The Principal's Apocalypse

If this story seems familiar, it's because it's based loosely on this case study I posted about in the past. As always, feedback is encouraged. Email me at crediblewitness@gmail.com or just post a comment.

The Principal's Apocalypse
by Nikolaus Maack

When I received the first obscene note, it amused me. Some brave student, I decided, just an adolescent, his mind awash in hormones -- he wrote it, folded it up, wrapped it in twine, and then put it in my mailbox. That's where I found the note, in the mailbox that hangs on my office door. The twine was an odd touch. It was as though the contents of the note would explode outwards if not contained.

This all happened years back, before my sudden retirement. I was a high school principal. In those days, I walked the halls, imagining myself as a cop on the beat. It was unthinkable to me that the children would challenge my authority -- me, their principal, their policeman.

Mind you, I'm not a tall man, nor am I muscular. You might even say my physique borders on the unhealthy. I believed it was the force of my personality that intimidated the children. My grave, solemn manner put young miscreants in their place. I'd lock onto them with my steady, steely gray eyes and they would cower under the threat of my anger. And there was my large, dark gray moustache -- it gave me the air of a police detective.

"HEY GUNTHER", the note started. That it addressed me by my first name seemed particularly bold.

The letter compared me to excrement, described me as mentally unsound, unfit to be a principal, that I could lick the writer's bottom, and on and on. The whole thing was silly. The note emphasized this childish tone by being written entirely in large block letters on yellow notepaper. I shook my head, opened a drawer in my large oak desk, and dropped the letter inside -- twine and all. It sat among slingshots, dirty novels, whistles, firecrackers, and other contraband.

I idly wondered which of my "usual suspects" might have done this. But truth be told, it was a Friday afternoon, and I just didn't care all that much. My plans for the weekend sprung to mind -- I'd purchased a bottle of sherry I was itching to sample. The whole thing was quickly forgotten.

It was Tuesday morning when I found a second note in my mailbox. This time, I wasn't so amused. Once was understandable -- a momentary lapse. Twice implied something more lasting.

"HEY GUNTHER, YOU ARE SICK. YOU ARE A LOUSY PRINCIPAL. EVERYONE CAN SMELL YOUR SHIT WHEN YOU WALK DOWN THE HALLS. YOU ARE SICK SHIT."

I'm slow to anger. In those days, it felt like my emotions were in the room next door, and I could only hear them as muffled noises coming through the wall. I studied the note more closely, and snorted. At least all the words were spelled correctly. I toyed with the notion of doing something, and decided uneasily to let matters rest.

When the third note arrived Thursday morning, I was startled by my own rage. My hands shook with so much anger I nearly tore the note, and my face became red and hot. Clearly my emotions had come crashing through the wall. Something had to be done, I decided. This sort of disrespect was intolerable.

"HEY GUNTHER, YOU ARE NOT FIT TO BE A PRINCIPAL, YOU SHIT. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU'RE FOOLING? WHAT RETARD PUT YOU IN CHARGE OF A SCHOOL? YOU ARE A FUCKING LOSER AND A MORON."

Once I had my feelings in check, I stepped out of my office into the adjoining administration room, and spoke to one of the school secretaries.

"Delores," I said. "A word?"

Delores was an old battleship of a woman -- broad and gray. Entirely reliable, perfectly discrete, I knew I could count on her no matter what the situation. She got up from her desk, picking up a pad of paper and a pen, and marched into my office.

Once she had settled herself in a chair, I handed her the three yellow notes without comment. Delores read them, one at a time, blushing slightly and fluttering her eyelashes in surprise. By the time she was halfway through the second note, a deep line of annoyance appeared between her eyebrows. I had been waiting for that crease to show itself. Whenever that line appeared between Delores's eyebrows, I knew my own instincts were correct. The line was a confirmation of my own feelings and a signal for me to take action.

"Any ideas, Delores?" I asked casually. "On who might be so bold?"

"No, sir," she said, still looking at the notes. "I can't think of a single boy who would stoop to this."

"Then I guess I'll have to interview the usual suspects this morning, Delores. One at a time."

"Of course, sir," she said.

"Starting with Jarvis."

She tilted her head slightly. I wasn't sure if this indicated agreement or uncertainty.

"Of course, sir."

