Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller Read Free

taking senior classes as a junior.
    Eric was having a massive barn party while his parents flew to Paris for the weekend. He’d told Bailey that his parents had given him permission as long as he kept the party to a dull roar. Something about character-building and trust. The barn party would be at their family farm in the rural backwaters of nowhere.
    “There’s no way I’m going if you’re not going,” she told Jany for the umpteenth time.
    “I can’t skip my cousin’s wedding,” Jany answered. “Maybe he’ll ask you to be his special guest, otherwise known as his date.”
    “I’d die of embarrassment, and Carla would kill me. It’s all the jocks and the clinger crowd. It’s not me. Plus, I don’t drink.”
    “Maybe you should take a chaperone, Peggy Sue,” Jany said.
    “You’re funny.”
    “Take Mr. Renly along. He’ll protect you.”
    “Oh, stick it, big mouth.”

Chapter 3

    F ive years ago, Principal Jenkins reshuffled classrooms, giving teachers a bit of say-so in where they preferred to be. Stuart Renly avoided all the back-stabbing politics and maneuvering because the room he preferred no one else wanted. Freemont high school had been built at the turn of the last century. Everything was old, old, old. Ancient by modern standards. All the plumbing rattled and groaned spontaneously, and the sewer from the student lavatories on the NE wing reeked and radiated, especially in warm weather. Stuart Renly chose the classroom at the end of that NE wing, kiddy-corner from those smelly lavatories.
    It wasn’t a problem for Stuart Renly.
    Being at the end of the hall reminded him of home.
    And he dealt with the stench because there was a really beneficial tradeoff.
    Boys will be boys, Stuart liked to say.
    About six years ago, he found a hole bored through the crusty old concrete wall that separated the boys from the girls. Stuart Renly had been clever, relocating a toilet paper dispenser so it covered the hole, and twisting out the right thumb screw made the dispenser dangle sideways, revealing the hole.
    From the girl’s side, it looked like a spider hole.
    The girls often complained about having to use that creepy last stall, calling it the spider stall. Stuart Renly would overhear their conversations in the hallway.
    “I had to use the spider stall,” they would say.
    “Who keeps leaving shit and rags in the other two,” would come the reply.
    That was the daily mystery of the NE wing.
    But Stuart Renly had solved it years ago.
    He was the mastermind.
    For nothing better to do in the evenings, he usually stayed late after school, leaving the building about five or six o’clock, sometimes later depending on the girl’s basketball or volleyball gym schedules. Once the janitors had finished cleaning, he’d go into the girl’s lavatory, take a healthy dump, top it with toilet paper, and leave it floating. Then for the second of three stalls, he’d plug it with toilet paper and top it with a fresh bloody rag, face up, that he would scavenge from the sanitary napkin bin, providing the bin hadn’t been emptied.
    By morning, the contents of those first two toilets had soaked and stagnated into a disgusting mess, and the young ladies thusly defaulted to the infamous spider stall.
    It had been amusing over the years to watch the mystery playing out with each new crop of female students, and it always amazed him how the simple trick kept working so consistently.
    As for the hole in the wall, whichever punks had bored it, however long ago, were now well graduated or, at any rate, well gone, and the new crop of pinheads hadn’t found it during the last six years.
    His classroom being at the end of the hall was perfect given his “active intestines,” which required frequent lavatory visits throughout the day.
    In fact, he was on one of his so-called A.I. breaks right now, and the students in his fourth period geometry class didn’t mind one iota if he ran five minutes late almost every day. They