The Devil's Hand

by Amy Cross

  In fact, I think maybe I could just -

  Suddenly a scream rings out, shrill and distant, and it keeps going on and on.

  I hurry along the corridor, and after a moment I spot one of the girls running past the window outside, hurrying toward the teachers' office. I push the door open and step out into the cold, foggy morning air, and that's when I realize that the scream, which is continuing, seems to be coming from around the far corner, off toward the playing field. I make my way across the playground, and suddenly I spot someone running this way through the mist.

  “What's wrong?” I ask as Harriet runs past with tears in her eyes.

  She doesn't stop to explain, so I keep going. A couple more girls have emerged now and a few of us make our way past the edge of the playground and out onto the playing field. The fog seems thicker out here, and I can only see twenty or twenty-five feet in any direction, but I can damn well hear the scream up ahead, coming closer until suddenly Molly stumbles into view through the fog, crying out for help with utter panic in her eyes.

  “What is it?” I ask, grabbing her arm. “Molly, what did you see? Was it Abigail? Was it the Devil?”

  She stammers something I don't quite manage to make out, and then Beryl gives her a hug while Catherine and I make our way further through the fog. Up ahead, looming out of the white haze, I see the outline of the old oak tree, but as I get closer I realize that something seems different.

  “What do you think is wrong?” Catherine asks, her voice filled with fear. “Do you think she saw Abigail?”

  “Why would she be scared of Abigail?” I point out.

  “Well, she'd be a ghost, so...”

  “I wouldn't be scared if I saw Abigail,” I reply, quickening my pace as panic builds in my chest. “I'd be fascinated and relieved. It must be something else.”

  Behind us, in the distance, Mrs. Kilmartin and Doctor Ratcliffe are calling out, asking what's wrong, but I don't have time to wait for them.

  “Oh no!” Catherine says suddenly, stopping in her tracks. “Please, no...”

  Making my way past her, I get closer to the tree and see that something seems to be hanging from one of the branches, dangling several feet off the snowy ground. I feel a punch of fear to the chest, but I push my worst fears from my mind and keep going until I'm close enough to see properly through the fog.

  When I see her face, I stop in my tracks.

  “Oh Sissy,” I whisper, feeling as if cracks are opening up all through the center of my heart. “Sissy, no...”

  Her body is hanging from the branch, twisting slightly in the morning breeze. There's a rope around her neck, and when I see her eyes bulging from their sockets I immediately realize that it's too late to do anything. I step around her, unable to stop staring up at her poor dead face, and after a moment I hear voices shouting in the distance, getting closer.

  “Oh Sissy,” I say again, as tears start to run down my face. “I told you not to give up...”

  As her body swings in the cold morning air, the rope lets out a series of slow creaks.

  Part Six

  DOCTOR JAMES RATCLIFFE

  I

  “Marks around the neck are consistent with hanging,” I mutter, reading from the report I'm holding in my trembling hands, “and I feel confident enough to record the cause of death as...” My voice trails off for a moment as the bleakness of the situation threatens to overwhelm me. “Suicide,” I add finally.

  This feels so wrong.

  Sissy was just a child herself.

  “The note hardly leaves any doubt,” Mr. Kane says darkly, standing by the fireplace with the tattered piece of paper in his hands. “The girl was simple-minded. You might think me to be a harsh man, Doctor Ratcliffe, but I do not believe the human race will suffer for this loss. Miss O'Neill would never have amounted to much anyway. She should be glad that she and all the other simpletons aren't simply killed at birth.”

  “What exactly does the note say?” I ask, bristling at his words.

  He turns the piece of paper so that I can see the three words written in childish, uneven handwriting:

  I'm sorry.

  Sissy.

  After a moment, he screws the note into a ball and tosses it into the fire, before making his way over to join me at the desk.

  “I suppose news has already spread throughout the school,” he says with a sigh, as if he's annoyed at the inconvenience. “The girls will be nattering away like a bunch of foolish gossips.”

  “Well...” I pause. “Yes, I imagine it has. I believe Mrs. Kilmartin has been speaking to some of the more affected girls, to try to ease their shock.”

  “Shock?” He smiles contemptuously at the idea. “There's no such thing as shock. The girls must simply be mature in their approach.”

  “I think some of the newer ideas in psychology -”

  “Nonsense!” he sneers. “The girls will find all the solace they require in the Bible, and I shall see to it that they receive special instruction on the matter. The O'Neill girl's cowardly act is not to be glorified in any way whatsoever, and it must be emphasized at every opportunity that normal life continues uninterrupted at this school!”

  “It might...” I take a deep breath, trying to work out whether it's even worth raising the next idea. “Well, it might be worth offering counseling for them,” I suggest finally. “To help them deal with the trauma, I mean. Especially the girls who knew her well, and the ones who saw her hanging from the tree. It would be unwise to ignore the impact of this tragedy on their young minds.”

  “Nonsense,” he replies. “What's needed is a little maturity. Gather the girls in the main hall.” He heads to the mirror in the corner and takes a moment to adjust his jacket. “I shall speak to them myself.”

