by J. A. White
What happened in the attic?
A few minutes later, Mrs. Aickman announced that she would now be taking volunteers for anyone who wanted to share their essay. Cordelia slouched in her seat, praying the teacher didn’t call on her; she had no desire to share her innermost thoughts with a roomful of strangers. Fortunately, plenty of other kids were eager to read their work. Mrs. Aickman selected a boy named Grant Thompson, who strode to the front of the room and then paused a moment to clear his throat before reading.
His essay was entitled “The Summer All My Pets Died.”
“My gerbil was the first to go,” Grant said in an overdramatic voice. “She wouldn’t be the last.”
Grant had a lot of pets, and by the fourth backyard funeral, Cordelia’s attention had begun to wander. For this reason, she happened to be looking in the right direction when the woman in hospital scrubs passed the open doorway. She wore a surgical mask over her mouth and held her gloved hands in the air, as though she had just scrubbed up for surgery. Cordelia jerked in her chair, startling Agnes.
“Did you see her?” Cordelia whispered, nodding toward the door.
“Who?” Agnes asked.
Cordelia started to explain and then shook her head; Mrs. Aickman was looking their way, and she didn’t want to get in trouble on the first day of school. Besides, she had already thought of a perfectly reasonable explanation for the woman’s unusual appearance: she was probably a science teacher intent on making a grand entrance on the first day of school. Everyone here is so weird, Cordelia thought, slumping in her seat. She pictured the brightly lit corridors of Ridgewood, where the teachers wore normal clothes and the students wrote about happy memories instead of sad ones.
Cordelia missed her old life more than ever.
3
The Boy Beneath the Bleachers
The day droned on. The rest of Cordelia’s teachers were a mixed bag. She liked her art teacher, Ms. Perez, who looked like she was still in high school and gave them chocolate and stickers at the end of class. Their science teacher, Ms. Patel, was also young, but in every other way the polar opposite of Ms. Perez: hyperorganized instead of carefree, strict instead of lenient. Cordelia’s least favorite teacher, however, was Mrs. Machen, an ancient crone who genuinely disliked children and looked like she should have retired a decade ago. Mrs. Machen felt that constant practice through worksheets was the only way to improve their math skills, and along those lines assigned a thick packet for homework.
By seventh period, Cordelia needed a break. After the unstructured freedom of summer vacation, it was nearly impossible to sit in a chair all day without getting antsy. Ten minutes into social studies, Cordelia asked to use the bathroom and escaped into the hallway. She walked past the main office and headed down an unexplored corridor with no particular destination in mind, catching snatches of different voices as teachers calmly explained their rules and expectations (except for Mrs. Machen, who was in the process of scolding a terrified fifth grader for forgetting the difference between a numerator and denominator). After she’d taken a few random turns, the school grew quiet. Guess they have more space than they need, she thought, peeking through the window of the nearest door. A single chair sat in the center of the dark room.
Cordelia backed away.
A few turns later she found herself in a short, doorless hallway—a dead end. There was a large photograph on the far wall. Cordelia took a closer look. The photograph showed a gray-haired black man sitting at a drawing table with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He seemed unaware that someone was taking his picture, his attention fully focused on his work. There was an obsessive, burning gleam to his eyes that Cordelia found a little frightening.
“The only known photograph of Elijah Shadow,” said a voice behind her.
Cordelia gasped in surprise and spun around. The speaker was a tall, elegant woman with light brown skin, her hair piled high in voluminous ringlets.
“I apologize for startling you,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Dr. Roqueni, the principal here at Shadow School.”
Cordelia shook her hand. Dr. Roqueni had a pianist’s fingers, long and graceful.
“Cordelia Liu. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Dr. Roqueni said. “Let me take this opportunity to welcome you to our school. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to meet you until now. There was an orientation for new students this summer, but I guess you couldn’t make it.”
“We weren’t expecting to move,” Cordelia said. “But then my dad lost his job, so . . .”
