Providence Place

by Matthew Tait

  Providence Place

  Matthew Tait

  ‘Welcome to Providence Place, a long abandoned school, where some souls are yet to graduate. Not only does Matthew Tait apply his deft prose to the haunted genre, but also adds a dash of metaphysical consideration, as prevalent in his works such as Dark Meridian and Olearia. Tait offers more than a simple trip through the ghost house. A well-paced, intelligent, and deliciously dark tale.’

  -Daniel I Russell, author of Entertaining Demons

  Providence Place

  Copyright © 2017 Matthew Tait

  First Edition

  This book is protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or photographs contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or artist.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art: Greg Chapman

  Layout: Shannon Gambino

  First Printing: October 2017

  For the students and staff of Pultney Grammar

  ALSO BY MATTHEW TAIT

  GHOSTS IN A DESERT WORLD

  DAVEY RIBBON

  SLANDER HALL

  DIFFERENT MASKS: A DECADE IN THE DARK

  DARK MERIDIAN

  OLEARIA

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  At night, in schools, a transformation takes place.

  In effect, they are no longer schools. The bustle has left; the light has gone; the energy has been reduced to nothing.

  Of course, this could be said about any building where the business of life is conducted during daylight hours … but places of learning are a world unto themselves. Darkness descends, and they are peeled back to reveal a lifeless abode of stark hallways, quiet classrooms, and shadowy recesses that give a curious insight into the human condition – a world that is a metaphor for life itself: the human has its day; its season, then ultimately the lights go out again. In opposition, the walls and foundations stand long after the children and educators disappear. They are permanence in place of impermanence. And through the many layers of chalk-dust, through all the finger-smeared lockers, stairwells and hallways, time moves at a different speed.

  The lifetime of one child is but a day in the life of a school.

  One

  Providence Place stood on the fringes of Cranston, three miles from the heart of that bustling metropolis. Officially abandoned in 2004 (immediately in the aftermath of a suicide), the entire school had been earmarked for demolition for over twelve years now. Although there were many motives for inaction in this area – budgetary and political dickering alike – it could be said the real reason for the school’s continued existence was more psychological than anything else.

  Or so Dillion Cook believed.

  Staring at it now across the parking lot (thankfully behind the wheel of his Ford Explorer), it was even easier to believe other forces were at work here: that perhaps the school itself did not want to be put out of commission. Composed entirely out of the same materials as every other old building in the nation, sentience seemed to cling to its windows and arches like a life-force itself, giving the front façade the mock-up intelligence of a face. There were balustrades and there were turrets; there were balconies and barbs. Immediately on the grounds below, weeds had sprung up to form a canopy of jungle and vines. While the overarching color of the stone here was purple, the riot of rot now secreted into the building had given everything a charcoal hue almost devoid of color itself; as if Providence Place were the aftermath of a large-scale gravestone rubbing, its protrusions and depressions bled of solidity by the scouring of time.

  And that’s just the front of the school, Dillion thought now, and then jumped when the passenger door of his Ford sprung open on its hinges.

  Although Alyssa Asterious was entirely expected, Dillion’s heart hammered at a furious pace. Only now did he become fully aware just how much this school consumed him. Visually, of course – this was a given taking into account its arresting gothic ambiance. But in every other detail as well: Providence Place was a subject Dillion had obsessed and studied for just shy of two years now.

  ‘I’m early, I know,’ Alyssa said, slamming the door in her wake. Despite the chill outside she wore little more than a black t-shirt and jeans. ‘But I wanted to have a word with you before the others get here.’

  Dillion wasn’t surprised. Having spent a good portion of her life as an actress in a variety of mediums, Alyssa was prone to rehearsals. Not just before a show … but on the real-life stage as well.

  ‘I thought we’d –’

  ‘Yes, we’ve covered everything. I signed your contract, didn’t I? There’s just one thing in it I’m not sure about. I’ll follow you in; I’ll even give you all the running commentary you need when we get inside the theater. But that’s the end of the line for me. I simply won’t go into those dressing rooms, and you cannot make me.’

  Alyssa was talking … but her core attention was reserved for the school, a dark pile of frowning brick the length of a football field away from the parked car. Her eyes were cagey, panicked around the edges. They were the wary eyes of someone weighing the chances of an animal turning feral.

  She didn’t sleep a wink last night, Dillion thought. Besides that one visit to Providence Place for her magazine story, this is the first time she’s set foot on the grounds since she was a student here.

  For a moment the reality of this pilgrimage hit home in way he hadn’t experienced before. They were doing this. They were really doing this.

  ‘I’m okay with that,’ he said by way of reply. Except he wasn’t. Not really. He could placate Alyssa for now, of course. But once inside it might be a different story. ‘I’m more than grateful you’ve decided to return at all. I mean, after what you experienced, after what you saw inside those dressing rooms …’

  ‘Save it,’ Alyssa told him. ‘For your film and website. You don’t need to play the tour guide with me.’

  ‘Take it easy. I’m just letting you know I’m grateful.’

