The Investigation of Mr. Blakesly

I: The Evidence

My suspicions began on a Monday after I had been sent to the headteacher’s office for a small fight in class, one that I won, mind you. Whilst waiting to be seen to, I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation with two police constables; a pupil two years below me—I was in year 10—had been killed on Friday, mutilated even, presumably walking home from school as he was in uniform still. Horrifying was the information I had heard, and queer I found it how Mr. Blakesley seemed to be in control of the conversation, riddling and questioning the police himself at times; he even managed to get information out of them, when one would think it ought to be vice versa.

During the talk, I heard one constable mention a bloody dagger had been found at the scene, however, it is believed this was not the weapon used to kill the boy, meaning it could well be the attacker’s blood on the blade. This is why, when the police left, and Mr. Blakesley came out to invite me in, I was startled to see he now had a limp which I was certain he did not have when I saw him last, on Friday, the day the boy was killed.

I did quickly dismiss this as nothing more than coincidence at first, but a voice within urged me to watch him, and so I would; I watched my headteacher every break and lunch period. The first two days of this, Michelle—a year below me—saw my interest and began to join me. She looked somewhat ill, possibly lacking sleep. Nevertheless, she saw my interest in Mr. Blakesley, and questioned it, which I had to deny; how would one sanely explain they have a hunch their headteacher is a killer?

As I watched Mr. Blakesley over the next couple weeks, I took note of how he, too, was watching pupils much alike how I watched him, even taking notes in a little notebook as he did. There was something he carried in secret in the inner-pocket of his jacket too, something heavy he kept making sure was there. I noticed also he had been narrowing his vision; fewer and fewer caught his eye. Could he have some sick and twisted system to choose his victims?

Michelle looked more ill as time passed, and at this two-week interval did not sit with me for a full week after, as I pointed out the blood on her skirt and legs. She said ‘girl troubles,’ shyly and embarassed, and quickly went away.

The notebook is what I needed to get my hands on, somehow I was certain it was the key evidence to catch a killer.

So for the next two weeks I followed him closer, and he was too distracted on the same two groups of boys, and several girls, including Michelle, the last of which worried me especially; my conclusion was any one of these could be the next victim, and that this was exactly what Mr. Blakesley thought too.

II: The Confrontation

Four weeks since the boy’s killing, time was short, I felt, and I needed to act faster. Michelle agreed, for whatever reason she had as I had still not told of my investigation, to help me break into Mr. Blakesley’s office after school-hours; she was able to use her bobby pin to unlock the door, and she stood on watch too. There was one draw of the desk locked, which I had Michelle open as she had the door, and in it was the notebook I was searching for.

Opening the notebook, I saw a list of names—whether or not it was every pupil, I would not be able to tell you, but there were certainly many—most of which were struckthrough. Some had notes, all of which their relations with the boy that was killed. Then I saw Michelle’s name written, and saw two perculiar notes next to it, ones that very well put her down as suspicious: ‘girlfriend’ and ‘lives on same road.’

She vomitted, and fell to her knees, and I saw her skirt and legs were covered in blood again. ‘How can you have “girl troubles” twice in two weeks?’ I asked.

Then something horrifying happened, as she began to scream of how she was ‘burning’ and twisted in indescribably sickening convulsions; her jaw extended, and her body was engulfed in fur, and when she grew in size I saw the thigh of the wolfesque beast she had become, and there was a large wound she bled from! From it oozed pus.

When the transmutation was complete, she stared at me, before leaping for the kill. If Mr. Blakesley had not heard her screaming, and ran over with his revolver and shot the beast five times, the very beast that clawed his leg open as he tried to save the boy, then I would not be alive today to tell this tale; for he was no killer, no, he saved us all from a dreaded beast, a killer of men, a lycanthrope!