by Kelley York
I bury my face against his throat and breathe in deep. Admittedly, we’re both in need of a wash, but the scent is still unmistakably William beneath the dirt and sweat we’ve accumulated tonight. “Dear Lord, please forgive this harlot…”
He chuckles, warm and soft, and the subtle movement of him shifting one of his bare legs against mine makes my breath hitch. Is it the near-death experience that has me so very aware of his presence tonight, and the fact that he’s wearing nothing beneath his nightgown?
Any thoughts about what he might feel like beneath that fabric are quickly extinguished when I realise William’s breathing has evened out, and when I draw back enough to look at him, he is good and well asleep. All for the best; we need our rest. The way William has curled up around me, tangling our legs together and wrapping an arm about my middle, must have to do with having been so frightened tonight.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me hold onto him a bit tighter, too.
The next day is surprisingly dull in contrast to that miserable night. At least, until after morning announcements when the mail is distributed, and I’m left staring dumbly at an envelope that is placed in my hand, unable to fathom who would write to me.
It must be a mistake. Not once have I received a letter in my time at Whisperwood, despite the number that I’ve sent out. There is no mistaking my mother’s achingly familiar handwriting upon the envelope, however.
“What do you have there?” Preston asks, startling me as he leans over my shoulder in an attempt at friendly nosiness. “A letter from home? Or from a sweetheart, perhaps?”
I shove the letter between the pages of my English book. Embarrassment is not the reason, of course, but considering I’ve heard nothing from them the entire school year, well… It’s a personal matter, and not one I feel inclined to share with anyone. I offer my most charming smile at Preston. “Don’t be silly. Why would you write to me when we’re both here?”
He laughs it off, and it won’t be until later, when I can sneak away between class and lunch and am unlikely to be disturbed, that I will pull the envelope out and stare at it some more. I cannot imagine what Mother has to say to me. I cannot imagine it would be anything good. I almost wish I could bring myself to throw the letter into the nearest fireplace and pretend I never got it.
Hardly a realistic option, of course. For better or worse, I must read it. Some part of me is even hopeful for a miracle, that I’ll find something kind and encouraging within, some glimmer of hope in what has otherwise been a nightmare. They would have heard of my good marks, though whether or not the headmaster will have written home about my “indiscretions,” I don’t know. Perhaps time and distance alone will have softened them towards me.
With hands that slightly quake with nerves, I carefully open the envelope and slide out the letter, unfolding it to read. Only a single sheet, headed with, Our Dearest James.
Mother tells me they have indeed been told of my good performance at Whisperwood, and to continue with the good progress. She says they have been faring well, although she’s recovering from a slight cold. The factory is doing well, business is steady.
Honestly, it’s quite bland when it’s all said and done, though it’s not harsh in tone, and I try to soak up that simple fact as I read over my mother’s words. I’m glad they’re doing well. I’m glad they’re thinking of me. I’m glad they’re not disappointed in anything I’ve done—that they know of, anyway—since I left home.
The last paragraph is what causes my stomach to lurch.
Of course, we anticipate your return home for the summer upon completion of the term. However, should you put serious thought into the matter and decide to remain at Whisperwood, we would understand. We have only just moved into the new house and, amongst the chaos, I fear it would not be very restful for you. Your cousins are still attempting to settle.
If my cousins are there, then my uncle is, too.
Of course. Nothing has really changed at all, has it?
They may have softened in tone towards me since the last we spoke, but the message is much the same. I don’t know what I thought would happen, why I bothered to hope. Six people in the house would be entirely too much, wouldn’t it? By at least one, I’d say, and that one-person-too-many is still me.
The letter leaves me in something of a foul mood, which may not be the best thing for approaching Mr. McLachlan at the end of the day. I linger as students hurry out of his class. William remained in bed today at my behest; although his fever has mostly vanished, I think one last day of rest will do him well. Maybe wanting to speak to our teacher alone is a part of my insistence, as well. I’ve dragged William into enough of this.
Once the class has emptied, I rise to my feet. Mr. McLachlan doesn’t seem surprised to see me still there, and he gathers a stack of papers from his desk and offers them out. It takes me a moment to realise it’s the school work he promised to get for William.
“Send Mr. Esher my regards. I trust he’s on the mend?”
“He is, sir, thank you.” I tuck the papers into one of my books. “I was also hoping to speak to you, if I may.”
He eyes me somewhat warily. Fair enough, given the last time I wanted to talk to him and how well that went over, and I do wonder if Mr. Hart told him of our recent discussion. “Of course.”
I’ve battled with this all day. What to say, how much to divulge. Too much and he might go straight to the headmaster. Too little and he might brush me off. Mr. McLachlan is truly my last hope for any answers because he displayed at least some concern over Oscar’s sudden disappearance from school. I must remind myself of that.
Breathing deep, I place my things atop one of the empty desks. “Have you ever heard of the tunnels beneath the school?”
He squints. “That’s an odd question. To my knowledge, there are no tunnels beneath the school. What purpose would they serve?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve found them, so I know they exist.”
His eyes snap to my face, thick brows knitting together. “Pardon?”
