Hey guys, I haven’t posted in awhile, and with Ben, Ian, and Patrick basically dominating the site, I decided I’ll post some MOAR stuff.

Project Silent is going to be published on this blog in parts. I’ve only written the first chapter, so it will take awhile to write them all, but I’ll work hard on it! I believe it will have about 29 chapters.

This chapter is rated PG13 for some language and mild suggestive content (I love giving my stuff MPAA ratings). I’ll post something in the restricted section if its worth of an R rating. Please give a comment offering advice on improvement!

October 4th

1
The name’s Zackary, and that’s all the name you need to know.
I lived in Windmill, Maine. I lived on a curb in the suburbs, but I won’t tell you which one. I was twelve, turning thirteen on November 1st. It was October 4th when Windmill was locked up from the outside then the inside, and all hell broke loose.
The story you will hear you won’t believe. I don’t think you would want to believe it, either. But there’s an urge in everyone to tell somebody a story never told.
I trust you, though, and that means something.

2
On a cold, bleak morning when wisps of fogs prowled the neighborhood, my Dad tossed the paper on my bowl of soggy cheerios.
“Read this.” He said.
My Dad was a cop but he never talked about it. He had brown hair combed to the side and a dimple on his chin. Part of the paper dipped into my milk and it spread across the corner of classified section.
The headline:

MAYOR COMMITS SUICIDE
ALWAYS WILL BE MISSED

I looked up at Dad again, and he stared out the kitchen window and sipped his coffee.
“We were good friends.” He said.
I gazed at my cheerios, and I noticed that if I squinted, it looked like they were vibrating. I blinked—no, a coincidence.
“I’m…I’m sorry.” I mumbled. This was the first death of somebody I’ve met before since grandpa. I didn’t know what to say. I remember meeting Mayor Cunningham at the Fireman’s Carnival, he shook my hand and gave me lollipop and told me I’d grow up to be like my Dad. I remembered my disgust when I discovered it was grape-flavored and spit it out in the bushes. For a moment, I felt the faint taste of bitter grapes at the back of my tongue.
He patted my shoulder and hinted me a smile. “It wasn’t you, sport. Malcolm was a good, happy man. I just don’t get it why he’d take his own life.”
I managed the pre-pubescent balls to ask him a rather dumb question. “Are you sad?”
A wave of embarrassment flooded over me. You know when you ask a question then realize what it made you look like? That’s how I felt. Stop asking boy-questions and start asking manly-questions.
“Yes.” His voice dropped an octave. “We were good friends. But sometimes you have to learn how to move on. You can’t let sadness ruin your whole day.”
I asked another cheesy question. “Did he go to heaven?”
His eyes stared at the window, and he paused for a second, like I slowed down time.
“Yes.”
Dad set down his coffee on the table and went upstairs. I dumped my cereal in the sink and got ready for school.

3
The second thing that went wrong was school’s flag became half-mast.
Ted and Raymond sat in the back of the bus with me. Ted, sixth grade, had blond hair that he never brushed, and today the left side’s hairs stuck up, like a cow tried to give him a mohawk with its tongue. His torso was scrawny but his limbs were thick, making him look like a half-assed G.I. Joe figurine. Raymond was a seventh grader, tall and black. His hair was curly and brown. Some acme dotted his face. He dressed better than Ted.
“What’s with the flag?” I asked.
“I think they do it when some military or government person dies that was local. Or school shootings and disasters and stuff like that. It’s a sign of respect.” Raymond explained.
“Why is it a sign of respect?!” Ted retorted. “Its like, ‘Oh, I don’t care who died, I’m just gonna be half-mast cause I’m too lazy to be full’.”
A few kids turned around and stared at Ted like he was a member of the KKK.
Phil, a large-nosed kid with black hair, scoffed. “Dude, people died for that flag. How ‘bout you learn some respect?”
Ted watched as the eyes slowly were taken off him, and then stared out the emergency back door.
“Did you hear about Julie?” Raymond asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
“I heard the Mayor was her uncle or something. They were very close.”
“Julie’s hot.” Ted said.
“No one asked you.” Phil retorted. “She’s two grades ahead of you and she’s mine. You won’t-
“I can say whatever the hell I want!” Ted shouted.
More kids turned their heads to the loud sixth grader. Phil stood up, his school uniform was wrinkled. He was very tall and skinny for his age, but he never got to the basketball team. Ted stood up too, his fingers balled into crude fists. The bus driver could notice any moment now.
“Ted, sit down.” I whispered.
“Grow up, Ted.” Phil shot. “Quit making an idiot of yourself.”
The bus driver opened the door, and everyone poured out of the bus. Phil turned around and followed the crowd. The argument was forgeten and we were the last ones to get off the bus.
Our school was surrounded by a grove of trees like the walls of a fortress. In September, the leaves would turn to red and pretty much disappear by my birthday, exposing the school for its decaying architecture.  The air was already cold, and everyone made sure they wore jeans (except for Ted with his kakis). The school itself was a maze of halls and rooms–parts of the school weren’t even used and no one was permitted in the area; they were shut down for renovation. For the past five years. I figured that they gave up on it because the population was dropping so fast that they didn’t need anymore space.
Of course, someone found a way in.

