Why Botoxed Faces Feel Uncomfortable

 We depend on micro‑expressions to understand people

I always feel uneasy looking at a Botox‑frozen face because our brains rely heavily on micro‑expressions to read emotion, and Botox reduces or removes those cues. When you can’t “read” someone, your social brain flags the interaction as uncertain or harder to interpret.

Why Botoxed Faces Can Feel Uncomfortable

1. We depend on micro‑expressions to understand people

Botox reduces the movement of key facial muscles, especially in the forehead and around the eyes.

These areas carry the most emotionally informative signals: tension, surprise, concern, and empathy.

When those signals are muted, your brain gets less data to work with, which can feel like trying to read a book with half the words missing.

2. Your brain uses mimicry to understand others

Humans unconsciously mimic each other’s expressions — a tiny frown, a soft smile — and that mimicry helps us feel what the other person is feeling.

Botox disrupts this loop because the person can’t make the expression for you to mirror.

Without that mimicry, empathy becomes harder, and interactions can feel “off” or emotionally flat.

3. The facial feedback loop breaks

There’s a well‑studied phenomenon called the facial feedback hypothesis:

Your facial muscles don’t just express emotion — they help generate it.

When someone’s face can’t move, their emotional expressions are dampened.

That can make them seem less responsive, less warm, or harder to connect with.

4. Ambiguity makes the social brain anxious

Humans evolved to read faces quickly for safety and connection.

When a face is harder to interpret:

Your brain has to work harder.

Ambiguity triggers mild social vigilance.

The interaction can feel subtly uncanny or distant.

This is similar to why people feel uneasy around mannequins or CGI faces that are almost human but not fully expressive.

How do you feel about this?

https://www.authorerikamszabo.com

Kirkus has been considered a barometer of literary quality since 1933

 A prestigious award

I'm so happy for my fellow author and friend, David James, who received a glowing review and the award that Kirkus doesn't give out easily.

A Kirkus review functions as a high‑credibility signal inside the publishing ecosystem, especially for discoverability, industry attention, and marketing power. Its influence comes from its long history, its reputation for being blunt and independent, and the fact that librarians, booksellers, agents, and reviewers actively monitor it. A positive Kirkus review is treated as a mark of prestige. 

Escala's Wish - the Kirkus review to be proud of

ON AMAZON

A classic quest narrative that lovers of fairy tales are likely to enjoy.

"In James’ fantasy novel, the disastrous consequences of a single kiss cause a faerie to lose almost everything.

Escala Winter wants to understand what it is to fall in love. She decides to kiss a mortal man, but when a wolf kills both that man and Escala’s best friend, Rihanna, the blame falls on Escala herself. She’s broken fey law, and her father, the ruler of the Court of Dreams, must judge her and decide her fate. Lord Rowan is torn between duty and love, while his wife, Morvena, plots the destruction of the stepdaughter who stands in the way of her own daughter Audrey’s ascendance. Rowan manages to save Escala’s life, but she’s banished from the court and forced to take on the body of an elf. She’s also condemned to live on the material plane unless she’s able to “remove the boulders from the True Cycle”—but what these boulders actually are remains a mystery: “It’s part of my sentence…I don’t know what it means.” Meanwhile, Morvena still wants the crown for herself and her daughter. She forms an alliance with Victor Graves and plans to kill both Escala and Rowan; Victor’s son, Jonathan, was the man Escala kissed, and Escala’s mother, Teresa, rejected Victor long ago. Escala, meanwhile, forges ahead on her quest and soon meets Harper and Roedyn, who initially believe her to be an elf but agree to assist her. They soon face direwolves and dragons alongside newfound friends Sticky and the Bard Wigfrith, who narrates the story. Later, it becomes clear that only Escala stands a chance of saving the Court of Dreams.

