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ONE – Gertrude Robinson
To Roeland Primary School teacher Kathryn Robinson, it was a fact of life that eight-year-old Jonathan “please just call me Jon” Sims was to be picked up at the end of every day by Fiona Law.
Ms. Law was an older woman, greying hair pulled into a neat braid, a gentle smile always pressing into her cheeks. She had a cheerful demeanour, unending optimism, and a bright voice that never failed to lighten Kathryn’s day.
Which is why, when an unfamiliar voice called Jon’s name through Kathryn’s class door, she was surprised to find a woman, not unlike Ms. Law in stature, but far sharper around the edges. Kathryn quickly started sorting through her desk, searching for Jon’s paperwork. It didn’t take long to find a slip twice-signed indicating that Jon would be picked up by someone named ‘Getrude Robinson’.
Kathryn spared a glance at Jon; he was still in his seat, nose buried in a book, the only child remaining of her class of twenty-one after the long school day.
“Jon?”
Jon immediately looked up at her.
“Ms. Robinson is here to pick you up.”
It was only then that the boy seemed to notice Ms. Robinson, his face contorting into genuine confusion.
“Really? How the hell did he convince you to come?”
“Jon, language!” “ Jonathan .” Kathryn and Ms. Robinson scolded simultaneously.
“I can’t help being curious. I’m supposed to be eight . What was it, then?”
“As if you don’t already Know,” Ms. Robinson muttered.
That response caught Kathryn off-guard. “Wha—”
Jon cut her off with a scoff. “You don’t need to be doing chores like picking me up to get funding. Everyone knows he finds you intimidating.”
“ Jonathan . Now is hardly the time. And apologise to your teacher. You cut her off, you know.”
Jon’s face fell, guilt practically dripping off his small frame. Kathryn felt her heart skip a beat. She plastered on the most genuine smile she could manage.
“I–it’s alright, Ms. Robinson, I can hardly expect—”
“Please dear, call me Gertrude.”
Ah, so this was a case of the pot calling the kettle black.
“Gertrude, then,” Kathryn politely corrected. “Really, it’s alright. I’ve never heard Jon so emphatic about something, so it’s a nice change. He’s usually very quiet.”
“Ah, I see. If you’re fine with that, then that’s your prerogative I suppose.”
Kathryn’s smile flickered. Was–was that meant to be an insult?
“Yes. Yes, it is my prerogative. Jon, are you ready to go?”
She spun to the boy, watching as he slammed his book shut, shoving it unceremoniously into his bookbag. He climbed out of his seat, coming to stand next to Gertrude as he gave Kathryn a nod.
Kathryn gave Jon a small wave. “I hope you have a good day, Jon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He returned it. “Bye Ms. Robinson.”
Getrude gave Kathryn a scrutinising look.
“It’s just a coincidence,” Kathryn laughed, feeling slightly numb. “I must know at least two other Robinsons. Common name, you know. According–according to the census.”
“In my line of work, dear, there’s no such thing as coincidences.”
Kathryn decided — smartly, she hoped — to ignore the implications of that statement. “It was nice meeting you, Gertrude.”
Gertrude opened her mouth to respond, shutting it as a small hand tugged at her sleeve.
Jon squinted up at the older woman, still holding onto her. “How much did he give you?”
An exasperated sigh filled the air as Gertude patted Jon’s back, ushering him toward the door.
“I really don’t understand why you don’t Know.”
“I ‘promised’ him I wouldn’t at school. You know how ‘promises’ work.”
Gertrude rolled her eyes. “ During school, dear. School ended thirty minutes ago, or thereabouts.”
“Hm. So I can—”
“I should think so.”
The boy instantly fell into concentration, green eyes wide, so lost in thought that Gertrude had to push him from Kathryn’s classroom.
As the door slammed shut, Kathryn could barely make out Jon’s bewildered gasp.
“He gave you how much ?!”
TWO — Peter Lukas
The second time someone other than Fiona Law came to pick up Jon, Kathryn hadn’t noticed he had entered her classroom until she accidentally swatted the man in the face with the filthy end of a broom.
Jon, as expected of an eight-year-old, nearly fell out of his chair out of sheer laughter.
The man — Peter Lukas, if the permission slip was to be believed — looked far less amused.