Ten minutes later, alone in my office again, I heard a forceful knock at the door. Curse that boy. When a student knocks, it usually sounds more like a tiny mouse scratching. I positioned myself squarely behind my desk, picked up a pen and started writing nonsense on a blank piece of paper.

"Come," I barked.

The boy swaggered in. Always with a swagger. Could the lad not simply walk from place to place? I continued to scribble on the paper, pretending to be writing some important words.

I hated Jarvis. The boy was only fifteen, and he was already two inches taller than me. Endowed with a natural athletic ability, the boy's body was muscular and solid. He excelled at sports. While not exactly stupid, Jarvis was a poor student out of laziness. Everything came easy to him. If it didn't come easy, he wasn't interested in it.

Of course all the children adored Jarvis. Blond, blue eyed, strong and brave, Jarvis regularly tested authority. Whenever a teacher let down their guard, you could be sure Jarvis would be at the ready with a wisecrack or prank. All the same, he didn't get in trouble often. That was because of his beauty, his poise. The teachers forgave the boy almost anything.

But not I. No, I'd been watching Jarvis carefully. And this latest prank seemed to carry the lad's signature swagger and audacity. Who else would be so bold? And even if Jarvis wasn't responsible, I felt it was an opportunity to teach him a lesson in humility.

I let a half a minute pass, continuing to doodle nonsense as the boy stood there, waiting. I then noisily dropped my pen, scowling as if irritated by this interruption.

"Jarvis, take this piece of paper, and this pen, and write 'HEY GUNTHER' in block letters please." I slid a blank sheet of paper and a pen across the desk to him.

The boy blinked, almost smiled, and then caught himself. Without a word, he walked over to the edge of my desk, picked up the pen and did as he was told. He then stood there, hands clasped behind his back, staring at me. Most boys would stare at their feet. Not this one, the little shit.

"Will that be all, sir?" he asked.

"You're not curious at all what this is about?" I asked icily.

"Don't want to pry, sir," the boy said, without a trace of irony. "I'm sure it's none of my business, sir."

"We'll soon see."

We remained silent, staring at each other, for five long seconds. How I longed to beat this child. It was ridiculous, I know that now, but I felt a thrill at the thought of picking up a cane and bringing it down on the boy's back, knocking him to the floor. Where's your swagger now, you little shit? I could hear myself screaming the words. Where's your swagger now? To lay one single, crushing blow on his broad shoulders would be delightful. Yes, even orgasmic.

"Will that be all sir?" Jarvis asked once more. The rage on my face had to be visible, but Jarvis behaved as though nothing were amiss.

"You may go," I said.

When the door closed behind him, I collapsed back in my chair. I felt furious and pathetic -- that a mere boy of fifteen should fill me with such terrible thoughts and feelings. The hate I felt was so overwhelming, so ridiculous. It horrified me to think it, but if I tried to beat the boy, he could turn the tables in an instant. He would rip the cane from my hand and beat me senseless, compounding the humiliation I felt just looking at him. My weakness, my impotence, middle aged and alone and a mere high school principal... And him, young, fit and strong, his whole life ahead of him, everything coming to him so easily...

The other children I interrogated that day were much more frightened, and I hate to admit I took comfort in that. Their shivering little faces; their wide, teary eyes; their quavering voices -- I soon felt my old self again. I bellowed at them, demanding they reveal all their secrets. I made them all write "HEY GUNTHER" on pieces of paper.

"You will tell me everything!" I practically screamed.

Despite the satisfaction I felt making children suffer, my investigation amounted to nothing. None of them knew anything. I could tell this immediately, being quite an expert in bullying the young.

I spent the afternoon and early evening behind my desk, carefully comparing the collection of handwriting samples to the original notes. My large brass magnifying glass, purchased on a whim, was finally put to some use. None of the children wrote "HEY GUNTHER" in a style that matched the notes. It was possible they could have disguised their penmanship, but I believed I would see through such a ruse. While no graphologist, I felt I had an eye for analyzing evidence.

Annoyed at my lack of progress, I got up to leave -- and was startled by the late hour.

The next morning, I went into work early. I was eager to launch back into the battle. Out of habit, I opened my mailbox, and there it was. Much to my surprise, there was yet another note waiting for me. Who dared to do this? Who dared to leave notes like this, knowing I was hot on their heels? The audacity of it made me growl in anger. I had never growled before in my life.