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Dillion. I’m here for the paycheck. A girl’s gotta eat.’

  Suitably rebuked, Dillion began the process of inspecting his equipment. He’d been over it all dozens of times, of course – but one final inventory wouldn’t hurt. In addition to his personal iPhone, his backpack came equipped with three more. If for any reason one camera should fail, there were additional ones to pick up the slack. High-powered LED flashlights (four of them) poked their circular tops through the side-pockets. Food staples and energy drinks shared space with his laptop, notebooks, and an extra jacket should the temperature suddenly decide to plummet.

  Because this isn’t a cheap-ass ghost tour, he thought randomly. This is supposed to be the real thing.

  Yes … it was supposed to be. The motherlode of all hauntings that would finally pay dividends for Dillion’s little production company. And this time he had a whole cadre of in-the-know support for the whole undertaking: men and women both who had been embedded in the front line
s of Providence Place across the span of generations.

  ‘I think I see Jeff,’ Alyssa said. ‘Looks like he’s already been for a look-see.’

  A shadow, one almost midget sized, emerged from the right of the main building. It came over slowly all the while snatching furtive, backward glances at the dilapidated locker area it had left behind. Soon the shadow resolved itself into a squat, elderly black man wearing a sizeable trench coat.

  Jeff Wolfe.

  As one of the janitorial staff serving at Providence Place during the school’s peak heyday, Jeff had cleaned nights on the premises for close to five years. A private school catering to some of Cranston’s semi-elite, the faculty did not want its cleaners immediately visible after the final bell tolled for the day. Hence their duties were often carried out under the collar of night, with classrooms emptied and hallways cleared. Jeff had told stories pertaining to Providence Place, many of them – and he was one of the few individuals to have gone public with his more outlandish encounters.

  Recruiting him for tonight’s misadventure had not proved difficult.

  A blast of frigid air entered the Ford as the retired cleaner hopped into the back seat. Accompanying the wind was an acute smell of tobacco, cheap cologne, and stale coffee.

  Rubbing his hands together, Jeff said, ‘Can you believe there isn’t so much as a lick of graffiti on those lockers? Even the vandals have the good sense to stay away from this place.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ Alyssa said.

  ‘You aren’t apprehensive about going in there by yourself?’ Dillion asked him. ‘I thought we agreed to do this thing together.’

  Jeff sucked back spit, a vacuum created by the absence of a front tooth. ‘You forget how long I worked here, Mr. Dillion. I know Providence Place like the back of my hand. Every nook and cranny is familiar to me.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ Alyssa said. ‘Oh look, here comes a third lamb to the slaughter.’

  A red Honda Civic (bearing only one occupant) had entered the carpark and idled toward the waiting Ford. With no line markers remaining on the asphalt – twelve years of weather erosion had obliterated all that once was – the Honda parked at a severe angle directly adjacent to Dillion’s vehicle. By now the driver was entirely visible to them: a blond man in his thirties sporting a bowl haircut and wearing a tie.

  ‘He the altar boy?’ Jeff asked from the backseat. ‘What’s he doing all dressed up like that?’

  Dillion had pulled out one of his notebooks and was busy flipping it to Jason Wedle’s handwritten profile. ‘He’s not dressed up. That’s just the way he is. You should probably both know that Jason is still very much a Christian boy. Getting him along for this ride wasn’t an easy thing for me.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Alyssa said. ‘Poor boy still has a carrot up his ass.’

  ‘Go easy on him,’ Dillion told her. ‘I don’t think Jason’s ever fully recovered from what happened here.’

  Alyssa cackled, a manic sound. ‘Have any of us?’

  All three of them jumped perceptibly when Jason slammed the door of his Civic. Ambling over, he did what both Alyssa and Jeff had done before him: snatch surreptitious glances at the school while he walked. No doubt there were a whole gamut of old memories graphing themselves to the present moment.

  The passenger door opposite Jeff opened, and Jason Wedle slumped in. Though over a week had passed since their first meeting together (Dillion making the trip up to Jason’s house equipped with selling points on why he should return to the school in addition to a large check), Jason wore the same attire … and the same haunted look. Over the intervening years since leaving, each individual had lived their lives trying to erase Providence Place from their memory. But then Dillion Cook had come barreling in, waving an offer of money around, and suddenly it was like they had never left. Jason, with bags under his eyes so prominent they looked like black fruit, appeared also not to have slept since the amateur filmmaker had made his offer.

  For a moment there was only silence; Dillion sitting in a stew of mild self-recrimination. He’d paid these individuals, yes – had given them an opportunity to put some much-needed closure on their lives. But what would the final price be after the event?

  Jason cleared his throat. ‘Am I the last one here, or –’

  ‘Just one more to go,’ Dillion said. ‘Carolina Gates. A student from 1988 until 1991.’

  ‘The virgin,’ said Alyssa wistfully.

  Dillion shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that.’

  Through the review mirror Dillion saw Jason turn pink, an unspoken question on his lips.