James’ novel is a high fantasy fable that draws from epic-quest myths and fairy tales to tell a story of redemption, duty, and love. Escala proves to be a compelling protagonist—the child of the ruler of the Court of Dreams and a mortal woman who left the Court, for fear that her daughter would never be accepted if she remained. The story’s dramatic stakes are established quite early on, as is the theme of Escala’s quest to understand the nature of love. The framing of the story, in which the Bard Wigfrith retells the tale for patrons at a tavern, adds a layer of narrative complexity that ameliorates some of the storytelling’s more didactic elements. It would have been intriguing if Wigfrith’s character development had a bit more depth, which might have made readers question the reliability of his narration. As it stands, however, the narrative is well paced throughout and evocative of many classic fantasy tales. The threat that Escala faces is also typical of a great many myths, and although a bit more could have been done to add nuance to the villains’ motives and to the lessons that Escala learns, the narrative arc is satisfying overall. Escala’s true quest is to learn to love and, by doing so, to aid the people who are most important to her.

A classic quest narrative that lovers of fairy tales are likely to enjoy."

January 7, 2026

https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/david-james-2/escalas-wish/

The author

David James

David James (DJ) is an attorney and lives in Northborough, Massachusetts, with his wife, Tonya, who has somehow endured thirty years of his endless parade of ridiculous character voices echoing through the house. Together, they’ve raised three wonderful children, now off conquering the world through college, law school, and Boston courtrooms.

When he’s not writing fantasy novels, designing campaigns, or crafting multi-page backstories, DJ records and publishes Christian hip-hop under the stage name “DJ the Not So Ordinary.” His music is available on all major streaming platforms.

DJ is the creator of his homebrew fantasy world Valla. He is already hard at work on his second novel set in Valla, because, apparently, sleep is optional when your imagination won’t shut up.

Click to read more reviews

The Veil as Mystery and Hidden Truth

Veils symbolize the unknown, the parts of life that are not yet revealed

Veils sit at the crossroads of mystery, protection, identity, and the boundary between worlds. Across cultures, they’re never just fabric; they’re thresholds. They hide, reveal, shield, transform, and mark the moments when a person steps from one state of being into another.

The Veil as a Boundary Between Worlds

Many traditions treat the veil as a membrane between the seen and unseen, a soft barrier that separates ordinary life from the sacred or the supernatural.

Veils often mark the line between physical and spiritual realms, symbolizing mystery, hidden truth, and the unknown. 

In religious symbolism, veils can represent the divide between humanity and the divine, like the temple veil separating the Holy of Holies in Judaism and Christianity. 

This is why lifting a veil in ritual, myth, or story often signals revelation, enlightenment, or crossing into forbidden knowledge.

The Veil as Protection

In many cultures, veils are worn not just to hide but to shield.

They’re believed to guard against negative energies, creating a sacred space around the wearer. 

Ritual veils can protect the soul during moments of spiritual vulnerability — initiations, funerals, weddings, trance states.

In folklore, a veiled figure is often someone who is between identities, and therefore in need of protection from wandering spirits or ill intention.

The Veil as Mystery and Hidden Truth

Veils obscure the face or form, inviting curiosity and caution.

They symbolize the unknown, the parts of life or self that are not yet revealed. 

In mythic storytelling, veils often hide gods, ghosts, brides, witches, or oracles, emphasizing their liminal nature.

To “lift the veil” becomes a metaphor for uncovering truth — or unleashing something powerful.

The Veil as Transformation

Across cultures, veils mark transitions, thresholds where identity shifts.

In Western weddings, the bridal veil symbolizes modesty, mystery, and the passage into a new life stage. 

In Hindu ceremonies, veils like the ghoonghat or dupatta signify respect, tradition, and familial bonds. 

In many rituals, veils are worn during initiations, representing the moment before rebirth or revelation.

A veiled figure is someone on the cusp of becoming.

The Veil as Identity, Modesty, and Power

Veils can signal belonging, status, or devotion.

In Islam, veils like the hijab symbolize faith, identity, and modesty, chosen as expressions of belief. 

In ancient Mesopotamia and Assyria, veils marked class and respectability, with strict rules about who could wear them. 

In modern contexts, veils can be reclaimed as statements of cultural pride and personal expression. 

The veil becomes a paradox: it hides, yet it declares.

The Veil in Folklore: Archetypes and Echoes

Across mythic traditions, veils appear in recurring motifs:

The veiled bride: innocence, danger, or a hidden identity.

The veiled oracle: truth too powerful to look at directly.

The veiled ghost: a soul not fully gone, still shrouded in the world.

The veiled goddess: mystery, fertility, or cosmic knowledge.

The veiled witch: protection from the gaze, or concealment of power.

