Was there another suicide on campus?
It was a possibility she’d never considered, nor had Veronica ever mentioned any other students meeting an unfortunate end. Although the asylum history and accompanying haunting of the theatre had spooked her, she’d never drawn a line between the events in her room and the rest of the campus.
Someone else had definitely considered this possibility, she learned as she scrolled: halfway down the comments on the posting was one from JustGotWicked, whose location was IP locked to Toronto:
Casteel is cursed! There’s a lot more going on than crying and weird orbs in tunnels. To read my research and theories, visit my blog, especially if you’re a female attending Casteel. It could save your life.
“Gee, that’s not ominous or anything,” she mumbled, clicking the link he’d provided.
What she found left her reeling.
The blogger gave only his gender and age in his profile, and refused to give names, stating that he didn’t want family members coming after him. What he did present was a detailed timeline of female students who’d run away from Casteel, never to return and, as confirmed in four cases, never to be seen again. Old records from the asylum days included several patient deaths, including three suicides in what was now Pearson Hall. Most disturbing to Autumn, however, was the fact it was a pattern: every few years, he said, another female student disappeared, always in winter.
He felt that the students were driven away by the actions of restless spirits, who perhaps mistook the students for the staff who’d tormented them so. Abuse was rampant in asylums, he stated, so it was likely at least one staff member exhibited cruelty. He also suggested that patients were buried on the grounds somewhere, a prospect Autumn found nauseating and sad all at once.
Minimizing the browser window, she leaned back, closing her eyes to think. Nikki Lang was definitely in her room, and had taken her life here: these were facts, verified by Veronica and others. She’d died in February – winter. While she’d heard sobbing on a regular basis, such incidents went back for years, well before Nikki’s passing. What if her ghost wasn’t Nikki at all, but a far older spirit?
What if that same spirit had driven Nikki to suicide?
Swallowing hard, she sat her laptop aside and hugged her pillow to her chest. Could ghosts be so cruel? Was Nikki simply not strong enough to just leave, run, go elsewhere? Her memory shifted to the fragmented postcard she’d found in the tunnels, expressing fear at something.
Was Nikki haunted too?
A grumble and sigh startled her. She turned towards Veronica, who stretched and yawned loudly. Her brow furrowed and she glanced over, relaxing as she understood the reason for her apparent confusion: she wasn’t in her own room.
“Morning,” she murmured. “Why am I here?”
“Because you passed out and Evan didn’t want to risk carrying you across the entire second floor and juggling you to find your keys,” Autumn replied. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Why the grouchy?” Veronica shoved herself to sitting, lolling against the headboard.
“Oh that’s right! You probably don’t remember calling Andrew ‘the Elton John guy’ and leaving me in an awkward convo with him!” Autumn sighed, kicking her bed. “Jesus, V! Not cool.”
“Oh my fuckity-fuck! I’m so sorry!” She twisted her blonde hair into a loose knot at her neck. “Want me to try and fix it?”
“No, I’ll handle it. But you’re having my blouse and skirt cleaned as penance,” she added, gesturing to her wrinkled garments.
“Done!” Her mind drifted away, a small smile crossing her lips. “Evan carried me here?”
Autumn rolled her eyes, smiling. “Yes, Princess. Tucked you in and everything. You two are giving me diabetes.”
“Sorry! Well no, I’m not sorry because he is so sweet and intelligent! I’m kicking myself for not dating him sooner. He’s a good guy, isn’t he?”
Autumn nodded, “Yes, he is. Rare quality.”
“Oh! Have I told you that he sings? Plays guitar?”
Autumn swung herself around, planting her back against the wall beside her bed. “He does? How’d you learn this?”
Veronica beamed, folding her legs beneath her as she sat up, matching Autumn’s posture. “I was telling him about the annual charity concert that we do every December, and he asked why it’s just Drama and Music students that take part. I told him that it was a gimme, considering our majors, to which he pointed out his talents and asked why writers were not allowed to join the fun. Which brings me to something I meant to ask you about yesterday, but forgot in the haze of vodka amnesia.”
