by Sandy DeLuca
“They locked Marcy in her room. Sedated her. I overhead Marsha telling Irene Dugan that Marcy got out of control. They found three more knives in her room.”
I feel a pang of sympathy for Marcy, but I feel worse for Flora. She’s shaking. Her face is wet and red from crying.
I hug her and she tells me, “I’m so scared.”
“Calm down. Don’t let this place get to you,” I tell her.
Flora jumps when the phone rings.
I rise from my seat, make my way towards it. I think of Marcy Long alone in her room, perhaps surrounded by ghost girls.
The ringing seems to grow more menacing as I draw nearer. I grasp the receiver and electric currents pulse through my hand. I say, “Hello.” Into the mouth piece.
A haunting voice answers me.
“Help me. Help me…”
I quickly place the receiver back on its hook. I’m spooked as the voice continues to call for help from someplace in my head and then from below.
Flora is by my side. She’s tugging on my sleeve.
“I just saw something—a face peeking in the window.” She’s shaking.
“Get a grip.” I put my arm around her. The phone rings again. We stay close until it stops and then we hold hands moving out of the den and into the dimly lit corridor. We’ll stay together tonight.
I hear Flora whimper and wonder if one day we’ll be calling for help, lost between life and death—ghosts in this house of mystery.
“I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Flora.”
“Promise?” She pouts and then a tear, like unblemished crystal, forms at the corner of her left eye.
I can’t promise a damn thing.
6
I volunteered to help with the chores. It’ll make time pass quicker. Maybe I won’t think about Ken so much.
I’m in the library, dusting off books and shelves. There’s a small couch in the midst of the bookcases. The floor is hardwood, shiny, with no scratches or scuff marks. There’s an open closet behind the couch. Books are stacked on its floor. There are no windows here and there’s a pungent musty smell. Most girls don’t take advantage of the knowledge stored here. There are thick volumes on quilting and sewing. Literature books take up two bookcases and there are Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy books, too.
I grab a copy of Paradise Lost, by John Milton. I notice there are explanations and notes accompanying Milton’s poetry and some of Blake’s art. I slide the book into my pocket.
I know the Ouija board is nearby, probably behind a classic by H. G. Wells or Lovecraft.
I feel its presence, a dark spirit that wants to be heard and set free. I feel other things here, too. Memories of the Amelia Leech Home. Specters struggling to survive the passing of time.
I try to shrug off words and feelings inside my head as I move about, dusting and straightening. I can’t reach the high shelves and I look around for something to stand on. There’s a utility ladder in a corner. It’s about five feet high, enough so that I can clean several of the high shelves.
I drag the ladder to a bookcase and then carefully climb the steps. I run my dust rag over book tops, over wood. I sneeze and feel the ladder wobble.
“Help me…”
I freeze. The voice is coming from the closet. I tell myself it’s one of the girls messing with me. Or maybe it’s my imagination. I know different when a dark foreboding fills my gut.
The voice grows louder. “Help me. They beat the drums so I won’t hear.”
The ladder shakes. I press my hands against the shelf, trying to brace myself. I carefully step downward, but I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on.
I hold my breath. My eyes dart to the closet. No wire hangers dangle from a wooden rack. Gone are books piled on the floor. An archway looms just beyond the threshold. Bones are scattered on a blood stained floor.
“Help me.” A figure emerges from the dark. A young girl. She steps onto the threshold and stops short as if something prevents her from moving into the library. Blood pools around her ankles. Her white night gown is streaked with red. She’s holding something wrapped in a blanket. Smoke billows from it. The girl drops it and it turns to dust.
“What the hell?” I say.
“Your voice unbinds me. He told me to listen. That you are the one,” she says as she steps over the threshold and into the room. She’s moving towards me—hands outstretched. I manage to climb down another step—maybe two.
This is insane. It’s a joke, I think as the ladder wobbles. Aria O’Malley covered herself with ketchup last week and then ran through the halls screaming she’d been stabbed. This is more of the same.
“Who put you up to this? Who are you?”
“Help me,” the girl says as I feel myself fall and my thigh hit something hard. I think of my child, enclosed in the walls of my uterus. Will we survive this or does it end here and now?
* * *
Beth’s gynecologist agreed to see me the day after Thanksgiving. It was snowing. The roads were icy and Beth’s old Chevy skidded a lot. I held onto to my seat until she parked the car in a small lot in back of a white medical building on Broadway in Providence.
The waiting room was nearly empty, except for a couple of girls around Beth’s age—probably getting their checkups and then returning to school with high spirits and promising futures.
“Do you want me to go in with you?” Beth asked when the nurse called me.
“No, I’ll be fine. Thanks.” I rose and followed the nurse into a small examining room.
The doctor knocked a few minutes later. He was tall, with a receding hairline. He touched my stomach.
“How long since your last period?”
“August second.”
“Why did you wait so long?”
“I’ve never been regular.”