  ***

  “As you will all no doubt understand,” Kane continues a short while later, as he addresses the entire school in the freezing, unheated assembly hall, “it is a cardinal sin to take one's own life, and by doing so Miss O'Neill has demonstrated not only her own lamentable weakness but also her cowardice. I can assure you all that even as I speak to you now, the young girl's soul is burning in the pits of hell, where she will suffer eternal damnation for her actions.”

  A sea of teary-eyed girls stares back at Kane as he speaks, and I can't help glancing at Mrs. Kilmartin next to me. Stony-faced and solemn, she shows no sign of emotion whatsoever. Sometimes I wonder what really goes through her mind when Kane is in the middle of his rants.

  “Let me make one other matter very clear,” Kane says firmly. “None of us on the teaching staff will tolerate maudlin sentimentality from any of the girls at this school. In fact, the first girl who even thinks to use Miss O'Neill's death as an excuse for her own deficiencies in class will be rewarded with ten lashes in my office, is that understood?”

  Silence falls for a moment, and I can't help noticing Ivy Jones at the back of the assembly, staring straight ahead with dark, sorrowful eyes. The sorrow in her eyes is somehow different, as if the tragedy has carved deeper into her soul.

  “Is that understood?” Kane roars.

  “Yes, Sir,” the girls all reply, although their voices sound much more tentative than usual. They're in pain, they need support and guidance, but instead they're just receiving a fresh round of this madman's bluster. Looking down at my hands resting in my lap, I can't help wishing that I were in a position to do something that might help.

  “This assembly is dismissed,” Kane announces, “and normal classes will resume at once. You all have a very valuable opportunity here, girls. You can demonstrate to me, to Mrs. Kilmartin and to Doctor Ratcliffe, and most importantly to yourselves and one another, that you are all strong enough to get on with things instead of lingering on this sinful event. Now get to your classes and let us speak no more of the O'Neill girl.”

  Hearing a faint shuffling sound, I look back out across the hall and see that one of the girls, Harriet Bell, has raised a hand in the air.

  “Ple
ase, Sir,” she says cautiously, “but... Will there be a funeral service?”

  “There will not,” Kane replies. “The O'Neill girl deserves no such thing. And now, the assembly is over!”

  He pauses for a moment before clapping his hands together, and the girls immediately turn and start silently filing out of the hall. The whole room has a deathly feel, and I can't help feeling that I want to get to my feet and tell everyone that I don't agree with Kane, that I don't see Sissy O'Neill as weak or cowardly, that she is to be missed and that the girls should talk about what has happened.

  I don't say any of that, however.

  I merely sit quietly, just like Mrs. Kilmartin, until all the girls have left the room. When I finally glance over at her again, I realize that she doesn't seem to have moved a muscle in all the time we've been in this room. I want to ask her what she's thinking, how she's able to stand this place, but I'm scared to disturb her. In her eyes, there's a faraway quality, as if she's remembering something from a long time ago. Was her spirit always this low, I ask myself, or was she broken during her time here at Beacon's Ash?

  “I think that went as well as could be expected,” Kane mutters, turning to us. “I'm sure a few of the girls will make an exhibition of themselves, but we shall simply use them as examples to the rest. I want you both to be on the lookout for groups of girls congregating to talk, especially in places where they might reasonably hope to go unnoticed. Remember, they can be devious, so don't trust them for a second. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Mrs. Kilmartin says finally, getting to her feet. “If you'll excuse me, I must be getting to my classroom. The girls will be waiting for their daily instruction in home cleanliness.”

  “Yes,” I mutter under my breath, “that's what they need to talk about today. Detergent and bleach.”

  As she walks away, I'm left alone with Kane. He's watching me intently, almost as if he understands my concerns.

  “You will arrange for the girl to be buried,” he says after a moment, with scorn in his voice. “I spoke with the O'Neill family by telephone this morning, and they quite understandably have no desire to draw attention to the situation, so they asked that we dispose of the body discreetly.” He turns and makes his way toward the door, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “I must say, I always prefer it when family-members are sensible regarding these matters. Sometimes they demand that the body is sent back to them for burial in their hometown, and the whole thing seems like an unnecessary waste of time and resources. I do so hate sentimentality in all its forms.”

  “Do you really think she's burning in hell?” I ask.

  He turns to me.

  “I mean...” I know I shouldn't have said anything, but it's hard to believe that anyone could be quite so hard-hearted. Getting to my feet, I can already see the disdain in his expression. “She was just a child herself,” I continue. “Is it not possible that the Lord... I just... Is she really to suffer eternal damnation for the crime of being scared? Does the Lord truly have no compassion for his children?”

  He pauses, before allowing a faint smile to cross his lips.

  “Careful, Doctor Ratcliffe,” he says as he turns and walks away. “Any more foolish questions, and I shall start to wonder whether you are becoming soft.”