In folklore, a veil is rarely just fabric. It’s a story device, a symbol of the liminal, the forbidden, the sacred, or the transformative.

https://www.authorerikamszabo.com

Why do Bad Things come in Threes?

 When three becomes ominous instead of sacred

Many cultures fear the number three because it sits at a crossroads: a number loaded with sacred power, balance, and cosmic completeness — which paradoxically makes it feel dangerous when that balance breaks. The fear isn’t universal, but the tension around three is.

Why three feels powerful, and therefore risky

Across civilizations, three is treated as a number of completion, divinity, and cosmic order.

That very power can make it feel volatile when invoked in the wrong context.

In many traditions, three represents a divine triad

The Christian Trinity, the Hindu Trimurti, the Egyptian Osiris–Isis–Horus triad. These structures frame three as a complete cycle of creation, preservation, and destruction. 

The Pythagoreans called three the first true number, symbolizing harmony and stability. 

Because it symbolizes wholeness, breaking or misusing the triad can feel like courting imbalance — a subtle root of superstition.

This duality, sacred and precarious, is the soil where fear grows.

Why “bad things come in threes”

The superstition that misfortune arrives in threes is widespread, even in modern Western culture.

It persists for three major reasons:

1. Pattern-seeking psychology

Humans are wired to find patterns, especially in chaos. When two bad events happen, the mind expects a third to complete the pattern. 

2. Folkloric storytelling structure

Stories across cultures rely on triads — three trials, three wishes, three warnings.

This narrative rhythm conditions people to expect events in sets of three. 

3. Historical superstition

One theory traces a specific fear — “three on a match” — to wartime, where lighting three cigarettes from one match supposedly gave snipers enough time to aim.   

Even if apocryphal, it reinforced the idea that the third action is the dangerous one.

When three becomes ominous instead of sacred

In many cultures, three is revered, but reverence can flip into taboo when:

A triad is broken (two without the third feels incomplete or unlucky).

Three marks a threshold: the third knock, the third omen, the third death.

Three symbolizes cycles, and cycles can include endings, not just beginnings.

This is why some traditions treat the third repetition of an action as magically charged, either protective or perilous.

Three often marks the moment when something shifts:

The first event is coincidence.

The second is pattern.

The third is fate.

That sense of fate, of crossing from randomness into meaning, is what many cultures fear.

Three is the moment the universe seems to speak.

Author of fiction and children's books

Erika M Szabo

https://www.authorerikamszabo.com

Life Moves in Circles

 Why Spirals Appear in Every Culture

Spirals are one of humanity’s oldest symbols. 

Long before writing, people carved them into stone, painted them on pottery, wove them into clothing, and traced them into the earth. They show up in Hopi, Celtic, Māori, Norse, African, Greek, and Hungarian traditions, cultures separated by oceans, mountains, and centuries.

So why this shape? Why everywhere?

Because the Universe Is Built from Spirals. Ancient people didn’t need telescopes to notice the pattern. Snail shells, fern leaves unfurling, tornadoes, water swirling down a drain, the Milky Way. The spiral is nature’s signature, a quiet reminder that the small and the cosmic mirror each other.

Life Moves in Circles, Not Lines.

Many cultures saw the spiral as the map of a human life: Inward means memory, ancestry, the self. Outward means growth, destiny, transformation. It’s the shape of becoming, always returning, always expanding. Spirals appear in every culture because humans kept noticing the same thing: The universe is always turning, and we are turning with it.

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star-the story behind the rhyme

Where the rhyme actually comes from 

The famous opening lines began not as a nursery rhyme at all, but as a poem titled “The Star” written by English poet Jane Taylor and published in Rhymes for the Nursery in 1806. 

Taylor’s poem originally had five stanzas, though only the first became universally known. It wasn’t written for children specifically, more a gentle, reflective meditation on light, night, and wonder.

The melody is even older

The tune we all know wasn’t created for the poem. It comes from a French melody called “Ah! vous dirai‑je, maman”, first published in 1761. 

This melody became wildly popular across Europe. Mozart later wrote a set of piano variations on it in the early 1780s, which is why many people mistakenly think he composed the tune. In reality, the composer of the original melody is unknown. 

How the poem and melody merged

The earliest known publication pairing Taylor’s poem with the French tune appeared in 1838, decades after the poem was written. 

