Behind Closed Doors

It took Mr. McMichael a few moments to understand what he was seeing. It was barely dawn and the caffeine hadn’t quite kicked in, and he was still fumbling with the keys to the fieldhouse and shoving them back in his sweatpants pockets. He squinted and adjusted his glasses. He set down his coffee and did a panicked little half-jog to the railing behind the seats.

“Son of a bitch!” Mr. McMichael exclaimed.

The basketball court, normally light brown with thinly painted lines of red and blue, was no longer a basketball court. Sure, the hoops were still there. A rack of basketballs sat near the sidelines still bright orange. The seats were still bright blue and the banners, which proudly hung along the walls, still represented over 100 years of proud young men who had graduated from the esteemed halls of Bishop LeClerc Academy without a drop of paint on them.

But the court? It could best be described as a mural now, although not a cohesive one. It was a hodgepodge of themes, ideas, and colors. Black borders and dark clouds filled in the edges of the painting. Red and orange flames glowed along the bottom of the picture. Angels with sad faces and bright white robes cried in the bottom corner. An almost Jackson Pollock mess covered the other half of the court, representing hosts of colors covered by other colors, none dominant and yet some more present than the others. The lines of the court still showed here, too, albeit faintly. And in the middle, framed by heavenly rays of light emanating from the center court, was written the message of the piece: YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID. It was a bold black with bloody red detailing dripping down.

Before long Mr. McMichael was not alone in the fieldhouse. The principal raced to the school to meet him there. Two custodians who were working in the main building made their way over. Two police officers came to take a report as well. Curious students, some trying to get in the building for practices and some just trying to see what all the commotion was about, gathered outside. The news made an appearance, too. A hotshot local reporter and, conveniently, an alumnus, angled his way inside. By the end of the day every busybody in the city had seen the story.

Three questions remained to be answered: who painted the mural (or vandalized the gym, if you want to take the school’s line), why did they do it, and what exactly did that message mean at center court?

Many people had different theories, of course. The rumor mill runs wild anywhere but the rumor mill at a highschool works overtime. A number of theories emerged, ranging from plausible to completely outlandish. The captain of the basketball team had recently dumped a girl from one of the other schools in the area and the prevailing theory was that she had painted the mural. She was a good artist after all, and knew a lot of guys at the school who could’ve maybe given her access to the building overnight. The police talked to her - she was at home that night, and her parents’ Ring camera proved that neither she nor her car left the house, and her mom had seen her come down for a glass of water in the middle of the night. These facts cleared her with the cops but not the rumor mill which, of course, cared very little for facts.

Another student, a known troublemaker, immediately became subject to intense scrutiny. He had stayed late that night for a JV football game and had access to the weight room and fieldhouse. He also lacked any and all artistic talent and a clear motive.

Many people wondered why they didn’t just check the cameras to figure out who did it, or at least see how many perpetrators there were. They did check the cameras, of course, but the most curious thing stopped them - the footage was blank. It was just a deep black through the whole night, as though the clever artist had started his painting by spraying all the lenses. They were no help at all, and even raised alarm that there was some sort of security breach. Even more curiously, they returned to working order by the morning. Eventually, another theory came to the surface.

“I think I know who did it,” Connor Palushak told the principal. “You have to promise to believe me though, because I kind of think that you won’t.”

“Well if you tell me the truth I will,” the principal said. “Remember, lying to me about this is a crime. And not telling me if you know is a crime, too.”

“Ok,” Connor replied. “I just don’t think you’re going to believe me, so please believe me and know that I’m not kidding when I say this.” The principal sighed.

“Ok, I promise. Pinky promise, even. But please tell me quickly, because I’ve got a whole lot of things I need to take care of.” Connor shifted in his seated and hesitated for a moment - he gave the principal a serious stare. Exhaling, he began to speak.

“I think it was Brian Gauthier,” Connor said. There was silence for a moment.

“Jesus Christ kid, get out of my office if you’re just going to waste my time.”

“You promised to believe me!” Connor yelled back. “I know I sound crazy, but you have to believe me. Somehow I think it was Brian and I don’t know how.”

“Yeah, you know what, I don’t know how he’d paint a mural like that either,” the principal responded. He walked across the room to the door of the office to show Connor out.

“Don’t you at least want to know why I think that?” Connor asked. The principal groaned again and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“You’ve got thirty seconds.”

“So I don’t know if you know this, but my locker is actually the same locker that Brian had. People used to tell me ghost stories about it when I first started here, usually the seniors. One of them had an older brother who was in Brian’s class when, you know, and he said that some part of him was still around the school.”

“Ok,” the principal said. “And?”

“So over the past few months I’ve been noticing weird stuff when I go to my locker. It started with things being moved around while I wasn’t in there and sometimes I just got a really weird feeling. I thought that I was just letting the ghost stories get to me. But then other things started to happen, and I started finding little notes and things. They were creepy, they said stuff like “DON’T FORGET” or “REMEMBER”. I thought it was just some friends screwing with me and so I didn’t say anything. But the most recent one just said “I’M COMING” and it honestly scared the hell out of me. I tried to forget about it until, well…”

“Until he came,” the principal said.

“Exactly,” Connor replied. “Look, believe me or don’t, I don’t really care. But at least believe that I’m being honest with you.” The principal thought for a moment.

“I believe that, Connor, I actually do. You’re an honest kid. But Brian Gauthier didn’t do that graffiti.”

“Just think about it though, sir. He would… well, people will agree to disagree I guess, but he certainly had his disagreements with the school and the church and probably feels a certain way about that. He’s got a motive. And the cameras mysteriously shutting down for the night? Sounds… supernatural to me,” Connor said. He had to catch his breath.

“I hear you Connor, but I don’t think we have much more to talk about here unless you have some other theories,” the principal said, escorting him out of the office.

Bishop LeClerc Academy never did figure out who did that mural. They scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed that floor and removed all of the paint. The fieldhouse reopened a couple days later, pristine and sterile and ready to host all of the wonderfully homogenous students of the school.

The mural couldn’t really be erased, though. It still lived in the news reports that rocked the local gossip scene. It still lived in the student body, electric with the charge of a juicy rumor. It lived in the parents of the school, concerned about the safety on campus and wondering exactly what someone did that made an artist paint that horribly beautiful picture. It lived in Mr. McMichael every morning, deeply afraid as he unlocked those doors that he would discover more art.

And Connor remained convinced of his theory, even when others wouldn’t bite. It certainly got people talking about Brian’s case though. What was once a shameful story that was brushed under the rug became something that everyone began to see with a more modern, enlightened view. 

He only ever received one more note, tucked deep within his locker a couple of weeks after the incident. He kept it in his pocket and only opened it after school. In thick, black lettering that looked eerily similar to the pictures of the court, it read:

THANK YOU