He was tall and broad, sporting the dreariest blues Kathryn had ever seen, and looking completely out of place in her brightly coloured classroom. A thought he seemed to share, if his uncomfortable grimace was anything to go by. The dust clinging to his beard probably didn’t help, either.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Lukas, I didn’t mean—”
She almost reached out to touch him, wanting to correct her mistake by brushing away the dirt she’d managed to coat the front of his sweater with. The only thing that held her back was common decency and an overwhelming sense of wrong, wrong, wrong .
Kathryn knew she made the right choice when Mr. Lukas swept past her, sending chills up her spine. It felt just like stepping into a morning fog and for a moment she felt queasy, the floor rocking gently beneath her.
“Ar–Jon,” Kathryn heard Mr. Lukas say.
Mr. Lukas towered over Jon. Jon stared up, undeterred, at this–this barge of a man, tears from his laughing fit still evident in the corners of his eyes.
“Hello, Peter.”
The use of the man’s first name almost brought a dry laugh to Kathryn’s lips. Jon had tried to use her first name a couple times. She shut that down quickly, slightly put off by the display of maturity. He’d tried to do as much with everyone in Roeland Primary, only managing it with the librarian, a lovely elderly woman probably ten times older than him.
“I’m here to pick you up,” Mr. Lukas drawled.
“I Know. Ms. Robinson, I’m going to go now.”
Kathryn gave Jon a jerky nod, doing her best to appear at ease in the presence of a man that, frankly, terrified her. She’d met a few like him, stoic and silent, but far from harmless. Still, she’d lived through worse. And for reasons unexplainable, she got the distinct feeling that as long as Jon was here, she was safe.
Jon looked as if he wanted to say something, eyebrows furrowed. In the end, he said nothing, dragging that awful man away from her with a speed that told Kathryn she hadn’t hidden her fear as well as she thought. Children were always like that — more understanding than adults thought they were.
She watched their backs disappear through the door and, for a minute, she stood there, unbreathing. She didn’t know she’d been using the edge of her desk to ground herself until her hand unclenched.
At least she wasn’t shaking any more.
THREE — Gerry Keay
When the goth teenager came, Kathryn genuinely considered quitting.
She recognized his name the moment she saw it on the permission slip: Gerard Keay, or Gerry, an intelligent young man with a penchant for breaking and entering. Assuming the rumours floating around were to be believed, of course.
It wasn’t as though she thought the worst of him. Rather the opposite, in fact. She had heard Jon talk about Gerry multiple times and he had been featured in many of Jon’s projects. He seemed to be a genuinely kind young man given a hard lot in life that meant he wasn’t able to get help until much later, but always found ways to make the most of what he had.
The grin that passed over Jon’s face every time the eight-year-old mentioned him helped her perceptions, too.
“Ms. Robinson? I’m here to pick up Jon.”
“Gerry Keay?” She looked up from the project she was grading. “Jon’s just…over…”
She blinked, unable to reconcile the Gerry standing before her with the Gerry that Jon always went on about.
“Ms. Robinson?”
The dyed black hair was fine. Oddly done, admittedly, but fine. She’d worn similarly ‘edgy’ clothes before, too, so she could hardly judge him there. It was the tattoos, the small eyes dotting every joint she could see, that nearly put her over the edge.
“Ms. Robinson?”
“I’m–” Kathryn bit her lip. She was a bit tired of apologising to the people that kept picking Jon up. Still, she’d been staring. An apology was the least she could do. “Sorry, Jon goes on about you all the time. He just never takes his time to describe you. I was a bit surprised.”
“I know, I’m a bit unsettling for people to look at.”
Kathryn hurriedly shook her head. “That’s not it at all. I’ve just had a lot of… odd experiences with the people who come to pick up Jon. It’s sort of wearing me down, you know? I’ve never even had the chance to meet his father, either, though I’m not sure I want to with the way Jon talks about him.”
She chuckled nervously. “I’m going to stop talking now.”
To her relief, Gerry snorted. “Yeah, Jon’s dad is a bit of a dick. Oh. Shiiiii– sorry . I didn’t mean to swear. Where is Jon, anyway?”
“Mrs. Miller is taking him to the restroom. He’ll be back — now, it looks like. You can come in, Jon.”
Jon poked his head into the room, scanning it. His gaze landed on Gerry and suddenly it was as if the sun had found its place in Kathryn’s doorway.
“Gerry!”
Jon hurled himself at Gerry, wrapping his small arms around the teen’s waist. Gerry ruffled his hair.
“Hey. What’s up?”
Jon wrinkled his nose. “You stink.”
“I just found a Leitner.”