I wring my hands together. “Please, hear me out. I’ve been seeing things, sir. Ghosts in the dorms, across the property. It was those spirits that led me to the tunnels, and into a part of the school I don’t believe anyone has seen in a very long time.”
“Mr. Spencer…”
“I know what I’ve seen. And you know the stories. Surely, you’ve heard about what boys have seen in the darkness, in all the years you’ve worked here. Haven’t you?”
His mouth twitches, displeased. “This is not a conversation we should be having right now.”
“If not now, then when?”
“Never,” he says sharply. Then he sighs, voice softer, and extends a hand to place it upon my shoulder. “Listen to me. I have heard the stories, and in a building as old as this, it’s understandable boys would see and hear things. I’m begging you to just keep your head down until graduation. Then you will be able to leave this place and never have to look back, and none of this will matter.”
I draw away from his grasp. “It will matter, because Oscar will still be gone! It’s all tied together somehow. I know it. You asked me yourself if I thought he left Whisperwood of his own accord or not, and I’m positive he did not. I think you know it, too.”
Hesitation flashes across Mr. McLachlan’s tired face, and he runs a hand back over his head with a heavy sigh. I think I have him. Almost. So close. But then—
“This isn’t something I can help you with. I’m sorry.”
My expression hardens. How foolish was I to hope for anything different? He was no help before; what would have changed now? “Of course.”
I snatch my things from the desk and turn to leave, angry enough that I could not care less if he decides to bring what I’ve said in confidence to light of the headmaster. A decision I will inevitably regret later.
Only a few feet from the door, Mr. McLachlan calls to me and I stop, but do not turn.
“What would
you have me do? What is it you think I can help with?”
I swallow back the furious lump in my throat. “You have more leeway to investigate than I do. You can speak with the headmaster without fear of being beaten bloody or expelled. Look at the history of students who’ve died here in the past. Look at the date and manner of deaths compared to their history of punishments.” I turn to him. “You’re good friends with Mr. Hart, so I imagine you know why Oscar was supposedly expelled.”
“I do,” he admits.
“You know that Mr. Hart is the one the headmaster suspects Oscar was involved with.”
“I know that, too.”
“Yet Mr. Hart wasn’t reprimanded, and Oscar wasn’t outright expelled. So what ‘proof’ did King have that anything at all was amiss?”
He folds his arms across his chest, chest rising and falling with a heavy sigh. “We don’t know,” he says, and when I give him a dubious look, “I mean it. Jonathan—Mr. Hart—and I have been curious about that, too. King has not seen fit to release that information.”
“Then if you want to help, you could find out.”
“I’d be risking my own job to dig around into an issue that may not be an issue at all.”
“But you know that it is an issue, don’t you?”
He opens his mouth, closes it again, and merely watches me wordlessly.
“I’ve no one else to go to, sir,” I say quietly. “I’m at a loss, but I will find out what happened to my friend. With or without your help.”
I leave the conversation and the room. Perhaps I won’t change his mind here and now, but I hope, at the very least, I’ve given him something to think about.
I spend the evening assisting William with the influx of missed assignments he’s determined to complete, despite having the entire weekend to do so. Saturday, I have to take my leave of him to tend to laundry duty—something he’s able to get out of only because I work double-time to cover for him. Upon completing my chores, I return to find him napping at his table, head upon his arms, papers spread about. I coax him awake so that we might go and fetch lunch together. He still displays more fatigue than I would like, but overall, his condition is steadily improving. I shall have to think of a way to thank Virgil.
The rest of the day I spend poring over my own books. With only a week remaining in the term, I think it prudent to study for final exams. It’s some miracle my grades haven’t slipped more than they have in the past few weeks. William offers to assist me, but he has his hands full sorting through the work he’s missed, and so I take myself to my room to work on things alone.
Hunched over books and notes late into the night, I find myself periodically distracted. For a while, I read some of Oscar’s copy of Pendennis.
It’s nearing curfew when I hear voices outside. Nothing of importance at first, and then louder, out of place, the sound of shouting across the grounds. Frowning, I push back my chair and step over to peer out my open window. A few boys have gathered below. My eyes follow where they’re looking, to a group off in the distance, emerging from the woods. It’s difficult to tell from here, but they appear to be in police uniform. Their hats make me think so. What would police be doing in the woods here, this time of night?
Already, my stomach is turning. I draw back, reach for my coat, and then hurry downstairs to join the group of onlookers, who are whispering amongst themselves. Benjamin, Preston, and Edwin are near the forefront, and I step up alongside them.
“What’s happened?”
“Not sure,” Edwin says. “The police showed up a bit ago and they’ve just come back from the woods.”
“Are they carrying something?” Benjamin frowns, lifting a hand to point.
From this distance, it’s hard to tell at first. Then the moonlight hits just right, catching a glimmer of white on the stretcher two of the officers are carrying between them.
A body.
They’ve found a body.
Despite feeling as though my legs are about to give out from under me, they pitch me forward, hurtling across the grass towards the officers and the faculty awaiting them near the courtyard. I dimly hear Preston call to me and ignore it. It does not matter. It does not matter at all.
