“My friends didn’t do this.”
“Who else knows your locker code?”
“I have no idea,” I replied softly.
“Made any enemies lately?” Zac was glancing around as though the culprit might be lurking nearby to watch my reaction to his handiwork. But the hallway was thronging with students and none of them looked even remotely suspicious. “I think we should report this.”
“No,” I said, “it’s just a stupid prank.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Come on, Zac, what else could it be?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t like it. If anything else weird happens today, you’ll tell me, right?” He’d gone into strangely protective mode.
“Of course. Right now I just need to find whatever’s making that disgusting smell.”
We both peered into my locker, but there were only folders, protein bars and piles of books, all stacked neatly. The only other item was my gym bag, tucked in the top right-hand corner.
Zac motioned to it. “May I?”
I nodded and he tugged it down. The moment he opened the zipper, the cause of the putrid smell was revealed. Dark brown slime bubbled from the bag, seeping over Zac’s fingers. He yanked his hand away and stared in horror. Everything I kept in there — my hairbrush, toiletries, tampons, a towel — was coated in this oozing substance, which was viscous like honey and filled the corridor with the stench of rotting meat.
Zac instinctively covered his mouth and stepped back as if someone had punched him in the face. “Okay, this we have to report.”
“No! I mean … I’d rather not.”
He stared at me, dumbfounded. “Chloe, this is destruction of personal property accompanied by what we can only assume is some kind of threat. Are you really gonna let it slide?”
“It’s not the right time to stir things up. Trust me.”
“What does that mean? You can’t just ignore this.”
“I can,” I said, shoving the bag back into my locker. “I’ll deal with it later. Please don’t say anything, okay?”
Zac hesitated. “Well, I don’t get it, but okay, if that’s what you want.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“If you’re in some kind of trouble, I want to help …”
“I can’t explain right now, but I can handle this.”
My tone was so emphatic that Zac had no choice but to accept my decision. Even if he was uncomfortable with it, I knew he didn’t want to jeopardise our newfound friendship.
“Can I at least help you clean this up later?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, even though I had no intention of dragging him into my complex life. “That’s nice of you.”
We parted ways and headed off to our respective classes. First up for me was a double period of Biology. Shaken though I was, I went anyway and sat there writing reams of notes but absorbing nothing. What we’d found in my gym bag had brought back a disturbing memory. I’d seen that foul-smelling mud before, oozing from my wardrobe at Grange Hall, dripping from Isobel’s decaying corpse. Only then I hadn’t realised its significance: Isobel and her infant son both lay in a muddy grave and her spirit was forever hostile. If Alex was back, did that mean Isobel was too? The thought made me shudder.
As soon as class ended, I ran back to my locker, determined to dispose of the soiled gym bag. But when I opened it, already holding my breath, the smell was gone and the bag was clean. In fact, everything was just as I’d packed it yesterday with no sign of any interference.
I slammed the door shut, breathing hard. I didn’t like this one bit.
I spent morning recess trying to find Alex, checking the theatre first and then wandering around the rest of the school. I wanted to tell him what had happened. I wanted to warn him that we were both in danger. He knew now about the tragic events of his short life, but not about the aftermath that was still raging over one hundred and fifty years later. He had to know the whole story.
But he was nowhere to be found and I was beginning to have second thoughts about the things I’d already told him. Perhaps I’d been wrong to think that the truth would bridge the gap between us. It seemed to have done the exact opposite, and Alex had withdrawn even further into himself. Being dead didn’t make him superhuman. Obviously he needed as much time as anyone else to process the news I’d so tactlessly dumped on him. I just hoped he’d come around soon. Whatever was happening at my school, he was an integral part of it. I had to believe he would put aside his grief long enough to address the current situation. There was no way I could do it alone. I just had to be patient (not one of my virtues) and wait. Alex was desperately trying to put together the puzzle and had yet to realise that I was the missing piece.
