Mr Wimbledon
By Andy Morris
The past was a painful place, and that’s why Liz enjoyed writing fiction. She’d been working on this chapter all evening and only now noticed how dark it had become. Liz found herself adrift in a sea of blackness. The bright glare from the screen was like the beacon from a lighthouse telling her to turn away and go to bed. It had also attracted a rogue moth, which had found its way into her flat. Her annoying visitor kept flying around her screen and distracting her from her work. She’d swiped it away more than once, but it was a persistent little bugger and kept coming back. Liz’s productivity had peaked, and since the arrival of the moth, her concentration had waned considerably. She stretched her arms above her head and yawned loudly.
Just one last read-through, then she’d call it a night:
‘King Henry’s School for Boys became a different place at night. Everything changed when the sun went down. It felt as if the school had been transported to another dimension during the hours of darkness. The younger boys were confined to their dorms, but as Jake was a senior, he was allowed to slip out, and explore this shadowy otherworld. Tonight he was on a mission, and time was running out. Wandering the empty corridors made him feel like a spy creeping through enemy territory. In reality, he was just on his way to the English Block to hand in his homework, but to Jake – real-life was boring!
The door to the First-Year's Dorm was ajar, and Jake glanced over his shoulder to confirm that he was alone. This was an opportunity for some intelligence gathering. A group of first-years were still up discussing a school legend that Jake had actually made up himself during his first year here. It was about the ghost of Mr Wimbledon, a sadistically strict teacher that haunted the school. If someone drew a particular pattern in a textbook then Mr Wimbledon would come and punish whoever had the book!
The storyteller was talking about a kid who was found dead one morning., He'd been beaten to death by a blunt object, not unlike a teacher’s cane.
“… A piece of paper with this very symbol, was found in the dead boy’s pocket. The worst thing is, he probably didn’t even know it was there,” the first-year concluded, and a stunned silence settled over the room. A mischievous thought had been germinating in Jake’s brain. He reached into the dorm carefully and quietly so the kids wouldn’t notice him. He took hold of the door handle and slammed it shut as loud as he could. One of the first-years’ screamed, and Jake hurried around the corner out of sight, barely able to contain his giggles. If any of them looked outside, they'd see nothing but an empty corridor, and the legend of Mr Wimbledon would live on.
Feeling immensely proud of himself, Jake sauntered into the English Block, no longer bothered by his echoing footsteps. Classroom E5 was on the second floor, and he skipped up the stairs. A moth that fluttered around the light, casting long dancing shadows along the corridor. The lights in the classrooms were all switched off, and darkness pushed against the windows. As Jake reached his destination, he could just about make out the sound of the distant church bell ringing in the midnight hour. The mournful tone reminded Jake that he was all alone in this part of the school. All the other pupils and teachers were tucked-up in their dorms by now. The Homework Submissions box stood before him, and Jake quickly posted his assignment through the letterbox slot.
Mission complete!
He was about to head back to the senior’s Common Room when he noticed movement in the classroom. Jake peered through the window but saw nothing. The door handle rattled loudly, making him jump backwards. The metallic clatter was amplified in the mortuary silence of the English Block. There was no one on the other side, but the handle twisted again. This time the door swung open, revealing a figure dressed in a black robe and wearing an old-fashioned mortarboard hat. A wooden cane flashed out from beneath the teacher’s gown. Before Jake could react, the apparition lurched forward. The teacher’s face twisted into a grotesque mask of anger and resentment. He wore a look of such utter hatred and rage that Jake would have stumbled backwards had the figure not been gripping his arm so tightly. Jake was pulled inside the classroom and the door shut behind him. The wooden cane cut the air with a loud swoosh, cracking the side of Jake’s face. He barely registered the pain before a second strike found its mark on his other cheek. Then a third. A fourth. Blood dripped down Jake’s face, and the cane kept falling. Again and again, and again.’
