The Possession Of Joshua Banks

Luck of the Draw

“On the first day of school, the first question in students’ minds is, ‘Who are you?’ Their second question is, ‘Who are they?’” —Unknown

“Good luck with your first classes,” belted out Mr. Lundquist, his voice straining to rise above the loud, grating buzz that marked the end of Homeroom. No more Sister Cecile swinging her bronze desk bell to gather students after recess. This wasn’t elementary school anymore. Junior High brought with it a new tone—literally—a buzzer that sounded like a wrong answer on Jeopardy, only four times louder and twice as long.

“You have five minutes to get to and settle in your first period classes or you’ll get a late slip. Three late slips in a week and it’s detention!”

No one heard him.

The room erupted—chairs scraping, backpacks zipping and unzipping, students laughing, shouting, reuniting with old classmates. Eighty kids spilled into the hallway, where fifteen other homerooms had already begun flooding the corridor.

“Fifteen broken bags of coffee beans bursting,” Joshua thought, trying to make sense of the chaos. It helped ease the tight coil of nerves in his stomach.

“What about coffee?” came a voice beside him. A grinning boy had appeared, walking in step with him as if conjured from the noise.

Joshua’s freckled face flushed even redder as he realized—once again—he’d said half his thoughts aloud. “Uh... nothing. Just thinking,” he mumbled.

“I’m going to Art 101,” he added quickly, changing the subject.

“Room 211-B?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re in the same class. Name’s Tommy Taylor. What’s yours?”

“Joshua Banks.”

“I’ll just call you J, ’kay?”

Joshua glanced at Tommy, ready to object to the sudden branding, but the words caught in his throat. A thin surgical scar traced the upper lip beneath Tommy’s grin—evidence of a cleft palate repair. Joshua’s blush deepened.

“No, that’s fine,” he said, his voice softer. “If I can call you T, that is?”

“I’m cool with that. Fair’s fair.”

Room 211-B was bigger than most classrooms, but not nearly big enough for the sea of students already packed inside. Joshua and Tommy shared a look—something was definitely wrong. As they pushed further into the room, they were met by a large art table in the middle of the chaos. A bowl sat at its center with a note:

Art 101 Students: Please take ONE, and ONLY ONE paper.

Three teachers stood at the front. One, a wiry woman with silver-rimmed glasses, called for quiet.

“There was a scheduling error,” she explained. “Far too many students were assigned to Art 101. I’m Miss Manning, your Art teacher. To my left is Mrs. Cernicky, Dance. To my right, Mr. Dellview, Typing.”

She gestured toward the bowl. “Inside are slips numbered one to three. One means Art, two means Dance, and three means Typing. Whatever you draw, that’s your class. Don’t worry—you’ll all still get Art credit.”

Joshua stared at his slip like it was a cursed artifact. Just a single number. One digit. Yet it carried the weight of fate.

Tommy leaned in. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that thing like it’s gonna turn into a toad.”

Joshua didn’t respond.

Tommy gave him a sharp, twisty pinch on the arm.

“Ow!”

“What class you get?”

“Typing,” Joshua muttered.

“Hold on.” Tommy disappeared into the crowd. When he returned, he was beaming.

“There was no way in hell I was getting stuck in Dance. So I traded with someone.”

“Traded for what?”

“Typing. Everyone knows all the cute girls take Typing. Secretarial dreams, you know?”

“That’s...bullshit.”

“No, seriously! You should see the secretarial pool at my dad’s office building. Why’s it called a pool if no one’s wearing a bikini?”

Tommy laughed at his own joke. “Besides,” he added, “you looked like you could use a friend.”

Joshua smiled. He didn’t need to say anything. Tommy got it.

Mr. Dellview was the first to corral his new class. “We’re headed to Lab 3-C, next to the gym. This lab’s a temporary setup, so we had to bring some old Underwoods out of storage.”

Joshua followed, each footstep heavier than the last. Dellview’s words blurred into meaningless syllables. All Joshua could think was: Dead men walking.

He tried to distract himself. What was that song I liked this summer? Nothing came. Just the beat of sneakers on tile, loud and tribal, like Zimbutu war drums.

At the door to Lab 3-C, Mr. Dellview reached for the handle. The metallic click-click sounded like a shotgun cocking in Joshua’s ears.

The students flowed inside, chatting and carefree. Joshua stood frozen at the threshold. He couldn’t explain it. Just a feeling. Cold—not snowball-down-the-back cold. But something worse. Deep. Hollow. Cadaver cold.

Mr. Dellview turned, noticing him. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “The typewriters don’t bite. But the words you’ll one day type might. If the pen is mightier than the sword, the typewriter is the machine gun. Think of the power.”

Joshua tried to smile. “Guess that’s why no one’s wearing bikinis in the secretary pool.”

Mr. Dellview blinked, confused. Joshua’s face went crimson.

“Tommy, did you save me a seat?” he shouted as he darted into the room.

Tommy waved him over. Their desks were just folding tables, each holding three battered Underwood typewriters. The room had once been a science lab—sinks along one wall, sliding chalkboards on the other.

Joshua sat beside Tommy, settling into the strangeness of it all.

His fingers hovered over the ancient keys.

Somewhere in the room, a typewriter gave an eerie metallic clack all on its own.

Joshua blinked.

No one else seemed to notice.

He shook his head.

And class began.

Mr. Dellview handed out the first drill—home row warmups. A large red timer on his desk began its mechanical tick. No swinging rod, just the loud clack of gears moving in precise rhythm. The sound echoed off the old tile and lab walls.

"You’ll be doing this drill for three minutes," he said. "Keep your eyes on the paper. Not the keys. Go."

asdf jkl;
asdf jkl;
asdf jkl;

Joshua settled into the rhythm. The Underwood buzzed along, keys clacking with electric smoothness. It almost felt... eager.

asdf jkl;
asdf jkl;
asdf jkl;

a s d f j k l ;
y o u ' r e s l o w

Joshua flinched.

Backspace. Fast.

click click click click click

asdf jkl;
asdf jkl;

t h a t ' s o k a y

3... 2... 1...

BZZZZZZT!

The bell screamed like a dying smoke alarm. Joshua's hand jerked—but the Underwood's motor whirred again and typed one last word:

; F R I E N D ?

Joshua reached to erase it—

"Hands off the machines," Dellview called, clipboard already in hand.

Joshua froze.

His Underwood purred.

Mr. Dellview began the usual end-of-drill routine. "Pass your papers to the person on your right. You'll be checking each other's work. Count total characters and divide by five to get words per minute. Don’t forget to subtract errors. Use the scoring sheets on your tables."