Once the two were combined, the song spread quickly through English‑speaking households and became a bedtime staple.

Cultural echoes and adaptations

The opening lines have been referenced and parodied for over two centuries. For example:

Lewis Carroll twisted the rhyme in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland through the Mad Hatter.

Other writers and composers have created their own playful or poetic variations. 

Its simplicity and cosmic imagery made it a natural fit for both lullabies and literary reinterpretations.

Why it endures

“Twinkle, Twinkle” survives because it sits at the crossroads of:

Childlike wonder

Celestial imagery

A hauntingly simple melody

A poetic structure that feels timeless

It’s one of those rare pieces where poem and tune fuse so perfectly that it feels like they were always meant to belong together.

Author Erika M Szabo

www.authorerikamszabo.com

Love Is

 Valentine Snowdrop

On the morning of February 14th, the first hint of spring crept into the little town of Briar Hollow. Icicles dripped from slate-gray eaves, and the snow blanketing the Victorian rooftops had thinned to lacy patches. The air carried that peculiar softness, a mingling of melting frost and earthy smell of the soil that whispered of crocuses and the renewing of life.

Mara, the town's librarian with her copper-red hair twisted into a loose bun, locked the heavy oak door of the century-old library. A crimson envelope lay on the welcome mat. No postmark, no name. When she broke the seal, a pressed snowdrop fluttered into her palm.

The note inside, written in a slanted hand she recognized instantly, read: "Meet me where the river bends. ~A friend who remembers."

Mara drew a sharp breath. The river bend, that secluded crescent where the Briar Creek widened and slowed, where a crooked birch tree with bark like peeling parchment had been her teenage sanctuary. It was where she'd shared thermoses of cocoa laced with cinnamon with Rowan Blackwood, before he'd vanished from her life. She hadn't allowed herself to dwell on that boy with the dark eyes and ink-stained fingers in years, or rather, she had, but only in those twilight moments between wakefulness and dreams.

She hesitated by the door for a heartbeat, then began walking with quickened steps, the envelope clutched against her woolen.

When she rounded the final bend in the path, she saw him. A tall figure beneath the same crooked birch, whose branches were now etched with delicate frost. A man with shoulders broader than she remembered, but with the same familiar tilt to his head that had once made her sixteen-year-old heart stutter. In his gloved hands, he held a small bouquet of fresh snowdrops, their stems wrapped in twine.

"Rowan?" The name escaped her lips in a cloud of visible breath.

He nodded, suddenly boyish despite the faint lines around his eyes. "I moved back last month," he said, his voice deeper than in her memories. "I kept trying to find the right moment to see you. Then I remembered this place, how it was always ours somehow."

Mara stepped closer, her boots crunching on the half-frozen ground. The river whispered beside them, dark water sliding beneath a thin crust of melting ice. "You remembered the snowdrops," she said, touching the velvety petals. "You once told me they were the color of hope."

And as they walked back toward town, side by side but not quite touching, the February snow retreated in earnest beneath the strengthening sun, revealing small patches of determined green as if the world itself, after the longest winter, was finally ready to bloom again.

Author Erika M Szabo

"Love is" quotes by author friends:

"Love is...an emotion

A bond, unbreakable

A strength that holds together

Even when you're falling apart

A knot that binds the heart

Sometimes it hurts

But it doesn't dissolve

It's containment

Without a container"

"Love is remembering to love yourself AS WELL as others"

"Love is not an accident or a passing spell—it is a choice, remade each day, in every moment, no matter the form or the relationship that says, 'I am giving part of myself to you because I can’t NOT"

The story behind Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

 Bloody Mary

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells and cockleshells

And pretty maids all in a row.

The darkness is very real, though also wrapped in centuries of folklore and political propaganda.

According to one widely circulated interpretation, the rhyme is a veiled commentary on the violent reign of Queen Mary I of England, better known as Bloody Mary. The rhyme ties each innocent‑sounding garden image to tools of torture or execution used during her persecution of Protestants.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

“Contrary” refers to Mary’s refusal to accept the Protestant reforms established by her father, Henry VIII. When she took the throne, she violently attempted to reverse the English Reformation and restore Catholicism.

How does your garden grow?

The “garden” is interpreted as a graveyard, filled with the bodies of Protestant martyrs executed under her rule. During her five‑year reign, hundreds were burned at the stake.

