School of Fear, Page 2

  “How frightful,” Mrs. Masterson exclaimed.

  “I’ve never much cared for poodles,” Mr. Masterson said absentmindedly.

  Both women chose to ignore his comment and continue with the conversation at hand.

  “We needed something potent for Eugenia’s phobia, yet with a proven track record, which isn’t an easy combination to find. However, after much research, that’s exactly what we found.”

  “I’m so pleased to hear that. What is it called?” Mrs. Masterson asked.

  Mrs. Kleiner looked both ways and then whispered, “School … of … Fear.”

  “School of what?” Mr. Masterson asked.

  “Shhhh. You mustn’t throw that name around. You cannot tell anyone what I am about to share with you. It is of the utmost importance that the details of the program remain vague to allow students the highest possible chance at recovery.”

  “Mrs. Kleiner, is this a school or Scotland Yard?” Mr. Masterson asked jokingly.

  “Mr. Masterson, this is a school unlike any other and as such requires total discretion. Are you both prepared to make that sacrifice for Madeleine?” Mrs. Kleiner asked sternly. “Because if you aren’t, I shall turn off the radio, remove the towel under the door, and stop whispering. I am late for a game of backgammon as it is. If you’re not serious about helping Madeleine, tell me now.”

  “Of course, we are very serious about helping our daughter,” Mrs. Masterson responded while staring down her husband. “I can’t tell you how concerned we are for her lungs alone. All that repellent can’t be good. She wakes up three to five times a night for maintenance sprays.”

  “Are you absolutely sure you can handle it?” Mrs. Kleiner asked while staring coldly into their eyes.

  “We’re sure,” the Mastersons responded.

  Mrs. Kleiner explained that School of Fear is an exceedingly exclusive program run by the elusive Mrs. Wellington; it is actually so select that few people are even aware of its existence. If one asks a postman, greengrocer, operator, or judge about School of Fear, they won’t have a clue. The general public has no idea that such a place exists because the chosen group of parents, doctors, and teachers in the know are vigilant about maintaining the institution’s anonymity. It is at the group’s discretion that candidates are nominated, as Mrs. Wellington requires a letter of personal recommendation to consider a student.

  Continuing with School of Fear’s clandestine nature, rigorous background checks are performed on both candidates and their families. These background checks are so thorough that Mrs. Wellington often learns information that belies logic: everything from eating paste in preschool to misspelling one’s own surname in second grade.

  After acquiring all pertinent information on the applicant and family, Mrs. Wellington then requests an essay of no less than one thousand words detailing the child’s fears and the traditional methods that have failed them. Points are deducted for grammatical errors, spelling mistakes, and poor penmanship. The application explicitly states that all essays are to be handwritten, as Mrs. Wellington doesn’t care for dubious technologies such as typewriters and computers.

  Not since the Mastersons changed health-care plans had they heard of a process with so much red tape. There was fingerprinting and extensive tests with peculiar names such as The Standardized Childhood Insanity Exam and Personality Defect Assessment. Overall, finishing the elaborate application was quite a feat considering it was all handled through the mail. Mrs. Wellington did not wish to disclose the identity of her employees prior to acceptance. While the candidates may have been in the dark about Mrs. Wellington, her private investigators ensured that nothing escaped her attention.

  If Mrs. Wellington was notified of an information leak during the application process, candidates were immediately disqualified and sent a stern warning from her private attorney at Munchauser and Son. As anyone could tell you, no one messed with Munchauser Senior, absolutely no one. Many former students became fixtures in society while never breathing a word of their days at School of Fear. It was a two-part vow of silence, one for extreme loyalty to Mrs. Wellington and the other for fear of the infamous Munchauser wrath.

  Leonard Munchauser Senior was known for his wicked temper, ruthless nature, and cold heart; and that was with his family. The story goes that he once removed his son’s eyebrows, one hair at a time, as punishment for spilling milk. Worst of all, Leonard Munchauser Junior’s eyebrows were permanently affected, growing in spottily and lopsided. As atrocious as that may have been, it paled in comparison to the treacherous tactics Munchauser Senior employed to protect his clients. And no client was of greater importance than Mrs. Wellington and School of Fear.