4
There was an assembly, and everyone had to go. That meant no pre-Algebra, but I’m sure they’d double the homework tomorrow.
The principal spoke for fifteen minutes or so, talking of the importance of the mayor in general and how’s he affected all our lives, even in ways we didn’t know it. The funeral ceremony would be held this Friday and anyone was allowed to come so they could pay their respects. Finally, he told us that suicide was never the answer to anything, and if anyone was thinking of doing so the school psychologist would be glad to help.
A couple other teachers told us about their experiences and memories about mayor Cunningham; Mrs. Wyerman fought to keep her tears in. Mr. Yang’s usually booming voice was reduced to a mouse. A couple girls in the back were sobbing, and Raymond kept his head down the whole time. I realized this was worse than pre-Algebra. I felt bad for a person who I didn’t even know.
Julie wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
The auditorium was packed—there’s well over 200 kids at the school, and there was barely enough seats for all of us. Around the forty-five minute mark I needed to use the bathroom. I got out of my seat and bumped a few knees on my way out. The only light source was coming from the stage—a giant spotlight, too big for its own good—was focused on one of the teachers. I walked to the back door and found that no one was guarding it for a hall pass. The staff at the school would love to attach a GPS system to every student’s uniform. But I guess they’d either forgot today or didn’t care.
I pushed the massive door open and it slammed behind me—its echo was a resounding gong in the Himalayas. The halls were devoid of anyone. To my left, an exit sign glowed like a taillight above the doors to outside. On my right several lockers and doors lined the halls like identical prison cells. At the very end, the power was cut off and the construction area started—and it was boarded off, too. Nothing came in, nothing went it out. Or that’s how the school wanted it to be.
You know how, sometime in your childhood, you have instinct to explore? I’ve always had that—I needed to know what was behind every dusty and rotting corner in the entire dying town. I’ve been gone on my bike for over four hours before, convincing my mother that I was hanging out with Raymond at the arcade. I’d venture into the old structures at the edge of the town—barns, shacks, and even the graveyard. I haven’t been caught trespassing yet, but once Dad discovers his son has been breaking the law he’s protected for so many years, it will mean something to him.
The restrooms were only a couple yards away, and I decided I’d use the urinal first before I’d disappear into the boarded-off area. Anxiety and excitement drifted into my mind—I should’ve bought a flashlight.
I heard running water when I opened the bathroom door. I saw Phil, leaned over on the sink, splashing his face continuously. I stared for a few seconds and he looked up, his eyes were red, like he dived into a chlorine pool.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He yanked a paper-towel off the rack and dried his hands on it. “Oh, nothing—just washing some dirt out of my face.”
I raised an eyebrow as he stride past me, his shoes clamping the floor like half-hearted clapping. He swung open the door, and slammed it behind him, leaving me alone and whatever was behind the stalls.
I unzipped my fly and used the unflushable urinal. I was glad I was alone—some kids would try to pee on my shoes on “accident”. A few sixth-graders dubbed me “piss-foot” but I tried to ignore it.
As I washed up, I remembered the legend of Larry Young.
Larry wasn’t a bright kid (which was fairly common in Windmill). He didn’t have any friends and the teachers ignored him. Rumor had it that his father beat him daily—one day he might be walking on a limp, the next day his ear was a pulp of blood and puss. He’d cry in the stalls, and everyone would pretend he wasn’t there. He was only eleven, not even finished the second semester, when he died.
On Halloween, Larry and a few other kids were wandering around in a graveyard, searching for ghosts. It was actually a bet Larry lost too—he got in some argument with an honor student that escalated to a full-fledged fist fight. After the fight came to a draw, the honor student said that if he was right, Larry could kick him in the nuts. If he was wrong, he had to ghost hunting with his friends (Larry was terrified of graveyards) Nobody knew exactly what they were arguing about, but Larry lost, and that was important.
There was a special lot on the graveyard that made it unique from most gravesites in Maine—it was a place for the burial of criminals. Windmill did have a prison about twenty years ago, but it was shut down because some politician said so. The dead of the illicit had to be put somewhere. Most were cremated and dumped into the Windmill sewer system. But if you were lucky and had a supportive family with money and a lawyer—you might, just might—get a burial and place under an unmarked grave. “A lot of people will still love someone even if they did commit something horrendous.” My Dad said once.
Larry had sharp eyesight. He insisted that he saw something in the criminal block. The other ghost-hunters listened and dared him to go there, alone. Realizing this was a chance for a little more respect and acceptance, Larry took it like cocaine from a shady drug dealer. He walked in, and he kept on walking—until he was nothing more than a speck that you could barely tell was there. And then he disappeared.
An hour later the kids realized that if Larry didn’t come back they were gonna be in some serious S. They waited another hour and there still was no sign of him. They started searching for him, calling his name and telling them that it was all just a joke, and he could come out anytime.
Larry did not come out. He was gone from the graveyard, but that wasn’t the last sign of him.
Every October 31st Windmill Evangelical Fellowship Church (WEF Church for short) rents the school lunchroom for “harvest parties” (this is so they can celebrate and eat candy on Halloween and not get in trouble for it). Ally, a 7th grader that never was in the Christian ghetto in the first place was wandering the halls by herself. She walked near the blocked-off area, and she claimed hearing something. The words were unintelligible, but she was sure of one thing—it was fear. Something screaming for jambled words of help in a rush of panic. She tried getting in, but she couldn’t find a way. She ran down the hall and got a couple adults to help her, but when they arrived the yelling was gone. No one believed her.
It’s hard to know the accuracy of the legend—I’ve met Ally before, but I never got to ask her about it. I think she’s moved on with her life and is somewhere far away. I’ll never see her again, and she’ll forget about this school altogether. Like I said, it’s a story you won’t believe, but that doesn’t mean I always believed it myself.
I found myself at the boarded-off area, and I felt a presence ushering me in, tempting me with promises of adventure and answers.

