Haunted Hallways, page 7
A bunch of girls had gathered around them, and Meli felt their curious eyes. Some watched with a detached interest, in the same way they might observe a biological specimen in class.
“I don’t know, Tess. Maybe he joined the dots? You’re not that subtle, you know.”
“You fucking told him. You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to God, Meli.”
She stalked off and Meli looked on, stunned. She had never heard such earnestness in Teresita’s voice when invoking the Lord’s name.
Meli walked back alone, trying to rub the mud from her black skirt. She didn’t tell, she would swear it on Christ himself. Could it have been Rosa? She was seething after mass. Meli dreamed up little revenges: gum on the back of her skirt. Hiding her tampons. Wiping her lip gloss wand around the toilet bowl. It was easy for her to lose track of time, of where she was going. The grounds at Mallory Thorne weren’t expansive, but the tracks in the hillside meandered. Huge trees acted as a canopy, sunlight and birdsong barely piercing through. You could only tell where you were in the gothic sprawl of the school itself, which reached high above the forest and overlooked the dinky toy town in the distance.
Meli gasped as her feet sank into the mud at the edge of the willow bank. She squelched her way around slowly, and then she saw the shoe. One little Mary Jane, t-bar strap open. Standard regulation.
There was a girl in the water. Not a girl, a kaperosa. She stared at Meli from the lake. Then a cold wind rushed into her lungs and Meli fell to her knees. A hand reached out of the lake and brown fingers curled around Meli’s wrist. The ghost of the girl who died.
“Willow,” Meli mouthed, as the hand dragged her under.
Willow waits under her namesake tree, where they used to meet. She has always been unnerved by twilight, the way you can’t quite see and the shapes look strange. Her mother tells her Mallory Thorne will knock the childish ways out of her. She knots her crimson dress in her fingers, twirling the material around obsessively.
Meli stands in Willow’s memory, watching her but inhabiting her at the same time. It’s like she can feel everything Willow felt, can share her thoughts. Meli watches, both silent and confused, a specter dragged into the past by the kaperosa. What does she want her to see?
Willow settles as the stars begin to come out. The ink of the night sky is strangely calming in its deep abyss. The chapel brightens. They must be lighting the candles for mass. Hopefully he’ll come soon, or she’ll be missed at service. Although the only person who she could get in trouble with is him.
He covers her eyes with his hands and she almost yells, but then he speaks.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His voice is honey.
Willow turns and kisses him. He turns her back around, pushes her skirt up and gets on with it. She looks at the willow tree, swaying rhythmically as he grunts. He finishes quickly, with a labored sigh, and slaps her ass as a signal to get sorted. Once she’s decent, she touches him, trying to tell him she wants to be held. But she’s too shy to be bold.
“We can’t keep seeing each other.”
The world falls out from beneath her.
“What do you mean?”
He strokes her cheek. “It’s not fair on you. You’re in your prime.”
She flushes. “But I love you.”
His mouth quirks, and she feels bile rise in her throat. Is he laughing at her?
The birdsong stretches painfully into the silence. After a moment, she meekly asks: “Don’t you love me?”
“How can I love you? Willow, you’re a child.” His voice is something else, something she’s never heard before. It’s vicious steel and woodsmoke and leather. She’s suddenly aware that he is a man. It seems stupid she’s never realized before how much bigger he is than her. When he first touched her, he was so careful.
“Am I not—good?” she asks quietly, feeling the prick of tears. She’s too old for tears and tantrums, her mother said.
He snorts. “This is over. You need to grow up.”
She can’t bear it when he turns to leave. “I’ll tell!”
He throws a look over his shoulder, and she knows she has lost him. She’s a soft baby, and he’s done playing with her.
“I know I’m not the first. How many years have you been doing this to us?”
That gets his attention. He cracks his neck and rolls up his sleeves and comes back to her. She tries to look defiant, but it’s difficult when he comes close and squares up to her. Still, she thinks it’s a game.