Liz rubbed her eyes, forcing herself to ignore the curse of compulsive editing. This section was satisfactory, for now. She saved her work, shut down the computer and closed the notepad where she’d been drawing various patterns and swirls. Now the light had gone, her moth fluttered onto the wall its dark shape stood out against the pale wallpaper. Liz kept the lights switched off as she wandered into the kitchen to get an ice-cold bottle of vodka from the freezer. The plot of her book felt heavy on her mind as she poured herself a glass. As she sipped her drink in the shadows, she considered whether the character of Mr Wimbledon had actually been murdered and not just died? Allowing herself to slip into her favourite mindset - that of a fictional killer - Liz explored the possibilities. What if he'd been killed in a science lab? Did his attacker poison him? Burn him with acid? Inject him with something? Maybe no one ever found his body? If there's nobody, there's no crime. Liz grinned, enjoying this persona, and wanting to show it off like a brand new outfit. She paused in the doorway to the lounge, looking at the moth.
“If you’re looking for a confession,” she whispered in a playfully wicked tone. “That’s as close as you’re going to get.” On any other night, she would have murdered the moth as soon as she found him, but moths were a feature of her story, and so she decided to keep him around for good luck.
She took another swig of vodka and addressed the moth.
“You’ve been looking at my story my story all evening, how do you think it reads?”
The moth didn’t respond and, Liz sighed deeply.
Talking to a friggin’ bug! It’s time I went to bed. She closed both the lounge door and her bedroom door. She didn’t want to encourage the thing into her room, so she kept the lights switched off and got ready for bed in the dark.
That night, Liz dreamed she was back at school. She was a pupil again, making her way down the corridors of the English Block. Liz remembered the yellow paint flaking off the walls as if it were yesterday. Everyone else was already in class and, she was the only one running late. Glancing into the classrooms, she saw that lessons were well underway. If she didn’t get there soon, she'd be in trouble with Mr Wimbledon! She hurried to her classroom and opened to door, only to find it was the wrong class! Liz mumbled an apology to the teacher and turned around to leave.
“Not that way,” one of the boys in the front row pipped up. “Mr Wimbledon’s coming. Go down there instead,” he turned, pointing towards a small door at the back of the classroom. It was tiny, half the size of a regular door. Liz would have to crawl through her hands and knees. As she picked her way between the desks, she noticed something stuck to the miniature door. It was the pattern she’d been practising earlier that evening – a moth sat within a pentagram. The symbol that summoned Mr Wimbledon.
“You’d better hurry. He’ll be coming for you now,” a girl whispered to Liz as she crawled through the teeny door into a dark stairwell.
Before Liz could explain to the girl that Mr Wimbledon couldn’t be looking for her, because she’d done nothing wrong, she was already descending the stairs. She went down several flights, many more than there should have been. It was as if she were going deep underground. Liz continued to descend until she eventually reached the bottom. She was surprised to find herself by the main entrance on the opposite side of the school from where she’d started.
That’s a handy shortcut, Liz noted as she walked past Reception. A moth was dancing around the receptionist’s window, trying to find a way out.
Bloody things are everywhere!
Liz became aware of footsteps echoing down the corridor from behind her. Shoes tapped briskly on the tiles as a teacher drew closer. Liz knew without looking that the approaching figure was Mr Wimbledon. She fled in the opposite direction. She turned a corner and realised she had no idea where she was supposed to be! Mr Wimbledon was coming, and he’d be angry if he caught her out of class.
Mr Wimbledon was still behind her and drawing closer. She quickened her pace. She'd be in trouble and, she'd get punished. Liz began to run, but her legs weren’t moving quickly enough. She didn’t want to get the cane! She had to go faster!
Wait, no she didn’t! Liz realised with a flash of insight – Mr Wimbledon was dead! No, he was just a character in her story. She wasn’t even at school anymore!
With this revelation, Liz opened her eyes and was relieved to find herself at home in bed. The darkness was deep and silent but not empty. She felt a tickling sensation on her cheek. Her fingers brushed something soft and furry, which disappeared in a rustle of papery wings.
