IN MIDDLE SCHOOL, our science teacher was a man named Mr. Johnston. He was in his late twenties and at first, the girls in my school thought he was very attractive. He had piercing deep green eyes that always glimmered, and a boyish grin that made him look mischievous. Still, starting from the very first day he came to teach, both the students and the teachers disliked him.
Mr. Johnston was easily irritated. At the slightest slip-up, he would storm into a violent rage, screaming and yelling and picking on anybody who created troubles in his path. He could frequently be heard ranting and raving in the hallways and the classrooms. Occasionally, he would even physically intimidate the students, although he never in fact hit anyone. Nonetheless, my whole class was petrified of him. Even the other teachers appeared frightened of him and they aimed to stay out of his way.
One morning, a classmate named Anna came to class late. She entered the room while Mr. Johnston was in the middle of a lecture concerning cell division. Immediately, he angrily launched into a tirade about how she should have woken up earlier. He walked right next to where Anna was standing and tried to threaten her with detention after school for the rest of the year, saying students like her didn’t deserve an education. Mr. Johnston then jabbed his index finger in front of Anna’s face, forcing her to recoil beside the wall.
Anna was normally a reserved, well-mannered girl and she squirmed under her teacher’s angry stare. Mr. Johnston was extremely close and was invading her personal space. When Anna tried to move away from him, things got much worse.
Mr. Johnston abruptly drew back his hand and whacked the back of her head. We were all utterly astonished. Even Anna was shocked by the sudden assault. She stood there flabbergasted for several seconds, and then scurried out of the classroom, crying while pressing her hand to her head.
After she left, Mr. Johnston continued with his lecture as if nothing had happened. The class, however, was entirely still. The uneasy tension in the room was evident. Although no one sought to risk getting him aggravated again, we all knew that he was going to be in big trouble.
The following morning, Anna’s mother showed up during class and ordered to talk to Mr. Johnston. He led her down the hallway and locked the door behind him. The entire class stayed quiet, trying to listen in on their conversation.
Anna’s mother began shrieking at our science teacher, cursing him out and calling him all the names in the book and saying that Anna didn’t deserve to be cornered for waking up late. She said she was going to sue him for hitting her daughter. Yet, when we glanced out the class window, we noticed that Mr. Johnston was just standing there, shifting from one foot to the other. There was an infuriated frown on his face, but regardless of what she said, he didn’t oppose or try to defend himself. It was rather unsettling.
When Anna’s mother finally finished yelling, she stormed off in disgust and Mr. Johnston returned to the classroom, his face heated and his eyes livid. Ignoring us, he went to his desk, packed his belongings, and sat in his seat without another word. The rest of us awkwardly waited for the bell to ring, signaling the end of class and the end of Mr. Johnston.
THE NEXT DAY, when I arrived at school, I heard the alarming news.
Anna and her mother were involved in an accident when they were driving home the previous day. Their van veered into a streetlight pole. Anna suffered a severe, third-degree head injury, but her mother was killed on impact.
I was appalled. Some students in my class were weeping while others just sulked in their desks, dumbfounded that something like this would happen. Everyone was distressed.
Everyone, that is, except Mr. Johnston. For the whole day, he sported an enormous grin on his face. I had never seen him so cheerful; he didn’t even give us homework. It was as if he was thrilled by Anna and her mother’s car accident. At that moment, I never envisaged the truth.
Shortly after a few weeks, everything quickly went back to normal.
Then one day during science class, a cell phone vibrated in the room. Mr. Johnston became fanatical and launched an investigation in the classroom, commanding every student to take out their phones. Once he finally found the source of the interruption, he gripped a student named Mark by the hair and dragged him to the front of the room. After confiscating his phone, Mr. Johnston then gave everyone a lecture about how cell phones should be turned off and left home, and that only brainless students brought them to school.
When class was over, Mark stopped by Mr. Johnston’s desk to get his cell phone back. However, Mr. Johnston threw it in his desk drawer and refused to do so, claiming that Mark needed to learn his lesson the hard way. Mark was tremendously upset and, when we left school together, I thought of an idea.
The next morning when class just started, I distracted Mr. Johnston by asking stupid questions regarding simple science theories while Mark sneaked over to Mr. Johnston’s unattended desk and stole his phone back.