“Yeah, but it’s not a burning stink. Did you fall in the garbage?”
“Something like that,” Gerry mumbled. “Shouldn’t you Know that?”
“I’m not allowed to do that during school. I ‘promised.’”
“Ah.”
“Wait, I can do it now, it’s no longer school hours—”
Gerry shot Kathryn a worried glance before turning his full attention back to Jon. “Don't until we get home, I might get murdered otherwise.” His expression split into a teasing grin when Jon’s face morphed into a look of confusion. “I’m in charge of you, you menace. Anything you do is my fault.”
It took every ounce of will Kathryn possessed to pretend she wasn’t listening in on their clearly personal conversation.
Still, the word ‘Leitner’ caught her mind, a fly in a web. It wriggled there, begging to be questioned, familiar in a way that made her ears ache the harder she thought about it.
“Ms. Robinson?”
“Sorry, Gerry, just thinking.” She winced — how many apologies was this to Jon’s guardians now? Five? Eight?
“Don’t think too hard,” Gerry joked. At least it sounded like a joke. “You might get lost inside your own head.”
Jon swatted at Gerry, pouting. “Stop messing with my teachers. Can we go home? We’ll both be in trouble if I’m not home before sunset.”
“Jon, it’s not that late.”
“Yeah, but knowing you we’ll stop in at least two different book stores before we get back. That’ll take at least three hours and by then it’ll be getting dark.”
Gerry wiggled his fingers. “Details, schmetails.”
“Gerry.” Jon tugged at Gerry’s shirt.
“Alright, we’re going. Bye, Ms. Robinson! Get home safe!”
Katheryn offered him a sweet smile and a wave. “It was nice meeting you, Gerry.”
And really, for the first time since Fiona Law, it was.
FOUR — Agnes Montague
The permission slip, doubled-signed just like all the others, sat on Kathryn’s desk for the entirety of the day. It bore a new name, unassuming and normal just like all the others.
Agnes Montague.
Kathryn didn’t know an Agnes, and certainly had no reason to be nervous about meeting her. She did spend the entirety of her break crying over it, though. The worst part of it all wasn’t even the fact that she was crying over something so stupid, it was the fact that Jon had sat through it all, calmly eating a snack as if his teacher wasn’t having a breakdown right in front of him.
He did offer her a few apple slices, bless.
When all the other students were gone for the day, leaving Jon alone with her as per usual, she spent as much time as she could busying herself with grading in an effort to distract herself from whatever horror would show up in her doorway.
Okay, that was admittedly rude, but Kathryn never dreaded meeting her other students’ guardians as much as she did Jon’s.
The way Jon kept stealing glances at her while worrying at his lip didn’t help much.
She jumped a mile when Jon suddenly shot up from his seat, swinging his backpack onto his back.
Her hand flew to her heart and she pressed her palm to it. “Jon! Don’t do that!”
“Sorry, Ms. Robinson. Agnes is going to be here soon.”
Kathryn was instantly very aware of the sound of footsteps out in the hall.
Jon came up to her desk, leaning on it with a slightly nervous expression that fell away the moment he met her confused gaze. Before she could question why he would know when his guardian would come, he nodded as if suddenly certain of something.
“You’ll be safe so long as I’m here, Ms. Robinson. Promise. It’s like a museum, like the ones you’ve taken us to a couple times. Look, don’t touch.”
The sound of footsteps stopped in Kathryn’s doorway and both teacher and student turned to their source. There stood a young woman with brilliant red hair and unkempt braids that gave Kathryn the distinct impression that a child had done them. She looked at Jon and, sure enough, the boy had small braids in his hair, each tied in bright bands identical to the ones Ms. Montague wore.
Ms. Montague took a step into the classroom. If only for a moment, Kathryn swore she felt the temperature in the room rise by two degrees. Somehow, the sensation forced Kathryn to collect herself.
“I don’t suppose you’re Ms. Montague?”
Ms. Montague nodded shyly. “That would be me, yes. And it’s Agnes, please.” She held out her hand, as if expecting Kathryn to shake it. “It’s good to meet you. Jon talks about your class a lot. He really enjoys it.”
Kathryn eyed Agnes’ hand. Like a museum. Look, don’t touch.
She was saved from making the decision of whether or not to shake it when Jon took it in her stead, setting it on his own shoulder and using it to pull himself into Agnes’ side. When he was safely settled against her, Agnes gave his shoulder a tight squeeze.