"HEY GUNTHER, YOU ARE A RIDICULOUS OLD FART WHO LIKES TO SNIFF BICYCLE SEATS. YOU ARE SHIT. YOU ARE WORSE THAN SHIT. QUIT YOUR JOB NOW YOU OLD LOSER. YOU STINK."

Complete nonsense. Childish and idiotic and pointless. All the same, it took every ounce of my strength not to crumple the note in my fists.

Evidence, I told myself. It's evidence. Preserve the evidence.

I carefully put the note down on the edge of my desk, and then kicked my metal garbage can as hard as I could. It ricocheted off the wall with a clatter, then rolled to a stop, dented beyond repair. Fortunately it was still early, and no one heard my outburst. No one knew of my fury and despair.

The teachers gathered in their lounge at around eight in the morning. I decided that I would need to confront them with the notes as well, to see if they had any guesses as to who the culprit might be. The idea of speaking with the staff made me shudder, but I felt I had no other choice.

My relationship with the teachers was rather distant. I told myself that a good leader knows how to let the workers run the show themselves, interfering only when absolutely necessary. The truth is, the teachers frightened me, and I wanted as little to do with them as possible. Some managers have an open door policy. I preferred to think of myself locked away from them all, coming out of hiding only as required.

When it came to matters of faculty, I told myself, I was the school's secret weapon. To be used only in emergencies. Like an atomic bomb.

In this way, I hid my fear from myself.

When I stepped into the staff lounge, all conversation stopped and everyone stared at me. I couldn't remember the last time I stepped into this room, and looking at the gaping faces, I could see they couldn't remember either.

The room was supposed to be a place where teachers would confer with one another on lesson plans and other scholastic strategies. Instead, it was more like a common area in a frat house. The carpeted floor was littered with paper cups and crumbs. Every surface was dirty with bits of food and spilled coffee. The lighting was entirely artificial. Thick curtains covered the windows, as the last thing anyone wanted was children peering in to the inner sanctum and realizing that the teachers aren't in fact human, but filthy animals.

I smiled nervously, and muttered, "Good morning."

There was a chorus of half-hearted good mornings. God, they couldn't even muster that much.

"I don't mean to interrupt your morning rituals," I said, "but a matter has arisen that I would like to bring to everyone's attention."

I handed out the four notes I had received, and they were dutifully passed around, and examined in little clusters of teachers. Our high school was fairly small, so there were only 12 teachers in total. The youngest was a short, ugly blonde woman dressed in mannish clothes that made her as unappealing as possible. She could have passed for a student. The oldest was a man aged beyond his years, refusing to retire, hunched over by weight of his own egg-shaped head. He clung to what he called a "walking stick" that everyone knew was a cane.

They were a pathetic bunch. But they had direct access to the children. They could provide me with the vital information I needed for my investigation.

"These notes," I said, "have been slipped into my mailbox over the last two weeks. Should any of you have a notion as to who might be responsible, I would be most grateful for any and all information you might provide me. The boy responsible is clearly deranged in some fashion, and requires some psychiatric assistance. That is my only concern at this juncture."

I paused, and studied the teachers faces. They were all looking rather grimly at the floor, and I felt some comfort. They seemed to understand. I took back the notes, and invited the teachers to come see me at my office, should they have anything to say. I said good morning, and left.

Three steps down the hall, I heard the laughter. It stopped me dead. The twelve teachers were laughing. I backed up to the door and stood there, listening.

Someone did an impersonation of me, making me sound like a pompous British buffoon. "Should ANY of you have a NOTION as to who might be RESPONSIBLE..." the teacher was saying. I couldn't tell who.

"My god, he really is a little shit," a teacher said, laughing.

"And he sniffs bicycle seats," another chimed.

They all laughed uproariously.

I rushed back to my office, my hiding place, utterly humiliated.

The rest of the morning was spent mulling over my situation, and what I could do next. I picked up a pen and doodled absent-mindedly as I thought things through. The teachers, obviously, were against me.

"Teachers, no help," I wrote.

So far, I had accumulated no real evidence implicating anyone. There was the attitude Jarvis displayed. Where all the other children trembled in fear, he stood there, meeting my gaze. His attitude spoke volumes.

"Jarvis?" I scribbled, and then drew a grinning, evil face meant to be the boy's.

Perhaps if I escalated matters, he would crack. I could arrange for a meeting with the school superintendent and Jarvis and myself. Instead of playing coy, I could lay down the notes, insist that Jarvis did it and...