“Lemme guess: you need to pick a song for this too?”
Veronica shook her head. “Already have one or two in mind. I was thinking about what Evan said, and decided it would be fun to open the playing field and perhaps encourage a little friendly rivalry between majors. Perhaps get a local store to donate a trophy? The audience could vote on their favourite act! How does that sound?”
“Pretty awesome, actually. Are you able to accept defeat at Evan’s hands, though?” she teased.
“Please! Drama for the win, baby. But… I want you to participate too.”
Autumn felt herself blanch. “Um, what? I don’t sing! Are you still drunk?”
“Hmm, nope. Feel fine. And don’t you feed me that crap, Autumn Brody: not only do I recall your mom mentioning years of choir and glowing solos-”
“She’s a mom, she exaggerates!”
“Whatever! I also heard you singing last night sometime before I took a turn into Drunkville and you were amazing! C’mon, Autumn, you could do something with Evan.”
“Why do you hate me?” Autumn whined.
“It’s for charity! We usually raise a few grand every year for a different cause. Half the people go up as a lark, and no one will expect Creative Writing majors to sound like trained vocalists. Please?”
The puppy eyes were in full force and Autumn’s head was still throbbing. Temptation rose in her to throw something hard and painful at her friend’s head, but she struggled to resist. No freaking way. Wallflowers don’t perform on stages.
Actually, Charlie does join the Rocky Horror cast in that book-
Fuck off! Don’t help her!
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, V.”
“You’ll change your mind!” Veronica chirped, swinging her legs out of bed. “I have class soon. Better head downstairs and shower. Are you going to class?”
“Yeah, I have Creative Writing at one-thirty. We’re discussing ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, which I have read a dozen times before so I can bullshit all day about it. You?”
“Drama, same time. Missed Vocals this morning but oh well! Wanna grab lunch?”
Autumn nodded. “Meet you in like forty-five?”
“Done!”
Veronica leaned forward, scooping up her heels near the foot of the bed and slipping them on. With a yawn, she rose and stumbled lazily towards the door, crying out as she suddenly lost her footing and nearly fell face-first onto the wood floor. Autumn immediately launched herself from her bed, offering a hand to her friend.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, nothing hurts. Just feel really, really stupid…” Her voice trailed off as her palm pressed to the ground. “No wonder I fell. This floorboard’s loose.”
“Really?” Autumn kneeled beside her, fingers sweeping the floor. “Yeah, it is. Funny, I’ve never tripped on it before and I’m probably the biggest klutz alive.”
The small plank was slightly ajar, just enough to require a lift and slide-shove to knock it back into place. The lift was all Autumn managed, her eyes fixating beneath it.
“Is that-”
“Yeah. Grab it, V?”
Her friend’s small hand slipped into the gap, fingers scissoring the thick white edge of the Polaroid picture. As she flipped it over, Veronica gasped and dropped it, kicking it away with her shoe.
“Ugh! What the h
ell?”
What the hell, indeed. Autumn’s eyes widened as she examined the battered photograph, immediately drawn to the rusty splash across the lower corner of the memento. Blood, she knew instinctively. But whose? This was the part that chilled her flesh as she memorized the demure smile and bright auburn waves of the young woman pictured, dressed in a lacy blue dress that looked just a little… old.
“Who is that?” Veronica asked softly.
“Not Nikki,” Autumn said, shaking her head in disbelief. But she could be her sister. Our sister.
Another doppelganger. A bloody still-frame, hidden beneath her feet.
Veronica’s hand came to rest on her arm, squeezing it gently as they both continued to stare at the frozen girl, as if she might explain herself if they only waited long enough. But it was Veronica who spoke at last, her voice trembling.
“Babe? You need to get another room.”