Joshua and Tommy swapped papers. Joshua scanned Tommy’s lines, neat and surprisingly fast. Tommy looked over Joshua’s with his usual grin—until his eyes hit the last line.

"; FRIEND?" he read aloud under his breath, then looked at Joshua with a lopsided smile. "Aw, you didn't have to get all mushy on me, J."

Joshua opened his mouth to explain, then shut it. What was he going to say? The typewriter typed that on its own? Yeah, that would go over well.

Tommy jotted down the score and didn’t mark it as an error. He even underlined the word and added a tiny smiley face beside it on the margin of the scoring sheet.

Joshua stared down at his Underwood. The hum of its motor had quieted, like it was catching its breath after a prank.

It almost felt like... it was waiting.

Their next period was a spare. With nothing scheduled, Tommy convinced Joshua to head to the library, insisting he still wanted to talk about the "friend" message.

Seated between tall shelves and the scent of old paperbacks, Tommy leaned in. "So seriously—what was with that last word? You really trying to send me a message?"

Joshua shook his head. "No. I mean it. I didn’t type that. I swear, T. The machine did."

Tommy’s grin faltered slightly. "You saying the typewriter typed by itself? That’s a little... out there."

"You remember that clack before we sat down? Like something had already pressed a key? I heard it. I thought maybe it jammed, but now I’m not so sure."

Tommy leaned back, crossing his arms. "You’re freaking me out a little, J. But… I don’t know. I guess that was kinda weird."

"I’m not crazy. Just… confused. That’s all."

Tommy pulled out a stubby pencil and scribbled on a scrap of paper. "Let’s exchange numbers. If that Underwood starts writing love poems in the next class, I want to hear about it."

Joshua chuckled, tension breaking slightly. They swapped digits.

The rest of the day passed without incident. No ghostly clacking. No odd glances from inanimate objects.

But that night, when Joshua finally slipped under his covers, he found himself drifting into a sleep that wasn’t entirely his.

He saw a hallway. Dark. Endless.

And a girl—about his age—running.

She had dark hair tied in twin ponytails. A denim jumper dress. White bobby socks and black patent pumps. She didn’t look back, but Joshua felt her fear. Her breath burned in her chest. Her heart thundered.

He couldn’t see who chased her—if anyone. But he felt it. The dread. The urgency.

And the strangest part: Joshua wasn’t watching.

He was her.

When he woke, his body jolted upright, damp with sweat. His eyes scanned the room. No danger. No sound. Just the rhythmic ticking of his bedside clock.

It wasn’t a nightmare.

It was something else.

The next morning in Homeroom, Tommy leaned over. “So, did your typewriter write any more messages?”

Joshua hesitated, then leaned in. “No. But I think it sent me a dream.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "You're serious?"

Joshua nodded. “Yeah. Real serious.”

Before Tommy could reply, the homeroom buzzer blared. They were off to separate classes. But they both knew—third period, Typing, was coming. And Underwood would be waiting.

***

Beyond Home Row

Chairs shuffled and clattered as students returned to their assigned typewriters. The room filled with the low murmur of junior high chatter—who dumped who, who was hooking up, and other life-or-death middle school updates. Flip-chart-style typing drill books were propped open like flimsy shields.

Mr. Dellview clapped his hands to get their attention. "Today, we're going beyond the home row. We’re adding E, R, T, Y, I, O, M, and C to your drills. Refer to the fingering chart on the board for proper placement."

A few groans rose from the students.

“Before we begin the drills,” he continued, “I will voice the keys to be typed. Follow in unison. Stay in rhythm.”

The red timer clicked on, ticking steadily.

Dellview began to call out letters, fast and irregular: "I, O, A… A, T, H, E… R, E, M, C—"

Thirty-five electric typewriters answered back in crisp, mechanical unison. A clacking chorus.

Another round, faster, off-beat. “Y, A, C… T, E, I, M—”

Suddenly, one machine broke rhythm:

This is a thing.

The words pounded out like a machine gun in the middle of a marching band.

Mr. Dellview stopped. “Please stay in rhythm. Don’t jump ahead.”

He resumed calling: "R, T, A… O, C, Y…"

This is something.

Another staccato burst—rapid, wrong, unmistakable.

Heads turned. Students glanced around, unsure who’d broken tempo.

“Who’s doing that?” Mr. Dellview barked.

No one answered.

Joshua sat stiffly at his desk, hands frozen above the keys. His stomach twisted.

It’s not me, he thought. It’s the Underwood.

A third round began: “M, E, T, A… R, O—”

THIS IS REAL.

Mr. Dellview walked the aisles now, eyes scanning desks.

The final blast of keystrokes betrayed the culprit. Dellview stopped behind Joshua.

“Mr. Banks,” he said sternly. “That is three disruptions in one drill. You’ll stay after class.”

Joshua opened his mouth—but what could he say?

The truth was plain as ink on paper.

And no one would believe it.

***

Detention Attention

The classroom had emptied. The hum of idle typewriters echoed faintly in the background like tired crickets in the walls. Mr. Dellview remained at his desk, grading papers. Joshua sat two rows back, fidgeting in his chair, the Underwood silent in front of him like a sleeping animal.

“Three disruptions, Mr. Banks,” Dellview said without looking up. “That’s not a great start to the term.”

Joshua nodded, eyes down. He wasn’t sure whether to argue, explain, or stay quiet.

“Was it nerves? Showing off? Something else?” Dellview finally asked, eyeing him.

Joshua shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think I did it on purpose.”

Dellview studied him for a moment longer, then sighed and returned to his marking. “I don't tolerate disruption in class Mr. Banks. Is that understood?”

"Yes, Mr. Dellview."

"I want you back here after sixth period, and we'll run some uninterrupted drills." 

---

Lunch came after third period. Joshua sat with Tommy, poking at a cold grilled cheese sandwich. He was still fuming about the detention. "All because of a busted typewriter," he muttered.

Tommy stayed quiet for a moment, then said carefully, "That last thing it typed—‘This is real’? I saw your hands, J. You weren’t typing. You jumped when it happened."

Joshua blinked. "You saw that?"

Tommy nodded. “I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but… yeah. I believe you didn’t do it.”

They sat in silence for a bit before Tommy added, “I’ll wait for you after detention. We’ll hang out after.”

Detention came and Mr. Dellview ran Joshua through standard drills.

The Underwood behaved.