  CHAPTER 2

  EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:

  Phasmophobia is the fear of ghosts.

  What do you mean Grandma’s dead? How could you let this happen?” Theodore Bartholomew howled in the kitchen of his family’s messy Manhattan apartment. The stout boy with alabaster skin, dark brown hair, and milk chocolate eyes framed by glasses stared at his mother in shock.

  “Grandma was old, that’s what happens. Old people eventually die,” Theo’s mother, Mrs. Daphne Bartholomew, explained compassionately, placing her hand on top of Theo’s.

  “But you’re old. Look at all those wrinkles. You’ll be dead soon too!”

  “I’m not that old.”

  “All I see are liver spots and wrinkles,” Theo said as he started to hyperventilate. “I feel faint — quick, get the smelling salts!”

  “I can’t remember! Where do you keep those?” Mrs. Bartholomew asked with exasperation.

  “Must I do everything myself?”

  Theo pulled a first-aid kit from his jacket, grabbed a white stick, and snapped it under his nose. Even from a few feet away Mrs. Bartholomew felt the effects of the pungent smelling salts.

  “Sweetie, are you okay?” Mrs. Bartholomew asked softly.

  “My grandmother’s dead, my mother’s on the way out, and I just used my last smelling salt,” Theo droned.

  Twelve-year-old Theo was the youngest of seven children, and by far the most, well, everything. That was the thing about Theo; he was rather hard to describe since he was so many things. He was definitely the most dramatic, hysterical, and neurotic boy in the borough of Manhattan. He was also kind, genuine, sweetly naïve, and a vault of unusual facts. His mind often journeyed to dark places, setting off a hailstorm of concern, which he didn’t think twice about sharing.

  Oddly, Theo’s siblings never worried much about anything other than getting into the bathroom first. Therefore, it was hardly a surprise when Theo took his grandmother’s death the hardest of all the children. While admittedly a tad insensitive, his siblings were grateful for the extra space their grandmother’s death provided. Before judging the Bartholomew children, one ought to remember that Manhattan apartments are unbelievably short on space, prompting many landlords to list closets as bedrooms.

  Regardless of the rationale, the Bartholomew children’s interest in their grandmother’s room offended Theo. He thought it best for the room to be kept as a shrine to his grandmother, complete with her hearing aid, dentures, and heart medicine. Her stuff was the last vestige of her presence in his life, and moving it felt downright sacrilegious. The shrine idea, along with the “We Miss Grandma” tee shirts, were vetoed at a Bartholomew family meeting.

  Theo’s disappointment in his siblings intensified when none of his six brothers and sisters joined him in throwing their bodies on the coffin at the funeral. In true Theo fashion, he considered the act to be a testament to loyalty and love. As Mr. Bartholomew spoke at Morristown Cemetery, Theo stared at the oak coffin covered in white lilies. His father’s voice echoed in Theo’s ears as he ran full-speed toward the casket, ultimately knocking off the lilies. He held on to the coffin tightly, his face squashed against the smooth wood. Theo believed that if he had died first, his grandma would have done the same for him. He saw it as one final hug, albeit through a c
asket.

  With tears streaming under his glasses, down his soft skin, and onto his snug suit, Theo felt a hand on his back. It was his older brother, Joaquin, sent to fetch him. Theo released his grip, allowing his brother to lead him back to his seat. Theo’s dramatic performance continued with him squawking “Why?” loudly while looking at the sky.

  “Because she was ninety-five,” Joaquin calmly responded.

  Theo glared at his brother, irritated by his literal response.

  “What? Was that a rhetorical question?” Joaquin just didn’t get it.