  Left alone on the stage, I turn and look out across the empty hallway. I cannot say such a thing around Mr. Kane, of course, but deep down I hope that the Lord will see fit to show mercy when he judges Sissy O'Neill's soul. I'm honestly not sure that I understand the order of a world in which young girls are so heavily punished for their mistakes, or in which men such as Kane are put in charge of their lives. Still, there is nothing I can do to change any of this, so I turn and head toward my office, to begin the process of preparing Sissy for burial.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, Sissy is dumped in an unmarked grave out by the stone wall. Kane offers a brief reading about cowardice before Sykes starts to fill the hole. Mrs. Kilmartin stands next to me the whole time, but she says nothing before turning and leaving before I can speak to her.

  All around us, snow is gently falling, and I remind myself that there is nothing I can do. I am merely an observer.

  II

  She cries out as the cat-o-nine-tails rips her flesh, flaying it into bloodied strands. I step forward, determined to end her suffering, but I know better than to interfere. Instead, I watch as Abigail Cartwright drops to her hands and knees with blood flowing freely from her back, and as Kane makes his way around her, judging the perfect spot for his next strike.

  “Do you understand how you earned this judgment?” he asks, staring down at her. “Do you recognize that any suffering you experience tonight is nothing compared to the misery you will suffer if your soul is damned for all eternity?”

  She lets out a gasp, but I can't make out any of the words.

  “You will understand,” Kane continues, taking a step back. “I will make you understand.”

  With that, he cracks the cat-o-nine-tails again. I flinch and turn away, but I hear the sound of the poor girl's skin splitting like old fabric. When I turn back to look at the horrific scene, I see that Kane is once making his way around the girl. After a moment, however, I realize that Abigail is staring at me, almost as if she's waiting or me to step in and do something to help her.

  “I can't,” I whisper, hoping against hope that she might be able to hear me.

  Her lips move, but no words emerge. I think she's pleading with me, though, even as tears stream down her face.

  “I can't,” I say again, more loudly this time. “I'm sorry, I just can't -”

  Cracking the whip again, Kane knocks her to the ground as her back is torn once again. This time, after holding back for so long, the poor girl finally lets out a scream.

  “I can't do anything!” I shout, stepping toward her. “Why won't you understand that?”

  Her scream continues as Kane whips her again.

  “No!” I shout, sitting up suddenly in bed.

  Breathless and covered in sweat, I stare across the dark room and see the shadows of trees swaying beyond the frost-covered window, and after a moment I realize I can see heavy snowfall outside. A strong storm has brewed as if from nowhere, and I feel compelled to climb from my bed and make my way across the room until I can see the playground below and, a little further off, the fields. Snow is heavy in the air, turning the whole scene into a vast white expanse. In the distance, I can just about make out the oak tree from which Sissy O'Neill hung herself, and I feel a shudder at the memory of cutting the poor little wretch down.

  A moment later, I spot three small figures darting across the playground, keeping to the shadows as they head toward the field.

  ***

  Wrapping my coat around my body in a futile effort to remain dry, I struggle out through the side door and into the storm. Snow is falling all around as I keep close to the wall and make my way toward the far end. I know this is madness, I know I should just wait inside for the girls to return and then discipline them, but I know they'd lie about what they're doing out here in such foul weather.

  I need to see for myself.

  When I get to the far end of the playground, I stop for a moment and look out at the vast, snow-covered scene. There's a very faint rustling sound all around, as thousands of snowflakes reach the ground every second. After a moment I spot movement in the distance, and I realize that the three girls are heading toward the oak tree. Already freezing cold, I make my way after them, determined to put an end to whatever superstitious nonsense has filled their heads. I'm sure they don't intend to cause trouble, but it's better that I'm the one who catches them and makes them see sense. Besides, out here in the dead of night they're at risk of pneumonia.

  As I get closer to the tree, I see that the girls are taking shelter beneath its branches. They're sitting on cushions in the snow and holding hands, and it's clear that they're engaged in some form of ritual.

  “Paganism!”
I can imagine Kane shouting if he were to see them.

  As I get closer I can see that their mouths are moving, as if all three are engaged in some form of chant. By the time I'm just a few feet away they still haven't noticed my approach, and I stop for a moment to watch as they continue their chant. Still unable to hear them, I trudge a little closer through the knee-high snow, and finally one of the girls opens her eyes and turns toward me.

  She immediately screams and pulls back from the others.

  “Stop!” I shout, stepping toward them as all three stagger to their feet. “What in God's name are you girls doing out here?” I continue, as I see that Winnie Smith, Joyce Bainbridge and Vera Monroe are the three girls in question. “Are you actively trying to catch pneumonia?” Spotting something clutched in Winnie's hand, I step closer and reach out, only to find that she's holding some kind of makeshift doll. “What is this?” I shout, pulling the doll away from her and trying to get a better look in the moonlight. “What are you up to?”

  ***

  “Voodoo?” I say yet again, still not quite able to get my head around such gross stupidity as I stand by the fire in the office and hold the doll in my hands. “How could three supposedly intelligent young women possibly get the idea in their heads to start practicing voodoo?”

  “We're not practicing it, exactly,” Winnie replies, sniffing back tears, “we just... Everyone else has tried to contact Abigail Cartwright, but none of them have had any luck.”

  “So we thought we'd try something different,” Vera adds cautiously. “Seeing as we had some strands of Abigail's hair, and all.”