A Predator In Creation

Crime Fiction by William Foulke

The kitchen was alive with midmorning light as the sun chased the clouds across the April sky. On the checked placemat at the linoleum table was her untouched coffee, the remains of her bagel, The Slate County Courier still to be read. The front-page headline read WOODLAND WANDERER BEHEADS SIXTH.

She read the story, and…

Suddenly, it all seemed impossible to forget. Although, it was twenty years ago when Charity Fairchild was called to The Tomorrow Hope School in Whitewood.

She killed the radio and parked her Hyundai in the private school’s bus lane. Springsteen’s voice died mid-lyric singing about needing a spark to build a fire. It was “Take Me Back Tuesday” on the WWC college radio station, but she wished immediately she could be taken somewhere—anywhere—than her son Andrew’s school.

No direct reason had been provided for why her presence was requested, but for Charity, it was no stretch of the imagination that it had something to do with her son. The principal—Jackson Worthington—didn’t exactly request conferences to exchange hasenpfeffer recipes.

She took a moment before getting out of the car to check herself in the rear-view mirror. Her twenty-five-year-old face—only slightly edged under the eyes from smoking a pack a day since her fourteenth birthday—could still look presentable with minimal makeup. Sure, she was in her uniform—a vintage yellow dress all the waitresses at the Mill Luncheon wore—but Charity thought she looked far from terrible. She re-positioned her headband after smoothing back the stray, shoulder-length blonde hairs which had escaped its imprisonment, brushed the crumbs off the grease-stained folds of her uniform, and went inside.

The main office was on the left, right inside the entrance. It was well-marked with a neat little embossed metal sign, complete with braille underneath. Everything in The Tomorrow Hope School was labeled accordingly, directing people with the means to afford tuition—like the parents of Andrew’s classmates—where to go at all times and boasting to those without the green to belong—like Andrew and Charity—that their signage probably cost as much as their yearly rent. Charity hated the private school, but the last thing her father would stand for was any grandson of his attending public school. Even for a bastard conceived at seventeen, as he enjoyed saying whenever he mentioned Andrew’s tuition every Christmas.

Those little signs still pissed her off whenever she saw them. And she saw them a lot. She’d been in The Tomorrow Hope School so often for problems with Andrew that the building almost seemed frozen in time. The after-school club sign-up sheets and brightly colored posters taped to the main office windows the only pieces which changed. She nodded to the secretary—who by Andrew’s third year in school now recognized her by sight—and took a seat while she waited for the principal to be notified of her arrival.

Praying it wouldn’t be another animal.

Charity didn’t know what she would do if it was another dead animal. Last time, it had been a wild rabbit from down the street, and while Andrew had insisted it was dead when he found it, part of her wondered. Her mind keeping her up late into the night sometimes while her husband, Jake, snored beside her after one too many Pabst Blue Ribbons mixed with his painkillers.

It wasn’t the kind of thing a mother ever talked about. No woman wanted to ever talk—or even think—ill of their child. The bond between a mother and child was sacred. One of the only sacred bonds left in the world. She loved him. She was proud of him, despite his issues. She believed he could grow out of his behavior if given the chance.

But not many mothers had a child quite like Andrew.

“Mr. Worthington will see you now,” the secretary’s face was plastic-nice.

Momentarily freed from her fears, she manufactured a smile and went into the principal’s office.

“Mrs. Fairchild, thank you for coming down.” Jackson Worthington didn’t bother to get up from where he sat behind his polished oak desk. He was framed by Jason Booth, Andrew’s third-grade teacher, and her somber son. An empty chair sat directly in front of his desk for her. The immaculate office was cheerfully painted in bright cream but today the overcast sky made it white and bleak. “Won’t you please have a seat?”

“Good afternoon.” Charity’s tone was cool. A silent plead of not another rabbit in the back of her mind. “I’m sorry, I came as fast as I could.”

“Oh, you’re fine,” Mr. Worthington’s pallid face was dazed. Like he didn’t believe himself, the heavyset man repeated. “Fine.”

Mr. Booth’s brown eyes locked with hers; he offered a half-smile before turning away.

“Actually, I would like to thank you for meeting on such short notice. I can imagine you have a busy work schedule.” The principal shifted uncomfortably. Charity tensed; the discussions tended to be worse when he squirmed.

She said nothing.

“Since we’re all here, maybe we should get started,” Mr. Booth did not look at either the parent or child. He locked his gaze with Worthington, who looked away. Noticeably uneasy.

The principal swallowed. “Alright.” He sat forward in his chair, forcibly not making eye contact with either. “Mr. Booth here has presented some concerns—”

“Such as?” Charity faced Mr. Booth.