Halfway through, Dellview was paged to the office. “Page six of Touch Typing Drills is where we left off in class. Continue with those drills,” he said, setting the timer. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Joshua nodded and focused. No strange outbursts. He finished the assigned drills just before the timer buzzed.

He loaded a fresh sheet, just in case.

Dellview returned, collected Joshua’s work, and nodded. “You can go. And I expect that we won't have any more disruptions in class? Correct Mr. Banks?”

"No Sir, I mean yes, no more disruptions."

"We'll see," he said wryly as he left again, presumably locking up.

Joshua began to pack up. As he reached for the clean sheet he had loaded, he froze.

Typed in all caps:

DON’T TELL DELL!!!!

Joshua folded the page and slid it into his back pocket, heart pounding.

He found Tommy on the football bleachers, where they had agreed to meet.

“So? Did the Underwood behave?” Tommy asked.

Joshua shrugged. “Yeah. No weird stuff. Dellview didn’t even give me a lecture.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Joshua hesitated. “Well… not quite.” He pulled the folded page from his pocket and handed it over.

Tommy read it aloud: “Don’t tell Dell? Dellview?”

“That’s what I thought too. But don’t tell him what? That it’s haunted?”

They both laughed nervously.

Tommy nodded. “Yeah. That’d go over well.”

The joking helped. But as they parted ways and headed home, both boys felt the same thing brewing beneath the surface.

That night, Joshua’s sleep was restless.

The dream came again.

The girl appeared—same denim jumper, same bobby socks. But this time she wasn’t running.

She was holding a small trophy. The plaque at the base was too blurry to read, but it had been given to her by a much younger Mr. Dellview. Somehow Joshua knew it was him, though he looked completely different.

Then—a flash. A small hole in the ground. A larger hole beside it. Way too big. Like a foundation.

A concrete truck idled nearby.

Behind it stood a school sign, just visible through the haze:

St. Margaret Mary’s Junior High School.

***

Swim Meet

The only other school activity that Tommy and Joshua shared—besides their fateful typing assignment—was the swim team. Typing was by accident. Swimming was by choice.

St. Margaret Mary’s Junior High prided itself on its aquatic legacy. Though the school had been built in 1938 without a pool, its swim team, the St. MM Piranhas, dominated provincial and national competitions. Their back-to-back national wins in 1946 and 1947 sparked something in the town. The congregation, local businesses, and proud alumni launched a fundraiser to give the team a proper pool. By early spring 1948, construction had begun.

Joshua and Tommy had both loved swimming since they were little—natural fish in the water. It became another bond that deepened their growing friendship.

Practice was grueling, but joyful. Laps upon laps—freestyle, Australian crawl, butterfly, backstroke. Three of each, over and over. They lost count. It didn’t matter. In the pool, the world fell away.

But on the last lap of the day, Joshua felt it.

The water ran hot. Not warm—hot, like bathwater left too long in the sun. Then, just as quickly, it turned icy, shocking his system. He had to get out.  Cutting off other swimmers, he emerged shivering, body trembling from the rapid temperature shift.

And then he saw it.

Beyond the sweat-slick glass of the pool enclosure, through the misted windows, red block letters gleamed faintly on a sign he hadn't noticed before:

St. Margaret Mary’s Junior High School.

The same sign.

The one from his dream.

The one behind the concrete truck.

***

T, J and U After Hours

After swim practice, Joshua and Tommy met up again, their hair still damp and the scent of chlorine trailing behind them. Joshua recounted what had happened in the pool—the sudden hot-to-cold water, and the sight through the fogged glass.

“I saw the school sign, T. The same one from my dream. And the big hole I saw? It had to be the pool—before it was finished.”

Tommy listened closely, no jokes this time.

Joshua rubbed his arms, still unsettled. “The dreams, the typewriter, now this… it’s freaking me out. And that message—‘DON’T TELL DELL’—what else do you think it could say?”

Tommy shrugged. “Only one way to find out, right? Doesn’t the lab stay open until nine?”

“Yeah,” Joshua said. “We’ve still got time.”

The typing lab was deserted when they arrived. Still early in the semester, no one else had reason to practice.

This time, Tommy pulled a chair up beside Joshua instead of sitting across the table.

“So,” Tommy said, grinning, “if this thing is haunted… is this technically a séance?”

Joshua rolled his eyes and carefully placed his fingers on the Underwood.

He typed slowly: Are you there?

Nothing.

What do you want?

Still nothing.

Who are you?

Silence.

Joshua sighed. “This is getting us nowhere.”

Tommy leaned over. “Maybe start with an introduction. Can’t hurt.”

Joshua nodded and typed: My name is Joshua Banks.

Still nothing.

He hesitated, then added: I mean you no harm.

The machine buzzed. Keys moved.

Close hole water

Joshua blinked. “You mean the swimming pool?”

The typewriter gave no response.

Joshua tried again: What is your name?

The 'S' key depressed slowly, like an invisible finger was testing the weight of it. It rose, hovered, and then fell forward weakly.

Thump.

It hit the paper, but there was no crack. Joshua leaned in. There was no ink. Just a faint indentation in the white bond paper. A ghost of a letter.

Then, the air around the desk grew frigid. The same key flew down again, this time with a vengeance.

CRACK!

The 'S' was stamped onto the page in pitch-black ink, so hard it nearly punched through the paper. 

Then came the rest, rapid-fire and angry: i-d-e.

Side

He frowned. “I don’t understand. What do you mean by side?”

The machine hesitated, then typed:

Rhonda Side

And then, nothing more.

The Underwood sat silent once again.

Waiting.

***

Taylor and Banks Investigations LLP

As the Underwood typewriter fell quiet once more, the door creaked open.

The night janitor poked his head in. “Evening, boys. Lab closes at nine. Time to pack up.”

Joshua and Tommy exchanged a glance. The moment was over—for now.

They gathered their things and stepped into the cool night air, walking side by side down the empty sidewalk.

“Do you think Rhonda Side was a student here?” Tommy asked.

“She had to be,” Joshua replied. “Why else would she haunt a typewriter in a school? Maybe she even used that exact typewriter.”

Joshua paused. “In one of my dreams, I saw a girl—she was holding a trophy. It was given to her by a young Mr. Dellview. It has to be her.”

Tommy nodded slowly. “Then we can find out. Easy.”

“How?”

“Yearbooks.”

Joshua frowned. “That’s a lot of years to search to find one girl.”

“Not really,” Tommy said. “You said she was wearing bobby socks and patent pumps, right? That’s 1940s fashion. And that dream you had—the one with the big hole? You think that was the pool, right?”