“Willow, think carefully. You have a promising future ahead of you.”
“You don’t think I will? You’d lose your job. The school would get shut down. You might even go to prison. You know what they do to nonces—”
His hands are around her throat faster than she can speak. His eyes are lit like wildfire from within as he moves, enraged. She scrabbles at the bank with her feet; her fingers are scratching at his skin, but she can’t get at his face—he’s too tall. He’s pushing her under the water now, wrapping the willow branches around her neck. He’s so strong, and the mulch is in her throat. She wonders why she’s struggling. She could just let go. The pain is heavenly.
Meli screamed, choking on lake water and weeds. She found the dirt, breaking fingernails and gouging flesh to get out of the bog. She heaved herself onto the bank, desperate animal sounds escaping her body.
He silenced you Willow, Meli thinks. He used you and kept your mouth shut forever.
Her labored breaths turned to wracking sobs, and she retched up her breakfast, sinking back down onto the spoiled grass.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
Teresita stood at the other side of the lake, hugging herself and watching. Meli’s vision spun, and she could barely make out the other girl. She didn’t look like herself. She looked strange, stripped, hollow.
Thorne slid the silver scissors across the desk and indicated to the en suite bathroom attached to his office. He draped a towel around Teresita’s shoulders, pushing the hair back from her neck. She felt his hot acrid breath on her skin.
Hot tears began to pour down her cheeks, and she burned all over. She picked up the scissors, her hands shaking violently. His touch was cool as he steadied her. “You’ll want straight lines, Teresita.”
He sat back at his desk and nursed his tea as her knees shook and she began to cut. He didn’t close the door and she didn’t dare. She started slowly at the bottom, cutting off dried dead ends. He slammed the table, and the scissors flashed up in the light, nicking her on the neck.
“Shorn,” he insisted, low and sharp.
She moved the scissors up, higher and higher, watching his face in the mirror. He blinked once and she cut, locks like autumn leaves around her feet. He watched her the entire time. The chair creaked, and then his hands were on the uneven stubble of her scalp. She felt the cold fingertips on her throat as he turned her to face him.
“You’ll think twice before flouting my rules again.” He looked at her steadily, then added: “The curfew is there for your safety. You’re safe on the grounds, in the school.”
A sob escaped Teresita’s throat, and her shoulders heaved.
“It’s only hair, Teresita. It will grow back.”
Meli’s hair was damp, plastered to her forehead, but at least she was clean and dry now. They sat on Teresita’s bed, Meli wrapped in a blanket over her nightclothes and Teresita worrying her shorn scalp, fingers rubbing back and forth across the stubble of hair and irritated skin.
She turned to Meli. “I know you didn’t tell Thorne. There was this guy—the coroner who came for the body. He saw me in the woods. I think he got me into trouble with Thorne.”
“Did Thorne do this to you?” Meli asked, quietly.
Teresita nodded.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Meli said, touching Teresita’s shoulder.
“You saw the girl?” Teresita asked, her voice a rotten husk.
Meli nodded. “Willow, or whatever her real name was. The fourth year.”
Teresita stared. “Let me get this right—you saw her and then she pulled you into the lake. And then she…showed you what happened?”
“It was her memory, her past. She took me there somehow—I could see and hear everything. I was in her head; I could hear her thoughts—feel what she felt. It sounds ridiculous, I hear that.” Meli let out an exasperated breath.
“You sound absolutely unhinged, but I believe you.”
“I don’t understand it. But I felt it,” Meli said. “It was disgusting.”
“Did she feel—bad?” Teresita asked, searching for the right word.
“Like malevolent?” Meli asked. She considered, looking down at her wrist. There was no shadow of a mark, only the memory of touch. “I felt…overwhelming sadness.”
“I believe he could do something bad to a girl,” Teresita said. “I’ve never seen him how he was today. It was different. He was almost—dangerous.”
Meli looked out of the window. There was no one down by the lake, just the dark remains of where she herself had lain on the banks. “I think Willow wanted to be heard. For someone to know what happened to her. That she didn’t kill herself.”