We thought we had succeeded in getting away, but on the way home together that evening, I sensed that we were being watched. I was surprised to see Mr. Johnston’s black pick-up van from the corner of my eye slowly gliding along on the road behind us. He was slouching in the driver’s seat, glaring at us with his icy, green eyes.
Before I could tell Mark anything, Mr. Johnston’s pick-up van suddenly screeched to a halt in the middle of the street. I turned to my left, just in time to see a speeding truck dash past the crossroads, right through the red traffic light, and lurch towards us.
“Duck to your right!” I shouted and leaped onto the sidewalk, but it was too late to save Mark.
The truck crashed into him, chucking his body into the air. It was terrible, and I crouched on the ground, thunderstruck and tearful. I couldn’t bear to look at Mark’s injured body lying in the middle of the street. He wasn’t moving and Mr. Johnston’s pick-up van was nowhere to be seen.
After a few minutes, an ambulance came and carefully loaded Mark onto a stretcher, which took him to the hospital. However, the doctors could not do anything to save him, and thirty minutes later, he was dead.
IT WAS SEVERAL days before I felt comfortable enough to go back to school. Witnessing the accident was exceedingly disturbing. In science class, Mr. Johnston just glowered at me, but never talked about the accident or Mark’s death. Still, he did have a devious smirk on his face.
One night, I received a call from Anna, which really surprised me since we weren’t really friends in school. She said she was still in the hospital, recuperating from her injuries. Her head doesn’t hurt as much as before and she was healthy enough to chat on the phone.
She was sorry to hear about Mark’s accident and asked me if I was feeling alright. I told her that I was shaken at first but better now and then I mentioned that, strangely, Mr. Johnston was there too when the accident took place.
“He quickly disappeared, though,” I added.
“I knew he would be there!” Anna exclaimed. “I had a hunch that he was behind this because just before my mother slid off the street and into the streetlight pole, I looked out the window and saw a black van in the lane next to us. I saw Mr. Johnston in the driver’s seat. The rest is a blur, but I know I definitely seen him. He was just glaring at us, which was really weird, right?”
Mostly, Anna just talked about how Mr. Johnston had somehow caused the accident and that I needed to quickly get away from him because now, I was his target too.
“You were with Mark, and you’re a witness and burden to him,” Anna replied when I asked why.
I didn’t know what to say or think since it all sounded very crazy and made-up. But if Mr. Johnston was at the scene of both accidents, he had to be involved in some way because this was too much of a coincidence.
When I left for school the following morning, a black pick-up van was parked on the left side of the street. It was Mr. Johnston’s van. Just as I was debating if I should run back into my house and call the police, the van’s engine roared into life and drove off down the street. It was enough to make my heart stop beating.
After that morning, I was never my usual self anymore. Every slightest movement made me jump and panic. Often at midnight, I would peer out the window and see Mr. Johnston’s pick-up van idling outside my house. Every now and then, he would let me see him, stooping in the driver’s seat, glowering at me with those cold, green eyes. In class, I frequently found him scowling at me as he taught. And when I walked home, I often found him following me, driving slowly behind as I walked along the street. I didn’t have to look to know that he was there. He was trying to frighten me, and as much as I tell myself not to be afraid, I was.
Eventually, it became palpable that something was wrong. I lost my appetite and rarely ate or drank; I started to lose a lot of weight. I seldom got a chance to sleep and if I did, my dreams were plagued by thoughts of Mr. Johnston.
My parents thought this was probably because of more homework and pressure in school, and therefore, did not pay much attention to what I was doing. Mr. Miller, my history teacher, however, began to notice my anxious manner. I often caught him studying me in class and he constantly asked how I was feeling. One day, he stopped me in the hallway and told me he wanted to see me after school in his room.
“Is there something you would like to tell me?” Mr. Miller questioned. “Is there something that you feel uncomfortable to say? Something that involves perhaps… Mr. Johnston?”
I lowered my eyes to the floor and nodded. I told him about my concerns that Mr. Johnston was possibly involved in the accidents. I told him about the conversion with Anna and how I doubtlessly was Mr. Johnston’s next victim. I told him that I was petrified and that I didn’t know what to do.
When I finished speaking, Mr. Miller had a funny smile on his face.