Joshua nodded.

“The pool has that big dedication plaque,” Tommy continued. “It says it opened in 1948. So we just check the yearbooks from ’46 to ’48. If she was a student, she’ll be in one of them.”

Joshua smiled. “I like how your brain works, T.”

They made their plan.

Tomorrow, they’d hit the library and dig through the past to find any sign of Rhonda Side.

And after school?

They’d return to the Underwood.

To see if it was ready to give up the ghost.

Wet Cold Hole Water

That night, Joshua tossed and turned. But he didn’t wake.

The dream held him fast—intense, fevered, real. Too real.

Sights flashed. Sounds blurred. A crack. A thud. Then red. Everything red.

Not just seen—felt. Pain, sharp and splitting.

Then blackness.

Movement in the dark. A scraping sound. The scrape of metal against wet earth. A shovel.

Then the sound of it hitting the ground—thud. Another. Sloppy. Soggy.

A face. A man’s face. Unclear—rain distorted everything.

Joshua couldn’t make it out. But he felt the rain. Felt the dirt. Felt each shovelful pressing down, heavy and final.

Then silence. Even the rain fell mute.

When he finally jolted awake, his sheets were soaked in sweat.

And he knew.

Rhonda Side didn’t run away.

She was murdered.

He couldn’t explain how. But he knew the crack was her skull. And the rain-soaked hole was her grave. The bigger hole beside it? The foundation. The pool.

He needed to see Tommy.

At lunch, they ducked into the library and headed for the archive shelves.

“Yearbooks?” Joshua asked.

Tommy nodded. “‘46 first.”

They searched. Nothing in ‘46. Nothing in ‘47.

In ‘48, there was a note about the pool dedication—but no Rhonda Side. No picture. No mention.

“I don’t get it,” Joshua muttered.

Tommy tapped the book. “You said Dellview gave her a trophy, right? But you couldn’t make out what it was for?”

“Yeah. It was on stage. Looked like the gym.”

“If it was a formal award, the school newspaper might’ve covered it. With photos.”

Joshua raised an eyebrow. “That could be a lot of back issues.”

Tommy shook his head. “Not really. Awards are once per semester. That’s six issues max.”

They fired up the microfiche reader.

Joshua loaded ‘48. Tommy started on ‘47.

Minutes later, Tommy leaned in. “I found her.”

Joshua froze. “Seriously?”

“Second semester awards,” Tommy said. “Rhonda Side. New transfer from Ottawa. Won first place for highest speed and accuracy in a citywide touch typing competition.”

“Explains the missing photo in the yearbook,” Joshua said. “She must’ve arrived after the deadline.”

The paper was The St. MM Observer. It had two photos.

One showed Rhonda receiving her trophy from a young, smiling Mr. Dellview.

The other…

Rhonda, seated at a typewriter. The same Underwood.

Joshua’s Underwood.

His hands trembled. The photo was identical to what he’d seen in his dreams.

Everything lined up.

Rhonda Side was real.

And she’d typed her way back into the world through him.

***

Second Hand Swap

After sixth period the next day, Joshua and Tommy met again in the typing lab. They were deep in information-gathering mode now—haunted not just by curiosity, but by a creeping sense of urgency. If Rhonda was really buried beneath the pool’s concrete skirting, they needed answers. Real ones.

Joshua sat at the Underwood and began typing.

Were you murdered?

Nothing.

Who killed you?

Still nothing.

Tommy leaned closer. “Ask where she is now.”

Joshua typed: Where are you?

The Underwood jolted to life:

Hole Wet Water! Hole Wet Water!

“Do you mean the pool?” Joshua typed.

No response.

They were still puzzling over their next question when the Underwood suddenly sprang to life again:

He Sees

Two lines fed through the machine.

Hide US

Joshua stared. “Who’s ‘us’? Tommy?”

They exchanged a look.

Tommy thought for a moment, then said, “If Rhonda is using the typewriter to speak to us, maybe she is the typewriter. Maybe she means to hide herself—and the Underwood.”

Joshua considered it. “Makes sense. But how do we know for sure?”

“Ask.”

Joshua typed: Do you want me to hide the typewriter—you?

The machine whirred again:

He knows

Two more lines fed.

US

“Who knows?” Joshua asked aloud, typing the same.

A long pause.

Then:

Dell

Joshua asked more directly:

Do you mean Mr. Dellview? The typing teacher?

No answer. The Underwood had gone silent.

Tommy exhaled slowly. “I think she’s scared. Like we might get caught or something.”

“Okay, but then what? What can we do about it?”

Tommy looked around the room. “Take it home with us.”

“You mean steal the typewriter, T? That’ll get us expelled.”

“Not steal—swap.”

“How?”

“Meet me downtown tomorrow at the second-hand store,” Tommy said. “They’ve gotta have old typewriters like this one. It’s Saturday. The school will be quiet. Some labs will still be open. We bring in the replacement and just say this one’s not working and we’re taking it to maintenance.”

Joshua paused. “It’s a stretch.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “But if we’re right? It might let her finally talk.”

Joshua nodded.

“Let’s hope it works.”

***

Underwood Unravels

Browsing through the secondhand store, they found several typewriters, but only one Underwood. It was the same model as Rhonda’s—but there was one small problem. The price tag: $35.00.

Their combined funds amounted to only $27.38—no, $27.13. One quarter turned out to be an arcade token.

Tommy, remembering Rhonda’s award-winning typing competition, stepped up with a plan.

“My buddy here is really good at typing,” he told the clerk. “He needs to practice, but he can’t always make it to the school labs. We’ve saved all our allowance for the month just to get this.”

The clerk, touched by the effort—or maybe just eager to clear shelf space—lowered the price.

They walked out with the Underwood in its own carrying case—an accordion-style hard shell that nearly doubled the machine’s weight.

“Think about it,” Tommy said, grinning. “If anyone asks, we’ll just say it’s a tuba or something. Band practice.”

The swap went off without a hitch. The school was quiet, and the replacement typewriter passed casual inspection. They carried the haunted Underwood all the way back to Joshua’s house.

His mom worked the evening shift, so they had the place to themselves. Supper was already in the fridge, waiting for the Amana Radar Range. There was no dad.

They grabbed chips, cracked a couple of Cokes, and hauled the Underwood up to Joshua’s room.

It barely had time to settle in before typing began.

Hi J and T.

They stared at each other.

“She knows our nicknames,” Tommy said. “Ask if it’s really Rhonda Side.”

Before Joshua even touched the keys, the machine answered:

Yes, it is me.