“You had to uproot your entire existence,” Dr. Roqueni said with genuine sympathy. “That’s rough, Cordelia. Trust me; I know. Where are you from?”
“Just outside San Francisco.”
“I’ve always dreamed of seeing the West Coast,” Dr. Roqueni said with a wistful expression. “Is it as nice as people say?”
“Nicer.”
“Well, California’s loss is our gain. We might not have beaches, but Ludlow isn’t such a bad little town. And I’m sure you’ll be happy here at Shadow School. What do you think so far?”
“Umm,” Cordelia said, not wanting to offend the principal. “It’s not quite what I expected.”
“You mean your old school wasn’t a creepy old Victorian mansion?” Dr. Roqueni asked in mock surprise.
Cordelia smiled and shook her head.
“This building was never meant to be a school,” Dr. Roqueni said. She pointed to the photograph of Elijah Shadow. “It was actually his house. Elijah designed it himself. Anyone tell you about the attic yet?”
“I overheard two boys in my class talking about it.”
“Let me guess,” Dr. Roqueni said. “Burning-hot door? Crackle of flames? Screams of agony?”
“Pretty much.”
“Our school’s own personal urban legend,” Dr. Roqueni said. “Elijah Shadow’s ghost haunts the attic where he died, and if you dare to open the door, he’ll wrap his arms around you and drag you into flames that burn forever.” Dr. Roqueni laughed. “It’s ridiculous, of course, but I actually don’t mind. Kids shouldn’t be going up there anyway. The attic’s dangerous. It was never properly repaired after the fire.”
“So there really was a fire?” Cordelia asked.
“Oh yes,” Dr. Roqueni said. “And that is how Elijah Shadow died. There’s usually some grain of truth to these things. But the rest—” Dr. Roqueni’s phone vibrated in her hand. She checked the screen and frowned. “Sorry. There’s something that requires my attention. Will you be able to find your way back to class?”
“Totally,” said Cordelia, who felt the urge to impress the principal.
“It was lovely talking to you,” Dr. Roqueni said. She walked a few steps away and then turned back to face her. “Who’s your homeroom teacher?”
“Mr. Derleth.”
“One of the new hires,” Dr. Roqueni said. Her face grew serious. “Did he remember to tell you that all students need to be out of the school by nightfall?”
Cordelia nodded.
“Excellent,” Dr. Roqueni said. “Just wanted to double-check.”
As Cordelia attempted to retrace her path back to social studies, she thought about what she had learned. A man died in this school. And people think his ghost haunts the attic. She wanted to believe that it was just a silly story, like Dr. Roqueni said. On the other hand, Shadow School sure looked like a haunted mansion, and it was very strange that no one was allowed in the building after dark. Maybe that’s when Elijah Shadow comes down from the attic, roaming the halls and looking for someone to join him forever . . .
Cordelia was so distracted by these thoughts that she didn’t pay close enough attention to where she was going. In a few minutes, she found herself in a part of the school she didn’t recognize at all. My entorhinal region is the worst, Cordelia thought. There wasn’t even anyone that she could ask for directions. The hallways were completely empty, the classrooms dark.
She
heard someone crying.
It was definitely a student, though Cordelia couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. She didn’t think they were hurt. These weren’t the quick, breathless tears of someone in physical pain, but a low, rhythmic weeping. It was the kind of crying you allowed yourself when no one else was listening. Wanting to help, she followed the sound to a windowless gym that had seen better days. The floor was buckled in several sections. Only a few flickering ceiling lights worked. On the opposite side of the gym was a set of retractable bleachers that could be folded against the wall to create more space, though right now they were pulled out.
The crying was coming from beneath them.
“Hello?” Cordelia asked, crossing the floor of the gym. “Is everything okay?”
