It seemed like all the doors in Golden Lake University—no matter what they kept away or welcomed the students into, were either chestnut-coloured and tawny—a shade affiliated to brown, or had a strikingly and almost indistinguishable hue resembling sallow orange. Harold had noticed that.
He stood, facing the lecturer's door which was sealed shut—or appeared so. The reddish-brown door—obviously of excellent quality, was tall, too; lanky and sturdy, like a mammoth preventing Harold from access to the other side.
Harold's neck revolved left and right, and his eyeballs shifted in their chambers as he watched the now-familiar hallway for any shadows and whispers; signs of the presence of people—students. There were no reasons in particular but he felt like being imperceptible and out of sight of anyone, like a pilferer.
He ousted his hands from the searing heat of his pockets and tapped the stalwart door a few times—in quick successions.
No answer.
His fingers slid slowly from the polished surface of the door—like driblets of rain running down a window, and rested on the cold doorknob.
His lecturer was either not on seat or was absorbed in something else, perhaps a magazine, and didn't hear Harold's knock.
He thought of turning back then returning later but there was something propelling him, driving him; an impetus that seemed to have possessed him since he'd stepped foot into the university, and he couldn't help but push the door ajar.
A thump from the left part of his thorax hammered on, pushing red blood through his arteries, as he slid through the open creak he'd created.
The door's metal hinges which were gleaming with rust whined like a bruised mice, but as Harold got into the room fully, it fell silent, leaving Harold to the muteness and peace that seemed to sheathe the room.
An upholstered, Morris chair sat on the opposite side of a thick, leathered table that had a plastic vase with bogus flowers in it on one side, and dispersed book from the centre of the desk spreading to the opposite side.
Harold's lecturer wasn't on seat, obviously, and although he wanted to, he couldn't leave the room. For all he knew, he was a puppet at the mercy of an invisible puppeteer who hopefully, wasn't mere providence.
A marigold-coloured radiance shimmered into the book-crammed office through a small window—behind the Morris chair, whose draperies was parted.
The scenery that played before Harold's eyes as he watched the sun sink below the horizon as birds—corvines and lyres danced in the gilted clouds, was sensational and magnificent. A view he wouldn't trade for anything.
Harold sighed as he felt calm and untroubled, and as queer as it sounded, he felt at home—in the office of his lecturer who probably had vile schemes for his roommate. The landscape and absolute hush of the room; but for the subdued tick of a wall clock, was having its effect on him and taking him to a level of tranquility that could only be found from floating on the clouds, then the corner of his eyes caught something located behind a stack of old books. Something that will change his life forever and perhaps, take him closer to his destiny, or far away from it into the cold hands of death.
≈≈≈
Harold rearranged the dispersed mound of books upon one another, this time, away from a lose brick in the wall. Strains of dust that had previously been on the borders and fringes of the yellow-paged books; in layers, fluttered off them as Harold moved them, and they glided in the air, obeying gravity as they did.
He sneezed twice as he carefully placed the last book on the top of seven others, then he glanced at the dim rectangular hole that was burrowed into the wall.
He froze for a few seconds as he heard footsteps shuffling on the outside and even his heart seemed to stop beating at that moment. The last thing he wanted was for his lecturer to come in and find him that way. He could possibly lose his studentship if he was spotted in the position he was in, and he knew it, but whatever was driving him; controlling him to be precise, wasn't backing down.
When the footsteps abated like ocean waves pulling away from a beach, he pushed his middle finger into the dark hole and flicked it left and right. Nothing.
A couple of nanoseconds passed then Harold felt a metal string poking from the inner sides of the wall.
Harold was shocked!
Before then, he had hoped that the hole meant nothing and was just a scant mark voicing that the erstwhile school building needed some minor overhauls. Definitely, he'd have ended up feeling like a fool for entering his lecturer's office and infringing on his privacy if he'd found nothing, but that was much more preferred and desirable to losing his spot in the school which seemed like what will happen at the end.
Harold Girard retrieved his middle finger from the hole and pushed two fingers in this time around; his thumb and pointy finger, to clench the thin metal string better—which was what happened.
He pulled it to his left and right, nothing, then he yanked it forward; towards himself and what he heard—and saw next, caused his heart to squeeze and his toes which were sheltered in his snowy pair of sneakers to curl.