With silver bells and cockleshells

Silver bells are believed to refer to thumbscrews, a torture device used to crush fingers.

Cockleshells are thought to be genital torture clamps used on male prisoners.

These interpretations come from sources that frame the rhyme as a catalogue of torture instruments associated with Mary’s regime.

And pretty maids all in a row

Two major theories circulate:

Execution victims lined up for hanging or burning.

Or, more symbolically, the “maids” may refer to the Maiden, an early form of guillotine used in Scotland and sometimes associated with English executions.

Are these interpretations historically proven?

Not definitively.

Nursery rhymes often accumulate folklore explanations long after their creation, and scholars debate how literal these connections are. But the association with Bloody Mary is one of the most persistent and widely repeated.

What’s undeniable is that the rhyme’s imagery—bells, shells, maids—maps neatly onto the tools and consequences of Mary’s brutal campaign against Protestants. Whether intentional or retrofitted, the symbolism resonates.

Click below to find me:

What is the Worth of Her Painting?

 Is it really worthless?

Listen to a chapter

EBOOK & AUDIOBOOK

Cozy small-town mystery

When Danielle finally quits her boring accountant job and opens an Antiques & Stuff store, her life changes for the better. But soon, her happy life starts to spin out of control when the snobbish new owner of the Couture mansion brings a seemingly worthless painting into her shop. The ownership of the painting is questionable, and the town’s future is threatened by the plans of the ruthless, rich owner who wants to build a leather factory on the estate, too close to town.

An unexpected visitor arrives, and he may possess the much-needed solution to everyone’s problems in this quaint little town.

An art expert's lie

To arrogant socialite

Help worthless painting

Make past wrongs right

When actual value

Is brought to light

~Cindy J. Smith

Will She Listen?

 Supernatural suspense

EBOOK & AUDIOBOOK

Lauren has everything she’d ever wished for. Great career, financial security, loving husband, and devoted friends.

When her Raven spirit guide warns her of impending danger, she takes the message seriously, but she doesn’t have enough time to perform the protection spell her grandmother taught her. Someone breaks into her office, and after the brutal attack and the Raven’s repeated warnings, she knows her life is still in danger.

Who wants her dead and why?

“This book contains no AI-generated writing, crafted entirely by a human author.”

Listen to the audiobook sample

EBOOK & AUDIOBOOK

Madame Chloe's Stiletto Heels

Enjoy my story published in the What If #3 Anthology 

The Anthology Series

The sound of Madame Chloe’s red stiletto heels in the hallways would quiet the students and teachers. When she walked by, an icy chill filled the air.

Sara, a sixteen-year-old brunette with an athletic physique, was a new student at Hillcrest Boarding School. She was unhappy to leave her friends behind, but her father insisted on moving her to a more prestigious school. “The last two years are most critical before continuing your education,” he said. “And Hillcrest is the finest. Nearly all of their students get into reputable universities.”

Her parents were impressed by Madame Chloe, the school principal, especially her mother who embraced her role as a socialite in high society circles. At their meeting, Madame Chloe dressed impeccably in expensive and fashionable name-brand outfits, and the way she presented herself and the school's achievements instantly won them over.

At first, Sara found the principal charming as well. However, as the conversation progressed, the way Madame Chloe’s eyes darted to her and scanned her entire body, made her uncomfortable. Despite the flashing of those dark brown eyes only lasting for a split second, Sara sensed something sinister behind the pleasant exterior of the woman’s lovely smile, pristine clothes, manicured nails, and flawless hairstyle.

Sara always listened to her gut feelings and begged her parents not to make her change schools, but her parents, visibly mesmerized by the principal’s performance, made their final decision despite Sara's weak objections. “You know nothing about life! Gut feelings are not reliable,” her mother shouted. “The school’s reputation is impeccable. You’re going to be a student there, and that's final.”

Sara gave in and hesitantly accepted her parents' decision and moved into her new school's dorm at Hillcrest. Knowing that every school has its social hierarchy, she thought she would need some time to fit in and catch up. However, it soon became apparent that this school was different from others.