“What good is the truth?” Teresita asked. “She’s still dead.”
Meli couldn’t stand to think of the coming winter and those girls who didn’t have anywhere to go over the holidays. They would be cloistered with him throughout Christmas, choking down mince pies and drowning in mulled wine he pushed on them.
“I’m so glad you agreed to meet me,” Meli said, unsure whether to hug Teresita.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Teresita smiled as she took the armchair opposite.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to remember,” Meli admitted.
Teresita’s face shuttered for a moment and they both listened to the whirr of the coffee machine. Meli glanced through the window. Tongues of orange danced in the sky as the evening drew closer. It was autumn, an inauspicious time in her mind. But it was when Teresita was free, and she had been genuinely surprised when she’d agreed to meet. It had been years—both of them had grown into their bodies, more comfortable. Teresita had laughter lines by her eyes; she fiddled with a sparkling ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. Meli was desperate to ask, but she felt the chasm of the years between them. Despite everything, it was good to see her old friend after all this time.
“Your message was too intriguing to resist,” Teresita said.
Meli traced her finger around the cup’s rim. “It took years to work up to it.”
Teresita unzipped her smart black handbag and opened her notebook, pen poised. “Pulling everything together, or working up the courage to reach out?”
“Both,” Meli admitted.
Teresita leaned forward. “Are you sure you want to do this? I want to make sure you know exactly what you’re asking.”
Meli sighed. “I’ve been thinking about this every day since we left.”
It was the closest way she could tell Teresita. Her aversion to water. A shiver when she drove past a church. Her browser’s alerts for any crumb to do with the school or Thorne.
Teresita’s pen hovered. “You think about her often, don’t you?”
“Always,” Meli said, without pause.
Teresita smoothed her hair back behind her ear. Meli noticed she seemed to wear it short these days, but she smiled fondly at that old mannerism still. “Have you got the material you wanted me to look at?”
Meli fumbled for the folder in her bag. She felt Teresita’s eyes on her and wondered what she saw. She handed it over reluctantly.
Teresita saw the hesitation. “This isn’t a guarantee of anything, Meli. I don’t want you to get your hopes up. I’ll need some time to follow up on your research.”
“But you were there too, Tess.”
Teresita pursed her mouth and then sighed. “We need to be careful with our sources. I have to keep my history with this story under wraps for now. The newspaper won’t like it if they think it’s a personal vendetta. They may consider it a conflict of interest—my professional reputation is on the line.”
“Isn’t it personal?” Meli asked, quietly.
Teresita shook her head, trying to find the words. Meli wondered if she carried regret like a stone in her pocket.
“I’m a journalist, Meli, not a miracle worker. This isn’t vigilante justice—”
Meli’s phone began to buzz, vibrating the table with a jarring sound. Bea’s name flashed up, and with it Meli’s lock screen photo of their wedding. Meli apologized, flipping the phone over.
“Let me take a look at this. I’ll be in touch.” Teresita tucked the folder into her neat handbag and stood. “It was really good to see you, Meli. I’m so happy for you—she looks nice.”
Meli hugged her then. “Bea, my wife.” They separated, and Meli tapped the ring on Teresita’s finger. “I hope you’re happy too.”
Teresita smiled and then sighed. “I can’t guarantee that anything will come of this. I can’t undo what happened—even if this gets picked up and makes waves, he might not face justice. God, he might not even be alive anymore. I have to track him down, and I’m not a judge—I can’t put him behind bars. So much time has passed, any physical evidence is gone. All I can do is try, as a journalist. It’s the least I can do. I just want to manage your expectations.”
“There’s some files in there on Willow—some school records, her grades, her mother’s old address—”
Teresita looked at Meli, eyebrows furrowed.
“The girl Thorne murdered. Her name really was Willow.”
Teresita looked at Meli. “For Willow. And for the others,” she said, patting her bag. “It’s not a promise, but it’s something.”
