We Don't Talk to Edith Thompson Part 1

Hello everyone, and welcome to Spooky Season Eve! Just kidding, but Halloween is, in fact, only 11 days away.

It was for this reason that I wrote this short story last year. The story was one of my first since joining Inkitt, but I have uploaded it in various places for readers' enjoyment.

I present to you:

We Don't Talk to Edith Thompson, a mysterious, thrilling tale about a mother and daughter moving to a new town.

Enjoy and stay spooky!

Rain Dayze

Ch 1: One Rule

September 2nd, 2025, 7:45 AM

"Honey," a voice echoed, gently stirring me from my warm slumber.

My eyes are still heavy. Five more minutes should be okay. A soft hand taps on my cheek as the voice repeats, "Honey!"

Fine, fine, I mumbled to myself, forcing my eyes open. As my vision adjusted, I remembered where I was, in my mom's car outside of Danvers High School in the brisk fall air, for my first day as a junior. At my second new high school of the year.

Perks of being a divorce child, I guess.

Mom ruffled my wavy blonde hair, undoing some of the work I put into it.

"Stop!" I groaned, pulling away from her as I unlatched my seatbelt. "I want to look nice. You only get one first impression."

I opened the overhead vanity mirror, turned on the light, and checked my appearance. My makeup was natural with a soft cream foundation; shimmering peach lip gloss, matching eyeshadow, and a light brown mascara.

As for my hair? Messy, but in a cool, stylish 'I just went dancing' vibe. Perfect.

Meanwhile, my mom adjusted her tight blonde bun, modern silver-trimmed glasses, and age-defying foundation in her mirror. "How do I look, Suzy? Be honest."

She's been very insecure about her looks since the divorce went through, no thanks to you, Dad, so I tried to boost her confidence when I could. For a few seconds, I look her up and down, taking in the beige button blouse, black slacks, and matching blazer. She went all out to look like a professional.

With a tired smile, I answered, "You look... like a badass boss lady. Danvers Industrial Packaging won't know what hit it!"

She blushed. "Oh, thank you!" She waved her hand in a ‘go on’ motion. "You know, the recruiter said I was the youngest Line Manager they've ever hired. How crazy is that?"

I leaned into the back seat and grabbed my beige boho-style backpack. "Insane."

The door unlocked suddenly as Mom, lovingly, pushed me out of the car. "Oh, shoot, you're five minutes late for the principal! Go, go!"

Struggling to stay on my feet, I waved as she drove away. A notification on my phone informed me that I am, in fact, late. Filled with panic, I darted towards the entrance, pushing the doors open with force. Once inside, a balding, chubby Caucasian security guard blocked the hallway.

Grumpily, he barked, "Identify yourself."

Crap, Mom and I have been too busy unpacking to get my new student ID made! Maybe he'll give me a break?

Feeling nervous, I confessed my transgression. "Um, I-I don't have one."

His eyebrows furrowed; a stern frown formed on his face. Yeah, I was in trouble.

He extracted a dark grey portable two-way radio and pushed a red button. Then he spoke into it. "Principal Scott, we've got an unknown teenage female at the entrance. Permission to engage?"

'Engage'? What the hell was he talking about?

A male voice responded, "I'm on my way. Could be a straggler."

The guard nodded. "Understood, sir." He clipped the radio to his pants before demanding, "Jacket off, backpack on the ground, now!"

Not wanting to upset him further, I threw my warm, burgundy cardigan at him and dropped my backpack at his feet. I shivered a bit standing in my short-sleeved beige crop top, exposing my navel slightly. 

Carefully, the guard dug through the pockets of the cardigan, then dumped the contents out of my backpack, which included several tampons, and finally, patted me down. Very uncomfortable, I cringed as he rubbed the seat of my grey jeans up and down.

At this exact moment, a middle-aged man in a matching brown blazer, loafers, and slacks combination showed up.

"Claude!" he shouted, mouth agape in shock. The guard jerked away from me, looking ashamed.

"What are you doing?!" he questioned, rushing to my side."Ms. Thorn, are you okay?"

Uh, who's this guy? Why does he know my name?

"Um, yeah, sure," I mumbled, very confused. "I haven't met you before, right?"

He handed me my belongings and shooed 'Claude' away. "No, but your mother sent me an email about your arrival yesterday." He presented his hand. "I'm Principal Nelson Scott." I shook it firmly. "Pleasure to meet you, Suzanne."

Principal Scott ended the handshake with a loud clap. "Introductions over. Let's get you sorted at my office so you can get to class on time. Sound good?"

I nodded, sticking my tongue out at Claude. Hoping he won't give me so much trouble next time.

With a fresh temporary student ID and my schedule, I searched for room #800 for History class with Mrs. Smith. The school was like any other: white, waxed parquet floors, metal lockers, bookshelves, pictures of sports events/festivals lining the walls, a cabinet full of royal blue ribbons and jerseys. The paint was an off-white/almost yellow color throughout. Unlike my previous school, the layout is a large square with a tail-like short hallway that doesn't seem to go anywhere, and half the rooms weren't numbered. 

How were people supposed to find anything? 

Frustrated, I kicked a nearby wooden bookshelf, sending several books flying across the floor.

"Dammit!" I huffed, squatting down to pick them up. A hand reaches down and helped me.

Sighing with relief, I said, "Thank you."

No response.

I looked up and saw a girl. She was about my age, with a thin figure, long black hair parted down the middle, dressed in all-black, oversized clothes, and well-worn sneakers. Her skin was pale, bare of any makeup, had thin lips, a button nose, and sunken pits of onyx for eyes. She looked like a typical Goth kid from my old school.