He did a quick internal and then leaned over and spoke softly. “Have you thought about abortion? There’s still time. In situations like yours—”
“No. Never.”
I don’t remember much after that. Just watching him strip off rubber gloves and telling me it was alright to get dressed.
I joined Beth in the waiting room.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“He suggested an abortion.”
She lowered her eyes. “A couple of years ago I...”
I didn’t judge her, but what my sister had done wasn’t something I could live with.
“I’ll just go away,” I told her.
“Our parents will freak.” A tear streamed down her cheek.
“In a year or two it won’t matter.”
A truck barreled through the snow. I wondered if it was Ken coming back for me. I held onto that hope until Beth pulled into our parent’s driveway. It was just wishful thinking.
* * *
Irene Kendall is hovering over me. Her breathe smells bad. There are brown stains on her uniform. She has short white hair. Her face is lined with age. I feel as though she’s guarded—as though she keeps dark and arcane secrets. Her office is small. The walls are white and her desk is cluttered with file folders. A folding chair is in the corner and the small cot I’m lying on is parallel to the desk.
Her stethoscope is pressed against my stomach.
“It could have been worse. There’s a nasty bruise on your hip, but other than that things are fine.”
“The baby.”
“The fetus is insulated. It would take a lot more to harm it. Knew a girl who was hit by a car when eight months gone. It sent her flying. She broke two legs, but her baby survived.”
“I thought one of the girls was playing a practical joke, but I don’t know this girl. And I remember seeing other things.” I think of the girl bending over me as I hit the floor. I remember looking past her, into the darkened closet and seeing other girls hovering on the threshold.
The color went out of Irene’s face. “I’ll have Maureen check it out. A new girl arrived here. A friend of Marcy Long.” She sighed. �
��Do me a favor, don’t go down to library by yourself from now on.”
“Why? I can take care of myself. I’m not afraid. I used to stand up to girls who picked on my older sister Beth when we were kids.”
“It’s not about being tough. Put some ice on your leg. No more climbing ladders while you’re pregnant.”
“How long have you worked here?” I ask her.
“Thirty years come September.”
“The library—was it something else before?”
“There were two doctors and two other nurses on staff back in the thirties and forties. The library was a delivery room then. In forty nine we made arrangements with Lying Inn Hospital to bring our girls there.”
“Did any of the girls die?”
She smiles weakly. “We lost a couple of girls during a blizzard in forty eight. Wasn’t our fault.”
“Maybe they’re still here,” I tell her.
She laughs. “You didn’t hit your head down there, did you?”
“All I’m saying is that I never saw that girl before. There were other girls, too. This place gives me the creeps and now you’re lying to me.”
“I don’t lie. You saw nothing.”
“This is all bullshit. I’ll find out the truth.”
Irene pats my hand, “Truth is different for all of us. Depends on what’s deep in your heart.”
“What the hell are you saying?”
She smiles, but her eyes hold no humor. “Just go, dear.”
I leave her, feel her watching me as I limp towards the door. Even when I shut it behind me, I swear she still sees me.
I hear her voice in my head. “Depends on what’s deep in your heart.”
The feeling stays with me until I enter the kitchen and see Davika chopping carrots, onions and celery. She tosses them into a simmering broth. She’s singing, but stops suddenly when I open the fridge and remove ice cubes from the freezer.
“You get spooked, girl? I heard what happened.”
I grab a dish towel from the rack, wrap it around the ice and then press it to my hip. “What’s going on here?”
There are tears in her eyes. Maybe they’re from the onions. Her voice tells me a different story. “Look, for everything good there’s got to be something dark. It’s balance and what stops the world from blowing up. Women have babies every day. They love and nurture them. That’s the good. Then there’s the other side. There’s the women who have babies and don’t get to love them.” She purses her lips. “They got to be taken away.”
“Taken where?”
She turns and strikes the cutting board with such force that wood splinters. “Mr. Greely and me just make sure things stay balanced.” She shakes her head. “Know too much and they lock you up. Like they did to Marcy Long.”
“What are you talking about?”
She doesn’t answer. She just puts her hands on her hips.
I wait for her to speak again, but she won’t. She’s told me more than she should have, so I leave her chopping vegetables and wiping tears from her eyes. I walk the halls of this place knowing it’s a living hell and that its residents are the pawns of evil.
* * *
Lizzy caught on I was pregnant a week after I saw Beth’s doctor. She’d gaze at my stomach, pity etched across her face. She confronted me one day when I emerged from the restroom. I was clutching my belly and feeling tiny flutters inside me.
She watched me as I sighed deeply and then leaned against the wall. I stared absently at the payphone and then heard Lizzy’s harsh voice erupt. “You heard from Ken?”
“No, what of it?”
“I know when a girl’s in trouble.”
“I’m just gaining weight.”
She grabbed my elbow. “I had the same look in my eyes when I was a little older than you. I’d touch my belly and wonder what was I was going to do. One day I left the small town where I grew up. I was five months gone. Went to Boston. After a while I settled here. Started over. My Billy is a full grown man now. People think his father died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Keep my secret and I’ll keep yours. Now, what about Ken?”