There was no hierarchy among teachers or students. There were subordinates and only one top dog: the principal and history professor, Madame Chloe. Her authority and dominance were obvious as she walked in her signature bright red stiletto-heel shoes, her cold eyes darting from student to student. The sound of those heels in the hallways would quiet the students and even the fellow teachers. When she walked past, a chill filled the air. Her presence commanded fear and obedience from everyone around her. Sara couldn't help but wonder what it must be like to have that kind of authority and influence over so many people.

Madame Chloe ruled with an iron fist and Sara soon heard rumors that her physical fist brutally broke several bones over the years. Students had no one to report the physical abuse to, and unfortunately, by the time they were allowed to see their parents, their injuries had healed. Because of the school's reputation and the highly respected principal's words against the students, people dismissed the complaints as childish rumors. The injured students had no proof.

Although Sara had a hard time keeping her rebellious nature under control, she kept quiet while keeping her eyes and ears open. Until… about two weeks into the school year, she stood by her locker across from Madame Chloe's office when she saw her classmate, a petite blonde girl staggering out of the room. Vera sobbed pressing her hand to her side, visibly in pain.

Sara followed her into the bathroom, where two girls stood by the sink and hugged the crying girl.

“You’ll be alright,” Kate, a dark-skinned statuesque girl whispered, wiping Vera’s tears.

“I can’t take it anymore!” Vera cried. “This was the third time this week and she didn’t even tell me why I deserved such a harsh punishment. My leg is still bruised where she kicked me two days ago.” She rolled down her knee-high socks. She gasped and stood up, her face contorting in pain. She held her side. “I think she broke my ribs this time,” she sobbed.

Mary, a plump redhead, huffed. “She’s a cruel sadist! She yanked my hair so hard yesterday that she pulled out a strand and my scalp bled all afternoon. All because when the monster said, ‘eyes on your books’ I looked at Vera.”

“Why doesn't anyone do something about this?” Sara asked, closely watching the group's reaction.

“What can we do? We can’t prove anything,” Kate shrugged despairingly, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Nobody believes us, not even our parents.”

“What about the teachers?” Sara questioned.

Mary shook her curly hair. “They know what’s happening but are too scared to say anything. The only teacher who was brave enough to gather evidence against this monster disappeared before you got here.”

“What do you mean by disappeared? Did she leave school?” Sara asked. The three girls seemed to sense Sarah’s authoritative yet compassionate nature and opened up.

“Oh, no,” Kate shivered and said, “Miss Clara was in my room that night, taking pictures of my bruised ribs and listened to the tape I recorded on the small device she gave me. I hid the recorder in my underwear and turned it on when I was ordered to Madame Chloe’s room. She beat me so badly that day... the more I screamed and begged her to stop, the more she hit me. Just remembering her face, how much she enjoyed watching me wiggle in pain, and the obscenities coming out of her painted mouth, makes me nauseous.”

“We never saw Miss Clara again and those who dared to ask either were ignored by the teachers or got a severe beating from that red shoe monster,” Mary added. “I swear I’m never going to wear red shoes as long as I live.”

“Does she treat every student like this?” Sara asked.

“Oh, no!” Vera sighed. “She picks her targets very carefully, and the three of us are the ones who take the brunt of her punishment.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We all come from poor, broken families, and the only way we could be students here is because we’re exceptionally smart. We were picked in our old schools by “Good Samaritan” rich sponsors who paid our tuition that we would pay back with loyalty and dedicated work later,” Kate whispered with tears in her eyes, but Sara sensed sarcasm behind her words. “My mother is so blinded by the opportunity she never had that no matter what I tell her about the abuse, she finds excuses and shuts me up. ‘Just keep quiet. It’s for your future’ she always says.”

“That’s terrible!” Sara cried out. “She should listen to you and protect you.”

“Easy for you to say!” Vera snapped. “My mother is just a lowly cleaning woman and not a duchess like yours. Nobody would believe her if she complained to the authorities. And if she took me home, without my sponsor’s money, I wouldn't have the opportunity to get a high-quality education. That monster knows exactly who to pick to live out her sick fantasies on. She never picks kids from influential, rich families.”  

“I’m so sorry! We can’t let her get away with this. We must stop that pervert!” Sarah scanned the girls' faces.

“And why would you help us?” Mary asked with doubt in her voice.

“Nobody should be treated like this!” Sara angrily replied. “You’re all smarter and more talented than me. You shouldn’t have to suffer for the education my parents’ money can easily pay for.”