5
Everyone knew the way in. The door was on the right, kick it open, shut it quietly, and nobody else watched. A few kids have been caught trespassing, so the janitor installed a lock that was broken in about three days, but carefully re-arranged so it would only look like it was locked.
What you’re doing is wrong! Trespassing is illegal! Imagine what your Dad would-
“Shut up.” I told myself.
I looked down the hall, and I heard faint clip-clopping, gaining in soundly strength. A teacher’s high-heels were heading my way; she wasn’t in the same hall as me yet. I saw the broken lock in front of me, hanging by three rusty nails on the dark, wooden door. It had no window, so once I was inside, no one could see me; but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t check anyway. For a moment, I imagined myself as a badass, multi-millionaire, spy trying to crack a code before the evil communist guard would shoot me and make the Cold War a real war. It comforted me for some reason—it’s just an action flick where the good guys win in the end. Its all gonna be fine. I got it.
I leaned my body on the door, and shifted my weight to the side. The door flung open and I tumbled on the ground, landing on derbies of rotting woods. My shirt scrunched up to my chest, exposing my belly to a few rusty nails and other sharp, unknown objects. I scrambled up, and slammed the door behind me. I didn’t even look around my surroundings. I listened for the footsteps, frozen in a tense pose for an illusion of time.
Nothing came. Coast was clear. Now go steal the commie’s missile plans and save America.
I snapped out of my role-playing sequence. Technically, I was the bad guy here. I wasn’t allowed to even be absent this long. I was supposed to be listening to an assembly.
But that’s lame!
And it was.
I’d tell my Dad about this when I’m thirty and he’s too old to even call the cops.
Drafty air flowed through the room like howling ghosts behind your shoulders. The windows were enclosed in cheap wood, but tiny slits could be seen at the bottom, just shy of the width of my fingers. The ground was scattered in derbies of ancient, unknown devices, chunks of wood, and a few tools caked in rust. A ladder was propped on a wall, ascending to an empty square where a ceiling tile should’ve been.
There was a second doorway. I could see light drifting in from it; sunlight bleeding sloppy window-patterns onto the bleached-white walls. I paced my way through the room, wood crunching and creaking under my every step. My heartbeat rose to a faster, but nonetheless steady beat. I thought I felt something vibrate under my feet, but I dismissed it as a mix of paranoia and adrenaline. I headed into the main hallway.
The light was coming from a small classroom, which was in surprisingly good condition; the windows weren’t boarded up, and the chairs were stacked neatly in a corner. The chalkboard was covered in symbols and words that I didn’t understand; I passed them as careless graffiti.
Down the corridor, darkness shaded the walls; further down it began to completely engulf it, with the exception for a small crack of light, glowing behind a closed, locked, door like a demonic halo. I should’ve bought a flashlight. A few classroom doors lined the area, but they were shut tightly and the windows were blinded by dust and—you guessed it—more boards. Why did everything had to be shut and closed off? Where was the fun in that?
It’s not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to keep their privacy and you shouldn’t be in here.
“Shut up.” I repeated.
Then, almost like a response, I heard something shuffle. I couldn’t tell where it was, but I definitely heard it. It could’ve been a rat or some larger critter disturbed by me breaking into their home. I’m not afraid of any animals. When I was first beginning my explorations I came face-to-face with a raccoon in a barn. It hissed at me, its mouth a booby trap with sharp, jagged spikes of teeth; its skin scrunched up like wrinkles on an old man and its claws unsheathed like miniature Swiss Army knives. I screamed, grabbed the small hatchet I bought with me and I nailed a hole-in-one shot to its stomach. The animal fell dead, and I realized how easy it was. My combat skills were sharper than I thought…and I realized that I was dangerous.
I made my way down the hall. The last bits of sunlight caught my glasses and exposed oily smudges. I noticed some tiles were missing from the ceiling, and besides for a few dirty buckets here and there, it was desolate wasteland of decaying architecture. Light hadn’t been shown on these places in awhile…or had they?
Another shuffle and I do a 360 visual scan of the area. It was coming from far ahead of me, and a slight echo followed. A rat was too small, and cats don’t make too much noise (except Raymond’s—one sleepover with him and I vowed I will never attempt to rest with that creature again). I continued my journey, expecting some monster to jump out and slice my head off while the Psycho theme played. I descended into the black; and every single advancement of my foot plunged me deeper into a horizontal abyss. My ears were beginning to play tricks on me—was that crying I was hearing? I couldn’t tell. These tiny, nearly soundless noises were indistinguishable from hallucinations.
This is so cool!
This is so scary!
This is so illegal.