“I haven’t seen Ken. Can’t get in touch with him. I think something might have happened.”
Lizzy shook her head. “Maybe more than you Imagine.”
“Huh?” Her comment was odd, but then again everything seemed odd and surreal.
“Nothing. You can’t stick around, not in a small town. Not the way your father is.”
“I’m saving up.”
“I don’t think there’s enough time to save up what you’re going to need. I can help.”
“You want to help me? How?”
“Look, when I was young I earned a living best as I could. I did some things I’m ashamed of it. Made what I call sin money, if you know what I mean. I saved lots of that money and bought a tenement outside of Boston. There’s an empty apartment on the third floor. It’s not much. It needs cleaning, but you could go there. Get on assistance. I’ll drive you out after Christmas if you want.”
“You’d really do that?”
She nodded. “I’ve seen your father about town. I know the men he hangs with. I see the look in his eyes when he’s waiting for you to get off work. Like he’s just been dealing with the Devil.”
“My father is a little rough around the edges. He’s no role model for father of the year, but I think he loves me. I think he...”
She folded her arms. “I’m afraid for you. That’s all.”
I’d tried to keep fear and confusion in check until I heard the concern in Lizzy’s voice. Emotion got hold of me and I began to sob. Wondering what the future held and thinking about what a fool I’d been.
* * *
The blood dotted my underwear. Not a lot, but enough to make me worry. It was a week before Christmas. Luke’s was decorated with wreaths and he’d put cheap plastic candles in the windows.
Lizzy and I were working double shifts. I wasn’t feeling so hot. Thinking about the hours ahead of me made me feel weaker. There was no one to tell but Lizzy. I waited until break and then followed her out to the parking lot.
She was leaning against the side of the diner when I found her. Puffs of smoke circled around her. Her gaze was distant, almost ethereal as she watched snowflakes tumble from the gray sky.
“Knew you’d be here,” she told me as she tossed her butt on the ground and then crushed it.
“I’m bleeding. Something’s wrong.”
Concern spread across her face.
“How long has it been going on?”
“Since last night.”
Her voice shook when she spoke. “Damn. I thought I could help you hide from them. I can still try.”
“What?” I felt dizzy. What she’d said didn’t make sense to me. “Who are they?”
She shrugged. “Your parents, I guess. Look, go tell Luke you’re sick and that you need to see a doctor.” She glanced at her watch. “He won’t give me any shit. I’ve done him too many favors over the years. Working doubles. Even waiting to get paid when things were rough for him. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
“He’ll think...”
“Does it matter what he thinks? It’ll be alright.”
It wasn’t long before Lizzy pulled her car onto the highway. I was cold and scared.
Lizzy drove me to Saint Joseph’s emergency room. She stayed by me when an elderly doctor examined me thoroughly and asked, “Have you had any prenatal care?”
“No.”
“There’s a mass lodged in your birth canal. Could be a benign polyp. Could be something more. It needs to come out. The sooner the better. We can do it tomorrow.”
Panic rose inside me. “I can’t stay here. I’ll have it done when I get settled.”
“Not recommended,” he said sternly.
Lizzy held my hand as I wept.
Fear filled me and then despair. “Luke will tell my Dad we took off together.”
“I�
�m sorry. I tried to change it for you. Guess things are set in stone. You do what you have to. Things will turn out just the way they’re supposed to in the end.”
Once more her comments struck me as odd, out of sync with what was going down and then I remembered something she’d said earlier...
“I thought I could help you hide from them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t mind me. I’m just a tired old waitress.”
She left me there. Tears streaming down her face as she moved away. Was there more to Lizzy than what people saw? And did she know more about Ken than she let on?
* * *
Once settled in a hospital room I reached for the phone by my bed and dialed my house.
My mother answered. She sounded weary.
My heart pounded. I spoke quickly. I knew if I hesitated I might not say what I needed to. “Ma, I won’t be coming home for a few days. I’m in the hospital. I’m bleeding. I’m pregnant and ...”
“I know, Meg. My God, I know.” she said softly.
“How?”
“I always knew. You bleeding because you’re losing it?” Her voice was tinged with ice, very odd as my mother was normally warm and loving.
“No, it’s a polyp or something. They need to take it out.”
Now she spoke to my father. “I was right. She’s pregnant.”
I heard my father saying something unintelligible. I heard things crashing and banging in the background.
“Your father is slamming furniture. Punching walls. What hospital?” Her tone remained icy.
They were there within the hour.
My father grimaced when a nurse set milk and cookies on a tray before me. He waited until she left and then told me in his matter of fact way. “You give it up. Ain’t no way you’re going to raise a kid.”
“Who’s the father?” asked my mother.
“A trucker. He went to ’Nam. I can’t get in touch with him.” I lied about the ’Nam part.
“Why did God do this? I can’t deal with the shame.” My mother wrung her hands.