“Concerns would be an understatement,” Booth said coldly, “Your child is—”

“Jason,” Mr. Worthington cut him off. His eyes leveled on him. He silently indicated Andrew. The blonde third-grader was glaring at both members of the faculty—something she wouldn’t recall until years later, when the articles were printed about their murders. When all was quiet, the principal made a smile and finally acknowledged the boy. “Andrew, would you mind taking a seat in the waiting room? We won’t be very long.”

Andrew’s expression softened but not enough to decrease the tension in the room. He turned to Charity.

“Go on,” she managed for her son. “I’ll be out soon.”

Without a word, the boy left the room.

“Mr. Booth,” Charity’s words were a near-hiss, “I’d appreciate it if you could maintain at least a semblance of professionalism.” She locked eyes with him to emphasize her anger. It was not her first parent-teacher conference with him; his displeasure with Andrew only intensified with each meeting. “Can you do that?”

“Certainly,” he offered reluctantly. “I have some serious concerns, however, for Andrew’s emotional and psychological well-being. And I think you can appreciate that this is not the first time we’ve had this conversation, Mrs. Fairchild.”

“What has he done this time?”

“We suspect he might have harmed Buttons, Mr. Booth’s classroom pet.” Mr. Worthington was grim. He moved again in his leather office chair, searching for the right words.

“What do you mean ‘might have’?”

“Well, we can’t prove it—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jackson,” Booth interrupted. He wheeled around. “Your son killed the class guinea pig.”

“Jason—” Mr. Worthing started.

But Booth was already telling the story. The late guinea pig—Buttons—had resided in classroom 104 for almost four years. Students who did exceptionally well in class sometimes got five minutes to hold Buttons as incentive for their hard work. On the last day of her short life, Booth was assigning a make-up test to another student in the hall. While the teacher was out of the room, someone jammed a pencil through the bars of Buttons’ cage right into her side. Two students claimed it was Andrew who had stuck the guinea pig.

Charity listened, unwilling to accept his words. But she understood now. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Whoever stuck Buttons did a pretty good job. Jammed the pencil about two inches in. I didn’t realize what was going on until I heard the cry.” Booth’s eyes were daggers pinning to her. As if he knew what he was saying would forever stick with her—understood she’d think of them every time the Woodland Wanderer made the news. “I had to call my wife to come take her to the vet since I couldn’t leave the kids. Do you know what sound a guinea pig makes when it’s injured? It shrieked until the moment it bled to death on the front seat of my wife’s car.”

“Jason,” Worthington chided him. But the damage was done. The words hit home with every headline. And she could imagine it then too—see its tiny body thrash trying to dislodge the pencil as it was jammed deep into its skin. Unaware that the more it squirmed, it was worsening its wound. Writing its own eulogy in its fit of ear-splitting squeals.

Worthington tried to salvage the conference, but even he was squeamish Charity saw. “We’re certainly not here to accuse—”

“I feel like there’s something more you’d like to say,” Charity seized her opportunity. It was a cheap shot but all she could do to derail the conversation. The truth was she was afraid. But she couldn’t admit that. “And I’m not talking about your poor guinea pig, Mr. Booth.”

His jaw was tombstone stiff, and she knew she succeeded. He tightened his fists to retain control. Thumbs playing with the end of his striped tie. “All I’m saying, Mrs. Fairchild, is that this is not the first problem,” he almost choked on the choice of word, “that we’ve had with Andrew.”

“Oh, really, and what other problems have we had with my son?” She wasn’t stupid; she already knew what the teacher would reference. All she had to do to derail their agenda was to hold out and push his buttons.

“I think we’re straying—” Worthington started.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Booth scoffed. His expression was incredulous, not realizing he’d just made a mistake. Charity played to his temper. And won. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

“Jason,” Worthington hissed.

Silence descended on the room.

“I will not tolerate disrespect to a parent—any parent—in my school. Do you understand?” He was rigid, half-risen from his seat as if he were admonishing a child. Booth did not face him.

More quiet; Charity felt bad for Booth. He wasn’t the first teacher with which she had had these kinds of conferences. He wasn’t the last, either. Maybe just the most inexperienced—he couldn’t have been teaching more than two years. Too new not to take the bait she’d presented. Too inexperienced to recognize the ploy such meetings taught her to weaponize.

Mr. Worthington retook his seat. “Jason,” his tone softened, “I think maybe you said something you didn’t mean.”

“Yes, sir.” He still didn’t meet the stern gaze.

“I think you owe Mrs. Fairchild an apology.”

At last, the young teacher straightened. He hesitated before looking at his superior—then turned to Charity. He swallowed, struggling with the words. Then like a well-trained pet: “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Fairchild. What I said was…very inappropriate. I hope you can accept my sincere apology.”