I wrote, "Superintendent?"

But the handwriting. Jarvis had written HEY GUNTHER and it didn't match. As I thought about this, I wrote "HEY GUNTHER" several times, mimicking the block letters of the original note.

Something about my handwriting bothered me. I picked up the magnifying glass and looked at my "HEY GUNTHER" more closely. I pulled out the notes -- they were always at hand, never far from my reach -- and compared my hand-writing to the originals.

"No," I said to myself. "Utterly ridiculous. No."

But there was no denying it. The handwriting was a perfect match.

I told Delores I wasn't feeling well, and slipped meekly out of a back door of the building. During the bus ride to my bachelor apartment, my mind was wrapped in fog. I couldn't think. Could hardly see.

As I opened the door to my home, I realized this wasn't just my apartment any more. This was the crime scene. I would have to make a systematic search, inch by inch.

In a kitchen drawer, there was twine. A perfect match to the twine used on the notes. In my desk was yellow lined paper. Exactly the same, right down to a slight discolouring of the edges from age. There was no doubt about it -- I'd been writing the notes myself, all along.

"I'm insane," I muttered to myself with wonder.

My apartment now felt suspiciously like it didn't belong to me. I looked around the room, as if seeking out further proof of my own madness. But everything was ordinary. A bed, a couch, a desk... All very proper and masculine and simple. I joked sometimes that I lived like a monk. Everything clean and ordered.

And yet, I lived all alone. Middle aged, no wife -- there never was a woman in my life. Not for very long. Isolated. A freak. Mocked by my peers -- the teachers. There was something wrong with me -- that much was obvious, even if this apartment appeared perfectly normal.

The notes were mine, written by me, addressed to me, put in my own mailbox by me. While there was no such memory in my head, I knew it to be true. It went beyond the evidence. My entire body seemed to vibrate with newfound certainty.

I must have written the notes, tied them in twine, put them in my mailbox -- all in some kind of dream state, like a sleepwalker. Then, coming to my senses, I opened the mailbox and "found" them.

Why? Why had I done this to myself? I took the notes out and read them again. This time, a theme emerged. Ignoring all the "shit" and "bicycle seat sniffing" nonsense, each note said I was unfit to be a principal, and I should quit. Was that what I was trying to tell myself?

"What should I do?" I muttered.

It was difficult to sleep, that night. I had the distinct impression I was being watched.

The next day, I went to work. There was my mailbox, hanging on my office door. Somehow I knew there would be a note inside. Again, there was no memory of writing a note, tying it twine, dropping it in the mailbox, or any of that. As far I knew, I'd just arrived at my own office. Hesitantly, I opened my mailbox -- and there was the note I expected.

I took it to my desk, and opened it.

"HEY GUNTHER. 1. APOLOGIZE TO JARVIS. 2. QUIT YOUR JOB. 3. SEE A SHRINK."

I'd already deduced I should quit and see a psychiatrist. But apologize to Jarvis? That caught me completely by surprise. What for? What had I done to the boy, really? Submitted him to a few interrogations, that was all. Nothing too serious.

That's what I thought, intellectually. But there was a dark emotion in my belly, that burned and twisted like an epileptic snake. I owed Jarvis an apology. But the humiliation of it -- a man of my stature, apologizing to a boy of fifteen. It seemed outrageous.

All the same, I had no choice. Clearly, despite outward appearances, my mind wasn't functioning properly. This other, the "me" writing notes, seemed to have a better grasp of things than I did -- if I ignored all the swear words. To use the jargon, my unconscious had a firmer grasp on reality than my conscious mind.

When the bell rang, indicating classes had begun, I asked Delores to have Jarvis come to my office immediately. As I waited, I decided to come out from behind my desk, out from behind my shield. I took two heavy padded chairs and positioned them in the middle of the room, about five feet apart, facing each other. Then I sat in one of them and waited.

Jarvis knocked, and I said, "Come in, please."

He swaggered in. But when he saw that I wasn't behind my desk, he stopped, startled.

"Is something wrong, sir?" he said nervously.

I indicated he should sit down across from me, and he did. "Something wrong?" I asked.

"An accident, or something?"

It took me a moment to realize what he thought was going on -- that I had come out from behind my desk to break some bad news to him. Why else would I let down my guard in this manner? Presumably he worried his parents had been killed in a car accident or something of that sort.

