Chapter One – Tom Woolberson

Dead from the Beginning

Tom Woolberson was only fifteen years old when his life ended. It was through no fault of his own, or the fault of anyone for that matter. It was simply something that happened, and he had been powerless to control it. Of all the ways he could have gone, lying on his bed playing the computer was not the way he would have chosen for himself. It was rather embarrassing really when he found the time to think about it. He had been mindlessly minding his own business when suddenly everything went blindingly white, then silent, and then black – like somebody had hit pause on his life and tinkered off to the bathroom.

It was only when the lights came back on again that he realised something quite momentous must have happened, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. The first thing he noticed was not that his game had ended or that he’d been pulverised into compote. In fact, the first thing he noticed was that his feet were now wet. What a strange thing to notice! He looked down at them and saw he was standing, ankle deep, in horrible wet marshland. To say this came as a surprise was nothing compared to what he would realise next. When he finally finished grimacing at his feet, he looked up again and saw what could only be described as the most mundanely alien surroundings imaginable.

To describe something as mundanely alien is rather paradoxical; but that is the only way he could think to describe it. You see, it wasn’t the endless marshes that worried him, but rather the sheer flatness of the land that gave him cause for concern. There was not a single thing in sight except for sodden mush and bloated rain clouds. Like some dystopian perversion of a familiar Yorkshire countryside. The land was completely flat to the extent that it looked like it’d been drawn with the aid of a spirit level by some highly astute land surveyor to ensure its perfect flatness. There were no hills or slight inclines or dips or hollows or even a frickin’ tree to break the absolute uniform plainness of this strange new place he found himself in.

It wasn’t until thirty seconds later that he realised, while he’d remained still, he’d been slowly sinking into the marsh and was now almost knee-deep in the thing. With some effort, he managed to shake himself free.

He walked for what felt like days (but was perhaps only an hour) until finally he came across what appeared to be some sort of building. As the dark and ominous clouds around him slowly started to disperse, they revealed a perfect screen of blue. That’s when he saw it: a blurred oblong shape in the distance. Finally, a building among all this wanton flatness! It shimmered and swayed hypnotically against the glassy backdrop behind it. Tom squinted, forcing his eyes into focus, and could make out what appeared to be some sort of exceedingly tall edifice set against the endlessly clear expanse. As it slowly came into focus, he saw it looming above him. The colossal black tower.

***

It stood alone on the horizon, extending endlessly into the sky. It was thin and most definitely black (or at least a very dark grey in colour). It appeared to be made of stone, which brought Tom a dash of comfort thinking soon he would find his feet somewhere solid and dry again. Getting closer, the morsel of comfort vanished as he saw that this building was anything but welcoming.

It materialised like a menacing castle in front of him. The exterior was harsh and beaten, as if it had endured centuries of extremely bad weather (and, if today’s conditions were anything to go by, he was quite sure it had done). The stones of the façade were huge, surprisingly so, which made Tom wonder who or what had built this foreboding fortification standing now a mere five hundred feet in distance.

As he approached, he could make out a large doorway at the entrance – “enormous”, in fact, was a more fitting word for this particular door. It was a monstrous wooden gate, arched at its peak with heavy-looking brass hinges strapped across the centre. There were large steps leading up to the entrance and Tom approached them with increasing apprehension as he stepped into the immense shadow cast by the tower.

He ascended the steps slowly, cherishing the brief moment of ecstasy that came with finding his feet on solid ground again. Unfortunately for Tom, any relief he felt was quickly replaced by blinding terror and an immediate urge to flee. This was because the door, now only ten feet in front of him, had begun to creak open, and standing there before him was the most utterly terrifying figure imaginable.

At least eight feet tall, covered completely by a black hooded robe that revealed no signs of what might be hidden underneath, the figure gazed down at him and Tom felt himself fall backwards, landing hard on the cold floor.

‘Enter,’ spoke a grim voice from above him.

The word crawled over him like a million scuttling insects poured from this shadowy spectre’s featureless visage. Tom’s first instinct was to get up and run, but he found himself entirely unable to move – he was frozen in fear like a plank of petrified wood. Before he could muster a syllable in reply, the enormous door swung fully open and the giant spectre disappeared into the shadows, leaving Tom sprawled chaotically on the floor.

His lower back was beginning to throb as he unceremoniously pulled himself to his feet. He stared through the open doorway. Then, taking a deep breath, he followed ‘It’ into the tower, momentarily impressed by his own reckless daring.

The air inside smelt dank and dusty; like it had hung there for millennia and had begun to mothball and fester. There was a staircase in front of him that spiralled up through the centre of the floors above, twisting like a malevolent snake through the building. Two wooden spheres were perched atop the posts at the base of the stairs, staring at Tom like the patient eyes of a predator, daring him to ascend.