“Thank you, Mr. Booth.”

The young teacher reluctantly nodded.

“Jason, I’m sure you have quite a lot to work on and want to get back to it.” Mr. Worthington smiled, pleased that order was restored to the conference. The play-yard word brawling was done for the day. “Why don’t you do that, and Mrs. Fairchild and I can wrap this up alone?”

He nodded. She could barely hear him mutter, “Thank you, sir.” He left the office. Leaving the parent and the principal alone.

Worthington still smiled. “I’m sorry for his frustration, Mrs. Fairchild, but I think you can appreciate his perspective. Even if you may not agree with him.” He clasped his ringed fingers together on the top of his desk. His gaze was paternal, wise to her.

She did not speak.

“We’ve had several incidents involving Andrew, and it’s not fair to say that they’re isolated to Mr. Booth’s class.” From beneath the pile of papers on his desk, he produced a folder. Charity knew it must have been her son’s file. He spread it open before continuing. “Last year, he bit two students. And another boy got a nasty bruise in the bathroom.”

“I remember that as hearsay.” It wasn’t.

“Maybe.” His tone was gentle. He kept his smile. “But there are more incidents, Mrs. Fairchild. And I think you know there are more.”

She said nothing. Knowing even back then that it was true. He didn’t need to read them. She knew what they were. Locking another student in a storage room. Ripping out a girl’s hair during recess. Even scratching one of his teachers on the face. This was the fifth parent-teacher conference she’d attended at the school, and the territory was no longer new. The familiar conversations were so formulaic she’d learned to handle them.

Except today.

He closed the file but kept it in front of him. The humor was gone from his face, and Charity could feel the shift in the room. This wasn’t like the other conferences. “Mrs. Fairchild, despite Mr. Booth’s unprofessional conduct, I sympathize with his concerns for Andrew. Mr. Booth wants the best for him. I, Mrs. Fairchild, want the best for Andrew. I hope you can appreciate that.”

Charity watched cautiously.

The principal chose his words carefully. “We’re concerned for Andrew, Mrs. Fairchild, because there appears to be a pattern of coincidences and behavior at work. Whether these are intentional or just instances of bad luck, neither of us can say. But I think you can appreciate that we don’t want to see Andrew—or anyone—in a potentially unsafe situation.” He produced another smile for emphasis, but there was nothing about his tone that was jovial.

“What are you saying?” She eyed him, sensing whatever footing she’d had was disintegrating at a rapid speed. Despite her fears, she knew Andrew wouldn’t be this way forever. He just needed to grow.

He sighed. “There’s no easy way to broach this, so I guess I’ll stop dancing around it. Mrs. Fairchild, we’re recommending psychological testing for Andrew.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Now,” he held up a hand as he elaborated, “there are several fine facilities—”

“Nuthouses.”

“Mrs. Fairchild—” He started.

“No,” Charity’s tone was ice. It was the decision which sentenced six confirmed victims to death. But the first thought that entered her mind was the image of her mother-in-law. Jake’s mother had been institutionalized for the last three years. They’d gone to visit her last Easter, but she was doped up on enough haloperidol that she didn’t know they were there. She only stared dreamy-eyed into space while she shit herself. Charity couldn’t do that to Andrew. “I won’t do it.”

He stared at her, briefly surprised she’d defied him. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

“No?”

“No,” Mr. Worthington said simply. “We may not have much to prove Andrew’s involvement,” He paused for effect. “But if you should refuse to abide by our recommendation for psychological testing, then we can say that Andrew is no longer welcome to attend this school.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I’m afraid that I can,” he said, “and I will. Other private schools have expelled children for less.”

“You’d really do that?”

“Of course. Cruelty to animals is a serious charge in the state of Pennsylvania—punishable by a $15,000 fine or a third-degree felony charge if the perpetrator is an adult. I’m not sure that applies to children, but…” He never blinked. “While we are inclined to let that go because it would probably be difficult to prove, we will maintain the safety of students and faculty in this school.”

“I can’t afford another school.” Charity snapped. “Where the hell is he supposed to go?”

“I’m afraid that would be your issue to deal with, Mrs. Fairchild.” Worthington frowned; it was not genuine. This threat must have worked on parents before. “Public school is always an option.”

Another silence. But this time, Charity was the one to break it. She got to her feet and slung her purse over her shoulder. She didn’t need to listen to this. Although when she read the first headline years later, she wished she’d stayed. “I guess we’re done here then.”

He said nothing.

She went to the door, stopped, then turned back to face him. And for a moment, Charity saw his face change. The control was gone, replaced by—what? Something in his face that she didn’t understand. It was fear, she’d realize. “I’ll be withdrawing my son, effective immediately.”