  Shortly after Theo’s grandmother’s funeral, the already anxiety-prone boy developed an even more intense fear of death and a fanatical need to track his family’s whereabouts. Theo demanded hourly contact with each member of the family to confirm that they were alive. All data was logged into a notebook aptly labeled, “Dead or Alive.” It was quite a striking title, but Theo did have a flair for melodrama.

  Sitting in his family’s dark living room, the walls lined with books and paintings, Theo opened “Dead or Alive” and began with his eldest sister, Nancy. He had last seen her running out the front door with only a cardigan to keep warm. Theo worried she could catch a cold, lower her immune system, contract meningitis, and contaminate the whole family. He had prudently texted her to get a jacket, surgical mask, and some antibacterial hand sanitizer, but she ignored him. As he dialed her number, Theo shook his head, thinking about how often his siblings thumbed safety in the face.

  “Nancy, this is your brother …” He paused, expecting her to greet him warmly. “I suppose since you have four brothers I should identify myself by name. It’s Theo.”

  “Trust me, I know who this is, Theo,” Nancy said with obvious annoyance.

  “Good to hear,” he replied with an oblivious smile. “I need verification of your safety and well-being. And I wanted to encourage you to return home to get a heavy coat, surgical mask, and hand sanitizer.”

  “Stop calling me, I’m on a date!” Nancy fumed.

  “I’ll take that as an affirmative that you are alive and well. And make sure your date washes his hands before holding yours — lots of germs going around this time of year. Okay, have fun. I’ll call you back in an hour.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Nancy yelled, but Theo had already hung up the phone.

  Not even the strict rule against cell phones at school stopped Theo from checking on his family. He constructed a system during school hours in which each family member was required to text Theo a confirmation of his or her status, alive or dead. It wasn’t necessarily the most logical system, since a dead person can’t text. In fact, Joaquin and his two other brothers often texted back “dead” as a joke.

  Theo never laughed. Even with his elaborate and time-consuming system, thoughts of death continued to plague him. His siblings started referring to him as Theo the Thanatophobe — thanatophobia being a fear of death or dying. Theo didn’t acknowledge the name, feeling justified in his behavior after reading the newspapers’ accounts of death from car accidents, sickness, crime, and other grotesque manners.

  Theo’s neuroses were never quite as heightened as when his parents went camping in Yosemite National Forest in Northern California. Between the remains of ancient glaciers and towering redwoods, there was absolutely no cell reception, preventing them from checking in. Theo’s imagination went into overdrive as he envisioned grizzly bears devouring his beloved parents.

  Without consulting his siblings, Theo decided it was downright irresponsible of him not to do as much as possible to safeguard his mom and dad. He figured if they couldn’t check in with him, he would check in with them, by any means necessary. Various accounts of his parents being injured, attacked, trapped by fires, or lost were reported to park rangers.

  “I said lost! What part of lost do you not understand? They asked me to get help!” Theo screeched.

  “If they don’t have a cell phone, how did they tell you they’re lost?” the ranger smartly asked.

  “I have the gift… .”

  “Of bull,” the ranger added.

  “The psychic gift. PBS is doing a special on me in the fall,” Theo lied. “Please, you must find them!”

  “Listen, kid, I wasted eight hours yesterday with that phony fire story. I’m not falling for this again.”

  After the park rangers threatened legal action against Theo, the Bartholomews realized it was time to get help. Since they both were theology professors at Columbia University, they decided their first course of action would be to inquire with other faculty members. They waded through a few boorish comments about military school and fat camp until they found a psychology professor whose son had overcome a fear of foreign languages at a private institution in New England. Apparently, the fear had been so pronounced the boy refused to go in public without headphones. Of course, before the professor told the Bartholomews the name of the institution, he looked both ways down the hallway and closed his office door. Like others in the know, the professor chose to whisper when speaking about School of Fear.

  The Bartholomews salivated at the notion of eradicating Theo’s thanatophobia and other general anxieties. Of their seven children, Theo was by far the most time-consuming and draining with his constant worry. Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew asked their other children to stay in their rooms while they spoke with Theo. Seated on a maroon loveseat, his parents explained their plans for his summer at School of Fear.