I spotted Zac standing with a group of friends by the football field, playing some game on his phone. I waited for him to notice me, but he was too engrossed, so I pulled my own phone out and sent him a text: Look up.
As soon as he did, I waved and watched his face break into a smile. I could have navigated my way through the crowd to talk to him, but sending another text seemed faster: Meet me for lunch?
He glanced down, then gave me a thumbs-up.
The last thing I wanted to do was lead him on, so to clarify I sent a final message: There are things I need to talk to you about.
He nodded gravely this time, as if we had reached a secret understanding.
I was about to turn away to head off to my next class when a movement near Zac caught my eye. I saw a shadow like a dark aura, indistinct at first as it flitted around him, almost playful. Then the shadow grew, stretching and looming over him until I could clearly see the silhouette of a woman with long wild hair and a tattered nightdress. The shadow was faceless yet I got the prickly feeling it was looking for someone. Me. Memories rushed at me with the speed of an express train.
As if it could read my thoughts, the shadow extended spindly fingers that crawled spider-like over Zac’s shoulders. Darkness fell across his face, blocking out the light, but he was on his phone again and didn’t register a thing.
Instinctively I called out to him: “Zac!” He didn’t hear me, but the shadow seemed to. The tendril fingers retreated, creeping backward over his face, to merge again with the black shadow, which faded to grey and dissolved into the air.
I knew we hadn’t seen the last of it. The message had reached me loud and clear.
I AM NOT GONE.
CHAPTER NINE
I had to get through one more class before lunch: a double period of Social Studies. Luckily for me, Mr Nolan was short-sighted, arthritic and looked like he should have retired about a decade ago, which meant he didn’t pay half as much attention to us as some of the other teachers. You could pretty much do what you wanted in his class as long as you didn’t knock over furniture or swing from the rafters. He never said much either, just wrote reams of notes on the whiteboard, and if you didn’t copy them down that was your own damn problem.
I took my seat feeling like all the wind had been knocked out of me. There seemed to be a shock waiting for me around every corner and it wasn’t even midday yet. Who could live that way — always on the lookout, always bracing for the next attack? Right now, the routine of Social Studies was a welcome reprieve.
Mr Nolan began the lesson, but despite my efforts I couldn’t concentrate. Comparative Economic Systems was the heading on the board, but I had no idea what that meant and, to be honest, couldn’t care less about finding out. My brain was in overload, drowning in thoughts and worries and questions. It was enough to drive anyone mad.
As my tension grew, I found my hand slipping into my pocket to trace the ridges of Grandma Fee’s brooch. I thought touching it might help stop my brain from exploding, and it worked. The more I rubbed my thumb over the smooth stones, the more I relaxed, until the pen I was holding in my other hand dropped to the floor. This was becoming a familiar routine now, but it had never happened in public before. Should I risk falling into a dream-lik
e state surrounded by others?
I could have let go of the brooch and returned to Mr Nolan’s monotone voice summarising the latest chapter in our textbook, but I liked the drowsiness overtaking me. It pushed all the troubling thoughts away. I wondered if anyone would even notice if I just lay my head down for a moment. Mr Nolan probably wouldn’t.
My breathing was already slowing and my eyelids closing. A catnap. Two minutes tops. What harm could there be in that?
There is a different mood in the house today. With the master away, everybody seems to go about their business with a lighter step. It is as if someone has opened a window in an overheated room to let in a burst of fresh air. The strained look on Mrs Reade’s face is gone and I even catch her smiling to herself for no apparent reason. When she and Mr Alexander are together they are like two carefree children contemplating their next adventure. There is a genuine affection between them that is infectious, lifting the spirits of everyone who comes into contact with them. Only old Isaac, Mr Reade’s valet, shakes his head in disapproval, but no one takes much heed of him and his talk of hellfire. He thinks everyone should always be pious and even smiling is a misdemeanour to him.