To my left, one of the doors was missing. Just a blank, empty, space, with small slits of lights peeling from the bottom of more paneled-off windows. It was creepy, alright; and my courage was diminishing. I moved my way through the lightless area, my feet waving in front of me before I set another foot down so I wouldn’t clash into something and make a racket.
A hand grabbed my shoulder; a sudden electric shock rattled me in the inside and out. I spun around, yanking it away from me. I could see a silhouette against the faint light of the doorway.
“What are you doing here?!” the dark figure asked. The voice was female.
“Who are you?” I shouted.
She shushed me. “Quiet! The teachers have hearing aids, you know!” she hissed.
“Then who the hell are you?!” I repeated, adding some salt to my words.
“I asked first.” She shot.
“I’m here because the assembly is boring the living crap out of me. Your turn.”
“That was my uncle!” she retorted.
Puzzle pieces connected in my mind. My eyes adjusted had adjusted to the darkness—I could just barely see the outline of her straight, chestnut hair and the tiny glint of her hazel eyes.
“…Julie?”
“Listen, Zackary. How would you like if your Dad committed suicide?! That would make a boring funeral, huh?”
“I’m sorry, OK! Just chill!”
We stood there in silence for unknown period of time. The air was of must and wood—it comforted me. I realized I was alone—with Julie. I’ve never been isolated with a girl. Some odd sensation came over me…something that I’ve felt before. A tingly, pleasant feeling that Dad already talked to me about. She stirred a feeling inside me that I couldn’t let go of—ever since I the first time I saw her. It might’ve been her face. Or her skin, smooth as summer leaves. I didn’t even like her that much…it was just…woah.
And it scared me.
But why here? What was the point of running into here? The only other kids who know who to get in are Ted, Joey, Albert, John, Balt and a few other faces without names. We’re only come here for snooping around creepy stuff, “ghost-hunting”, and dealing each other smuggled cookies and sodas from the teacher’s lounge. I don’t think Julie is the type of the person who’s interested in that stuff.
Well, she is now.
“Why-
My sentence was sliced off by another one of Julie’s cat-like hisses telling to be quiet. I was on the brink of calling her a bitch when I understood what she meant.
Her ears found it before mine. Somebody was walking in the halls—and he didn’t bother to cover up his resonance tracks. Massive, clunking footsteps closed in on us, the very room we were in became a prison—one stupid move and we’re caught. I ran over to the dark corner of the room, the one invisible for the passing eye over the dark room. I beckoned Julie with my hand, and she followed. We sat close but she kept her distance. I could here her breath shaking…then I realized I was the one who was jittery. Her breathing was steady and rhythmic…her eyes were unmoved from the glowing doorway.
I listened more carefully. There was more than one…two. They were walking in unison. I could hear them cracking rotting wood, kicking aside buckets, wading through the dust—its like they didn’t even care what was in front of them.
They passed by the doorway, and my heart jumped. They weren’t teachers or students. It was hard to get a clear look with the narrow vision slot, but it was two dark-robed figures, hoods over their heads, denying everyone of their identity. I saw them for a few seconds, but the image burned faster in my mind than a diagram in a sex-ed class. I’d never be able to un-see that.
The footsteps faded away like the sun disappearing under the horizon. Another two minutes we stayed there. Curiosity got the better of me and I stood up, but Julie yanked my shirt down.
“They could still be there!” she whispered.
“Then we’ll check to make sure.”
She nodded. Within five minutes of seeing each other, we hated each other’s guts and yet managed to plan coherently. My heart was an untuned drum in my chest—I was aware of all my surroundings. Julie behind me, the door ahead of me, the windows to my right. No sound except my silent thoughts. I peeked out the doorway, and my eyes darted everywhere in the room like a frightened insect. No one was there.
“It’s clear.” I said.
I stepped out into the hall, and she followed. We made our way through the rubble until we got to the end of the hallway, on the lighter end. I noticed her eyes were stained a slight red. She’d been crying, isolating herself—even from Phil. There must’ve been a fight. I was curious, but I knew better not to say anything.
“Who were they?” Julie asked.
“Hell if I know. Maybe just some eighth graders in hoodies.”
“Wearing robes?” she challenged. “Where did they come from? Where did they go?”
“I…I don’t know.” I said. “We could ask around.”
“Are you kidding?” she rejected. “I don’t want more people snooping in my business. Why do you think I came here in the first place?”
I connected a few dots. Maybe Phil was getting too far into her business, and they got in some fight and they split—Phil to boys’ room, Julie to construction area.
“Maybe it was Balt or John. Remember what happened on Halloween with the chainsaws?”
John and Balt had the police called on them last year when they chased a few kids with some obviously fake rubber chainsaw, wearing hockey masks. They didn’t get arrested, but the school kept its ancient eye on them.
“Yeah, but they didn’t know anyone else was back here.” Julie said. “It isn’t right.”
She had a point.

