The Midnight Club Murders

FOUR DAYS AGO, on a sunny Friday morning, the 11th grade of Van Duke Public High School prayed in the midst of an assembly. One hundred and fifty students stood in lines along the asphalt of the school quadrangle. No one dared to make a sound, not even a breath or a snort. Van Duke appeared frozen in time. “…and we hope that sha’ys one with yah angles. Christie had always been a great friend, schtudent, and sistah,” a cheery girl with short stature and curly hair said onto the microphone podium, in front of the 11th graders with a slight whimper in her high-pitched voice which appeared to badly mimic a grieving tone. The day was the first anniversary of Gwyneth Claricel’s sister, Chr

MONDAY CAME, two days after that sorrowful night.   A body was found with a slit throat in Eurydice-11, lying on a pool of blood and with a spilled, white and pink liquid everywhere, which appeared to be liquor. Two bottles of branded alcohol and numerous plastic cups laid around the body. A razor blade which was rusty and bloodied was in its hand.   It appeared to be bloated postmortem as it started to decompose. It gave of a putrefying, sulphurous smell which mixed up with the pungent aroma of the liquor, making the cops who were on the scene nauseous. Two days into decomposition, blood pooled on the body’s back and feet, making the skin appear black. Bloating has set in, pushing forward the eyes and making the tongue pop out a little. The scene was horrifyingly grotesque.   The monsoon started to kick in. The students were expected to

CLASSES RESUMED THE FRIDAY thereafter. Another chilly August day with light drizzle every now and then. While the cooking pot of opinions and gossips and commentaries at Van Duke boiled down into a simmer, it never quite disappeared. Mostly fueled by the poisonous silence a week after Dean Ramos’ funeral and shortly just a few days after what seemed to be a prank. While most accepted that Dean’s death was self-inflicted—although only for the reason of accepting something and not dwelling on death any longer—a small few are convinced that something is definitely sketchy about two suicides at Van Duke exactly a year apart. Some of Dean’s teachers and acquaintances that were quite dear to him simply dismissed these and found the conspiracies tasteless and absurd. What remains of the Midnight Club did not exist on our plane of existence. Isaac became a recluse, growing a five-day-old stubble that made him look

BACK WHEN EVERYTHING was slightly off the status of okay, “Shit! I got foundation on my shirt, man!” a heavily blushed and contoured Isa Marie whined.“Oh, girl…” Christie Claricel tried rubbing the brown liquid but it further smudged the suffragette white uniform they both donned.“One chance for a great juniors yearbook and I effin’ ruined it.”“Turn that frown upside down, girl, here I’ve got an idea.” Quickly, Christie grabbed Isa’s arm and ran through the red forest of metal lockers in the corridor up to the dingy restroom at the end of the hallway. She propped herself up on her knee, trying to catch her breath.

IN A LUNCH SHADE in the furthest of the campus sat Isaac Acaban and Mickey Conan, both seemingly in a competition of who had the baggiest under eyes. Neither had enough sleep for the past weeks. “What do you need from me?” nagged Isaac.“I just wanted to apologize for whatever happened the other night. To be honest, I’m still all loose from you saying that…”Mickey paused for a moment, arranging his thoughts. He closed in.“…it could be one of us.” The two were silent for a while, picking at their lunches but not really eating any of it.“Could be. Listen, Mickey. I want you to go through this in the most rational way. Your fears won’t do anything. Your smarts would. Think about it.”