The flagstone floor was cold and hard, as were the walls and the ceilings, made with the same weather-beaten stones that lined the exterior. He was surprised, but relieved, to find that the enormous, hooded figure had now vanished completely. Choosing not to start a search party, he turned instead to the stairs. There were no other doorways or passages around him except for this staircase – so it must have gone up? (Or so he’d thought at the time).

Tom made his way towards the stairs and, with only a moment’s hesitation, began to climb. He rounded the first corner and could see the beginnings of the floor above. Hesitantly (but with increasing curiosity), he took the last few steps and came out onto the first floor. Strangely enough, his trepidation seemed to thaw considerably at what he saw there.

In front of him, towards the back of the landing and propped against the cold stone wall, was a tiny wooden booth with a very small, very flustered-looking man perched on a chair behind the smallest desk Tom had ever seen. The man (who reminded him immediately of Elmer Fudd, the cantankerous yet endearing adversary of Bugs Bunny) hadn’t seemed to notice his arrival. He appeared to be too busy to have any concern whatsoever for the goings-on in his surroundings. Instead, he was deep in concentration, muttering a low string of profanities under his breath, one hand frantically rummaging through mountains of paperwork while the other scribbled furiously at the desk. The scene would have been comical under any other circumstances, but, at this particular juncture, Tom felt humour had abandoned him entirely.

Letting the relief at the sight of another person wash over him, he rushed to the booth and began to explain himself.

‘Name?’ barked the man.

Tom jumped. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Your name. I need your name,’ the man repeated.

‘Oh… it’s… uh… Tom Woolberson.’

‘Born day?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Born day! Your born day, please!’ barked the man again, without looking up at him.

‘Oh, er… I was born on the… twenty-third of… March… er… two thousand and… four.’

‘Cause of death?’ asked the man.

‘What?’ Tom coughed loudly as he choked on the mouthful of air he’d been in the process of inhaling.

‘I need your cause of death. Now come on, I don’t have all day!’

‘But… I’m not d-d-dead?’ Tom stuttered. He had of course been entertaining this thought ever since first finding his feet in the marshes outside, but having it spoken aloud was something different entirely. Unfortunately, the blatant incredulity in Tom’s voice seemed only to irritate the man further.

‘I don’t suffer time wasters, son. Please answer the question!’

‘I’m not dead. I… I can’t be… ’ he said frantically, feeling his mind start to reel wildly out of control.

‘Cause of death?’ barked the tiny old man again, looking tremendously agitated now.

‘I… I don’t know,’ Tom managed, deflated.

‘I’ll just put “to be determined” then. Please make your way to the seated area to your right to await enrrrrolment.’ He trilled the “r” while he fixed Tom with a murderous glare.

Tom walked away from the tiny booth feeling like he’d just been hit over the head with a tiny, but very real, cricket bat. He saw to his right a narrow hallway lined with wooden chairs. Seated in those chairs, to his surprise, were dozens of kids who (like him) looked misplaced and anxious. They seemed to range in age and nationality, like they’d been pulled at random from a giant tombola drum containing the world’s entire population of minors. There were some older kids who were clearly in their late teens (brooding types with no interest in conversing with those they saw as younger and inferior); there were some girls further along the corridor whispering frantically, noses centimetres apart, who must’ve been no older than eleven or twelve; an Indian boy was solemnly assessing his own folded hands; a few tall Scandinavian-looking kids had placed some distance between themselves and the chattering girls; and a small Chinese boy (who looked particularly nervous) was sitting in one of the seats closest to him. Tom walked up to the first free chair he could find and collapsed into it.

He tried to remember the last memory he had before waking up in this place. It had been just a normal day. Normal Tom Woolberson. There was nothing particularly remarkable about him. He was of medium height and build, brown hair swept up out of his face, small nose, blue eyes, broad shoulders like his dad, long legs like his mum. He supposed he would’ve been classed as reasonably attractive, mostly because of his excellent hairstyle, though attractive in a way that appealed to mums and aunties, rather than to any girl he’d shown interest in.

As far as he could remember, he’d woken up, like he always did, in his house where he’d lived with his parents since he was born. He’d spent the day in his room playing on the Xbox. Dad was at work as always (big law firm in town), and Mum was out with Aunt Sue (shopping or something equally uninteresting). He’d spent the day alone – which had been his only option as his friends had all abandoned him. So, how had he ended up here? As he’d already established, he had no memory of leaving the house that day – surely he’d remember something as significant as his own death? But there was nothing… nothing he could remember happening that might’ve led to this exceedingly bleak situation.

Just then, a door opened down the hall and a girl with bright red hair, who must have been around his age, burst out and started making her way down the corridor towards him. She seemed a little ditsy and stumbled rather than walked.