6
For the rest of the day, Julie and I didn’t talk to each other. When I passed by her table at lunch, she only waved. I think the whole confrontation in that dark room just made it feel…awkward. Like forcing to puzzle pieces together that didn’t want to fit. I saw her talk to Samantha and Kim in the hallways—she was real quiet, and I knew that her friends were trying to comfort her.
When we exited the restricted area, the assembly was just ending, and we got to class on time. I didn’t see Phil for the rest of the day, but Raymond claimed he saw him pass by. Ted invited me over to his house for some Xbox games, but I declined. Homework was too abundant.
After I was sent to bed, I stared out my window for awhile. My room is small, so my bed was placed between two windows.  My dresser blocks the left pane, so I either stare at a dark, inanimate object or outside. The moon’s eerie light painted on my bed and my wall. Trees whispered inaudible conversations of the coming winter. My lawn was highlighted blue by our neighbor’s patio-lights. I was thinking about Julie and her uncle when someone walked onto my lawn, and returned my gaze. I sat up in bed and snatched my flashlight—if Ted and I ever had something really important to talk about, like cheats to a test or a way to get the other out of trouble, we’d communicate using flashlights with Morse code. He’d usually toss a rock at my window to get my attention. I flicked on the switch, and noticed something wasn’t right—it looked a little taller then Ted. It might’ve been Raymond, but the shoulders were too broad. Julie didn’t know my address. Maybe Balt? I lifted my hand on and off the light in Morse.
.– …. — / .- .-. . / -.– — ..-
WHO ARE YOU
The figure took a flashlight out from the underside of what I thought might be a coat, but I couldn’t tell in the dim lighting.
-.-. — — .
COME
Balt was being a cryptic douche. Hah hah. Hilarious. I clicked off my flashlight, and then went to sleep. How many other people knew about me and Ted’s Morse code meetings? I don’t remember telling anyone but Raymond…who knows how many people Ted told.
Eventually, the figure disappeared into the woods. If it wasn’t 11:00 PM, I might’ve actually followed him, but I realized it could’ve been anyone, possibly someone trying to kill or deal drugs to me.
I rested soundly that night, dreaming of the school and Julie and Ted and Dad…dreams that felt so close, yet were so far away.