody was not us. Attempting to calm myself was first, make it a game, I thought of The Goonies and Indiana Jones, we were here, explorers in the heart of some modern ruin.
Another loud clang broke my imagination and my silence as i yelped, something had knocked over a stack of chairs on the other side of the room. We stopped out of terrible awe as more chairs toppled in an irregular pattern, no domino effect there. There were footstep and more crashes, we trespassers had been found out. Somewhere far off, the final buzzer rang.
We broke into a brisk sprint and a bout of screaming, there was a terrible cold at our backs and things were falling everywhere, it was almost disgustingly humid. I began to silently pray which quickly turned to silent begging, I deserved none of this and no one would ever know that. I was out of breath when we reached the exit, Ryan turned to me briefly before opening the door. I turned one last time to see what we were running from, there was nothing behind us but a mass of toppled junk. Past the Bingo stand, near the old carpet altar, there was the quietest sound. The sound was distinctly human and strangely childish, but whether it was sobbing or giggling I still cannot attest. We made our way outside to get to the main entrance, ready for anything at that point. The freezing night air snapping me out of my delirium, whether panic or terror it didn’t matter anymore, i was okay. Leaving that place was a breath of fresh air like climbing out of the deep, dark lake below.