School of Fear (5 page)

“Threatening a man’s fish, that’s cold, but you still can’t go on the fire escape.”

“Ugh!” Lulu huffed as she stormed out of the building; it was impossible to coerce a man whose only friend was a fish.

In a rather unorthodox move, Dr. Guinness agreed to conduct the sessions in his car in the parking lot. Instead of sitting
on the therapist’s couch, Lulu sat in the backseat and Dr. Guinness in the front. Occasionally, it grew so stuffy in the car,
he turned on his noisy diesel-guzzling 1973 Mercedes to run the air-conditioning. Due to the strict doctor-patient confidentiality
agreement, the windows could not be lowered more than a crack, lest someone walk by and eavesdrop.

After five months, Dr. Guinness had developed heat rash, as well as a severe neck cramp from craning to see Lulu in the backseat.
He requested a meeting with her parents in the car after Lulu’s session.

“I’m afraid it’s time to terminate my relationship with Lulu,” Dr. Guinness calmly explained.

“What? You can’t be serious. It’s only been five months; my wife’s been in therapy for ten years, and her doctor hasn’t dumped
her!” Mr. Punchalower fumed while simultaneously typing on his BlackBerry.

“Edward, please refrain from using the word
dump
!” Mrs. Punchalower retorted, “And Jeffrey is a
life coach
, not a therapist.”

“I think you’ve misunderstood me. I believe that Lulu needs a more intense program than I can offer. Something very unique,
very
exclusive
.”

“Yes?” Mr. and Mrs. Punchalower said.

Their eyes lit up at the word “exclusive.” Nothing pleased them more than being “exclusive.”

“I’m talking about School of Fear,” Dr. Guinness said in the quietest of all whispers.

H
idden deep within a rural pocket in Northwestern Massachusetts was a small town known as Farmington. For a lucky four hundred
and four people, twenty-eight dogs, forty-nine cats, and six horses it was home. While there were many other creatures from
squirrels to turtles living in the town, they weren’t registered with the county and, therefore, didn’t make the yearly census.

Farmington was oddly untouched by time. Missing were any signs of corporate America such as Wal-Mart, Starbucks, or McDonald’s.
Instead, each shop was privately owned with hand-painted signs to prove it. There was one main street, rather straightforwardly
called Main Street, on which sat McMillan’s Grocery Store, the post office, Henry’s newsstand, Farmy’s diner, and the sheriff’s
office.

Nearly all of the four hundred and four human residents (and many of the animal ones) lived on the roads surrounding Main
Street, creating an extremely tight-knit community. A few people inhabited the surrounding wilderness, only sporadically venturing
into town for mail and provisions. The ever-elusive headmistress of the School of Fear, Mrs. Wellington, and her caretaker,
Schmidty, lived the farthest from town, atop a four-acre plateau with two-hundred-foot protective granite cliffs on all sides.
Scientists supposed the unusual granite mountain was the result of a glacier from the Cretaceous Period, which was approximately
a really, really long time ago.

Mrs. Wellington’s estate, Summerstone, acted as a beacon in the Lost Forest. Upon hearing the name Lost Forest, one might
wonder how a forest could get lost. It doesn’t walk, run, or skip, and one would assume it’s too large for a park ranger to
miss. In this case,
lost
does not refer to the forest itself, but rather to anyone or anything that enters it.

The townsfolk in Farmington referred to the Lost Forest as their very own Bermuda Triangle. At the request of park rangers,
it was long closed with many
NO TRESPASSING
signs posted around the perimeter. The only two things that dared cross the forest were the Moon River and a scarcely used
cobblestone road, which led straight to the base of Summerstone’s Mountain.

Harold Wellington built Summerstone in 1952 as an isolated retreat for his wife, Edith. The eight-bedroom manor surrounded
by persimmon, fig, orange, and cherry trees was located squarely in the center of the grounds. Mr. Wellington had spared no
expense in the construction of Summerstone or its lavish decoration.

Rumors abounded of golden latrines and platinum light switches resting beside Renoirs or Monets, but none of it was true.
Mrs. Wellington was far too eclectic and peculiar to indulge in such noticeably grand items. She much preferred to commission
one-of-kind pieces such as tortoiseshell tables and portraits of her pets. Regardless of Mrs. Wellington’s offbeat taste,
Summerstone was the grandest structure Farmington had ever seen. Unfortunately, the locals were only able to admire the architecturally
mesmerizing building from a distance, as Mrs. Wellington did not take kindly to visitors.

J
ohn F. Kennedy Airport in New York City was in for quite a surprise the night the Mastersons arrived from London. Weary travelers
wheeling suitcases, holding children’s hands, and generally trying to make it through the maze of gates stopped in their tracks.
They paused mid-sentence, mid-gait, mid-look, mid-breath to stare at Madeleine Masterson, her parents, and a plume of repellent.