“Please.” His professional tone obliterated; voice low. He swallowed. Like he gazed into the future knew what Andrew would become. “Don’t do this, Mrs. Fairchild… Just take some time and think it over.”

She didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. Charity turned and left and withdrew Andrew Fairchild from private school the next day, against her father’s fury. She enrolled him in public school—afraid deep down what a psychologist might discover if they dared to open the Pandora’s box that was his mind—and tried to ignore every peculiarity when they arose. Wondering what might have happened if she’d fulfilled Worthington’s request. Or if charges were pressed for Buttons’ murder.

When it was too late to save anyone.

She took the string of raccoons and squirrels and even the fawn found rotting in the woods behind her house as nothing more than coincidence. Ignoring the way the wild rabbits stopped eating the plants in her front garden, justifying why the neighborhood cats never came into their yard anymore. Even when she could not hide from the truth deep within her. Because she knew, just as the animals knew.

Understood a predator was in creation.

It started with a boy who habitually ripped the heads off his gummy bears and lined them up in a neat row so their soulless eyes could watch him eat their bodies. A child who found he enjoyed the feel of dissecting things and experimented with the feeling of taking apart living things. Not to see how they worked but to see how long until they died. And he became a teenager with few people Charity thought were his friends—other kids who might have hung out once but were too squeamish to come around again. Because they sensed the same thing the animals did.

A predator in creation.

Charity sipped her coffee. Her mind too many flashes of memories to count now, that final parent-teacher conference with Mr. Worthington twenty years ago at The Tomorrow Hope School the most important of them. Like the trigger to an atom bomb, releasing countless causes and effects spanning years and tension and dead things until that moment in her kitchen. No husband because he had long since run off with one of her coworkers. No friends because they were too afraid of the son who still lived in her attic. No one at all to share her suspicions with or to confide in. Only her memories, her only son.

And the news articles.

The floorboards creaked above her head. Andrew must have been down from the attic. She tore the newspaper page out and folded it so the article could still be read. Then she took it into her bedroom. Charity didn’t feel safe talking to him right after reading about his activities.

And the last thing she wanted was for him to see her reading the newspaper. She’d made the mistake once of leaving an article on the counter, after the body of the second co-ed had been found. Andrew had listened in on her phone calls in the weeks afterward. The minute click mid-call when he’d hung up gave it away.

She waited until she heard him exit the kitchen door. Only when she was certain she’d heard his car—probably on his way to scout another victim—did she open her underwear drawer. It was the only drawer in her dresser he wouldn’t touch. He was respectful enough of that privacy. All of the other ones had been searched. Probably, Charity thought, he still had moments of paranoia. She didn’t want to lose her head; the police were still looking for the one belonging to the third victim.

Her hands dug deep and unearthed Andrew’s baby book from beneath the neatly folded stacks of bras and panties. She opened it to a fresh page.

She wasn’t proud of the Woodland Wanderer. There were nights when Charity found it difficult to sleep because she’d noticed something peculiar. A pair of earrings that didn’t belong to her. A lock of hair not her shade with blotches of dried blood. Once even a broken knife—around the time the police found part of a murder weapon at a crime scene.

But she was proud of her son, Andrew, because she could still lie to herself that they were two different people—when reality got just a little too heavy for her.

As much as he scared her, that didn’t change that she was still his mother. That bond superseded everything. Even a few loose college girls disappearing from their dorms. Even the unconnected murders of Jason Booth and Jackson Worthington. Because he still brought her flowers every Mother’s Day and gave her jewelry for Christmas, even if the pieces didn’t come with a box.

She would deal with the nightmares and her fear of him because she’d already made the choice long ago to always support him—the day she’d withdrawn him from The Tomorrow Hope School. And with every day following, when she did nothing but watch his transformation. Because when your child was good at something—anything—you made damn certain you were proud of him.

No matter how disturbing that might be.

She found the Scotch tape in her nightstand and taped the article in the book. Then she flipped the pages back to the beginning, past the headlines she collected of his achievements, the multitudes of unenthusiastic school pictures, and the morbid crayon drawings he created as a child. Staring at them like the first person on Earth to realize what hurts cause death.

Then she closed the well-worn vinyl cover of the book.

Wondering for a second how many people her choice would kill.

Bio: William Foulke is the MFA graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts who aims to become the next Master of Horror. When he’s not exploring the curious and the terrifying at his keyboard, he enjoys traveling to unique destinations. He resides in Pennsylvania where he’s working on his first novel. He can be found at his website HERE. You can read his other story “Good Friends” on The Yard. HERE.

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