Whispers of Summer: A Bittersweet End

...and it was everything you’d hope for it to be. The atmosphere at school changed drastically, with a mix of excitement and restlessness. For a 7th-grade student like me, it felt like a bittersweet moment. I was eager to start the long-awaited summer vacation yet also nostalgic about leaving behind familiar routines and classmates for a few months. As I entered the school gates that morning, I could feel the anticipation building among other students. The hallways were full of students, filled with chatter, laughter, and the sound of lockers slamming shut for the last time this year. I never understood how people could be so talkative so early in the morning, so like always, I avoided familiar faces so I did not have to engage in a conversation. In the classrooms that day, teachers seemed to be in a lighter mood too, allowing us more freedom. The lessons took on a more relaxed tone, with some teachers opting for fun activities such as watching movies related to the subjects we had studied throughout the year. There was an unspoken rule in my school: the last day of school was not about learning; it was about enjoying the last day together. Everything was perfect that day; the birds were singing, it was not too hot, but it was not cold either, and I had forgotten my school lunch, but Leigh was happy enough to share some of hers with me. Isaac and his gang did not give me any trouble, and the teachers were great because they did not do anything all day. Everything was going perfectly; I didn’t even notice that we were already at our last class. All I have to do is survive this class, and summer may begin.
I glanced out the window and saw the glistening waters of the River Salva flowing peacefully outside. The fishermen were going up and down the river, and some older kids who finished earlier were already swimming outside in this nice weather. I stopped watching through the window as I felt some eyes on me, and my instincts were telling me that I should concentrate on class. Mr. Johnson was watching me, the most hated teacher in school. He seemed to have an innate ability to turn even the most joyous occasions into a living hell for everyone; he is the type of person who would make funerals even more depressing. As he saw me being obedient again, he continued with his lesson. The air in the classroom felt heavy and tense as Mr. Johnson droned on about a topic that seemed entirely irrelevant on this day. He was the only teacher that day who behaved like this was the first day of school and we had to start our year strong. He looked and behaved like a wraith. I read about them this year in a book; they are haunting and ethereal figures, shrouded in darkness and mystery. Its appearance is that of a spectral being, with a skeletal frame and tattered, flowing garments that seem to drift on an unseen wind. Its face is covered with a hood, casting its features into shadows, and its eyes burn with an eerie, otherworldly glow. They move with an unnerving grace, gliding silently through the air, leaving a chilling aura of dread the way they pass. What they’re most known for is that they feed off negative emotions, such as fear, anger, and jealousy, while Mr. Johnson fed on both negative and positive emotions; he was like their leader. Mr. Johnson’s appearance is gaunt and skeletal, his thin frame moving in an almost ghostly manner. His dark eyes were overshadowed by heavy brows, and they pierced through the soul of whoever dared to meet his gaze. His demeanor is cold and distant, and when he speaks, his voice has no warmth or empathy. His words feel like icy tendrils, seeping into the hearts of his students and filling them with a sense of unease. Just like a wrath, he seems to glide through the classroom, rarely making any true connections with his students. But the only mysterious thing about Mr. Johnson was his class, because no one really understood what he was teaching, leaving us feeling confused and lost most of the time. Everything else about Mr. Johnson was known. Everyone knew that he had once been a promising and intelligent young man. He excelled in his studies and graduated from college with flying colors. With high hopes for a successful career ahead, he married his college sweetheart and started a family. However, life took a dark turn for Mr. Johnson when he discovered that his wife was cheating on him behind his back. Then rumors began to go around that his child might actually not be his. His wife filed for divorce, leaving him broken and alone. Then his professional career started to crumble when he made a grave mistake by getting involved in an inappropriate relationship with one of his students. No one knows who it was, but some say it was a male student. With his professional life in ruins and his personal life in turmoil and nothing left for him in the big city, he had no choice but to leave the university, where he had once dreamed of making a mark in the academic world, and to return to his hometown of Brezoville to live with his parents. He took up a teaching position at the local school, a far cry from the prestigious university he had once called his workplace. Once well known and respected, now he was met with pitying glances and hushed whispers.
In the small town of Brezoville, where everyone knew each other’s business, Mr. Johnson’s past haunted him like a ghost or a wraith.