She stepped around the side of the bleachers and peeked through the open end. A small boy of about four or five was kneeling in the shadows, his shoulders heaving as he wept. He wore navy blue pajamas. The pants were patterned with different trains, while the T-shirt featured a green-and-blue locomotive.
Poor little guy, Cordelia thought, her heart melting. She ducked her head and stepped beneath the bleachers.
“Hey there,” she said, speaking softly so she didn’t scare him. “My name’s Cordelia. I’m eleven. How old are you?”
The boy didn’t turn around, but she thought his weeping might have grown just a tiny bit softer. Taking this as an invitation, Cordelia halved the distance between them. It was a slow process. The space beneath the bleachers was tight and cramped.
An unexpected thought froze her in place.
What is he doing here?
Shadow School started at fifth grade. The boy couldn’t possibly be a student. So who was he? And why was he wearing pajamas and not regular clothes?
Pinpricks of fear ran up and down her arm.
Stop being such a wuss, she scolded herself. He’s just a little boy who got lost somehow. He needs your help.
“Pretty cool hiding spot,” Cordelia said, crouching so she would be at the boy’s eye level when he turned around. “Maybe we should head back. Your mom and dad are probably looking for you.”
The boy didn’t move. Cordelia inched closer.
“They’re probably worried sick,” Cordelia said, reaching out to gently touch his shoulder. “Besides, it’s a beautiful day! Don’t you want to go—”
Her hand passed through the boy’s shoulder as though it wasn’t there.
A cold, stinging feeling spread throughout her fingers, like she had buried them in snow. The boy rose to his feet and turned around. He wore thick glasses over his blue eyes, which were wide with surprise, as though Cordelia was the incorporeal one. The wheels of Cordelia’s mind spun uselessly, like a toy train off its tracks, trying to make sense of what was happening.
He’s a . . . a . . .
The boy took a step toward her. Cordelia tried to move, but her legs had been injected with rubber, and she fell to the floor. The boy leaned forward and gazed at her with a curious expression, then reached out a hand to touch her face. Cordelia watched it approach, frozen in fear.
She screamed.
The boy covered his ears and turned his back to her. Without waiting to see what he might do next, Cordelia crab-walked along the wooden floor and into the flickering lights, stopping only when she was on the other side of the gym. She watched the bleachers carefully, waiting for the boy to come out and continue the chase. He didn’t.
Cordelia slowly got to her feet, trying to wrap her mind around what had happened.
I just saw a ghost, she thought.
As she stumbled out of the gym, Cordelia heard sobbing. She looked back at the bleachers, thinking that it was the boy again. Then she realized that the sobs belonged to her.
4
Listen
The moment her parents got home from work, Cordelia dragged them into the living room and told them the entire story. She expected sympathy. Hugs. Promises that they would return to California on the first available flight.
Instead, her mother let out a long, disappointed sigh and said, “Cordelia, you’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t want to go to Shadow School, but—a ghost? Really?”
“I’m telling the truth,” Cordelia insisted, her voice trembling.
To those who didn’t know them well, Cordelia’s parents seemed like an odd match. Her mom was tall, thin, and Caucasian. Her father was short, pudgy, and Chinese. Mrs. Liu was a social butterfly who had already made a dozen friends in their new town. Mr. Liu barely spoke at all. Despite their differences, they laughed often and rarely argued, especially when it came to their only child.
Her parents looked at each other now, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
“It’s not that we don’t believe you, sweetie,” Mrs. Liu said, brushing back a strand of blond hair. “Or, at least, it’s not that we don’t believe that you believe you saw something. It’s just . . .”
“Ghosts aren’t real,” Mr. Liu said.
Cordelia inhaled deeply in an attempt to control her growing frustration. In terms of appearance, she looked more like her father. Her temper, however, came straight from her mom.
“I know what I saw,” Cordelia said.
“And we know how much you wanted to stay in California,” Mrs. Liu replied. “You tell me—what makes more sense? That you saw a creepy shadow and imagined a ghost—which gives you a reason to skip out on your new school? Or that you saw an actual ghost?”