NINETEEN
Oakville; November 24th, 2011
It had been nearly a week since Autumn had managed to sleep through the night and it was painfully obvious each time she found herself before a mirror. Raccoon eyes, sunken and bruised, glared emotionlessly as she brushed her hair, tugging it back into a ponytail most days to avoid drying it. The daylight was her safe harbour, and hitting snooze that one extra time felt decadent. Eating seemed arduous now, every motion of fork and knife exhausting. She’d taken to skipping breakfast in lieu of sipping Red Bull in her room.
She had Biology in twenty minutes, but she remained motionless on her bed, staring at the computer screen and a blinking cursor.
Today, she’d do it: she’d email the blogger, the mysterious JustGotWicked of Toronto, and demand more information on his theory of the Casteel curse. She needed evidence, something more than histrionic conjecture on a free platform and cryptic disclaimers. She’d been repeating this ritual for days now, fingers hovering – perhaps even dashing out a sentence or two – only to hit discard and slam the lid shut in a fury.
“This is stupid,” she admonished herself. “It’s a fucking email.”
Emails were dangerous, risky. Wasn’t that why she had a draft sitting for over a year in her account, never to be seen by Heather?
Her eyes drifted to the now nailed down and secured floorboard, remembering the spots of blood beneath. I have to know. Even if it’s all a lie, I still have to know.
Wearily, she tapped out a quick message, the drone of students in the hall piercing her temples.
Hi. I know you don’t know me but I go to Casteel and I need to talk to you. There’s shit happening here and I need answers. Evidence. Please answer.
Chugging her energy drink, she hit send before she could second-guess herself any further, heart pounding as the loading symbol spun then refreshed her inbox. Done. No going back now. Her finger scrolled to close the window, halting as a message bolded in the list.
New mail. From Fiona.
How did she get my email? Autumn felt her stomach lurch as the subject line seemingly glowed: Him. Fiona dared not even write that name – why? And how did she find her? Shaking, she scrolled over the message and clicked to open it.
Autumn, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s important. I asked Corrina for your email, said I’d run into you this summer and lost the paper you wrote your email on. She’s not very bright. Anyway, him. You know. Things have been… weird. My cell phone rings at all hours from blocked numbers. No one speaks. Just breathing, then a click. I just got this phone number so I don’t know how, but… I know.
The cops traced it back to Burlington, so he’s local again. Just be careful, okay?
Fi
“He can’t be…” But she knew it, just as Fiona knew.
Chris Miller had come back.
Mom. Dad. She was due to go home this Saturday. How could she go home if he was around? He could follow her back here, back to her refuge. Home was out of the question, at least for now. They were safer if she remained absent.
Working quickly, she sent a text to her mother, feigning calm as she apologized, blaming school projects and "not wanting to be distracted". She promised to call later, tucking her phone into her purse as she hurried to class. Professor Grant was going to be miserable if she arrived late and the thought alone worsened her burgeoning migraine. At least her restless nights bestowed ample reading time, even for boring textbooks full of pompous, long-winded theories of genetic abnormalities.
Sure enough, she slid into her seat at the sound of the bell, earning a glare from Grant as he scrawled diagrams on the whiteboard in crimson pen. She flipped frantically to her homework, betting on at least three unexpected questions in the next two hours – par for the course when he’d drawn a target on someone’s back. In her head, she heard Fiona’s words, a broken record battering her body as he’d done: He’s local again. He’s local. She could run – had already run – but could she truly hide from someone who’d evaded police for two years?
It seemed a strange, sadistic competition now. Who would get to her first: the ghosts of the campus, or the ghost that destroyed her innocence? And did it even matter?
She would be dead, either way.