I stood up and, alongside the girl, put the books back. "I really didn't mean to make a mess. I got upset looking for room #800."

Her head tilted to the side as she rasped in a quiet voice, "800? I can show you the way." She slowly walked back the way I came. "Follow me."

So, evidently, that random tail that goes nowhere? It was the library. Which, according to my new friend, was the temporary classroom for History until the decorators finish painting and re-marking the door numbers.

That should've been explained by dear Principal Scott. Whatever, all's well that ends, I suppose.

Pushing the door open, I turned to thank the girl, but she was gone. Strange, I would've noticed her slip by since she was around my height.

A loud clock ringing tells me it was 8:30. Time for class to begin.

"At least you're on time." An older woman muttered behind me. She was tall, thin, with a pointed nose almost like a beak. She wore her hair in a large black bun, and dressed like a Sunday school teacher from the 1930s.

"I'm Mrs. Joanna Smith. Please excuse me." She said politely, walking through the door.

The library appeared older than the rest of the school. Although modern conveniences like Wi-fi and computers were available, it had a rustic 18th-century feel. Bare concrete floors, wooden panels on the walls and ceiling, all oak chairs, tables, bookshelves, and an information desk used for check-out. No posters, artwork, toys, or anything casual or colorful. It was a barren, strict environment meant for research and learning. Nothing else.

Jeez, first the obnoxious security guard, and now this? What kind of prison was this place?

Most students were in seats, some were standing, as for myself? I stood there stupified. I'm new here, therefore not privy to the inner circles or cliques established, so where did that leave me? I guess I could sit near the door by the put-back cart, or lean against a shelf or-

"Hey!" A squeaky female voice called to me. "Hey, over here!" The voice came from what seems to be the "popular" table. Two handsome men, one light-skinned African American and the other Caucasian, with chiseled jawlines and crew cut hair wearing blue jeans and royal blue lettermen jackets with a falcon insignia on the front sat next to three gorgeous women, two Caucasian who looked identical, with strawberry blonde hair wearing black tights and form fitting powder pink sweaters, and the other a dark-skinned African American in a tight leopard print dress and black tights.

One of the "twins" was waving me over.

"Come on, we don't bite!" She giggled. 

This interaction was already giving me a headache. Oh well, what was the worst that could happen? I think to myself, walking over to their area.

Twin #1 pulled out a chair between her and one of the guys. Upon sitting down, she chirped, "Girl, you have great style. And your makeup? On fleek!" A round of chatter and murmurs of agreement fluttered around the table. "I think you would, totally, fit in with us. What do you think, Sis?" She glanced at her twin.

"OMG, yes! I totes agree! Do you, baby?" She patted the African American guy's shoulder. He nodded in agreement.

Feeling uncertain, I asked, "Are you sure? I'm new, and I don't want to interfere with your..." I gestured to everyone. "I sat alone a lot, so I understand."

Twin #1 shook her head, pity in her eyes. "Trust me, you won't be here." She offered her hand. "I'm Sabrina Endecot, my obvies twin is Karina, tall, dark, and handsome is Trent Ellis, her BF, so hands off, this sexy jungle cat is his younger sister, Amara, totes single, and this hunk of meat-" She squeezed the Caucasian guy's shoulders. "Is Eric Acker, my BF, so definitely hands off."

I sat for a minute processing the overload of information Sabrina gave to me before replying, "I'm Suzanne Thorn, but I go by Suzy, single, no siblings, just me and my mom."

Sabrina and Karina gasped with horrified expressions."What happened to your dad? Is he like, dead?"

Laughter erupted from my lips. Sometimes, I wish he were. Leaving his wife of seventeen years and only daughter, for an exotic dancer named Cinnamon, deserves some cosmic justice.

Everyone looks more confused than before.

Great. Okay, here we go. "No," I forced out between calming breaths. "My parents got divorced. Mom got custody, not that Dad wanted it to begin with. He stayed behind in Boston and forbade her from taking me out of state, so here I am."

Amara rested her chin on her hand, looking puzzled, as she inquired, "Why Danvers, though, out of the entire state?"

I took a deep breath, still pushing pent-up laughter out. "Well, Mom has a friend here who went through the same thing as her and wanted to help out. She found us a house and set up an interview for a job. I guess they were friends in high school but drifted apart." I mused whimsically. "They reconnected a few years ago, and the rest is history."

Sabrina, Karina, and Amara all say: "Aww..."

"Alright," Mrs. Smith announced, slamming an encyclopedia onto the table. "That's enough chatter, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for learning."

She picked up a wooden clipboard and began naming off students. By the time she got to my name, I noticed something. The girl from earlier was sitting in a dark corner, alone, reading a black book with a strange symbol on it. Mrs. Smith didn't call her name. Or acknowledge her presence.

Actually, nobody in the classroom did.

"Sabrina," I whispered, not wanting to interrupt Mrs. Smith. "What's up with that girl?" I vaguely pointed toward the corner. "She's alone, no one is acknowledging her, and when I spoke with her earlier-"

"You what!?" The whole table whispered angrily. They gave each other a look, then nodded. Some kind of understanding, I guess.

"Um, Suzy," Sabrina begins, her breath growing more unsteady as she speaks. "If you want to stay at Danvers High, or sit with us in general, there is one rule everyone must follow."

Already regretting my curiosity, I asked, "What is it?"

Everyone leaned in closely so that no one could overhear them. As if the act of telling was a sin. It must be big. A massive secret that everyone, staff included, must abide by. Something ominous, old, and etched into the foundation of this small suburban town.

An eerie chill filled the air as each person chanted, "We don't talk to Edith Thompson."

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are fictitious and the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, organizations, or events are entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Thank you for reading this eBook. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.