“Burn anything fun today, Jon?”
It was almost funny how serious Jon looked as he said, stern as anything, “Fire isn’t allowed, Agnes. We’ve talked about this.”
This might be it. Today might be the day Kathryn started sobbing in front of a stranger. She buried her face in her hands. What was it with the people Jon knew and arson?
“Besides, Gerry says burning things is for Leitners. And maybe Leitner himself, if we’re lucky.” Jon blinked, turning to Kathryn. “Sorry, Ms. Robinson. Can you pretend you didn’t hear that?”
There was no ‘might’ anymore. Kathryn dissolved into tears.
FIVE — Michael
Kathryn stared blankly down at the permission slip clenched in her hands. There was something inherently incorrect about it — trying to read it made her eyes burn. The name of Jon’s father was still legible, the neat calligraphy spelling out ‘Elias Bouchard’. No, it was the rest of it that was wrong, the paper folding in on itself in possible ways that made her wonder how she could even hold it.
There was a name on it, she knew, if only because of the different coloured ink staining half the page. In the end, she gave it to Jon, hoping the boy would recognize the handwriting.
He was unperturbed by the wrongness of it, releasing a long-suffering sigh that hardly belonged to an eight-year old child.
“It says Michael.”
She waited for him to finish, and, when he didn’t, prompted him to continue.
“Michael…?”
Again, that sigh. “Just Michael. Michael Shelley isn’t right anymore. At least, not all the time. And definitely not this week.”
Ominous, but not unexpected of Jon.
God, the past year really must’ve been a nightmare if this was Kathryn’s normal.
The day passed, and then it was just her and Jon. Again. Waiting for ‘Michael’.
“Jon?” she muttered, not looking up from the papers she’d been grading. At least, she thought they were papers.
“Yes, Ms. Robinson?”
“I don’t think I know which way is down. Do you?”
“No, Ms. Robinson. That’ll be Michael.”
“Ah. Please tell him to let up on the, uh, whatever the next time he comes to pick you up. I think I can taste the smell of happiness.”
There had been two impossible permission slips; Michael would be coming next Tuesday, too. Kathryn hoped she could remember when and what Tuesday was, should it come around again.
“Yes, Ms. Robinson.”
“Have a good day, Jon.”
“Bye Ms. Robinson!”
She didn’t completely recall the experience the next day and chalked her lapse in memory up to an excessive lack of sleep. She did spend her break writing up the first draft of her end-of-the-year resignation. Jon helped. Bless.
+ ONE – Elias Bouchard/Jonah Magnus
The day Jon’s father took him home, there were no permission slips.
“Ms. Robinson. Ms. Robinson. I need to speak with you.”
Mrs. Miller peered through the door, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Kathryn paused her lesson, gesturing to her full class with a sideways glance.
“Mrs. Miller, I’m in the middle of—”
“This is important, Katheryn. It’ll only take a moment.”
“I–alright.”
Mrs. Miller widened the door, letting Katheryn slip out into the hallway. Despite the privacy, Kathryn felt no less watched, as if a thousand imaginary eyes were trained on her. She looked around the halls warily, finding no one, but the sensation didn’t leave like it should have.
“There’s been a disappearance. Andrew McDowall. He was on his way back home with his sister. She came home alone, screaming about being eaten by spiders,” Mrs. Miller said in hushed tones.
“God, that’s—Andrew McDowall? As in, Amelia McDowall? The one in my class?”
Mrs. Miller nodded.
“Oh god. I knew she was going to be out for a week or two, but I didn’t think—I mean, how could I? This is… do they know anything? Was he taken?”
“Amelia seemed to think so, but, I mean, it’s hard to believe a giant monster called ‘Mr. Spider’ ate her brother.”
The feeling of being watched grew tenfold at the words and it doused Kathryn, heavy in ways that it had no right to be.
“Jon,” she felt herself say. The name fell from her lips without control, but it was the answer she sought, so she clung to it, swinging the classroom door open and rushing in. Mrs. Miller looked thoroughly confused by the outburst, less so when she saw Jon clutching the sides of his head, muttering to himself with tears in his eyes. Now kneeling next to Jon, Kathryn shared a look with her. Mrs. Miller fled, calling out for help as she went.
The other students in Kathryn’s class were practically vibrating in fear and curiosity, trying to get closer. She did her best to push them back, trying to give Jon the space he desperately needed.
“Jon, can you hear me?”