***
Autumn thanked the talents of the Casteel Drama program for blessing her with a lonely lunch. Spring Awakening had been extended through the upcoming weekend, and Professor Hurst had demanded a full rehearsal promptly after dinner, which left Veronica dashing to the practice rooms with a sandwich in hand. Feigning attentiveness in class was taxing, but forcing normalcy for her friend’s sake begged a patience she simply couldn’t dig deep and pull out today. She absently grabbed her lunch – snack items, mostly chosen for the sugar rush – and waited in line with her student card to swipe out, tapping her toe impatiently. Maybe she’d hole up in the library, try and finish the stupid diagrams Grant assigned. Math was out of the question before her after-class nap – factorials were dizzying and she was already delirious.
Hand swiped plastic and she slipped it back into her purse, tucking her treasures into her bag. Maybe I should just ask Emma to excuse me from homework tomorrow, she mused. She’s understanding like that. Rubbing her eyes, she made a sharp turn for the exit, eyes averted lest anyone she knew spot her.
“Autumn!”
Too late, she lamented, pushing on through the throng of excited bodies. Of course he finds me today, of all days. Andrew’s voice rang out again, and she hurried out onto the quad, the frigid air a knife in her chest. Where to go? There was no hiding out here.
She’d have to face him. Her stomach turned, the panic swelling to a crescendo.
“Autumn, please!”
She spun slowly, wincing at his pained expression. She’d been dodging him since the night of the party, writing in the library or her room, keeping her distance from the Media Studies building and, consequently, any need to explain herself. He deserves better than that, she admitted to herself. He’d done nothing wrong.
“Hi, Andrew.” Even her voice betrayed her exhaustion, hoarse and low.
“Are you okay?” His breath hitched in surprise, and she understood why Veronica seemed compelled to hug her hello and goodbye lately: she apparently looked worse than she assumed.
“I’ve had a lot of headaches lately,” she said, which was true enough. “Have another today.”
“No wonder you bolted from the dining hall.” He edged closer, hands thrust in his jacket pockets. “Maybe you should see the doctor?”
“It’s just stress. I get them sometimes.” He wasn’t buying it. She could tell from the way he looked at her. “I have homework I need to get done,” she added, ignoring the sway in her knees.
“I miss you,” he whispered. “What did I do?”
“What? You didn’t do anything,” she replied quickly.
You cared for me. You made me feel safe. He’d done everything right by anyone’s standards and still she pushed him away. The worst part was knowing that she’d give anything to rest her head on his shoulder, but didn’t
dare. Not with him possibly watching…
“You haven’t come since Halloween,” he countered. “Since we hung out. So I must have. Done something, I mean. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Autumn felt the world shudder and spin once and blinked hard to steady herself. I don’t know anymore, Andrew. With a small nod, she shrugged, mumbling something about being busy. His blue eyes suddenly seemed blinding, a shock of neon that stung to stare at. Even the grass seemed greener somehow.
Who do you think you are? a familiar voice roared in her skull.
“Huh?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Andrew whispered. “You’re so pale.”
You whore! You goddamn bitch! Is this how you respect me? She could smell him, could feel his breath upon her neck as his chest heaved in rage. He’s local! Fiona screamed. He’s here.
“You’re not here,” Autumn mumbled, gagging on cologne and sweat. “Not…”
Fingers gripped her arm and she screamed, flailing as her knees buckled beneath the weight of memory.
***
“Autumn?” A gentle voice, female. Not him. “Are you awake?”
A flutter of eyelashes, a radiating throb as light struck cornea. Migraine. “Hmm?”
“Autumn, it’s Emma. Do you know where you are?”
Emma? Startled, she shook the shackles of slumber and glanced around, shielding her eyes from the fluorescents overhead. Her school shrink sat anxiously beside her, long, loose curls framing her worried visage. With a knowing look, she reached out and turned off the lights, plunging the room into near-blackness.
“Thank you.”
“Feeling any better?”
“Not that much,” Autumn admitted. Glancing around, she realized where she was and groaned. “How’d I get here?”
“A student watched you faint and called for help. He and security brought you here,” Emma replied. “Do you remember feeling ill?”
Change Of Season Page 27