RENEWAL NOTICE
TEHNUKA
Mira jumped up from the bus stop bench. “Monday? Are you sure?” That made the second time this term she’d forgotten a deadline.
“What did you think I was working on all week? What were you working on?” Lily shook her head. “I guess you aren’t coming, then. If you want my notes, they’re on my desk.”
Mira stared down at her hiking boots. “Thanks.” She was the one who offered notes, not the other way around.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine on my own.”
Lily would always be fine out walking on her own. It was only that Mira so wanted the distraction of a day out on the moor, not trapped in her own head.
After five years perfecting her cursive, Lily had developed handwriting so ornate as to be indecipherable. Mira flicked through her notes, guessing from the little she could read that they’d been assigned different topics. Taking her notebook and satchel, she clomped down stone-flagged corridors in the boots she’d forgotten to change. No one was about this early to care.
Two forgotten assignments in a term wasn’t a pattern. She’d just been distracted—worrying about the things her parents didn’t, or couldn’t, mention in letters, but that she read about in rare newspaper articles or using her weekly internet allowance to search online. Of course, none of that helped her get word of their relatives. And apparently she should have been researching a natural science assignment instead.
The dorm corridor opened into the hallway. Ahead were the dull brass letters: Hopkins Library. Amma would say, “Chee, can’t they clean the sign?” and go after it with baking soda and an old toothbrush. Mira didn’t mind it appearing so rundown. Money saved on maintenance might go to scholarships like hers.
A voice rang across the atrium as she pushed the glass doors open. “How did you get in?”
“I…” Mira hesitated in the doorway. The speaker was behind the issues desk, dressed in her usual suit and tie. Mira saw her frequently—Ms. Johnson was one of the full-time librarians.
“Who are you? How did you get in?”
“Mira. I’m a student.”
The librarian pushed aside her chair from behind the issues desk and stood, short blond hair giving a small bounce. “Where’s your uniform?”
“It’s Saturday, and I’m in Fifth Year. I just came to work on an assignment…”
“Oh, goodness, so sorry Nalini! Of course it’s you, I remember from Poetry Club, I just didn’t recognize you in mufti. Sorry.” She checked the clock hanging above the desk. “No one’s in so early on the weekends, and it startled me. I thought you must be from outside the school.” Ms. Johnson sat back down with a wide smile. “Just let me know if you need help!”
Nalini, a new Second Year, looked nothing like Mira. But it was wisest to accept the apology and disappear among the shelves as soon as possible. Ms. Johnson was friendly enough on a good day.
The card catalog never made sense, so Mira wandered between tall wooden shelves lit by dim bulbs, squinting at titles, hoping to spot anything relevant. Other libraries had sensor lights. And bigger windows. Still, Mallory Thorne’s had enough books to supply a hundred schools, if only there’d been a digital system to help find them.
Bright blue cloth binding and gold lettering caught her eye. The Water Cycle. A few decades too old to be much use for her essay, but a good starting point. She’d pick a few up-to-date ones too. The hard part wasn’t finding references—it was finding the focus to read and write.
She added several plastic-covered textbooks and took her pile to a partitioned desk under the narrow windows at the far, quiet end of the library. Ms. Johnson was right—no one else was around. She shoved her satchel under her chair and opened her notebook, then The Water Cycle, cover clacking against the wooden desktop.
Focus. She leafed through, stopping at the index.
The letters grew faint, dissolving into the page until they faded entirely, like ink diluted in water. Nothing remained but old, yellowing, paper.
Mira scrunched her eyes and looked again.
Now, the blank surface shimmered. She groaned aloud, but this was not her and Lily’s dorm to make noise in. She flipped the cover closed.
The gold embossed letters rearranged, straight lines looping into very familiar characters. As far as she knew, though—and she’d searched through the library, when she first started at Mallory Thorne—the only Tamil writing in the school was in the letters her parents sent, and an occasional line in her notes when she couldn’t think of the English.
