Prologue

At the edge of town of Jericho on the downhill side, beyond the abandoned railroad tracks to nowhere, past the point where the streetlights end but before the world disappears beneath a twisted canopy of oak and black willow trees, there's a strange boarding school with centuries of history.

Aside from the gothic aesthetic there's nothing really special about the place. If you were to go inside, you would probably see the same boring components of any other perfectly normal old boarding schools across the forgotten areas of God's land but just with a gothic style : same old stylised black metal gate with Nevermore Academy's name in stylised lettering along with decorative shapes of ravens, the same old looming gothic buildings, wide campus, potted plants, some building scattered here and there. The fish filled river that leads to the Raven island could be accessed through the boating docks. Gargoyles sat perched up over the windows filled with cracked glass. A notice board covered in dozens of school activity posters and missing persons posters where bloodstain keeps reappearing no matter how many times they clean it up. The steady mechanical hum of machines that hasn't been serviced since the Reagan administration.

Random pockets of icy cold air that seem to move about of their own accord. And of course, that family of mutated raccoons living in the crawlspace beneath the building. Well, the school thinks they've mutated anyway. At the very least, they're inbred to the point of genetic deformity. The alpha (a muscular, three-foot-tall son of a bitch named Rocco) has been caught multiple times chewing on cars of visiting families' tires. So far, he's been run over on at least three different occasions. Yet he keeps coming back, stronger and dumber than ever.

When it comes to upkeep, the academy's aims for "good enough" and usually misses. A faded wet floor sign sits atop a large crack in the foundation by the cooler where layers of sticky spill-off have formed a miniature tar pit, preserving countless insect corpses as well as the occasional small rodent.

One of the doors on the cold drink case in boy's dorm is held together with nothing but duct tape and prayers. And the smoke detector may or may not be an old frisbee. Year after year the health inspector, through some divine intervention, pure laziness, or simple old-fashioned bribery, has signed off on the business, kindly turning a blind eye to the "good-enough" fixes and a blind nose to that overwhelming aroma that hangs over the Nevermore academy.

That lingering smell—a sweet combination of honeysuckle, ammonia, and vomit—has never been positively identified, but the prevalent theory is that it's coming from underground, wafting up through the thin fissures in the concrete that grow and spread with each year of architectural settling. It's strongest right after a rain and tear-inducing if you get too close to the storm drains, where even Rocco and his clan refuse to tread.

If you are male; were you to answer nature's call during your visit to the academy, you might see the bathroom cowboy. He's sort of an urban legend around there, only ever appearing when you're alone and unsuspecting. Some people say he wears a long leather duster jacket, bandanna, jeans, chaps, and boots with spurs. Some say he wears nothing but a black Stetson cattleman, checkered boxers, and ornate tribal tattoos. Some folks have witnessed him handing out balloon animals or playing the harmonica; some claim that he sings to them with the voice of a southern angel while they're busy doing their business. Should you be lucky enough to see the cowboy who haunts the bathroom, don't worry. If he's real, he's harmless. And quite polite, to boot. People have reported a spiritual high after meeting him, and one man credits the encounter with curing his gout. Honestly, the cowboy doesn't seem so bad, especially compared to some of the other things you may encounter.

If you do go inside, there's a great chance you won't see the cowboy, or the racoons, or anything that might register as out of the ordinary. But you will probably see me or another students. After all, this is a school, which means teenagers. Most of the time, you can find me sitting on many benches around the campus. If you somehow by chance bump into me of all here, you may catch me reading a book because, for some reason, the internet doesn't properly work way out there, and cell phone service in the boy's dorm on good days and nonexistent on most.

If you need to make a phone call, you can leave and go up the hill, back towards town. (Definitely do not continue any further downhill, where the road snakes into the hungry mouth of a wild sweeping forest. Trust me. You don't want to know all the reasons that's not a good idea.) Alternatively, you can go the main school building where cell service is good as it could be out here.

We get at least one new person every month wandering back into town from the woods (normally barefoot), sometimes claiming they've just escaped aliens or monsters or government conspirators or the like, and that they have no money. In that case, rest lies in hands of the sheriff's office.

Then there are other stories about this place. For instance, there's Clive Cornwall, a man who's fond of the bottle and always takes the case discount on whiskey. All he ever wants to talk about is the time he met the devil down at the local watering hole. He claims he insulted the fallen angel's rhinestone jacket, and now he's cursed to stay perpetually drunk or face the demons determined to drag him to hell.

Then there's bitter old Mrs. Meares, who will happily gab for hours about her four missing children and how they were abducted one stormy night from right under her nose. Just don't ask her for any proof. The truth is nobody around here remembers her ever having any kids in the first place, least of all Mister Meares.

And let us never forget Farmer Brown, or his famously short temper that he'd lose at even the slightest provocation. The last time he caused a scene, it was over the new brand of bulk feed one of the teachers made for him. He insisted something must have been wrong with the product because, as he put it, all of his animals suddenly had "human faces." Unfortunately, you won't be able to ask him for any details. Not too long after the incident, the sheriff found what was left of his body down at the farmhouse, still clutching a loaded shotgun, with all the doors deadbolted from the inside. As far as I know, they still haven't figured that one out. I guess the point I'm trying to make is this: weird things happen at this shitty school at the edge of town.

- Nevermore Tales

Blog entry number one