Quite literally, a cloud of bug repellent lingered over Madeleine’s veil-covered head, causing strangers to cough vociferously.
Madeleine plowed through the highly congested terminal without batting an eyelash. Madeleine had long ago made peace with
the price of spider protection.

The Masterson clan rushed through the terminal to catch their flight to Pittsfield, or as Farmingtonians called it, “the Pitts.”
While the Mastersons expected the plane to be little, they certainly never thought it would be
that little
. The plane was approximately the size and color of a New York City cab, only much more run-down. If the Mastersons hadn’t
been told otherwise, they would have thought the plane was en route to a demolition yard. Its wings were lopsided, leaning
strongly to the left, and the windows were secured with silver duct tape.

Mr. Masterson felt a definite somersault in his stomach while looking over the plane. He wondered how any reasonable person
could NOT be afraid of the aircraft, yet Madeleine wasn’t. She wouldn’t have minded if the plane had been called
Certain Death
. For Madeleine, the comprehensive fumigation of the plane’s interior was far more important to worry about than a little
thing like safety — although, it should be noted that Mrs. Masterson only allowed Madeleine access to non-flammable repellent.

The entire Masterson clan remained silent throughout the fifty-seven-minute flight. Madeleine was much too frantic worrying
that School of Fear would confiscate her repellents and netted veil to be bothered with idle chitchat. The veil and repellents
had been with her so long they had become extensions of her own limbs. In fact, Madeleine would sooner consider a life without
arms than one without bug repellent, although she would have to come up with a clever contraption to spray the repellent without
arms.

Madeleine considered the many gruesome things she would endure for her repellent and veil, completely ignoring the plane’s
wild altitude fluctuations. Mr. and Mrs. Masterson’s stomachs climbed into their throats, but Madeleine barely noticed. She
was absorbed in a bargaining of sorts: Was the veil worth a toe? Five toes? A foot? A hand? A fingernail? A finger?

The plane continued to weather heavy turbulence until finally landing — although it felt more like crashing — in the Pitts.
Mr. Masterson wobbled with queasiness as he deplaned directly onto the bumpy Tarmac.

“Maddie, are you sure you’re not afraid of flying? I’m not terribly fond of it myself, especially after that ride. I am more
than happy to travel by car, bus, train, or boat. It seems a great deal easier than attempting to exterminate the planet of
bugs and spiders. Do you think you might be up for switching fears?” Mr. Masterson asked as his face started to regain color.

“Mummy, please tell Father to stop talking,” Madeleine said in a small but authoritative voice.

“Arthur, please. No one is in the mood for your sense of humor. Or rather lack thereof.”

As part of the Mastersons’ standard travel practice, the family checked into a pre-exterminated bed-and-breakfast, which was
in this case the Pretty Pitts Inn. The Mastersons had long since implemented a fumigation mandate for all travel accommodations.
It required a great deal of preparation and considerable expense, but it was necessary for Madeleine to maintain any semblance
of sanity.

In the pale green bathroom at the Pretty Pitts Inn, Madeleine brushed her teeth vigorously while scanning the walls for spiderwebs.
On the other side of the wall, the still nauseated Mastersons inspected the sheets and pillowcase before assembling the mesh
canopy. Madeleine entered the room in her pink dressing gown with a built-in veil, pumped off a few sprays of repellent, climbed
into bed, and silently prayed for a bug and spider-free night.

At 7:30
AM
the following morning, the fatigued Masterson family boarded a bus for Farmington. The silver-sided bus was completely empty
except for a handsome young boy named Garrison Feldman. At thirteen, he was big for his age, making him an ace in all things
athletic, from soccer to baseball to football. He was somewhat of a local celebrity at his Miami middle school, and not just
for his exploits on the field. His blond hair, tanned complexion, and blue eyes inspired more than a few girls to drop sappy
love notes in his locker. The combination of his athletic prowess and extreme good looks made Garrison the most popular boy
at Palmetto Middle School.

However, in between successes on the field and blushing girls in the hall, Garrison had developed quite the reputation for
moodiness, often snapping at classmates for inconsequential things. One day following an impressive soccer match, two of Garrison’s
classmates, Phil and Rick, approached with boogie boards hanging from their backs.

“Dude, you were awesome out there,” Rick exploded with excitement usually reserved for NFL players. “You led us to victory
again!”

Garrison offered a knowing nod; he was praised regularly for his leadership on the field.

“We brought our boogie boards; let’s sneak down to the beach and hit the waves,” Phil suggested.

“Nah, I’m not into it,” Garrison responded coldly.

“Come on,” Rick chimed in, desperate to pique Garrison’s interest. “You never come.”

“Yeah, the waves are really breaking today,” Phil said with pleasure. “There’s a warning up and everything.”

A small but powerful ocean breeze blew across Garrison’s face, weakening his knees as he stared into the boys’ eyes. Small
spots of light flitted across his vision as he struggled to remain standing.