Even though it makes no sense given he is my superior in both years and social standing, I cannot help feeling a protective instinct toward Mr Alexander, as if he needs to be shielded from the harshness of the world. I have not stopped thinking about him since our last encounter. I am not so naive as to think we could ever be friends, but even that brief exchange with him has reignited my confidence. I am not yet certain how our paths will cross again, but I feel certain they must.
Mr Alexander has none of the arrogance often demonstrated by those with privilege. In fact, apart from my own darling mother, he may be the kindest soul I have ever encountered. He is always courteous and civil to everyone, and takes a personal interest in the staff, asking after them and their loved ones. I do not know how he remembers these tiny details about people. Perhaps he listens intently when they talk, which is a rare quality. He treats everyone as his equal, which I suppose we are in God’s eyes. I heard talk only yesterday that Mr Alexander is destined for the church, and if it is true I can think of no employment more fitting for someone with his gentle temperament.
Since our encounter in the library, his words have continued to ring in my ears: “You have my permission to avail yourself of the knowledge contained in these books whenever an opportunity presents itself.” It was like receiving an unexpected gift; I feel honoured that someone as educated as Mr Alexander sees potential in me. However, I am yet to take him up on his offer. The pursuit of knowledge is a wonderful thing but it requires free time, and when is a servant ever free?
To my delight, an opportunity presents itself right when I least expect it. I have just finished sweeping the kitchen and find that nobody is about. Cook and Mrs Baxter have gone to the market to fetch supplies for tonight’s supper and will be away at least an hour. This allows me to slip into the library unseen. Admittedly I take a few shortcuts with my chores to enable this, but I doubt anyone will notice.
Inside the library I feel I am floating on a cloud, surrounded by so many possibilities I barely know where to begin. I realise how odd I must look, browsing the titles in my maid’s outfit rather than dusting them. But my hunger for knowledge overrides all other emotions and makes me brave. I do not plan to stay long; I only wish to steal a few luxurious moments to cast my eyes over some illustrations so I may call them to mind this evening when I am trying to fall asleep.
Feeling as if I am liberating it, I carefully lift a volume from behind its glass panel in one of the bookcases, choosing it for its shiny cover. I ensconce myself in a window seat, shielded behind velvet drapery in case anyone should walk in, and sit there cross-legged, the pages of the open book fluttering on my lap. From my position I have a full view of the driveway and can see all comings and goings. I relax now; it is a rain-spattered day with no sign of life outside other than the old gardener planting bulbs before the first frost sets in.
To my delight, the book I have selected is about art from a period known as the Renaissance. Aware that my time is limited I flip to the illustrations first, stopping at a glossy image of the Madonna and Child surrounded by angels. The artist has an Italian name I cannot pronounce. One of his angels instantly catches my attention. The serene countenance, long burnished locks and chiselled nose remind me so much of Mr Alexander that I find myself peering closer, examining the features in detail. Unlike the master of the house, who is often distant and vexed over business matters, his brother has a face full of light, as if the sun has claimed him as its own. I cannot help but wonder if this is a result of Mr Alexander’s choice to occupy himself with loftier matters such as art and philosophy. What a charmed life that must be to spend one’s days in happy contemplation.
I do not know how much time passes as I turn the pages, enthralled and unable to tear my eyes away from the paintings. But eventually I become aware of whispered voices. There are other people in here! They must have entered stealthily or surely I would have heard them. The voices are muffled, making it difficult to catch what is being said. I hear gentle laughter and the unmistakable tones of intimacy. I wonder fleetingly if two of the servants have found a quiet place to have a secret tryst. But I know very well that none of them would dare.
I am well and truly trapped! I cannot announce myself without admitting I am shirking my duties in favour of self-advancement. Who will believe that my visit here is sanctioned by the master’s brother? More likely I will be accused of lying as well as being lazy. Besides, the moment to reveal myself has come and gone. At this point it will look as if I am listening in on a private conversation — a grievous sin for a servant.