“You can hear us?” Joshua asked aloud.

Yes.

“You kept saying Dell. Did you really mean Mr. Dellview?”

Yes. He hurt us bad.

“Did he murder you?”

Yes. He kill with shovel. Head smash. Bury in wet hole. Still see face in rain.

Joshua’s throat tightened.

“But why?” he asked. “You won the trophy for typing. The Observer said you were his star student.”

He knew I knew.

“You knew what?”

Others. Many.

“You mean he killed more kids?” Tommy asked, his voice low.

Yes. Many.

“How do you know this?” Joshua whispered.

The keys moved slowly, one keystroke at a time:

UNDERWOOD

***

The Romans Betrayed Us

Joshua and Tommy talked to Rhonda all weekend. Tommy stayed for a sleepover—with permission—so they could investigate uninterrupted.

Rhonda told them everything.

The Underwood, she said, hadn’t always been haunted. Not in the way they now knew. At first, it had simply helped her. Guided her. Taught her how to type intuitively—fast. It was how she’d won the national competition. But only when Mr. Dellview wasn’t around.

When they were alone, the Underwood began to speak in other ways. Telling her things. Dark things. Things about Dellview and what he had done to other girls. The Underwood had picked up pieces—strong impressions, fractured memories—etched into its mechanical bones by the man who used it.

In 1947, the Underwood had been Dellview’s personal machine. He used it for everything—lesson plans, drills, personal correspondence. But when the school bought newer models in 1948, Dellview claimed one for himself and left the Underwood to become a student workstation. That same fall, Rhonda transferred to St. Margaret Mary’s—and the desk assigned to her bore the haunted Underwood.

She said it felt him. The residue. The guilt. The echoes. And among those fragments, the name Wendy Westwick came through strongest.

The Underwood had tried to warn her.

And now it was doing the same for Joshua and Tommy.

By Monday morning, the boys were running on caffeine, adrenaline, and fear. They had to know more—especially about Wendy Westwick.

Third period Typing came. Dellview instructed the class that they’d now begin sentence drills using punctuation and capitalization. “No timing this round,” he said. “But accuracy counts. Watch your finger placement. Transparency one—begin.”

The air buzzed with the chaotic music of thirty-five machines. Some clacked with smooth rhythm. Others stuttered, tentative.

Mr. Dellview strolled the aisles. It was his habit during these exercises. Nearly four decades of teaching gave him the uncanny ability to hear mistyped letters, to recognize bad habits by sound alone.

Then—he stopped.

At the back of one machine, the small metal tag was missing.

All school equipment was labeled with the year of acquisition using Roman numerals. This one should have read: MCMXLVII—1947. The Underwood Rhonda had used was the only one purchased that year. Dellview remembered it clearly. He had used it himself.

Now, it was gone.

He looked up. Joshua.

“Mr. Banks,” he said casually. “Did you move desks this morning?”

Joshua blinked, face suddenly pale. “No, sir. I’m sitting where I always sit.”

Dellview studied him. His smile was faint.

“Hmmm,” he said, turning back to change the transparency.

But his mind was racing.

They knew something.

And worse—he knew they knew.

***

Clark Gable and a Chocolate Malted

Joshua and Tommy met at lunch and immediately dove into what had happened in Typing class. Dellview’s question about switching seats lingered like a warning. Had he noticed the swap? Did he know?

A thousand thoughts ran through their heads—but they couldn’t let it stop them. They still had to find out more about Wendy Westwick. They agreed to meet in the library after sixth period.

They started with the yearbooks, working backward from 1947. Rhonda’s award had been in ‘48, so any mention of Wendy would have to come before that. They scanned every edition they could find, flipping page after page all the way back to the school’s earliest years.

Nothing.

No mention. No photo. No Wendy Westwick.

They considered checking the school newspaper archives again, but if she hadn’t won an award or joined a club, there might not be anything there either.

Then Joshua snapped his fingers. “Wait—if she disappeared, or was murdered… wouldn’t that have made the real news?”

Tommy blinked. “Brilliant, J. I knew I was rubbing off on you.”

They went to the microfiche machine again, this time pulling from the town’s major newspaper. Starting in 1947, they scanned backward—only looking at major headlines.

1947: Nothing.

1946… ’45… ’44… ’43… Still nothing.

But they kept at it.

And then—1939.

“Search for Missing Wendy Westwick Called Off.”

The article detailed how the search had gone on for two months before being downgraded to a recovery effort. Resources were being reallocated. It stated that Wendy went missing after a date with her boyfriend, a seventeen-year-old named Brandon Dellview.

They had seen Gone with the Wind, followed by a chocolate malted. Dellview claimed to have walked her home and watched her go inside before heading off on his own. He was briefly considered a suspect, but no evidence was ever found.

Tommy and Joshua stared at each other, stunned.

“He killed his own girlfriend,” Joshua whispered.

Afterward, they rushed back to Joshua’s house to speak with Rhonda again. A fresh sheet of paper had been left in the Underwood that morning, but when they returned home—it was still blank.

Both boys were practically vibrating with nervous energy. They sat down and began explaining everything they’d found.

Tommy spoke first. “Wendy was Dellview’s girlfriend. Before he became a teacher. Maybe that’s why the Underwood felt her so strong.”

The keys clicked to life:

Yes. Date Dell. Feeling Wrong. No Love.

“You mean she didn’t love Dellview?” Joshua asked.

Yes. Intermission. Breakup. Leave Alone. Home.

“Wendy dumped him during the intermission,” Tommy interpreted aloud.

Followed. Dell. Grabbed. Hurt. Wendy.

Joshua leaned forward. “Then what?”

Woods Behind Movie. Walked Full Hour. Burned Down Cabin. Old Well. Fallen Tree. Hiding. Dell. Push. Cover. Tree. Well. Wendy.

They stared at each other, thunderstruck.

There was only one theater with woods behind it—the Paramount, on the west side. It was still open. They both knew it well because Star Wars was playing there, and they’d each already seen it.

Now they had a plan.

They would ask their parents to see Star Wars again. It would give them cover—and time.

Enough time to explore the woods.

To find the cabin.

And maybe… the well.

***

XX's and OO's Mark the Spot

The next day was a blur at school. Four periods each and two spares. Their spares were at different time slots, so Joshua and Tommy couldn’t meet in the library together. In Homeroom, they made a plan to Xerox copies of any mention of Wendy Westwick in the Daily Herald, covering the two months between her disappearance and the calling off of the search.