“Agh!” she rubbed her cheek. The moth had got into her room. She didn’t care how lucky it might be for her story; its time was now up. There was a broom in the kitchen. She’d use it to knock the bug to the floor and then quickly stamp on him.
With an effort for Liz pulled herself out of bed. The flat was cold and, she was only wearing a t-shirt. It was an old one that had a faded ‘poo’ emoji emblazoned upon it.
This is why you’re still single! She told herself every time she took it out of the wash and put it back in her wardrobe. It’s not because of your fascination with murder; it’s because you can’t let go of the past.
Liz pulled on her dressing gown and paused by the living room door. It was still closed, but had she just seen something move in there? Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she peered through the bevelled square of glass in the door. The final scene from her story floated into her mind, and she pushed the stupid thought away. She wasn’t going to let herself get spooked by her overactive imagination.
A quiet rustling from behind made Liz spin around. The moth had followed the light into the hallway and was flying around the front door as if it knew what was coming and was desperate to escape.
Too late, Mr Moth!
Before she continued into the kitchen, Liz glanced in the lounge again. Someone was there!
She was instantly alert. There was a set of knives in the kitchen, next to where her phone was charging. Behind her, the moth’s scratching became louder, more frantic, but Liz’s attention was now firmly on the lounge. She took a slow sideways step towards the kitchen, hoping not to startle the intruder and provoke a violent response. Maybe they hadn't noticed her?
Too late, the figure turned and flowed to the door. Liz jumped backwards as an old man with big bushy eyebrows leered at her through the glass. She recognised him immediately, although it was impossible! The expression creasing the elderly man’s features was one of utter contempt. He tapped impatiently on the class with his wooden cane. The doorhandle clacked. There was no time to grab a knife or her phone. Liz spun around, fumbled with the front door.
The lounge door opened behind her. As Liz tugged open the front door, a hand grabbed her wrist. She fought and pulled and somehow managed to break away. Flying down the communal corridor, Liz almost fell down the stairs before bursting outside into the night. She risked a glance back but saw no sign of her pursuer. There was no one there, just a moth dancing around the light above the entrance to the flats.
“He’s real,” she found herself repeating as she slowly caught her breath. Liz was standing in the road staring up at her flat. Mr Wimbledon was real, and that stupid symbol had worked! Her playfully wicked smile slowly returned as a list of names tumbled through her mind – A list of people who deserved to be punished by Mr Wimbledon.
Just one last read-through, then she’d call it a night:
‘King Henry’s School for Boys became a different place at night. Everything changed when the sun went down. It felt as if the school had been transported to another dimension during the hours of darkness. The younger boys were confined to their dorms, but as Jake was a senior, he was allowed to slip out, and explore this shadowy otherworld. Tonight he was on a mission, and time was running out. Wandering the empty corridors made him feel like a spy creeping through enemy territory. In reality, he was just on his way to the English Block to hand in his homework, but to Jake – real-life was boring!
The door to the First-Year's Dorm was ajar, and Jake glanced over his shoulder to confirm that he was alone. This was an opportunity for some intelligence gathering. A group of first-years were still up discussing a school legend that Jake had actually made up himself during his first year here. It was about the ghost of Mr Wimbledon, a sadistically strict teacher that haunted the school. If someone drew a particular pattern in a textbook then Mr Wimbledon would come and punish whoever had the book!
The storyteller was talking about a kid who was found dead one morning., He'd been beaten to death by a blunt object, not unlike a teacher’s cane.
“… A piece of paper with this very symbol, was found in the dead boy’s pocket. The worst thing is, he probably didn’t even know it was there,” the first-year concluded, and a stunned silence settled over the room. A mischievous thought had been germinating in Jake’s brain. He reached into the dorm carefully and quietly so the kids wouldn’t notice him. He took hold of the door handle and slammed it shut as loud as he could. One of the first-years’ screamed, and Jake hurried around the corner out of sight, barely able to contain his giggles. If any of them looked outside, they'd see nothing but an empty corridor, and the legend of Mr Wimbledon would live on.