A squarish aperture opened just large enough to fit a grown man behind Harold who was kneeling and still facing the wall—at the front of a slightly dilapidated shelf of books. It made a sleek sound like a roller skate pealing down a pavement, as it delved.
Harold turned round and saw it with an amazed expression plastered on his white face.
He scurried to the hole and peered into it, curiosity taking absolute charge of his brain. Unfortunately, it was pitchy and sable and his eyes were just as useful as a blind man's so, he put his left foot into the hole and it dangled for a few seconds in the dark hole that had warmth like one gotten from freshly baked bread.
Harold Girard's heart began to pummel as he turned to the closed, tawny door. He could either return to his dormitory—to rest, and relish the remaining of his evening although he doubted its feasibility. Not after what he'd seen; discovered. He could also continue down the hole and see where his luck—and fate will lead him.
He chose the last-mentioned alternative and after some rash decisions and headstrong encouragements, he cautiously lowered himself into the gaping blackness with a ladder which as he could feel, was suspended from the top and perhaps, to the floor underground—if there was one.
With shaky fingers, Harold stealthily sumbereged himself down—into the hole, and the welcomed warmth crawled up his body with every inch with which he went down like an internal heating system installed in his legs quaked spasms of friendly heat towards the other parts of his body.
The ladder stopped a few metres above the ground and Harold had to jump off the ladder to the ground which was quite a brave move as he didn't know how deep he still had to go.
His feet thumped on the craggy grounds and echoed loudly before settling. There was no denying it, Harold was scared. Terrified. But still, he couldn't stop. He had to keep on moving.
With his hands on the wall—working the same way antennas will for insects, Harold walked on, away from the ladder and came to a...
Harold Girard's right foot collided against a large stone in the shadowy blackness of the cavern and he went sprawling on the ground as excruciating agony stung and bit and crunched on his toes intensely like a stray dog was gnawing at them.He sat alone, in the mysteriously dark cave, nursing his toes which he knew must be bleeding hard through his sneakers. His nose twitched uneasily at the unusual whiff of the cave that seemed to have been heightened considerably over the minutes. It was as though the pong was overhanging from the high walls like ghosts floating around.What was the university holding back from the thousands of undergraduates that was so important it had to be stashed far away underground in a cave?Harold Girard couldn't push the hundreds of thoughts that flooded his subconscious per nanosecond out of his head as he sat on the earth, so he stood up to continue his journey.A ne
Harold Girard; through lies, managed to abscond from the queer-looking midget who came into the pedantic office of his lecturer, a minute after he crawled out of the benighted cavern.If he had been as much as three minutes later than he was, he would have been seen at the very moment of his writhing out of the opening like a worm, and even worse, he'd have been expelled-or killed-and his blood fed to the brutes in the cavern, solely because of the information that was now microfilmed in his memory and etched in his heart.On the outside of the mysterious office, Harold saw students going about their businesses-which was making most gaiety of the winsome sundown, in troops and 'gangs' and dressed in fancy garbs and distinct attires, after a long day of erudition.His hazelnut-coloured eyeballs chaperoned a group of four that bantered and quipped as they sauntered down the hallway; not minding the large quota their voices added to the forthcoming ca
Trisha McLeod's stein slipped out of her shaky fingers at the sudden realization that a student's life was coming to an end—in a matter of minutes—or seconds!Driblets of the liquor; that glowed of crimson—due to the sunset's filter—which doused every physical objects within reach, lubricated the limpid surface of the cup and the ‘greased’ beer mug which still had an ample quantity of booze in it, skidded from her grip before ramming into the cold tiles and splitting into hundreds of tiny fragments with a strident noise.Regrettably, the bump of Trisha's wine's glass on the inured ground brought a lot of attention their way; that of their Geography professor included, and that was when another chain of problems began.Harold and Trisha crouched into the indistinct shadows of the deftly pared gorse bush that separated them from the rest of the swimming tract like a fort breaking up a warzone from the territory of impoverished locales. Unf
