Hangman

Hands tucked in the pockets of his loose slacks, Mr. Potenza strolled down the deserted school hallway to his classroom.

He shook his head as he thought about his most troubled student, Stewart Bramton. He recounted the student's furious insistence that his imaginary friend, "Titus", was real. Mr. Potenza had even felt guilty as he observed Mr. and Mrs. Bramton watch their son in despair, but he couldn't stand for such blatant misbehavior.

In the end, the principal had suspended little Stewart Bramton for obsceneties he had written all over his test papers, and the foul language "Titus" forced him to blurt out in class.

As Mr. Potenza returned from the disturbing parent-teacher meeting, the haunting words of Stewart Bramton, as he was dragged out by his father, replayed over and over in his head, still in it's nine year old, but angered tone.

He's real! If you don't believe, he'll make sure it's the last thing you believe!

Of course he wasn't scared of a nine year old's imagination, but he was scared of what little Stewart may attempt in retaliation.

Now, as he fumbled through his jumble of keys to open his classroom door, Mr. Potenza decided the poor kid was just sick, and probably couldn't attend public school until he got help.

He came to the right key and slid it into the keyhole of his classroom door.
A billow of musty air swept over him, as it always had for the past twelve years when he entered room 212.

He jiggled the key out of the lock and re-closed the door, then jumped as he turned to see the writing on his chalkboard, which he had just cleaned before leaving for the meeting.

At first glance, he didn't recognize the construction of lines chalked across the fading slate surface.

"Hangman?" He asked aloud as he began to recognize the game his student's liked to play during lunch in his classroom.

Of course there was noone to answer him, but the silence in the room was as close as he would get to an agreeing response.

He looked around the room to make sure he was alone, but there was noone in the room, so the mere existence of the game on the chalkboard was impossible.

He ran his fingers over his eyebrows as he walked toward the board to have a closer look. He could see now that this wasn't put here by one of his students.

The blank spaces of the mystery word were at a perfect angle:
_ _ _ _ _


His students often produced the line very crooked, usually slanted downward subject to their third grade stature.

The structure that looked like a modification of the number seven, where the chalked man was pieced together and sometimes hung, was also of perfect design.

This was obviously not done by one of his kids. Mr. Potenza thought for a moment, and came upon Hector.

Hector was a janitor who usually didn't work until the afternoon. He sometimes brought his son, who Mr. Potenza couldn't quite put a name on, and let the boy play little games on the chalkboard while he cleaned a classroom. Hector's son was older(in turn taller) than Mr. Potenza's students, but still young enough to enjoy simple games such as hangman.

Hector had always wiped his son's games from the board after he was done, but Mr. Potenza still didn't like it. This was his classroom.
He never had the chance to complain since it never really affected him, but here was his chance, the one time he had forgotten to wipe his son's game from the board.

Mr. Potenza padded toward the door again, but was headed for the call button on the wall that contacted the main office. It was usually for misbehaving students who needed to be escorted, but was used in cases where a trip to the office was unneccesary.

He clicked the button, and a moment later, the secretary at the office answered promptly.
"Yes, Howie?"

He looked back toward his chalkboard. It was completely undisturbed aside from the perfectly chalked lines, the impression of the cloth rag he used still running across the board.
"Hi, Miriam," he began.
"Can something be done about Hector bringing his son and ruining my room after I already cleaned it for the day?"

Mr. Potenza smiled, knowing it couldn't be seen, as he would finally teach the janitor a lesson for being as unproffesional as to bring his son and let him draw all over his board.

"Yes, I know his son likes to play games on the board while he cleans," the secretary said. "But it's never been a problem, Hector's always cleaned the board afterward."

"Yes well, he's forgetten today, and I just spent a half hour scrubbing it thoroughly."
"Well, Hector called in sick today Howie, so it wasn't his kid.
"What? Then who el--"

Howie Potenza turned back toward his chalkboard, and was interupted by his own puzzling shock.

On the board, most of the lines remained blank, but the second blank space was now filled in with the lower case form of the letter I.

Looking around the room, he was sure he was alone. Had he missed it when he came in?

No, he was positive that the five lines had been blank. It would be impossible not to notice the single letter, chalked in a small pool of blank spaces.

"Howie? I didn't catch that?"

Mr. Potenza didn't respond, but walked up to the board to inspect the chalk lines, and now the single letter that ran across his board.
Nothing out of the ordinary, he thought, besides the mere existence of the child's game. It was simply chalk on the chalkboard...

"Howie?"

Mr. Potenza was unaware of the voice issued from the intercom now. He was looking along the base of the chalkboard for his pack of chalk.
He kept his chalk neatly in it's Crayola package, which he kept in his desk drawer outside of school hours.

His pack of chalk wasn't in the trench at the base of the chalkboard, nor anywhere in sight. He padded over to his desk, pulling on his desk drawer, not thinking to use his key until it remained locked in place.

He fished in his pocket for the drawer key, which was recognizable by touch--it was much smaller than the other keys.

One more issue from the speaker:
"Howie? Well, you can come on down if there's a problem with the intercom."

