An Oak-ward Revelation.

In the quiet suburb of Willow Creek, life was as predictable as the tick-tock of a grandfather clock. Nestled between lush woods and serene lakes, Willow Creek was a picturesque enclave where the biggest scandal was Mrs. Dobbins' runaway cat. But for me, the tranquility was often a stark contrast to the chaos of my own life.

I was born into a family that struggled to make ends meet. My father, a hardworking mechanic, often worked double shifts to keep the bills paid. My mother juggled part-time jobs while taking care of my younger siblings, a pair of lively twins who were the heart and soul of our family. Despite their efforts, we barely scraped by, and my dreams of a brighter future seemed out of reach.

Books became my escape. I devoured mysteries and thrillers, losing myself in worlds where ordinary people uncovered extraordinary secrets. My love for storytelling was nurtured by my English teacher, Miss Linda Hargrove. She recognized my passion and encouraged me to write, offering guidance and praise that fueled my ambition. Thus bringing me closer to words.

It was Miss Hargrove who, on one fateful day, assigned us a peculiar task that would forever change my life.

“Class, your homework is to write a story based on an eavesdropped conversation,” she declared, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous spark. “Remember, creativity is key!”

I, being the curious 13-year-old that I was, accepted the challenge with gusto. Little did I know, my creative endeavor would soon embroil me in a real-life mystery that could rival any intriguing page-turner.

That afternoon, as I walked home from school, I heard familiar voices coming from behind the old oak tree near the school’s back entrance. I tiptoed closer, my heart racing with excitement. The voices belonged to Miss Hargrove and Mr. Thompson, the math teacher. Their tone was hushed but intense, as if they were discussing something forbidden.

“Linda, you need to calm down,” Mr. Thompson was saying. “We can’t afford to panic now.”

“You don’t understand, Brian!” Miss Hargrove’s voice was trembling. “What if someone finds out? What if they already know?”

I crouched lower, my ears straining to catch every word. And then, I heard the bombshell.

“What if they find the body?”

Body? My mind raced. What body? Whose body?

Miss Hargrove continued, “If anyone finds out what happened that night, we’re finished. Do you understand? Finished!”

Mr. Thompson sighed. “Look, no one is going to find out. We hid it well. No one goes near the abandoned well at the edge of town. We’re safe.”

The abandoned well? I knew that place. It was rumored to be haunted, and no one dared to go near it. My curiosity was now a blazing inferno. What had happened? Whose body was it? I knew I had to find out more, but I needed to be smart about it. I just wanted to play Agatha f****n Christie!

Over the next few days, I did some sleuthing. From overheard snippets of conversations and a bit of snooping around the school, I pieced together the tragic tale. Miss Hargrove had been having an affair with Mr. Thompson. Her husband, a hot-tempered man named Roger, had found out. A confrontation had ensued, ending in a tragic accident. Roger had fallen, hit his head, and died instantly. Panicked, Miss Hargrove and Mr. Thompson had hidden the body in the abandoned well, hoping no one would ever discover their dark secret.

Armed with this explosive information, I set about writing my story. I poured every detail into it, weaving a gripping tale of love, betrayal, and murder. Miss Hargrove was the one who inspired me to take refuge in words. But, I never imagined she might end up becoming a grey character in my story. Not even in my wildest dreams.

I changed the names, of course, but the essence of the story was unmistakable. When I handed my assignment to Miss Hargrove, her reaction was immediate and severe.

Her face turned as white as chalk, and she began to sweat profusely. She read through my story, her eyes widening with each passing sentence. I could see her reliving the moments of that fateful night. By the time she finished, she was trembling.

“Is… is this…?” she stammered.

I met her gaze innocently. “Yes, Miss Hargrove?”

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “This story… it’s very… detailed. Where did you get the idea?”

I shrugged, doing my best to appear nonchalant. “I just used my imagination, Miss Hargrove, and not to forget the oak tree behind the school. It was where I stitched a story out of a conversation. It almost felt like the story had crossed stages of lust and betrayal to find me. Why? Is something wrong?”

Miss Hargrove swallowed hard. “The ending… it’s quite abrupt. Why did you choose to end it with the protagonist eavesdropping on a conversation? Hypothetically speaking, what would you do if you were the protagonist?”

I leaned in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, if I were in the protagonist’s shoes, I would have demanded a million dollars, considering the plight of my parents’ economic conditions. You see, Miss Hargrove, I might have been born poor; but I really can’t afford to swim all my life in a pool of poverty.”

Miss Hargrove’s face blanched further. “Are you… are you trying to resort to blackmailing?”

“Hypothetically, I meant.”

I smiled, at her calculated move. “Of course not, Miss Hargrove. It’s just a story. However, if you were the teacher. Hypothetically, I meant. Would you rather trade your secret with a million dollars or spend the rest of your life in prison?”

She stared at me, a mixture of fear and disbelief in her eyes. “You can’t prove anything,” she whispered, more to herself than to me.

“Maybe,” I said, shrugging. “But a good story has a way of making people think. And sometimes, thinking leads to the truth and truth as we all know is stranger than fiction and it does has its own share of consequences.”

“Am I Right? Miss Hargrove?”

—

By Vishal Komara