Hastening away from the uninhabited natatorium and towards a small cabin—built with bricks and sturdy planks of wood; for the pool's paperworks, was a waitress. Her small, well carved palms which were ornamented with silvery beads that simulated the sunset's beauty, held a salver that had a couple of steins in it, and with each step she took, the glass cups clanked into the serene atmosphere like the death bells of undertakers; which was what attracted Harold and Trisha's attentions like bees to honey.Trisha, who was the first to pick up the orderly sedating tolls with her acute sense of hearing, ran in its direction, leaving Harold to the still blue body of water on which the empty bottle water floated and danced with the miniscule waves the howling wind caused.The waitress who was golden-haired looked like she was dressed for a summer vacation. A skimpy crop top hugged the upper part of her well enriched frame and her long, beautiful
*THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO THE NIGERIAN ?? YOUTHS WHO HAVE IN ONE WAY OR THE OTHER, STOOD AGAINST THE GOVERNMENT AND BRAVELY AIRED THEIR VIEWS AND OPINIONS FOR (POSITIVE) CHANGES DESPITE THE MASSACRES AND HOLOCAUST CARRIED OUT ON HUNDREDS OF YOUTHS AT LEKKI TOLL GATE ON THE 20TH OF OCTOBER, 2020.*Trisha McLeon knelt hurriedly and with a thud, her knees touched the coarse ground—over Catherine's motionless body. She looked behind her, hoping to see Harold or anyone that'll be of help but they were both alone. The environ was as deserted; and noiselessless, as an eerie catacomb. She plucked her eyeglasses from her face and placed them on the ground, beside the waitress' numb frame. Her mum although was a witch—like her, had been a top-ranked nurse in the human world. Hence, she was lucky enough to have seen some acts her mother carried out on her patients on countless occasions. Trisha pl
The vampire, Wilkes Milton, was partially carried—in the middle, with one of his arms around Harold's sweaty neck, and the other wrapped the way an anaconda will encircle a prey before devouring, around Trisha, who was greatly disturbed with thoughts of Catherine who had ‘disappeared into thin air’ and left no clues or trails or hints that she'd ever existed.They hobbled and staggered out of the swimming vicinity like soldiers who had just fought—and won a war for their motherland and were returning back to their families bruised and in dire need of medical attention.The trio were tired. Exhausted, to be precise. And dazed, too. They'd each had more than their fair share of mind boggling ‘adventures’.After ten long minutes which was made more difficult by the dimness that had cloaked Golden Lake University, they got to the fountain the ‘tour guide’ had shown to them on their first day. The fountain which attracted the attention
Harold put one feet on a wooden cabinet that wasn't more than two metres tall and tied his sneakers' shoelace. He dropped the leg, put the other on the same cabinet and repeated the same action as he'd done the first time.As he stood up with a sigh escaping his pink lips, he smartened out his shirt which was crisscrossed with diverse dyes, by tugging it downwards on its hem for the umpteenth time. That was when Wilkes came out of the bathroom with a white towel round his waist and shampoo and water matting down his long, jet black hair.“Still meeting at the cafeteria at 12 PM, yeah?” Wilkes asked to ascertain what they'd arranged before he went into the bathroom. His abdominal muscle glistened as droplets of water skidded down his frame before being soaked by the towel.“Yeah. Trisha will be there, too. I know you barely remember what she looks like but she helped you, still, and deserves to hear what I have to say. I got her num’er la
*THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO MY STRONG BROTHERS AND SISTERS FROM THE DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO FOR SURVIVING THE HARDSHIPS THEY'VE HAD TO ENDURE FOR CENTURIES IN SILENCE. MAY THE LORD HEAL YOUR LAND SOONEST, AMEN.*#CongoIsBleedingHarold Girard's brown pupils surveyed the thoroughly illuminated aisle—that possessed a cream-coloured filter enhanced by the bulbs that shone a milky radiance—from above, for an hint on who could have dropped the ‘letter’ in his bag.He sensed his heart pumping blood more than it ever had, and he felt the red liquid that trickled through his veins and arteries at a frenzied tempo, flow to his knuckles, and palms, and brain as well, as one hand held the crisp, white paper whose contents had spun his life around in mere seconds.His other hand weakly gripped his reddish-brown bag as his eyes switched from one student to another for whoever seemed most likely to have played the ‘prank’ on him.&nb