Found it.

He pulled out the small skeleton key and satisfied the lock, pulling the drawer far enough to seduce the muffled clank that came when you pulled a desk drawer to the end of it's track.

There the chalk pack lay, seemingly untouched since he had placed them in his drawer before he cleaned his chalk board. Just as he thought.
So who was jerking him around like this? Or, a horrifying thought called from a more primitive division of his brain: what was jerking him around like this.

Silly, he thought.
But was it?

There certainly wasn't a soul in this room. He had a small storage closet that had been opened maybe once a year in his considerable tenure at Banneker Elementary. He checked it, just in case. He had heard of too many people being naive before they were brutally murdered.

As expected, the room didn't reveal even a hint of the culprit. It was cramped with textbooks, and some came piling out as he opened the door. There wasn't room for anything in there anyway. He closed the closet and walked back toward the front of his classroom, stumped.

Mr. Potenza racked his brain as he stood in front of his board, hands tucked into his arm pits.
Specifically, he glared at the letter 'i'. It only glared back, and Mr. Potenza had the distinct feeling that the lone letter laughed at him silently, mocking.

Or maybe the feeling was from whatever it was. The single letter was the only representation of it, the laughter translated through the lone letter.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose, a gesture of frustration he performed all too often.

Now, all possibilities exhausted, he had one scenario. He felt foolish, but why not, noone was watching, and if someone was, it was only it.

"A."

Immediatly, the slightly modified seven had a perfect chalk circle against the shorter, horizontal line of the number.

A head. A crude representation of the cranium. The skull.

It had simply appeared in front Mr. Potenza's eyes. It was never drawn, just simply appeared, although he couldn't see it appear. That particular spot on the board was blank one moment, and casually occupied the next, as if ithad been there all along. His only explanation was that it appeared literally in the blink of an eye. If you called that an explanation.

He tugged at his collar, recognizing a faint choking sensation.

He was nervous, that's all, he thought.
Although, there was one thing he was sure of. He didn't want to lose this game.

Of course, Mr. Potenza had out grown games such as hangman long ago, but he knew who--whatever was ushering this game wasn't simply threatening the well being of a disembodied stick figure. His thoughts wandered for a moment, thinking about what outer realm that was designated for the hangman stick figure that only waited to either be hung or only partially developed.

He shook his head, maybe to shake the thought, and again came to the conclusion that this was no longer a child's game.
"E."

As soon as the letter departed from his lips, he knew it was a mistake. It was common strategy to cycle through the vowels first, as they were needed in any word.

His throat tightened a little more, and the perfect circle that represented a head, his head, suddenly had a torso, a thin chalk line.

He pulled at his collared shirt, sure the choking feeling was no coincidence now. What had he been thinking, he had already inadvertently chose a vowel, I. A word of only five letters, it was unlikely it contained another vowel.

He stared at the lone I. He got another distinct vibe from the letter. Contempt.
How dare you want another vowel, it seemed to scold.

"Cmon' Howie," he whispered.

Mr. Potenza began to rub the back of his head thoughtfully as he tried thinking of the more commonly used letters in the alphabet.

He began to say the letter "S", but stopped before the words could escape his lips. That was how it wanted me to think. This was no simple word. That would be too easy.

When someone wagered another's life, it was never made easy to win it back. Human or otherwise.

"K."

A leg.

"Damn," he growled. "Damn!"

His breathing was labored now, and had to catch his breath after his outburst.

Mr. Potenza wondered if this stick figure would not be complete until it had a nose, eyes, and mouth, each one a unique portrayal of an incorrect guess.
His students liked to play like that, but at the pace that his air was being cut off, he didn't count on having those three extra guesses.

He got an idea that seemed to be as heaven sent as it was simple. He also knew if he was incorrect, he was likely out of options and had to play the game out.

Walking to the board, he grabbed the black eraser off of his desk. He stopped in front of the board, observing for a moment, then swiftly ran the the eraser over the chalk.

It worked.

The game of terror was erased as easily as a day's lesson, leaving only a thin layer of chalk dust behind. He still felt the choking feeling, but figured maybe it was just his imagination.

With a sigh of relief and satisfaction, he erased the last line of the game. He walked back to his desk, placing the eraser where it lay originally--and gasped when he turned back toward the board.

The game was back on the board, having picked up where it left off after he had chosen his first letter.

Without thinking, Mr. Potenza ran for his classroom door. Why he was running, he didn't know, whatever was going on, it was far beyond an evasion as primitive as running.

No, this wasn't your old fashioned slasher or madman or what have you. This made Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees seem to play more to the tune of a Mr. Rogers.

This was real horror.

Something of this caliber covered all the bases. Fixed the game. Had it so running wasn't even an option.

Thinking all of this in a moment, Mr. Potenza knew before he reached his door that it would be locked.

Of course, it was when he arrived at the door.

Still, he stood at the door, rattling the frozen doorknob every couple of seconds. Why not? Chasing was obsolete, he had time.