I part the curtains a fraction and catch sight of two figures, a man and a woman, talking closely beside a plaster column. He stands behind her, whispering something in her ear that makes her burst into a fresh peal of laughter and lean her body affectionately against him. Even from a distance there is no mistaking them: Mr Alexander and Mrs Reade.
I am thoroughly frightened now and I tuck my feet further under my body, wishing I could sink right through the floor and disappear. I hunch against the window, praying they will leave soon, before Mrs Baxter returns and wonders where I have got to. I am so busy attempting to shrink into the corner that I do something careless. As I adjust my position, the heavy book slips from my grasp and falls onto the wooden boards with a resonant thud.
I hear a sharp intake of breath, then an imperious voice demands, “Who is there? Show yourself!”
The voice belongs to the mistress of the house. There is nothing to be done now but to slip out from behind the curtains and try to explain myself as best I can.
Upon seeing me, Mr Alexander’s face creases with concern while Mrs Reade goes pale with rage.
“What is the meaning of this?” she cries, eyes flashing. “How dare you hide in here and startle us half to death, you stupid girl!”
“I do beg your pardon, madam,” I blurt, feeling my face burn with humiliation and my knees about to buckle. “I did not mean to interrupt you. I expected the library would be empty at this time.”
“As this is my house, I believe I may enter the library any time I please,” she says coldly. “And you have not answered my question. Kindly explain yourself before I send you to the attic to pack.”
To my surprise, Mr Alexander comes to my defence. “I am afraid this is all my fault,” he says.
Mrs Reade looks at him, perplexed.
“You must not blame the child. You see, I gave her permission to look at these volumes whenever she had a moment to spare. She is merely acting on my instructions.”
The mistress’s face is a mixture of surprise and irritation. I sense she would have enjoyed asserting her authority by sending me packing; and that she cannot fathom what need someone like me might have for books. She clearly does not approve of people rising above their station; however, with Mr Al
exander watching she has to keep her anger in check.
“I see.” She flashes Mr Alexander a tight smile before returning her attention to me. “And what is your name, girl?”
I open my mouth to answer, but am so nervous I seem to have forgotten my own name. Mr Alexander is once again forced to come to my rescue.
“This is Becky,” he answers, and I see vexation blaze in Mrs Reade’s eyes.
“Tell me, Becky,” she says coldly, “have you completed your morning duties?”
“Yes, madam,” I mumble, remembering to curtsey.
“Then I must conclude they have been shoddily done,” she snaps. “I must say, I am shocked at your impertinence. Alexander, what is to be done with this ungrateful child?”
“Perhaps, my dear, you should leave this to me,” he says. “I do hate to see you so upset.”
Mrs Reade seems placated by his concern for her and allows him to steer her to the door. “I shall see you at dinner,” she says, and throws me a glance as she exits that says she would like to see me obliterated from the earth.
“I beg your forgiveness, sir,” I say when Mr Alexander turns back to me. “You gave me a privilege and I abused it. I am undeserving of your kindness. You must know I meant no harm.”
“Please, I am not angry with you, Becky. You have abused nothing. Rather, I am glad you took my advice. I hope you will not take Mrs Reade’s words to heart. She has much on her mind of late. Please don’t think too harshly of us.”
I am overwhelmed by his words and feel tears pricking behind my eyes. I feel terrible for putting Mr Alexander in such a position.
“Thank you, sir,” I manage. “There is nothing to forgive.”
I expect him to leave, but instead he lingers. I watch a range of emotions cross his face as he deliberates over what to say next.
“It is my brother’s birthday,” he begins, then winces as if aware of the flimsiness of the explanation. “My brother shall be thirty-three in the spring, and Mrs Reade and I are planning a small gathering. We sought refuge in here to discuss the details.” His eyes search my face for a reaction. “Perhaps it would be best if you forgot this ever happened.”
Haunted Page 10