  ‘Carolina Gates,’ Alyssa stated matter-of-factly, happy to inform him. ‘Was a gifted swimmer for her school. She spent nights, weekends, and any free time she had doing freestyle laps in the natatorium. All with the hope for championship glory and eventually getting a scholarship to Brown University. The kids called her walrus, in reference to her buck teeth and dyke, I mean amazing, physique. On one particular morning when the walrus was swimming alone, something physically attacked her in the pool.’

  A mild guffaw came from Jeff; Dillion couldn’t tell if the man was agreeing with the statement or pouring scorn on it. Jason was staring intently at Alyssa’s headrest, his fascination unalloyed.

  ‘Anyway, she made a big splash about it – pun intended. Told anyone who cared to listen there was some kind of evil force prowling the school. Though she didn’t have any evidence to back it up, of course. Not then. All that came later.’

  Almost unconsciously Dillion riffled through his notebook until Carolina’s profile made itself known. Like Jeff’s, hers came equipped with newspaper clippings. Along with the tabloid-style headline on one article was a picture of Carolina herself, holding her heavy-with-child stomach and staring into the camera lens with a despondent frown.

  Alyssa had produced a cigarette from somewhere, and she lit it before continuing. ‘Whoever attacked her … knocked her up.’ She held the smoke, blew it back out. ‘Only a few short months after the attack she was showing, and a few months after that she gave birth. What made the whole thing so damn hilarious was Carolina’s claim she’d never done the deed with anyone before. Like, ever.’

  ‘She was … raped?’ Jason asked.

  Alyssa shook her head. ‘Depends on how you look at it. Could have just been one of the dunderheads on the athletics team didn’t use any protection and she was ashamed of the whole thing. But I don’t think so. Carolina claimed it was a ghost who got inside of her.’

  There was another muted silence, punctuated by heavy breathing from all four of them. Finally Jeff said: ‘What happened to her kid?’

  ‘She put it up for adoption as soon as it arrived. And get this –’

  At the back of the Ford, something rapped against the boot. Another collective jump went through the car. Turning around, they watched on as the object of their conversation smiled at them through the back window and held up one hand in a wave.

  Dillion said, ‘Move over into the middle please, Jason.’

  As Jason obliged, the door opened and Carolina Gates saddled herself inside. She was a large woman, bordering on obese, and Jason sat wedged between her form and Jeff’s with his shoulder blades hunched and wearing a blush. Since the media event of her virgin birth, Carolina had gone on to sire three more children, all of them her own. Perhaps predictably, she’d never held steady employment – had, in fact, stayed completely inactive for going on twenty-five years now. After the furor of her story had abated, addiction to pain killers had ensued, and subsequent to that: agoraphobia. Some doctors had surmised the current state of Carolina’s mental health and the swimming pool attack at Providence Place were in no way related to each other … but Dillion figured the odds against coincidence here would produce a number larger than the stars in the sky.

  ‘I caught a bus,’ Carolina informed them, and then proceeded to go about the introduction process. When Alyssa’s turn came arou
nd, the woman pitched her cigarette out the window and produced an awkward, muffled greeting in reply. From her body language alone, there could be little doubt Alyssa had belonged to the ‘walrus’ brigade of name-callers. Whether Carolina remembered her or not was anybody’s guess.

  No doubt we’ll soon find out, Dillion thought. Time to get this freak-show on the road.

  ‘We’ll begin in the main courtyard,’ Dillon said, breaking what was already an uncomfortable silence. ‘Where the fish pond used to be … or is. I have no idea if it’s still there or not. I’d like to get a shot of all of you against the backdrop of the administration building.’

  ‘Oh, it’s still there all right,’ said Jeff. ‘Everything is. The way the school was abandoned, it was like the rapture just swept through on a normal day.’

  Dillion continued as if the janitor had not spoken. ‘Then we’ll head over to the chapel. Is everybody ready? Alyssa, did you bring a jacket? Some parts will be cold.’

  By way of reply his passenger merely held up her packet of Lucky Strikes, as if this were the only armor she required. In the back seat, Jason’s reddened features had departed entirely, his cheeks now visibly pale. Carolina and Jeff continued to stare at the school, their brows furrowed in a collective arc of concentration.

  Pulling out his iPhone, Dillion hit the record button.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Time to do this.’

  Two

  During his years of avant-garde filmmaking, Dillion had researched (and visited) his fair share of abandoned porn. The term – loosely coined almost a decade ago – described the photography taken by intrepid wanderers to the lost and derelict places of the world: cities, islands; even entire shopping centers completely abandoned to time. While the Russian city of Chernobyl often took the prize as one of the more notorious voids, Dillion had been astounded to learn almost every niche had some forgotten realm almost completely devoid of humanity and left to rot. There were amusement parks and apartment blocks; there were brothels and boiler rooms; prisons, car factories, dilapidated farmhouses painted brown with primordial blood on killing room floors. These places were grotesque, but they were also sublimely beautiful; a haunting education pertaining to mortality and time. All places, everywhere, were ruined vistas simply waiting to happen.