“The spider. It ate him. It’s my fault. Knock. Knock.”
“Jon, I’m going to ask you a couple questions.”
“Who is it, Mr. Spider?”
“Can you remind me of your name?”
“It’s Mr. Bluebottle. And he’s brought you a cake.”
“Jon, can you let me hold your hand? Are you okay with that?”
“Mr. Spider doesn’t like it.”
Jon met her eyes, looking exactly like someone who wanted their hand held. She could see the way he leaned toward her, arms taught at his sides, but nonetheless reaching. The watching sensation burned harshly in the back of her mind.
“Who is Mr. Spider?”
That was not what she meant to say. She bit her lip, a series of questions she felt she needed to ask pressing against the insides of her mouth.
“Mr. Spider wants another guest for dinner.”
Jon was properly crying now, tears falling to his lap in massive drops that darkened the skin on his still hands.
“It is polite to knock.”
She watched with mounting dread as Jon lifted his small fist, raising it an inch over his desk. She held her breath, watching it hover there, still.
Don’t. Don’t knock. Don’t open the door.
How many doors had she opened? Why couldn’t she find the right one? They were all the same. Where was—
Kathryn closed her eyes, breathing deeply. In. Out. She opened them, giving Jon her best smile. And then she told him the words she wished someone had been there to tell her on the worst night of her life.
“It’ll be alright, Jon. It won’t open. The door won’t open. You won’t open it. Promise.”
“Jon.”
Kathryn spun around, bewildered, finding herself facing an older man in a deep green suit, aged only by the tasteful streaks of grey in his hair and the thin lines at the corners of his eyes. His grey eyes, wild and far too old for his age, were wide with fear.
“Sir, you can’t—”
“I’m his father, don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”
He crossed the room before Kathryn had a chance to blink, sweeping Jon up as soon as the boy was within arm’s reach. Instantly, the hand Jon had folded into a fist relaxed, instead moving to cling to his father’s suit.
“*Hic* dad *hic*. It’s, *hic*, it’s all my fault . They never would have gotten it if I hadn’t–if I hadn’t—”
“Shhh. It’s alright. I’m here.”
It must say something about Kathryn that her only thought was a realisation that Jon had never called his father ‘dad’. It was always ‘Elias’, or ‘Mr. Bouchard’, or ‘that man’ if Jon was feeling particularly moody.
Suffice it to say, she stood there for a significant amount of time, trying to piece together a single instance where Jon had said ‘dad’.
Mr. Bouchard’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Ms. Robinson, I think I’m going to take him home for today.”
He shifted in place, changing his position to better bear Jon’s weight. The boy was held tight to his father’s chest, breathing softly, fast asleep. With a slightly free arm, Mr. Bouchard gestured to the door, inviting Kathryn to talk in the hallway.
Kathryn blinked, following him away from the prying eyes of her class. “Oh. Ah. Yes, I think that’s probably for the best.”
Once they were out in the hall, she drew in a sharp breath. “Jon, he–he mentioned a Mr. Spider? The police might be interested to know about that.”
Mr. Bouchard grimaced, drawing Jon closer to himself. “There’s no point, I’m afraid. Andrew McDowall is beyond saving. I think you and I know that well enough.”
“Yes, I–I think I do. I’m allowed to hope, though.”
At that, Mr. Bouchard looked at her, his fascination evident in his expression. He posed to her a question, one meant more for himself to ponder on rather than anyone else. “Even after everything you’ve lived through, you still let yourself have hope?”
Katheryn cleared her throat, averting her gaze out of annoyance more than anything else. “With all due respect, Mr. Bouchard, I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
Mr. Bouchard chuckled, falling into an easy smile. It wasn’t a nice smile. “I think I like you, Ms. Robinson. Which, truly, is not a sentence I ever thought I’d say.”
She, as with most things Jon’s guardians said, opted not to dignify that with a response. “Take care, Mr. Bouchard. I hope Jon feels better soon.”
“You too, Ms. Robinson.”
It wasn’t until he was out of sight that the intense sensation of being known left her and she could let herself breathe. She really needed to tell someone about–about all of this. Whatever this was.
What was the place that Mrs. Miller had mentioned last Wednesday? It was something odd that started with an ‘m’ — ‘the Misanthrope Institute,’ perhaps? Ah, well, whatever it was, she’d figure it out eventually.
Finding and dealing with a few crackpot, paranormal scientists couldn’t be any worse than dealing with Jon’s guardians, after all.