‘Sorry!’ she yelped as she stepped on the toes of the boy beside Tom and he winced in pain. ‘We’re not really supposed to use these restrooms, but I couldn’t find any free ones upstairs.’

Tom looked around, wondering if she was talking to him now that the other boy was folded over in pain. She had pale blue eyes and her red hair fell in soft curls to her shoulder. She was pretty, he noticed, but in a peculiar kind of way that wasn’t immediately obvious. She was wearing such an odd selection of clothes that all attention was drawn away from her pretty face.

She wore a knitted blue jumper which surely must’ve belonged to an older sibling or parent as it was at least three sizes too big for her and was pockmarked with holes. Her bright red corduroy skirt clashed horribly with her hair. Her knitted polka dot tights looked as itchy as they were inexplicable. And she wore a pair of large black Doc-Marten-style boots.

She sat down in the seat next to Tom and turned to him with an exaggerated look of sympathy. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve all been there.’

‘Sorry?’

‘We’ve all been there,’ she repeated.

‘Been where?’

‘Been where you are now. of course! Sitting here looking like you. Like your whole world just crashed down around you. Let me guess: you woke up and all you could see were marshes and dark scary-looking clouds, right?’

‘Er, yes, actually,’ Tom replied.

‘Well you’re here now and there’s no going back, I’m afraid,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘It’s not so bad believe me. My name’s Mary,’ she offered cordially, ‘Mary Elizabeth Habersmith.’

‘Oh, err…I’m Tom,’ he said. ‘Tom Woolberson.’

‘Wool-berson? Like a sheep’s wool? That’s a very unusual name,’ she mused.

‘Err…yeah, I guess,’ muttered Tom, looking rather taken aback and resisting the urge to mention that her name wasn’t exactly run-of-the-mill either.

‘Well, Tom Woolberson, I’m pleased to meet you,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘What is it that brings you here then exactly if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘You mean how did I die?’ Tom said, surprising himself as he shook the girl’s hand.

‘Yes, that’s precisely what I mean,’ she beamed.

‘Well…I don’t know exactly,’ Tom managed. ‘I was just in my room…then, I must have fallen asleep…then I just sort of…woke up here.’

‘How mysterious!’ she said conspiratorially. ‘Maybe you were murdered in your sleep?’

Tom gaped at her, dumfounded.

‘I’ll show you the ropes if you like?’ she continued, seeing his reaction and swiftly changing the subject.

‘Yeah ok,’ Tom replied, looking at his feet again.

‘What is this place anyway?’ He wasn’t sure why but talking to this strange girl with the odd tights and the curly red hair was starting to make him feel slightly better (despite the surprise news that had just been unceremoniously dumped on him by the tiny man in the wooden hut).

‘Think of it as a school for dead kids,’ she said, glancing at Tom with a wry smile.

‘You’re dead t-t-too…I mean you died too, then?’ stuttered Tom haphazardly.

‘Well yeah, duuuuuh,’ she said. ‘We’re all goners in here. Not one single living soul around. Where did you think you were anyway?’ she chuckled.

‘Good point,’ said Tom. And now that he thought about it, it did kind of make sense. Except for the dying part, of course, which he still couldn’t get his head around.

‘So, you met the headmaster then?’ she asked.

‘The who?’

‘The headmaster…You know, upsettingly tall with the black robe on an’ all.’

‘Is that who “It” was?’ Tom croaked.

‘Yeah that’s the headmaster – he welcomes all the new students. Azrael is his name…Doesn’t speak much. He used to be “Death” you know, but he retired and now he’s taken the role of Headmaster as a sort of ceremonial position, I guess. He doesn’t do any of his old duties anymore, that’s for sure. Apparently, he was the longest serving Angel of Death there’s ever been! He even escorted Jesus to the afterlife if you can believe that! That’s what I read anyway…I’ve never actually spoken to him. He gives me the creeps to be perfectly honest with you.’

Just then another door opened down the hall and a shrill voice reverberated off the stone walls around them.

‘TOM WOOLBERSON!’

‘You better go,’ Mary said, looking back down the hallway. ‘Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting, if you know what’s good for you. It was nice to meet you Tom…I’ll look out for you after orientation.’ And with that she skipped off in the other direction towards the stairs.

Tom watched her round the corner and disappear.

He noticed a few of the other boys staring at her curiously as she left. Pulling himself together as best as he could, he headed off down the hallway towards the shrill voice that had emitted from one of the rooms there. When he arrived at an open door, thirty or so metres down the corridor, he leaned around slowly and peered across the threshold, unsure of whether to knock or announce himself – as it turned out, neither was necessary.

Tom Woolberson and the School for Watchers (Tom Woolberson, #1)

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Category: Sale, Fiction, Fantasy, Young Adult