The group stared at Sara with hope in their eyes when the bell rang. “Okay, let’s get back to class and play the role of the most diligent and most obedient student. Tell me everything you know when we have a chance to talk again in private, and we’ll come up with a plan to stop her. When we have enough evidence, I’ll talk to my Godfather. His law firm is the biggest and most influential in the country.”

The trio listened to Sara with hopeful smiles. Kate said, “The best place to talk privately is the library because nobody spends time there lately unless they really have to. It stinks there and nobody knows why,” Kate said, wrinkling her nose.

Everyone agreed and the next day during the long recess they met in the library. They chose a secluded corner where nobody could overhear them. “It stinks here,” Mary grimaced. “No wonder we’re the only ones here.”

 The four girls sat close to each other. “I don’t care about the smell,” Sara whispered. “At least we can talk without anybody disturbing us. What do you know about Miss Clara’s disappearance? Did anyone see her after she left Kate’s room?” She asked.

Vera whispered back, “A girl in my French class told me that she saw Madame Chloe and Miss Clara walking down the hall late at night when she was coming back from the bathroom. She wondered what they were doing in the dorm building so late. She considered following them but was too scared to be seen by the principal, so she closed the door.”

“Did anyone see Miss Clara after that?” Sara asked.

“We asked the teachers and a lot of students, but nobody saw her after that night,” Kate replied anxiously wringing her fingers.  

“So, they walked together, and nobody ever saw Miss Clara again,” Sara speculated. “I assume the monster didn’t offer any explanation, or did she?”

“Of course not!” Mary huffed. “And nobody dared to ask her.”

“Shh!” Sara hushed the others and looked at the librarian and a short, balding man in a janitor uniform. He was walking toward the window at the far side of the large room with disgusted looks on their faces.

“Phew!” Mr. Smith exclaimed. “You were right, Miss Rose. It still stinks here.”

“You must do something about it! It smells like a dead rat or rather an army of dead rats,” the tall, bony woman whose face resembled a horse exclaimed.

“Miss, I have searched the library many times over the past two weeks and have not found any dead animals.” What else can I do?”

“Search again!” the woman ordered.

The janitor threw his arms up in desperation, turned, and walked away from the librarian.

Sara watched him as he walked toward the door, sneaking a side glance at the girls sitting in the corner. “My intuition tells me he knows something,” Sara whispered. “We have to talk to that man.” She stood up and hurried toward the door trailed by the three girls.

They caught up with the janitor in the hallway leading to the classrooms. “Mr. Smith,” Sara called out to the man walking in deep thought.

“Yes, Miss,” he turned toward Sara and scanned the group walking behind her.

“Can we talk to you?” Sara asked.

The janitor seemed surprised. “Yes, Miss.” But his eyes anxiously locked on the principal's door. “But not here,” he muttered. “If Madame Chloe saw me talking to students, I’d be in big trouble. You can find me in the maintenance room in the basement after dinner.” He said and hurried away.

They spent the rest of the day trying not to draw the principal’s attention to themselves. After dinner when the hallways were empty, they tiptoed toward the basement door. “What if the monster caught us?” Sara asked.

“Oh, everybody knows that after dinner she locks herself in her room and watches sadist porn movies. She never comes out of her room before ten to shut off the lights.” Mary said in disgust.

“How do you know?”

“Miss Clara told us. That was the only time she dared to come to our rooms to gather proof against the monster.”

They opened the basement door and crept down the steps. The warm musty air tickled their noses with the heavy smell of chemicals. The janitor waited for them and ushered them into the maintenance room. Sara decided to tell him everything they knew. She assured him that if he knew anything about the abuse and disappearance of Miss Clara, even the smallest detail. “My uncle is the Chief of Police,” Sara assured the janitor. “If we could provide him with solid proof and information, I’m sure he would close the school and start an investigation. And my godfather's law firm would surely protect you.”

“I believe you, Miss. Your family’s ties are stronger and higher than Madame Chloe’s, so when it comes to that, I know they would protect me,” Mr. Smith nodded. “I know things, but I’ve been afraid to tell anyone. People who dare to say anything and Madame Chloe finds out who the whistleblower is, they vanish.”