"Oh, no, sorry," I said, and laughed a strange little bark. "No, no. Nothing like that."

A look of relief came onto his face, but he said nothing.

We sat there for a moment, as I tried to figure out what I wanted to do or say. Much to my own surprise, I took all the notes out of my pocket and handed them to Jarvis -- all the notes that is, save the very last one. I smiled as I handed them over. The boy took them uncertainly, confused by the expression on my face, then began to read.

He let out a nervous laugh, then quickly looked up and said, "Sorry, sir."

"No, no," I said. "That's quite all right. They are funny."

Jarvis said quickly, "I didn't write them, sir."

"I know, I know. Please read them."

Jarvis read the notes through while I waited. As I watched, I realized I never looked at the boy closely like this. Much to my surprise, he seemed quite genuine. In the past, he struck me as putting on airs, acting all superior. Now, he seemed human. Just another boy. Confident, yes, but just a boy. His blond hair was mussed, slightly. His shoes were scuffed.

He read the notes with a strange earnestness, as though he would be tested on them later. When he finished reading the last note, he held them in his lap, and looked confused. I held out my hand and he handed them over.

"I don't know anything about the notes, sir," he said.

Again, I let out a barking laugh, and it caused him to flinch. "Sorry," I said. "Of course you know nothing about the notes, Jarvis. You see, it turns out that I wrote them myself."

Jarvis blinked at me. "Sir?"

"For the last two weeks, I've been finding these notes in my mailbox. I thought someone else had been writing them. And so, I started an investigation. Which child wrote these? That's what I have been asking myself. I immediately suspected you. It was entirely unfair. There was no evidence against you at all. Because it turns out, in the end, that I wrote the notes. I have no memory of writing them, but I know I did. I'm... It would seem that... I'm not at all well."

Jarvis looked momentarily frightened. "Sir?" he said once more, but so quietly it was almost inaudible.

"I want to apologize to you," I said. "So many times, Jarvis, I have assumed the worst of you. Jealous of your youth, of your strength, of your confidence. I made you out to be my whipping boy for everything. I want to apologize, I want to... I've thought poorly of you, and it was entirely unjustified. You're... I think you're a good lad, with a bright future ahead of him. And I... I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

Jarvis stared at me, seemingly not comprehending a word I was saying.

"It's not easy, getting old. Being lost. I have no life. That's what I've learned, recently. This job is all I have. And I'm quitting. Right after you leave this room, I'm going to walk over to the phone, call the school superintendent, and tell him I'm unfit for work. I'll ask for a medical leave of absence, but I have no intention of returning here. Ever."

I paused, and leaned forward in my chair. "Do you understand what I'm saying? You've won."

"You wrote the notes, but you don't remember writing them?" Jarvis asked tentatively.

"That's right."

"But, why?"

"I think maybe I buried a part of me so deep, that I couldn't remember it anymore. That forgotten part of me took on a life of it's own. And it wrote the notes. To try to get me to change. To try to get me to quit my job and live a real life. A life that has value."

"I wrote the notes, sir," Jarvis said.

"What?"

"I wrote them," he said.

My mind reeled. Was I not insane after all? "But, no, all the evidence says I wrote them. I know I wrote them."

"That may be, sir, but I'm telling you -- I wrote the notes."

"The paper is from my home. The twine is from my home. I even have a pen, that writes exactly like the ink of the notes. All the evidence..."

Jarvis interrupted me. "The evidence is wrong, sir."

I looked at the boy, and his face was hopeful and sincere. He was trying to save me, I realized. Save me from my own insanity.

"That's very kind of you, son," I said. "But no. I wrote them. Thank you for trying. You really are a very good lad."

I stood up, to indicate the meeting was over. Jarvis got dutifully to his feet.

"You'll be missed, sir," he said.

"I doubt that very much," I said, laughing bitterly.

"No sir, it's true. We will miss you. We always found you so funny."

A pang went through my chest, an ache. The worst part was that the boy genuinely meant what he said to be a compliment. It seemed none of the children respected me or feared me. I wasn't a police detective, prowling the halls with my sombre gray moustache and steely eyes. I was a clown.

"Thank you, Jarvis," I said, and I smiled. "Thank you for everything."

The boy nodded at me, smiled slightly, and then left the room.