After swim practice, they headed straight to Joshua’s to compare their notes and check in with Rhonda.

As they spread their copies across the bedroom floor, the Underwood sat silently—but both boys felt it listening. Watching. Judging. Its stillness felt like tension.

They started to pack up.

Then the keys exploded into motion.

Using only dashes, periods, < and > signs, the Underwood drew a map.

It traced a route from the Paramount Theatre into the woods. Markers included a Large Bent Oak marked with two Xs and three boulders circled and labeled with OOO. The path ended with a chilling message typed in bold:

WENDY HERE

Along the bottom:

BE CAREFUL
T & J
R

The next day after school, they followed the map.

The wooded area west of the theater was thick and unkempt. Branches clawed at their clothes, roots twisted underfoot.

“If it was this thick back then,” Tommy said, “Dellview couldn’t have carried her. He must’ve made her walk.”

“Yeah. He was skinny. No way he dragged anyone this far.”

Everything lined up. The markers were real. First, the bent oak. Then, the three boulders.

“She must’ve walked this,” Tommy whispered. “Only someone walking could’ve described all this.”

Twenty minutes later, they found it.

The cabin.

Or what was left of it. Just a foundation. Shards of broken glass. Rotten timber.

They followed the final direction on the map—fifty feet past the ruin—and found it.

A crumbling well, half-buried by overgrowth, hidden beneath a fallen tree now serving as host to young saplings. The lid, if it had ever been complete, had long since rotted away.

It was real.

They didn’t try to open it. Not yet.

They ran home instead, breathless and half-horrified. Excited. Terrified.

Joshua panted, “We found it. The well. Wendy might be in that well. But… who do we tell? Who would believe us?”

“It’s been nearly forty years,” Tommy muttered. “Cops will think we’re screwing around.”

Then, the Underwood came alive.

Mrs. Crabtree

“You mean Vice Principal Crabtree?”

Yes... Knows... Maybe... Wendy Not... Others Maybe... Crabtree Wary Always Dell

Tammy Riddle Picture Find... Year Before Me... Too Missing... Crabtree think Dell Hided Forever Tammy

***

A Letter From the Grave

Third period Typing. Joshua and Tommy were beside themselves trying to keep what they knew under wraps. But they were also wary—wary of Mr. Dellview. They knew now he was a very dangerous man.

Drills began. This time, the class had progressed to more technical aspects: centering text both vertically and horizontally, properly hyphenating at line breaks, and formatting continued lines. No more simple keystroke drills. Typing was getting serious.

At lunch, they watched the clock. They couldn’t wait to get back to the library. They had to find Tammy Riddle.

Rhonda had said, “Year before me.” That made it easy. They went straight to the 1947 yearbook—and there she was.

Tommy then suggested checking the Daily Herald for any related articles.

It didn’t take long. The microfiche reader revealed two damning headlines:

“Girl In Dumpster Found, Strangled.”

The article described the grisly discovery. A student found murdered behind St. Margaret Mary’s Junior High. No suspects. But a person of interest was being questioned.

A few issues later:

“Dumpster Girl Identified, Boyfriend Arrested.”

The victim was Tammy Riddle. Her boyfriend, Mark Harrington, was charged with first-degree murder. Because he was being tried as an adult, his name had been made public.

Joshua and Tommy Xeroxed the articles. But now came the hard part.

How could they bring this to Mrs. Crabtree in a way that she’d believe?

Back at Joshua’s, they asked Rhonda directly.

“How do we get Crabtree to believe us?”

The Underwood typed slowly:

 crabtree will know - only tammy can say - new page - i type - very difficult.

They inserted a fresh sheet.

Letter by painful letter, the Underwood wrote:

mrs crabtree - our talk - oct  18 office -counselor then -

The machine paused for a long, heavy minute. The boys held their breath, watching the typebars tremble before striking again.

- said good future -  university and be anything - said I wanted social worker - me orphan-fosters bad - adopted ones love - dellview weird on me - he think crush - i said no - love mark harrington - dellview learned mark and me was angry - you said more girls - maybe - gave me card - cernicky - you wrote he knows - crabtree help - J & T know truth - tammy riddle

The typing took a long time. As it clacked the final strokes, Tommy whispered, “Rhonda… are you okay? Did typing that hurt you?”

Joshua loaded another clean page.

The Underwood typed only:

keys hard push tired

***

All or Nothing At All

It was a day of planning. Confusion and uncertainty mixed with high levels of anxiety. Joshua and Tommy had the letter written by an Underwood typewriter—possessed by Rhonda Side, who could channel others and let their stories shine.

They spent lunch in the library trying to center themselves, to decide how to approach Mrs. Crabtree. Sitting side by side at a single microfiche machine, they scanned reels for any additional information about Tammy Riddle. Spread out around them were headlines of Wendy, Tammy, and Mark, along with a large yearbook picture of Tammy blown up on the microfiche screen.

So focused were they that they didn’t notice Mr. Dellview enter the library. He passed behind them and paused briefly. He had intended to talk to Joshua about entering the District Typing Skills Competition—his technique had improved significantly. But before he said anything, he saw the screen. He saw the Xeroxed headlines and clippings. He turned and left silently, unnoticed by the boys.

“Stupid, silly boys,” Dellview thought to himself. “Those kinds of tricks are not for kids.

Joshua and Tommy agreed to approach Mrs. Crabtree during fifth period—they both had spares then. After separating for their classes, they met outside the VP’s office at the designated time.

“You ready for this?” Tommy asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Joshua replied, visibly nervous.

They stepped into the office. “Can we see Mrs. Crabtree?” Joshua asked the secretary.

Before she could answer, a voice came from the adjoining room. “It’s okay, Marge. I’m free at the moment. Come in, boys.”

They entered, heartbeats thudding.

“I was just talking about you today, Joshua,” Mrs. Crabtree said. “Mr. Dellview mentioned your typing skills. He thinks you’ve got potential for the district competition in December. He said you boys might be in the library over lunch—I’ve seen you there myself many times. Good work.”

Joshua stammered. “Uhm… no, we didn’t see him. But he is, uh… kind of why we’re here.”

Mrs. Crabtree’s eyebrows lifted. “Really? He is a strict teacher, but—”

“Tammy Riddle,” Tommy interrupted. “Show her, J.”

Mrs. Crabtree blinked, surprised by the name.

Joshua handed her the letter. On her desk, he laid out the supporting documents—headlines, yearbook pages, and Xeroxed articles. She read the letter slowly and thoroughly. Her expression shifted, though she tried to maintain composure.