“If you feel uncomfortable, you don’t even need to tell us what you know. Just tell me you have solid proof and I’ll set up a meeting with my uncle.”

The janitor sighed and with a determined look on his face started talking. “I know the way she’s treated some of the students. She’s a sick woman. Miss Clara told me and gave me some pictures to keep them safe. But we didn’t know who to trust. Two years ago, another teacher gathered enough proof and reported it to a lieutenant at the station. She disappeared the next day and the evidence vanished with her.”

The three girls looked at each other. “Miss Antoinette,” Mary whispered. “She was my favorite teacher.”

Mr. Smith nodded. “Nobody knew what had happened to her, but a week after Miss Clara’s sudden disappearance, the awful smell in the library made me remember something. Back then the smell of decay lingered for months, and we never found out where it came from. But yesterday, after I talked to the librarian, I got the school building blueprint from the secretary. I noticed that there is a room right under the library in the basement that I’d never seen. I measured the distance from the boiler room and there was nothing there but a brick wall at the end of the hallway where the blueprint indicates a small room. But when I carefully looked at every inch of the wall, I found a keyhole and some brick dust underneath it on the floor.”

“That must be a hidden door!” Sara shouted.

“That’s what I think, and the smell is strongest there.”

“Do you… do you think Miss Clara is there… dead?” Kate cried out.

“After thinking things over, I’m afraid so, Miss.”

Sara shivered. “We must find the key and look inside. But where could it be?”

“I’m almost certain Madame Chloe has the key,” the janitor said. “The night Miss Clara disappeared I was working late. When I finished around 2 am and stepped out into the hallway, I saw Madame Chloe walking up the steps barefoot. I wondered what she was doing in the basement in the middle of the night and why she wasn’t wearing those awful red shoes.”

“That’s it! We have to find that key in the principal’s office,” Sara decided.

“But how? She always locks the door when she’s not in the office,” Mary objected.

Mr. Smith raised his hand to quiet the girls. “No need for that!” he said calmly. “I just made a wax impression of the keyhole and tonight I’ll make a copy of the key from the impression. Meet me here tomorrow night and I’ll tell you what I found in that room. Now go back to your rooms but be careful.”

Sleep avoided the girls all night and the next day dragged on. Finally, after dinner when the halls quieted down and the students retreated into their rooms to study, the four friends tiptoed to the basement door and hurried down the stairs. Mr. Smith awaited them sitting on the bench with a dire expression on his face and his shoulders slumped.

“What did you find?” Sara asked.

“I… I found both of them,” he cried out. “Poor Miss Antoinette and poor Miss Clara!” He sobbed.

“Are they both…” Kate didn’t finish.

“Yes, Miss. Both are dead.”

***

The following morning, Sara sought permission to call her father. Switching to French—a language unbeknownst to the eavesdropping secretary who monitored all student calls—she recounted every harrowing detail, from their eerie findings to the grim discovery of lifeless bodies hidden in the basement. Her voice trembled as she spoke, yet she conveyed each word with precision.

“Hold on and don’t say anything to anyone,” her father instructed after absorbing the gravity of her revelations. “I'll handle everything. We'll arrive with your uncle and a team of detectives as swiftly as possible.”

During the bustling lunch hour, the previously tranquil corridors of Hillcrest School were now a hive of activity, teeming with policemen and detectives. They converged upon the building like ants for a picnic, driven by their urgent purpose. The atmosphere was charged with tension, palpable in every corner as students and teachers clustered together in the dining room, exchanging hushed whispers filled with anxiety and speculation.

Without warning, the dining room door slammed shut, and the sharp clatter of locks clicking reverberated through the room, sending a shiver down everyone’s spine. The atmosphere grew tense as they were summoned one by one into a cramped side room for intense interrogation. As the hours dragged on, a heavy mountain of evidence and damning testimonies piled up against Madame Chloe. She stood accused of heinous crimes – the brutal abuse of children and the cold-blooded murder of two innocent souls.

The once intimidating figure of Madame Chloe was now a mere shell, being led away in handcuffs by the authorities. News of her downfall spread like wildfire through Hillcrest School, bringing with it a sense of relief. The oppressive atmosphere that once hung over the school, fueled by fear and uncertainty at the sound of red stiletto heels clicking down the halls, was now lifted. Justice had been served and peace could finally be restored.

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