They’ve draped the body in a sheet, but I can make out the shape of him beneath it, one bare foot sticking out at the end, an arm dangling over the edge of the stretcher, a pale hand covered in dirt, fingertips grazing the ground when their footsteps dip the stretcher too low to the ground.
I jog closer, reaching, wanting to pull the sheet back, just wanting—needing—to see his face to confirm what I already know.
An officer catches me before I can, pushing me back. “Hey, now.”
“Is that him?” I ask, voice cracking. “Is that Oscar? Let me see him. Let me see him!”
I wrench away from the man, desperate for an answer. William rushes up behind me, slipping around in front of me, hands to my chest. “James, please, calm down—” And, when I proceed to shove past him because he’s hardly strong enough to restrain me, he calls for Preston.
Two pairs of arms secure me from behind, halting my progression, and I realise Virgil and Preston have hold of me and are speaking my name, and it does not matter.
“Please, let me see him!” I beg, even as I strain against them, even as the police are carrying Oscar towards their carriage.
They’re going to take him away, and I will never see him again.
I was too late.
I was supposed to help him, and I was too late.
The body is loaded into the back of the carriage, and some of the officers linger, speaking quietly with the members of staff. The headmaster is not present, but Mr. Hart and Mr. McLachlan are. Mr. Hart’s face has gone as white as the sheet Oscar’s body was wrapped in, and I see his trembling hands covering his mouth, and Mr. McLachlan holding onto him so that he does not crumple to the ground.
“Stop them!” I beg, greeted only by Mr. McLachlan’s shocked gaze and Mr. Hart’s distraught, glassy-eyed stare.
William sounds near tears as he moves in front of me again, helping Virgil and Preston to redirect my attention. “Please. If you get yourself into trouble now, we’ll never know what happened.”
I’m going to be sick. It’s all I can do to watch as the police slide into their saddles and upon the carriage, as they begin to leave, taking Oscar away. Only as they get down the driveway do Preston and Virgil ease their grip enough for me to yank free. I’ve half a mind to chase down the death carriage, but instead I turn to my teachers, and suddenly every ounce of anger I have is focused on them.
“You know who is responsible for this,” I hiss. “You know, and if you don’t do something about it, you are just as much to blame!”
Virgil reaches for me again and I shove his arm away, so angry I can hardly see straight, and I stumble as I spin around to storm away. The others are at my heels; Benjamin is calling to me. It does not matter.
I just need…
I just want…
Distance.
I need to move. To get away. I need air, but I feel no matter how deeply I breathe, I am suffocating.
I flee to my room before anyone can stop me. Only William dares to follow, and he may be the only one I would permit to do so.
Still, he steps in behind me with caution, easing the door shut and leaning against it as he watches me begin to pace the short length of the room, not knowing what to do with myself. I yank off my jacket and unbutton the top few fastens of my shirt, feeling too stifled, too constricted.
King had something to do with this. I know he did. I don’t know how or why, I don’t know if it has anything to do with the ghosts of Whisperwood, but he is behind Oscar’s death.
“That bastard.”
“James…” William moves closer, brushing a hand against my arm and drawing me to a standstill. “We’ll find the proof we need to bring him to justice. I promise. We will figure it out.”
My vision blurs as I turn to him. “I didn�
��t want to find proof of wrongdoing at this cost. I was supposed to save Oscar.”
His expression softens, heartache plain as day upon his face. “Darling, you did everything you could. You did far more than anyone else.”
“I didn’t do enough.”
William puts his arms around me, drawing me to him. The split second he touches me, holds me, the tears rush forth and I bury my face against his shoulder, clinging to him in return. “What does any of it matter now?”
“It matters because you matter,” he insists. “Because you are good, James. You are good and kind and wonderful, and people love you. Frances included.”
I want to believe those words. I always have, ever since Mother and Father used to tell me what a good child I was. “I couldn’t help him. I haven’t been able to help anyone. Nothing I do now is going to bring him back.”
William draws in a deep breath. “You cannot bring him back, no, but I believe you can still help him. Delivering justice may prevent Oscar from spending eternity here, wandering the grounds like all the others.”
A cold, sinking feeling settles over me. Could Oscar be trapped here somewhere, traversing the hallways at night, restless and in pain, reliving whatever miserable last moments he experienced? “You truly think he could be here?”
The way he averts his eyes makes my stomach twist itself into knots. “I know that he is.”
“What does that mean?”
William’s refusal to look at me does not bode well. “The night I followed you into the tunnels, I told you one of the spirits appeared.”
Mutely, I nod, but say nothing, simply awaiting his ability to speak further.
“It was Oscar. Oscar led me to you, to save you.”
“Did…did he speak to you?”
“No, not a word. I woke to him standing in my doorway, and I followed him into the tunnels through the opening we escaped from.”
Slowly, I sink onto my bed. “But, then why didn’t you tell me?”
William stares at his hands, and I can practically see the guilt and shame bearing down on him. Softly, he replies, “It’s a very difficult thing to do, looking into the eyes of someone you care for and stripping away their hope.”