“I didn’t imagine anything,” Cordelia insisted, her cheeks growing flushed. “I saw a real—”
“This move has been hard for you,” Mrs. Liu said. She saw her husband looking down at the floor and touched his arm. “For all of us. But this is our home now. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can start enjoying your new life.”
“Fine!” Cordelia exclaimed, rising to her feet. “Don’t believe me! But I’m not going back to that school! And you can’t make me!”
“Sure we can,” Mrs. Liu said cheerfully. “We’re your parents. Making you do things is basically our job description.”
Cordelia stomped into her new bedroom. It was half the size of her old room and smelled like mothballs. She hated it. Boxes were piled everywhere. They had moved six weeks ago, but Cordelia steadfastly refused to unpack.
It’s not fair, she thought, throwing herself onto the bed. Why don’t they believe me?
After she got bored of feeling sorry for herself, Cordelia checked Instagram, longing for news from the real world. It was a mistake. Seeing how happy her friends looked only made her more depressed. The worst photo was a shot of Ava and Mabel in their first-day outfits, smiling fiercely at the camera. Cordelia felt a sharp pang of jealousy in the pit of her stomach.
They don’t miss me at all, she thought, tossing her phone away.
To get her mind off things, Cordelia pulled out her battered old Chromebook and started reading everything she could about ghosts. A lot of the websites were clearly nonsense, but the more reputable ones agreed that ghosts usually haunted a specific location for one of two reasons—either the spirit had lived there when they were alive, or they died there.
The boy definitely didn’t live in Shadow School, Cordelia thought. He’s too young to even be a student.
Which means he died there.
Cordelia took a moment to steel herself for the next step of her investigation, afraid of what she might find. Finally, she googled “Shadow School death.” Most of the links led to information about Elijah Shadow, who had indeed died in a fire back in 1929—there were even a few black-and-white photographs of the damaged building to prove it. Cordelia learned little else about the architect himself; he had led, as one writer described it, a “remarkably private life.” The links that didn’t involve Elijah Shadow dealt with a custodian named David Fisher. He had worked at Shadow School for over a year before disappearing in 2007. Perhaps he hadn’t died, but he had certainly never been heard from again.
There was
nothing about the boy beneath the bleachers.
Someone knocked on the door, startling her.
“Cordy?” Mrs. Liu asked, peeking her head inside the room. “We’re heading into town. Want to come?”
From the moment the moving van had pulled up to their new house, Cordelia’s parents had worked hard to sell her on the wonders of New Hampshire. They took a scenic drive through the White Mountains, went kayaking on Lake Winnipesaukee, and spent one afternoon trying to track down as many covered bridges as possible. Cordelia hated every minute of it. The worst part was “downtown” Ludlow, a single strip of lame shops and restaurants with an honest-to-god general store.
“You guys go,” Cordelia said. “I have homework.”
“On the first day of school?”
Cordelia shrugged.
“We’re getting ice cream,” Mrs. Liu tried. “It’s homemade.”
“Mitchell’s is better,” Cordelia replied. They had stopped there for ice cream whenever they went into San Francisco. “Besides, I’m going to Skype Ava and Mabel in a few minutes. See how things are back home.”
“This is your home, Cordelia.”
“I want to tell them what happened today. At least they’ll believe me.”
Mrs. Liu sighed with frustration, as though Cordelia was somehow the one being unreasonable, and shut the door.
After her parents had left the house, Cordelia tried to contact Ava and Mabel. No one picked up. She slammed the Chromebook shut. I’ll try again in a few minutes, she thought. I’m sure they want to talk to me. It’s just the time difference that’s confusing them. That’s all.
In the meantime, Cordelia stared at the ceiling and considered what she had learned. If anything, it raised more questions than it answered.
The boy wasn’t a student at Shadow School. And he didn’t die there.
So why the heck is he haunting the place?