Feeling immensely proud of himself, Jake sauntered into the English Block, no longer bothered by his echoing footsteps. Classroom E5 was on the second floor, and he skipped up the stairs. A moth that fluttered around the light, casting long dancing shadows along the corridor. The lights in the classrooms were all switched off, and darkness pushed against the windows. As Jake reached his destination, he could just about make out the sound of the distant church bell ringing in the midnight hour. The mournful tone reminded Jake that he was all alone in this part of the school. All the other pupils and teachers were tucked-up in their dorms by now. The Homework Submissions box stood before him, and Jake quickly posted his assignment through the letterbox slot.
Mission complete!
He was about to head back to the senior’s Common Room when he noticed movement in the classroom. Jake peered through the window but saw nothing. The door handle rattled loudly, making him jump backwards. The metallic clatter was amplified in the mortuary silence of the English Block. There was no one on the other side, but the handle twisted again. This time the door swung open, revealing a figure dressed in a black robe and wearing an old-fashioned mortarboard hat. A wooden cane flashed out from beneath the teacher’s gown. Before Jake could react, the apparition lurched forward. The teacher’s face twisted into a grotesque mask of anger and resentment. He wore a look of such utter hatred and rage that Jake would have stumbled backwards had the figure not been gripping his arm so tightly. Jake was pulled inside the classroom and the door shut behind him. The wooden cane cut the air with a loud swoosh, cracking the side of Jake’s face. He barely registered the pain before a second strike found its mark on his other cheek. Then a third. A fourth. Blood dripped down Jake’s face, and the cane kept falling. Again and again, and again.’
Liz rubbed her eyes, forcing herself to ignore the curse of compulsive editing. This section was satisfactory, for now. She saved her work, shut down the computer and closed the notepad where she’d been drawing various patterns and swirls. Now the light had gone, her moth fluttered onto the wall its dark shape stood out against the pale wallpaper. Liz kept the lights switched off as she wandered into the kitchen to get an ice-cold bottle of vodka from the freezer. The plot of her book felt heavy on her mind as she poured herself a glass. As she sipped her drink in the shadows, she considered whether the character of Mr Wimbledon had actually been murdered and not just died? Allowing herself to slip into her favourite mindset - that of a fictional killer - Liz explored the possibilities. What if he'd been killed in a science lab? Did his attacker poison him? Burn him with acid? Inject him with something? Maybe no one ever found his body? If there's nobody, there's no crime. Liz grinned, enjoying this persona, and wanting to show it off like a brand new outfit. She paused in the doorway to the lounge, looking at the moth.
“If you’re looking for a confession,” she whispered in a playfully wicked tone. “That’s as close as you’re going to get.” On any other night, she would have murdered the moth as soon as she found him, but moths were a feature of her story, and so she decided to keep him around for good luck.
She took another swig of vodka and addressed the moth.
“You’ve been looking at my story my story all evening, how do you think it reads?”
The moth didn’t respond and, Liz sighed deeply.
Talking to a friggin’ bug! It’s time I went to bed. She closed both the lounge door and her bedroom door. She didn’t want to encourage the thing into her room, so she kept the lights switched off and got ready for bed in the dark.
That night, Liz dreamed she was back at school. She was a pupil again, making her way down the corridors of the English Block. Liz remembered the yellow paint flaking off the walls as if it were yesterday. Everyone else was already in class and, she was the only one running late. Glancing into the classrooms, she saw that lessons were well underway. If she didn’t get there soon, she'd be in trouble with Mr Wimbledon! She hurried to her classroom and opened to door, only to find it was the wrong class! Liz mumbled an apology to the teacher and turned around to leave.
“Not that way,” one of the boys in the front row pipped up. “Mr Wimbledon’s coming. Go down there instead,” he turned, pointing towards a small door at the back of the classroom. It was tiny, half the size of a regular door. Liz would have to crawl through her hands and knees. As she picked her way between the desks, she noticed something stuck to the miniature door. It was the pattern she’d been practising earlier that evening – a moth sat within a pentagram. The symbol that summoned Mr Wimbledon.