I waited for a response, half expecting him to call me insane and shove me out of his classroom and half expecting him to snort and say I told a good joke. But instead, he hugged me and said he believed me.
Mr. Miller then stated that, several years ago, he and Mr. Johnston were co-workers at another school. He also revealed that during the time he was teaching there, a few unusual accidents happened at the school.
Originally, there were issues with vandalism. Several students slipped into the classrooms at night spray-painting graffiti on the boards, damaging desks, and stealing objects and equipments. The last classroom those students had broken into was Mr. Johnston’s.
The following day, five students were all killed in a terrible car accident. In the trunk of the car, the police found the items that had been stolen from the teachers and few cans of spray-paint. It was evident that they had been the students who vandalized the school.
Everyone at the school was dazed and devastated. Everyone, that is, except Mr. Johnston. Mr. Miller grew suspicious when he saw how delighted and thrilled Mr. Johnston became when he heard about the car accident.
A few months later, due to a low budget, the school had to let go several teachers. Mr. Miller and Mr. Johnston were two of the teachers who lost their jobs. The following day, the school’s superintendent who made the cuts was hit by a van and was badly injured. He died thirty minutes later in the hospital.
Mr. Miller said that on the day he was laid off, he saw Mr. Johnston standing in front of the main office, just glaring at the superintendent. He described the same bitter, infuriated stare I had seen.
“I had been keeping an eye on Johnston ever since. So when I heard that he was applying for a job here, I decided to apply too,” Mr. Miller said.
While a little surprised at first, I immediately told Mr. Miller that we had to do something, anything. If Mr. Johnston was accountable for the accidents, we had to stop him and turn him over to the police.
Mr. Miller shook his head grimly.
“After so many years, I still couldn’t find any evidence,” Mr. Miller responded. “Johnston isn’t deadlocked to anything. Even if the police believed us, a case could never be made and so, no jury would ever convict him. Johnston is one sly person, I’ll tell you that.”
“Then I guess there’s nothing we could do but to just wait and see what happens next,” I said dejectedly.
Mr. Miller cocked his head to one side.
“But you’re in trouble. I could see it in your face,” he paused. “I think I have a plan.”
When I asked what it was, he refused to tell me and instead, told me not to worry, told me that I was safe as long as he was here. He then escorted me out of his classroom without another word.
IT WAS DARK when I left school and all the streetlights were on. As I was walking home, I sensed that I was being followed. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and when I looked around, I saw Mr. Johnston’s pick-up van.
It was the only van parked on the left side of the street and he was standing right in front of it. He was carrying a baseball bat, slowly twirling it in his hands. His face was twisted in rage and he was glaring at me intensely, his eyes stony and filled with malice. His look sent a chill down my spine.
Stricken with fear, I couldn’t find the energy to move, to run. I squeezed my eyes shut and my mind froze. I was starting to black out.
There was no way I could outrun Mr. Johnston now.
Then I heard an awful sound. It was an earsplitting screech, shadowed by the crunch of metal on metal. Then, silence.
When I finally managed to open my eyes, I saw what had happened. A truck collided head-on into the pick-up. The truck must have driven at full speed because its front hood overlapped half of the van. Mr. Johnston was crushed between the two cars.
After emitting a smoke of gas, the truck’s door opened and a figure staggered out. Although he had survived the collision, he was severely wounded. He fell to his knees in front of the truck, his back turned towards me.
Police sirens wailed in the distance and within moments, two police cars and an ambulance pulled up. I was still frozen in place.
One officer jogged towards me.
“Miss, are you alright?” he inquired and then turned over his shoulder to call for help. “We’re going to take you with us, ok?”
Everything was a blur and I was too shaken to respond.
I saw three officers inspecting the two cars, furiously scribbling notes on their pads. Two paramedics carefully began to load a man onto a stretcher.
“…crash on the Main Road…appeared as if the car suddenly swerved from the right lane to the left parking lane…”
“One badly injured man—”
“One injured,” I tensed.
“Miss?” he reached for my hand.
“No!” I pushed him away and ran towards the ambulance.
Just as the paramedics were hoisting the injured body into the car, I caught a glimpse of the man’s face. It was Mr. Miller. I gasped.
Mr. Johnston was gone.
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