“Where did you boys get this?” she asked. “Are you trying to pull something?”

“No trick, Mrs. Crabtree,” Joshua said. “It’s real.”

“Tell me who wrote this.”

“We can’t say,” Tommy jumped in. “Just know that it came from Tammy. You’ll know it’s her—some things in there, only she and you could know. We know Dellview’s behind all of it.”

Mrs. Crabtree sighed, studying their faces. “That’s a serious accusation. You know falsely accusing a teacher could lead to expulsion.”

The boys nodded. “We know,” Joshua said. “But we’re right.”

“Leave this with me,” she said, quietly. “I’ll look into it, but I won’t inform Mother Ruth just yet. I’m not sure how she’d react.”

She dismissed them gently, urging them not to be late for sixth period.

As they walked away, Joshua whispered, “What do you think?”

“I’m more worried Dellview went to the library,” Tommy replied. “What if he saw what we were doing? What if he knows?”

Joshua nodded grimly. “We both have Typing tomorrow.”

“If he acts even a little different,” Tommy said, “we’ll know.”

***

By the Numbers Now

Nerves were on overdrive. Tommy and Joshua hesitated outside the typing lab. "Here goes nothing," Tommy said as they both entered the class.

The room felt colder than usual. Mr. Dellview was already at his desk, but he wasn’t organizing transparencies. He was waiting. As the class filed in, he stood and walked down the aisle, a stack of papers in hand.

"Today we begin the number row," he announced, his voice smooth but tight. "But some of you require... advanced focus."

He stopped at Joshua’s desk. He didn't smile. He placed a single sheet of paper face down in front of him. Then he did the same for Tommy.

"Special drills," Dellview murmured, low enough that only they could hear. "To test your nerves."

Joshua turned the paper over. It wasn't the standard row of dates and phone numbers the other students had. It was a repetition of specific sentences.

1. Little boys play in deep holes. 2. Curiosity killed the cat. 3. I know what you did.

Joshua’s breath hitched. He looked at Tommy, whose face had gone pale.

Tommy leaned imperceptibly toward Joshua, barely moving his lips. "Don't let him see you sweat, J. Just type."

Crack!

Mr. Dellview’s ruler slapped his own desk at the front of the room. He hadn't even turned around. He was facing the chalkboard, chalk in hand.

"Mr. Taylor," Dellview said, his voice cutting through the silence. "'Don't let him see you sweat' is not part of the assigned drill. That is a five-point deduction."

The class went dead silent. Joshua froze, his fingers hovering over the keys. Dellview turned slowly, his eyes locking onto them.

"I hear everything in this room, boys," he said, a cold smile touching his lips. "Every mistake. Every whisper. There are no secrets here."

He checked his watch. "Begin."

The clacking started, but for Joshua, every keystroke felt like a confession. And Tommy knew Dellview’s ears were focused on them.

When the buzzer rang to end the period, the students began packing up. Joshua kept his head down, shoving the "special drill" sheet deep into his bag, hoping to slip out unnoticed.

"Joshua."

The voice was light, pleasant. It stopped Joshua dead in the doorway. He turned. Mr. Dellview was leaning against his desk, the menace from moments ago completely vanished, replaced by a teacher’s encouraging smile.

"I think you’ve got a real chance at winning the District Typing Contest in December," Dellview said. "Interested? I meant to mention it yesterday, but Mother Ruth tracked me down. I spent all of lunch in a meeting with her."

Joshua’s stomach twisted. The man who had just threatened him was now chatting about extracurriculars. It was a mask. A test.

"Sure," Joshua managed, his voice tight. "Sounds like... fun."

"Great," said Dellview, his grin widening, though his eyes remained dead flat. "I’d hate for you to lose focus on your... future."

Joshua met Tommy waiting in the hallway, and they bolted for the cafeteria.

"He’s playing with us," Tommy whispered as they sat down. "He wants us to know he can touch us whenever he wants."

That evening, Mrs. Crabtree sat in her dining room with the papers the boys had given her. “They really did their research,” she murmured.

Newspaper clippings. Photos of Wendy and Tammy. The headline about Mark’s arrest. Tammy’s letter. A carefully typewritten forest map showing the way to the well from the Paramount theatre. A layout of the school pool with an arrow pointing to the filtering chamber: “Rhonda is here.”

She couldn’t understand how the boys came up with all of it—but there was no denying its weight. The letter contained details only she and Tammy would’ve known.

On the other end of the dining room table sat another set of papers. These were her own.

Timelines. Names. Twelve in total—Rhonda Side, Tammy Riddle, Wendy Westwick among them. Each with a date: the day they vanished or were confirmed dead. All had ties to Brandon Dellview. Eleven were typing students. One had been his girlfriend.

The dates formed a chilling sequence. Wendy’s was first.

She knew what she had to do.

She picked up the phone and dialed a number she hadn’t used in years.

It rang three times.

“Cernicky,” came the voice on the other end.

“Detective,” she said, “this is Clara Crabtree. I know you’re retired—but I think we finally have what we need to bring him down.”

***

Warrants Caution

Dellview studied the boys' habits. For two weeks, he observed them. He needed to know when they were together, when they were apart. Their extracurricular activities—shared and separate. He had copies of their class schedules. They were only together in one class: Typing, third period, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Both had two spare periods per week—one shared, the other staggered. Tuesdays and Thursdays, they had swim meets after school. After class, they always walked together. Tommy always walked Joshua home. They lived only a few streets apart.

Dellview left weekends alone. He didn’t want to risk being seen by them—or worse, by their families. No, in the shadows was safer. Stealthier.

Meanwhile, in her office, Mother Ruth had summoned Mrs. Crabtree.

“Did you see this today?” Mother Ruth asked, sliding a copy of The Daily Herald across her desk.

“Missing Girl Found in Forest Well—Wendy Westwick Case Reopened After 40 Years”
Anonymous tip leads police to long-forgotten crime scene. Investigation ongoing.

“Tell me what you know about this,” she said before Crabtree could even sit.

“I knew Cernicky received new clues to restart an investigation,” Clara replied.

“And the source was you, I suppose?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I was given a lead that seemed too convincing to ignore. I had to call Cernicky.”

“I spoke with him this morning. He’s been brought out of retirement. Says he has enough to bring a team in to excavate part of the pool—under the diving platforms. He’d prefer not to need a warrant.”

“It’s possible that’s where Rhonda Side was buried during the pool’s construction,” Crabtree said.

“And you still believe Brandon Dellview is responsible?”

“I do. For Rhonda—and for many others.”