Lost in my thoughts again, this time I couldn’t avoid a verbal warning from Mr. Johnson. I was a little bit red in the face, and with my head lowered, I silently sat down and took his warning seriously. You should always take a broken man seriously. In the corner of my eye, I could see Isaac laughing and enjoying my embarrassment, his face twisted into a malicious grin.
In his class, nothing could escape Mr. Johnson: “Isaac, that’s enough.” His voice was stern, but it lacked the conviction it once held. Isaac merely chuckled, brushing off the warning like it was a mere inconvenience. He had no respect for Mr. Johnson; he saw him as just another weak adult who had no control over his life.
Mr. Johnson turned back to the blackboard to continue his lesson, and I couldn’t help but observe my classmates as they coped with the last class of the year. There was Sarah, who sat quietly in the corner, doodling in her notebook, her eyes drifting out the window as if yearning to be set free from this torture. One of Isaac’s buddies, Tom, on the other hand, looked like he was about to fall asleep, his head nodding slightly with each passing minute. The slowly rising heat in the classroom certainly didn’t help him at all.
Beside me, Mark was moving restlessly in his seat, occasionally tapping his pencil on the desk in a futile attempt to find some form of entertainment. He behaved like a wild beast trapped in a cage, trying to leave. Emily, always the diligent student, was sitting in the front row, trying her best to stay engaged, but even she couldn’t help but sneak glances at the clock, silently willing time to move faster.
As for me, once again, I found myself torn between daydreaming about the summer adventures that awaited me and trying to keep my focus on the monotonous lecture. The sound of the river flowing outside only added to my restlessness, taunting me with the promise of freedom and fun beyond these classroom walls. In a way, I pitied Mr. Johnson. It was obvious even without all these rumors that he despised his job, and his frustration seemed to manifest in the way he treated his students. It was as if he wanted to make sure that everyone around him suffered as much as he did.
The river kept calling me to come out and refresh myself. In my imagination, the river took on a character of its own—a wise and serene entity that understood the pain in my heart. It seemed to know the weight I carried and the pain I endured, and that It could wash it all away.
“Leave the worries behind and let me carry them away,” the river encouraged; it sounded like a lullaby.
Once again, I glanced out the window, knowing, of course, that everything was just my imagination.
As the sun was casting a warm golden glow on the river’s surface, I started thinking about the time I went on a fishing trip with Tom and his father. With pair work in school, I had no choice as Tom was appointed as my partner for the project. The topic was something stupid; I can’t even remember now, but it was something about people in our town.
My small town, Brezoville, sat perched on the banks of the mighty Salva River, its waters going through the heart of the community. The town was surrounded by a dense forest, and its history wasn’t as rich as that of other cities. Brezoville’s history was steeped in mystery, with eerie legends and creepy stories swirling through the air like whispers on the wind.
The townsfolk were known for their love of fishing, and the Salva River was their lifeblood. Its clear waters were filled with many kinds of fish, drawing anglers from neighboring towns to try their luck. The town’s fishing industry had flourished for generations, passing down the art of angling from father to son.
Life was simple, happy, and beautiful; there were not many things to do, but people would always find something to pass their time. Maybe one of those things people started doing to pass the time was making up many scary stories about the town. Thanks to that, the beauty of Brezoville was shrouded in an unsettling aura with its haunting tales that had been passed down from generation to generation. The woods surrounding the town were said to be haunted by restless spirits, their screams echoing in the night. Some even claimed to have encountered strange creatures lurking in the shadows, their eyes glowing in the dark.
Amidst the chilling legends, a newer, more ominous story had taken root in the past two or three years: the legend of the Crow. No one knows when exactly it happened, but one person struck fear into the hearts of everyone living in the town. His dark presence hovers like a dark cloud over Brezoville. He was a serial killer who killed out of nowhere and disappeared right after his ritual with his victims. The Crow’s mysterious nature had made him an enigma, and despite the tireless efforts of law enforcement, he was never caught. Even though no one heard of him for a year, the community was still on edge. The killings did stop, but no one knew why or if they were just going to continue.
Yet, amidst all these scary stories and events happening in this small town, Brezoville held onto its unique charm. The unique architecture and colorful gardens stood in contrast to the surrounding wilderness, creating an idyllic setting. Warm street lights reflect light on the cobbled paths, leading to a central square where locals gather for festivals and celebrations, celebrating life and joy amidst the darkness.
