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Fuck, I can’t go on like this anymore.
The soft pad of Shiloh’s feet startles me as she finally rolls off the bed and heads into the bathroom. I wait a few minutes while the shower runs before I shuffle out from underneath the bed.
Shoving my dick back into my slacks, I hastily buckle my belt as I make my way back down the stairs. The sorry state of my sticky boxers is a gross reminder of what I’ve been reduced to as I chase this renewed addiction.
Enough is enough.
I know Shiloh wanted me once, her diaries prove it. I’m not going to hold myself back from reigniting that curiosity in her. That hunger.
Consequences be damned, I want to hear those breathy moans again and again. I want to drag them out of her with my own hands.
And I won’t rest until it’s my name escaping those lips.
11
SHILOH
The momentI walk into my classroom on Tuesday morning, the fluorescent lights flicker to life. I try to ignore the creeping unease as I remind myself their erratic stuttering is due to the school’s ancient electric wiring and nothing to do with some ghostly presence.
The incident at Fairchild Manor clings to me like a cobweb, refusing to be brushed aside no matter how many times I tell myself it was just a stupid prank. Not only that, but Dominic’s infuriating disappearance after all his grand promises about funding the Ball nags at me day and night.
Pile all that in with the strange happenings at my house, and I’m just about ready to book myself in for a lobotomy.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of whiteboard markers and adolescent angst. It’s calming, in its own way. I paste on what I hope is a convincing smile and walk to my desk, dropping my bag with a thud that echoes ominously in the empty room.
Get a fucking grip, Shiloh. It’s just another day at work. Nothing creepy here.
Soon after, students begin to arrive in a cacophony of chatter and shuffling feet. I busy myself arranging my notes, pretending I don’t notice the curious glances thrown my way. Do I look as disheveled as I feel? I smooth down my skirt, wishing I’d taken the time to iron it this morning instead of stumbling out the door like a mindless zombie.
I shove the regret aside and clear my throat. “Okay, everyone. Settle down. Books out, please. We’re diving straight back into the Woman in Black this morning.”
There’s a collective groan from my sophomore class, punctuated by the rustle of backpacks and the flipping of book pages. My smile grows a little more genuine, the theatrical displays of displeasure a familiar comfort in this line of work.
“Alright, who can summarize the scene where Arthur Kipps sees the Woman in Black for the first time?” I ask, leaning against my desk as I settle into doing what I do best. “Anyone? Come on, guys, at least one of you must have done the reading. You’re breaking my heart!”
I breathe a sigh of relief as a few hesitant hands are raised. I call on Amanda, a usually quiet girl in the back row who always has her nose buried in a book. No guesses for who she reminds me of.
“Um, so, Arthur is at Alice Drablow’s funeral, and he notices this woman standing apart from everyone else. She looks all sick and like she’s wasting away. Then, when he goes to approach her, she just like, vanishes.”
“Excellent, Amanda, thank you. Now, what I want us to focus on today is how the author makes this scene particularly unsettling. What techniques does she use in the writing?”
The class sits silent yet again, a sea of blank faces staring back at me. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. It’s going to be one of those days.
“Let’s break it down, shall we? Start with the setting. Where is Arthur when this scene takes place?”
“In a church,” someone calls out from the front row.
“Exactly,” I say, turning to write it on the whiteboard. “And what is the weather like that day?”
“Foggy,” another student pipes up. “Cold, I guess.”
I nod encouragingly, adding the answers to my list. “A little bit of pathetic fallacy here, couldn’t we say? What else makes this scene a little creepy?”
Slowly, but surely, more students find the courage to voice their thoughts. We talk through the use of sensory details, the way the author builds tensions through describing the main character’s mounting unease. I’m sure I even see sparks of interest igniting in a few eyes, and it instantly improves my mood. This is why I became a teacher, to pass on my love of literature, to help my students see the magic that words can hold.
As the discussion picks up steam, I feel myself relaxing more than I have in a week. The events that have been plaguing me fade into the recesses of my mind, swept into the background while I’m engrossed in my chosen profession.
“I think the creepiest part,” Jake, one of my more outspoken students, chimes in from his seat in the back row, “is how the Woman in Black just appears out of nowhere. Like, imagine you’re just chilling at some stranger’s funeral, and thenboomthere’s this ghost lady lurking behind you. That would be freaky as hell.”