“You’d better hurry. He’ll be coming for you now,” a girl whispered to Liz as she crawled through the teeny door into a dark stairwell.
Before Liz could explain to the girl that Mr Wimbledon couldn’t be looking for her, because she’d done nothing wrong, she was already descending the stairs. She went down several flights, many more than there should have been. It was as if she were going deep underground. Liz continued to descend until she eventually reached the bottom. She was surprised to find herself by the main entrance on the opposite side of the school from where she’d started.
That’s a handy shortcut, Liz noted as she walked past Reception. A moth was dancing around the receptionist’s window, trying to find a way out.
Bloody things are everywhere!
Liz became aware of footsteps echoing down the corridor from behind her. Shoes tapped briskly on the tiles as a teacher drew closer. Liz knew without looking that the approaching figure was Mr Wimbledon. She fled in the opposite direction. She turned a corner and realised she had no idea where she was supposed to be! Mr Wimbledon was coming, and he’d be angry if he caught her out of class.
Mr Wimbledon was still behind her and drawing closer. She quickened her pace. She'd be in trouble and, she'd get punished. Liz began to run, but her legs weren’t moving quickly enough. She didn’t want to get the cane! She had to go faster!
Wait, no she didn’t! Liz realised with a flash of insight – Mr Wimbledon was dead! No, he was just a character in her story. She wasn’t even at school anymore!
With this revelation, Liz opened her eyes and was relieved to find herself at home in bed. The darkness was deep and silent but not empty. She felt a tickling sensation on her cheek. Her fingers brushed something soft and furry, which disappeared in a rustle of papery wings.
“Agh!” she rubbed her cheek. The moth had got into her room. She didn’t care how lucky it might be for her story; its time was now up. There was a broom in the kitchen. She’d use it to knock the bug to the floor and then quickly stamp on him.
With an effort for Liz pulled herself out of bed. The flat was cold and, she was only wearing a t-shirt. It was an old one that had a faded ‘poo’ emoji emblazoned upon it.
This is why you’re still single! She told herself every time she took it out of the wash and put it back in her wardrobe. It’s not because of your fascination with murder; it’s because you can’t let go of the past.
Liz pulled on her dressing gown and paused by the living room door. It was still closed, but had she just seen something move in there? Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she peered through the bevelled square of glass in the door. The final scene from her story floated into her mind, and she pushed the stupid thought away. She wasn’t going to let herself get spooked by her overactive imagination.
A quiet rustling from behind made Liz spin around. The moth had followed the light into the hallway and was flying around the front door as if it knew what was coming and was desperate to escape.
Too late, Mr Moth!
Before she continued into the kitchen, Liz glanced in the lounge again. Someone was there!
She was instantly alert. There was a set of knives in the kitchen, next to where her phone was charging. Behind her, the moth’s scratching became louder, more frantic, but Liz’s attention was now firmly on the lounge. She took a slow sideways step towards the kitchen, hoping not to startle the intruder and provoke a violent response. Maybe they hadn't noticed her?
Too late, the figure turned and flowed to the door. Liz jumped backwards as an old man with big bushy eyebrows leered at her through the glass. She recognised him immediately, although it was impossible! The expression creasing the elderly man’s features was one of utter contempt. He tapped impatiently on the class with his wooden cane. The doorhandle clacked. There was no time to grab a knife or her phone. Liz spun around, fumbled with the front door.
The lounge door opened behind her. As Liz tugged open the front door, a hand grabbed her wrist. She fought and pulled and somehow managed to break away. Flying down the communal corridor, Liz almost fell down the stairs before bursting outside into the night. She risked a glance back but saw no sign of her pursuer. There was no one there, just a moth dancing around the light above the entrance to the flats.
“He’s real,” she found herself repeating as she slowly caught her breath. Liz was standing in the road staring up at her flat. Mr Wimbledon was real, and that stupid symbol had worked! Her playfully wicked smile slowly returned as a list of names tumbled through her mind – A list of people who deserved to be punished by Mr Wimbledon.