The tallest building in the town was the ancient St. Nina’s Church, in the heart of the town. It was so tall that it reached towards the heavens, a symbol of hope for everyone living there. The bells rang every evening, going back and forth across the river and the woods, as if they were protecting the town from the evil spirits that lingered deep in the woods.
Tom’s father, Mr. Thompson, was a fisherman, so Tom and I didn’t think a lot and decided to make a project about the fishermen of our town. The funny thing was that even though Tom and I couldn’t really call each other friends because our friend group was at war, our fathers were old friends from their school days in Brezoville. I don’t know much, but they were inseparable, always getting into mischief together and doing whatever kids did back in the day.
Early in the morning, I went to Ramp B, where Tom and Mr. Thompson were already preparing the boat for our small trip.
“Good morning, Mr. Thompson, Tom,” I said, still sleepy and not very talkative like always.
“Good morning, Adrian,” Mr. Thompson greeted me with a big warm smile on his face. “I see you are not very talkative in the morning. One more thing you got from your father.” His laughter echoed through Ramp B.
Tom didn’t say much either; he nodded as a sign of greeting and asked his father where he should put the net. As Mr. Thompson took the net from his hands and put it in the boat, he continued talking, which was irritating at the time, but now it isn’t so bad when I think about it as he told me a lot of things about my father I didn’t know.
“One day,” he kept on talking, “we heard of a treasure being hidden in the depths of the river near the Long Arch. We got up super early in the morning; the sun was nowhere to be seen, and we had trouble going to the boats. Not everything was this clean before. Somehow, with a lot of trouble, we got there. We stole the first boat we saw, and we sailed to the Long Arch. We were diving for hours, trying to find anything that even remotely looked like a treasure, but of course we didn’t find anything. It was just another stupid story, and when we were done, we got back hungry and tired, but our adventure did not stop there.” He had a smile on his face the whole time he was telling us this story; even Tom was smiling at his father as he listened carefully to what was going to happen next.
“At the place where we stole the boat, we saw the owner and two police officers; he recognized his boat immediately, and we got into a lot of trouble. The police officers were a little rough at the start, but when they heard about our little adventure, they started joking with us. The real trouble began when we got home. I am not sure what your grandparents did to your father, but mine were not gentle at all. Both of us hid our bruises in school so others wouldn’t make fun of us.”
His voice carried nostalgia and warmth, painting a vivid picture of their carefree youth. And that was just the first story of the day; he continued with the stories of their other adventures, some of which I knew but most of which I did not. I was captivated by the tales, and in those moments, I felt a connection to my father that I had been missing for some time.
The trip went perfectly; we caught a lot of fish, and our project was finished. As we were returning home, I sat at the front of the boat, holding my hand in the cold water, trying to cool myself a little bit. The silence was very loud; it became a little uncomfortable. Mr. Thompson, who kept talking all this time, was now quiet and lost in his thoughts. After some time that felt like it lasted forever, Mr. Thompson decided to speak again: “Your father and I were very close, Adrian. Later, when he went to college, we didn’t see each other as much as before; we drifted away a bit, but the mutual respect for each other was always there. I am very sorry about your father’s death. If you need anything, and I mean anything, feel free to come; don’t hold back.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson; I will.” I said, and I felt some warmth inside; his words really touched me.
We got the best grade for the presentation, and Mrs. Norris praised us because we were the only ones who picked that topic.
Till this day, I feel thankful for Mr. Thompson; his sharing his memories of my dad brought a flicker of light to the darkness in my heart. Tom and I were still distant even after that perfect day of ours. As I kept fighting with Isaac and got into trouble afterward, during our fights, Tom’s punches became softer towards me than mine did towards him. We didn’t say anything to each other; we just knew. We were not our fathers; we were our own men, so we didn’t have to pretend to be friends, but mutual respect for each other after that day was established.
Mr. Johnson’s irritated voice broke through my daydreaming as he kept yelling at me for not paying attention. The bell that marked the end of the class and the start of the summer saved me as I picked up my things and ran out of the classroom with everyone else. Mr. Johnson kept screaming at us that class isn’t done yet and that it will be done when he says so, but no one paid any attention as we stormed out to freedom.