He ran his thumb tenderly over the brass door knob that was aged to a muddy brown shade.

The inside knob had no slot for the key, not that the solution would have been that simple. He imagined the key breaking off in the key slot as he tried to turn it or simply not turning at all.

He leaned his forehead against the large oak door and sighed a sigh of despair mixed in with overtones of exhaustion. He would have to play this one out.

"What do you want from me?"

Mr. Potenza didn't know why he asked this aloud. For one thing, it was obvious that it, which he had become comfortable labeling the culprit, wanted him to play the game. Second, there wasn't going to be a response to his question, whether he knew what it wanted or not.

"H," he guessed.

He was walking back toward the board. It was a legit guess, he thought. Something as obvious as his own name could be so simple it would be taken out of contention unconciously, therefore making it a rather worthy word. But as he felt his throat squeeze more tightly and another chalk leg appear, he realized the answer would have to have some meaning. That, combined with the fact that the letter "I" was the second letter in the mystery word rather than second to last slot it resided in the name "Howie." He was being far too hasty in his thinking.

Four more letters remained, and only two more guesses. This was usually a condemning circumstance for the chalk man, and in this case, for Howie Potenza.

He took slow, precise breaths, and closed his eyes for almost a minute. Once he opened them again he felt like crying.

Mind racing, he worked through every five letter word that came to mind, mentally screening them for any sort of meaning. He didn't bother screening them for the posession of the letter I, he would worry about that when he filtered out meaningless words.

He had minimal results, none promising, when he realized his answer.

Lynn.

Obviously, this was not the answer, but it was the key.

Lynn was his wife, emphasis on was.
She was killed some years back, Mr. Potenza did his best not to remember how many.
Against her husband's will, she fancied her favorite Genesis CD while she drank champagne in the large jacuzzi style bath tub. The stereo system was too far for her taste and she used the portable radio/CD player.
The first time Mr. Potenza caught his wife in this naive endulging, he scolded her, prompting a sincere promise from her.
The second time he caught her, years later, she lay blue with death, breasts buoying in the water. Many of her veins stood out, highlighted in a darker blue, and her dark hair was cinged at the roots. The bubble bath soap dissipated hours before and revealed the portable radio/CD player laying at the bottom of the tub, still reaching out of the water and plugged into the wall.
This was an accident, the coroner reassured him, all signs pointed to it.
There were direct signs, a shattered champagne glass, expressing the both literal and figurative shock of her mortal mistake. Her bathrobe, still on it's hanger, waiting patiently on the toilet seat to be worn, an intention to leave the tub.
In addition, there were the indirect signs. For one, the blinds were open. If they knew it or not, those who had suicide in mind often set their surroundings to the mood, almost as diligently as one would a romantic dinner.
Closed blinds, the lights doused, disconnected phone chords, knocked over photos of his or herself, among others, were all common enough occurances in the home suicide. None of which were present.
This evidence was on top of her passion for life and her work, if for no other reason, she would live for the helpless teenagers that came to her for help at the early parenthood clinic.

She had always joked that she would haunt him if she died first, she would miss him too much not to.
Of course, Mr. Potenza never looked into this, even if she would, he surely didn't believe in ghosts.
Now, he had to reconsider.
It wouldn't explain the hostile way this game was being conducted, but it made more sense than not.

Linny.

He always called her that.
He knew it would be spelled with an I rather than the Y in her formal name. He had spelled it with an I in the annual love letters he gave her on their anniversary. Spelled it with an I in his post-it notes he left for her in the kitchen. Spelled it with an I in spite of her insistent logic that it be spelled with a Y.

Although two guesses remained, he wanted this game to end as soon as possible, he would end it, guessing the whole word. He wouldn't test the water, guessing "N" or "Y".
He was certain this was his answer. What else could it possibly be?

Closing his eyes, calling his wife's name was harder than he would have thought. Maybe it was the romantic epithet that foiled him. Either way, he would have to.

He opened his mouth, no words coming out, only an intense sobbing. He didn't realize his breakdown until he tasted salty tears at the ends of his mouth. What would come after this? Or more directly, what was the point of all this?

Wiping away his tears with the back of his wrist, he figured he wouldn't find out unless he finished this.

"Linny," he said. Then he repeated, "Linny."

He wheezed as if the action alone cost him all his energy, then yelled her name.

Nothing happened.

This was a good sign, he thought, whenever he had called an incorrect answer before, the response was immediate.

Sighing in relief, he whispered, "Linny".

Suddenly, his choking feeling resided--only to give way to a much more intense one.
He clawwed at his throat, then at his chest as his lungs began to burn with asphyxiation. A little while later, he dropped to the floor and writhed in desperation.

On the board, above the writhing man on the floor, the blank spaces were now filled in: "Titus".

Mr. Potenza never looked up to see the answer, he was plenty occupied. Moments later, the board was blank again. His mouth was gaping open, but no sound came out.
His struggling ceased and the room boasted a silence of both sound and thought.

***

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Stewart Bramton heard the window blinds rustle behind him, and without turning around, he asked:

"Is it done?"