  “Are you out of your mind? School of Fear sounds like a cult! Why not send me to North Korea?” Theo asked sarcastically, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Theo, it’s like camp, not communism,” his mother retorted.

  “How can you even entertain this notion? They don’t allow cell phones! Have you no mercy, woman?”

  “Theo, stop the theatrics,” Mr. Bartholomew interrupted as Theo dropped to his knees.

  “Take a good look at this face; it may be the last time you ever see it.”

  “Theo, they are going to help you enjoy life more, worry less. Doesn’t that sound good?” his father asked calmly.

  “Worry? Me? I don’t worry. I am merely a practical observer of life, commenting on potential harms. That hardly constitutes worrying,” Theo said in a vain attempt to convince his parents that he didn’t have a problem.

  “Theo,” his parents said pityingly in unison.

  “What?”

  “You don’t take the subway,” his mother started.

  “A fire could break out or someone could push me in front of a train; the mayor keeps ignoring my letters about a safety rail. And not to mention all the people touching stuff with their dirty hands. A lot of them don’t use soap in the bathroom — you know the type: Joaquin. He runs his fingers under water for three seconds and thinks his hands are clean.”

  “What about wearing a parachute on planes?” his father asked.

  “Preventative measure in case of engine trouble. I truly believe that it’s the wave of the future.”

  “The surgical mask?” Mrs. Bartholomew asked sweetly.

  “I only wear that during flu season. As any reputable doctor will tell you, kids are more susceptible than adults. There were ninety-three influenza-related deaths in 2003.”

  “Is that what you’re afraid of? Dying?”

  “Until someone comes back and tells me what happens, I’m not sure I want to do it. And so far Grandma hasn’t visited.”

  “Theo, why don’t I explain a few things,” his father said before expounding on the countless beliefs in the afterlife.

  Theo sat calmly listening to everything his father had to say. Occasionally he nodded, or tilted his head, but mostly he just absorbed. Finally, when his father finished, Theo rubbed his chin and stared up at his parents.

  “Do you feel better?” Mrs. Bartholomew asked hopefully.

  “Not really. Don’t you find it suspicious that the after-life has more options than a salad bar?”

  CHAPTER 3

  EVERYONE’S AFRAID O
F SOMETHING:

  Illyngophobia is the fear of vertigo or feeling dizzy when looking down.

  A pproximately one hundred seventy-nine miles from Manhattan was Roger Williams Elementary School in Providence, Rhode Island. Nestled on a quiet tree-lined street, miles from prestigious Brown University, was the traditional red schoolhouse that Lucy “Lulu” Punchalower attended. The twelve-year-old with strawberry blond hair, a healthy helping of freckles, and jade eyes had a penchant for speaking her mind, rolling her eyes, and generally antagonizing those around her.

  When asked to describe Lulu, many of her classmates relied on a simple but effective term: “mean.” While that was a fair assessment, it should be noted that Lulu was an inherently good person, though her overt acts of defiance masked that fact well. She was simply a bit of a rebel, right down to the bunched handcuffs she wore on her left wrist. The true purpose of the bracelets became known through a particularly eventful field trip to the Air and Space Museum.

  Students have long held field trips in high regard, as they are days without lessons, classrooms, and homework. For this particular field trip, the sixth grade had voted to visit Providence’s Air and Space Museum over the rather pedestrian Museum of Arts and Crafts. While the Museum of Arts and Crafts had a great deal more to it than dried macaroni ornaments, collages, and papier-mâché figures, the children thought the whole thing sounded a bit too much like an afternoon with their grandparents.

  Before committing to the Air and Space field trip, Lulu conducted an investigation regarding the museum’s elevator/ stair situation. She perused the museum’s Web site and called the information desk multiple times until she felt confident regarding her ability to access the stairs.