“How did you come by all this?”

“I’d like to keep the source anonymous for their safety. They’re students.”

“Student safety is my responsibility. Who are they?”

“Joshua Banks and Tommy Taylor.”

“I see. Both typing students.”

Mother Ruth nodded, then dismissed her. “I told Cernicky a warrant wouldn’t be necessary.”

Crabtree smiled faintly as she left.

Tommy ran into the cafeteria, backpack slung over one shoulder, a folded newspaper wedged under his arm. He scanned the room and spotted Joshua in the far corner.

“I think we might be in trouble,” Tommy said, sliding into the seat beside him.

He handed Joshua the paper.

“This is a good thing,” Joshua said, reading the headline.

“I know,” Tommy replied. “It’s great they found Wendy. But read it again.”

Joshua’s eyes scanned the front page. “So it’s in the police’s hands now. We did good, T.”

“There,” Tommy said, pointing. “Anonymous tip.”

Joshua paused.

“I can’t help but think Dellview did see us that day in the library,” Tommy whispered. “And the Underwood—Rhonda—she’s only been typing weird stuff lately. ‘Sees.’ ‘Watches afar.’ She’s warning us, J. I think he knows it was us.”

***

Hole Water Words Last

School ended and Tommy and Joshua went to Joshua's house. They felt they had to connect with Rhonda. They had to know if Dellview was after them. A fresh page was always left in the Underwood, and today it wasn't blank. It simply said: You Happy Wendy Made.

They knew that Wendy was now at peace—for she had been found.

They asked if he knew and if he was after them.

The Underwood wrote: Go There Hole Wet Cold Deep Normal Time.

"I think she means we need to go to the swim meet tomorrow, J."

Joshua nodded.

The Underwood remained silent.

---

Tuesday. The boys were grateful that there was no typing class that day. They couldn’t bear to be in Dellview’s presence. They never ran into him otherwise—until today. He was everywhere. In the hallways. Outside the gym before Phys-Ed. Passing the science lab before Tommy’s class. Even in the cafeteria at lunch. Always watching. Always smirking.

It was as if he were silently mouthing: I know it was you.

Between 5th and 6th period, the boys ducked into the second-floor bathroom to talk, far from their next class. They agreed to leave class early, exit through the west doors, and make it appear they weren’t going to the swim meet. Then they’d circle around to sneak in.

They didn’t know Dellview was in the only occupied stall.

During 6th period, Detective Cernicky arrived. He went straight to Mother Ruth’s office. His team was ready to excavate beneath the pool’s decking—specifically the section under the diving platform, near the filtration system.

“This will let us avoid a full closure or costly repairs,” he explained.

“There’s a swim meet tonight,” she said.

“You’ll have to cancel it.” He paused. “But don’t announce anything. Let us do that.”

“Very well.”

---

Final bell.

Papers shuffled. Books zipped into backpacks. Students spilled into hallways.

Tommy and Joshua made for the west exit, hearts pounding. They pushed through the double doors—and stopped dead.

Mr. Dellview was leaning against the railing at the bottom of the concrete steps. He wasn't wearing his teacher's cardigan. He wore a heavy raincoat, and his hands were deep in his pockets.

"Going somewhere, boys?"

They turned to run back inside, but the heavy click of the door latch behind them signaled they were locked out. Trapped on the landing.

Dellview took a step up. Then another. "I thought we had an understanding," he said, his voice dropping to a growl. "But you just couldn't leave it buried."

"Run!" Tommy yelled, looking toward the parking lot.

"No!" Joshua grabbed Tommy’s arm. He remembered the Underwood’s message. Hole Wet Cold. And he remembered what Mrs. Crabtree said about the excavation.

"We can't outrun him in the dark," Joshua whispered urgently. "We have to bring him to the light. The pool!"

"Are you crazy?"

"Cernicky is at the pool! We have to lead him there!"

Dellview lunged, a silver letter opener glinting in his hand.

"Go!"

The boys scrambled over the side railing, dropping into the wet grass. They didn't run away from the school—they ran around it. Toward the glass-enclosed natatorium.

"You can't hide!" Dellview roared behind them, closer than they expected. He was fast.

They reached the side entrance of the pool. Locked.

" The main doors!" Tommy shouted.

They sprinted for the east entrance. They could hear Dellview’s heavy boots pounding the pavement behind them. He was gaining. He wasn't trying to scare them anymore; he was trying to silence them.

They burst through the pool lobby doors, screaming at the top of their lungs.

"He's here! Help! He's here!"

They crashed into the pool deck, slipping on the wet tiles, sliding almost to the edge of the excavation pit where the police team stood frozen, shovels in hand.

The doors burst open behind them.

"You little rats!" Dellview screamed, storming onto the deck, weapon raised, eyes wild with rage. He was focused entirely on the boys, blind to everything else.

He took three strides toward them—and then stopped.

He saw the dirt pile. He saw the hole. And finally, he saw Detective Cernicky rising from the pit, mud-streaked and grim.

The boys scrambled backward, panting, putting the detective between them and their teacher. They hadn't just run.
They had delivered him.

"Brandon," the detective said, his voice echoing in the vast, tiled room. "Drop it."

Holding the necklace in one gloved hand, he continued:

“Brandon Dellview, I place you under arrest for the murders of Rhonda Side and Wendy Westwick.”

He turned to an officer. “Read him his rights.”

Another constable was assigned to drive the boys home. Still trembling, they agreed to speak again whenever needed.

The car ride was quiet. Unspoken awe lingered in the air.

Joshua was dropped off first. “Good night, T.”

“Good night, J.”

That night, both boys slept soundly. Joshua’s sleep was dreamless—for the first time in a long time.

---

The next morning, they were called to Mother Ruth’s office.

“Ooohs” and “Ahhhs” rippled through the classroom as they left.

They weren’t in trouble.

Inside the office, Mother Ruth smiled warmly.

“The entire school is indebted to you boys. Mrs. Crabtree told me it was your dedication that led to the truth after all these years.”

Mrs. Crabtree added, “Detective Cernicky told me Mr. Dellview has confessed—to the murders of Rhonda, Wendy, and Tammy. And… to nine more. He’s bargaining to avoid the harshest penalty.”

The boys said nothing—but the relief on their faces said everything.

---

After school, they returned to Joshua’s room.

The Underwood held a message.

BYE T & J: Luv R

Joshua stared at it.

Then he said softly, like the words were drawn from somewhere deep inside him:

“Rhonda reached across the divide with everything she had, through an old Underwood not built to carry souls.”