by Kelley York
Mr. Hart doesn’t so much as flinch. “For Oscar, yes.”
“We’ve known something was wrong for years,” Mr. McLachlan says. “I told you as much. We knew, but we had no proof.”
“Doing this is not necessarily going to lead us to any proof of anything,” I point out. King will still likely not be held accountable. “Although it may open up more of a chance to find proof without fear of the ghost stopping us.”
He folds his arms across his chest. “One step at a time. Besides, I should think you need our assistance. How else are you going to obtain shovels from the gardener’s shed? And I imagine you don’t know the headmaster’s schedule.”
He has a point, which only serves to make me give him a rather sullen look. I don’t know if I can trust them, but I want to. Mr. McLachlan gave us the information about the original headmaster to begin with, and Mr. Hart…whatever the truth is about his feelings towards Oscar, I think he cared for him a great deal. I need to trust that will make him our ally in this.
“Any assistance would be appreciated.”
Mr. McLachlan nods curtly. “Headmaster King has already departed for home. He said he suspected he would return tomorrow morning in order to handle some paperwork for next term.”
“Tonight it is, then.” I look to William, whose expression is tense in unease, but he is, as always, unfaltering in his resolve to stand by me. “We’ll wait until just after dinner. That way, we have a chance to eat and gather our energy, and anyone who might still be here will be preoccupied. I cannot promise this will go well, or that it will even work.”
“It will work,” William assures me gently. “It has to.”
By planning this for just after dinner, not only had I hoped to make sure the rest of the remaining school occupants were busy, but to take advantage of the little bit of daylight we would have. Those hopes are dashed when it begins to rain steadily, and the clouds have overtaken the sky and blocked out the sun, leaving everything in a mosaic of dark and dreary greys.
William, Benjamin, Preston, Virgil and I head to the cemetery, dressed in our thickest coats to protect against the elements. Mr. McLachlan and Mr. Hart meet us halfway there, three shovels and two axes in hand. Preston takes one shovel and I take another, and we say little as we begin the march towards the gates.
Upon arriving, we slow to a halt, peering through the towering iron bars into the rows of tombstones beyond. It’s with a sinking sensation that I realise something is amiss, that a heavy presence lingers from within. William catches my arm, directing my gaze straight back to where, in the darkness, the barely visible outline of a humanoid figure looms. A flash of lightning overhead illuminates the familiar face of a charred, red-eyed creature.
“Dear Lord,” Mr. McLachlan murmurs beside me, and I think that this is the first time he or Mr. Hart have seen this creature.
“What now?” Even Preston’s voice wavers with an undercurrent of fear.
I wrack my brain for ideas. He needs to be drawn away. I turn to William. “The tunnels. I need to go into the tunnels and find those rooms again. Perhaps my presence there would draw it away.”
His face pales, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Fine, but I’m going with you.”
“I remember the way, I think. I should—”
“I’m going with you,” he repeats, hotly this time.
There really isn’t time to argue, and it’s a double-edged sword. If I bring William along, I risk him being hurt. If I leave him behind, I risk him being hurt here, and me not being present to look after him. I bite briefly at my lower lip. “As you wish.”
I turn to the others. “William and I will lure it away. Once it’s gone, start digging, quickly as you can.”
“This is too dangerous,” Benjamin whispers. “There has to be another way.”
“If you’ve a better idea, I’m happy to hear it.”
He lowers his gaze, and his silence suggests that, no, nothing better comes to mind. There’s nothing more we can do to be more prepared than we are here and now, with an empty school and King gone and all of us here to band together.
God, I hope William was right. I hope Oscar is out there, looking out for us right now.
Preston says nothing but claps a hand tightly onto my shoulder. Virgil gives us a tight nod, mouth drawn thin, and Mr. McLachlan softly says, “Godspeed, boys.”
I trade my shovel for an axe. It may come in handy should I encounter any locked doors like I did before. Armed with our lanterns, we begin the long walk toward—and into—the woods. Finding our way to the tunnels seems almost impossible. The landscape looks different without the snow, dismally disorienting in the dark. Even through layers of clothing, the chill seeps in. William visibly shudders.
We’ve been walking no more than five minutes when a voice calls our names from behind, and we turn to see a faint halo of lantern light and Mr. Hart navigating his way through the trees towards us.
“What’s wrong?” William asks.
He stops, a bit winded from having hurried to catch up to us. “I’m coming with you.”
I frown. “They need your help, sir.”
He scoffs. “So many people aren’t needed for digging up a grave. We’ve only three shovels. And sending the two of you off alone, I won’t allow it. I wasn’t there for Oscar when he needed someone to look after him, and I’ll not make that mistake twice.”
William and I exchange glances. Truly, I don’t have a reason to tell him no. I still partly blame him for Oscar’s disappearance, and if he wants to make amends for that, then far be it for me to refuse him. “Let’s go. We’re running out of this pitiful excuse for daylight.”
We continue our trek, and it drags on long enough that I begin to grow nervous we’ll not find the entrance again, up until Mr. Hart lets out a gasp and, upon turning to see where he’s looking, I spot the source of his shock.
One of the dead students, amongst the trees, a hand lifted and pointing. He’s scarcely visible amongst the gray backdrop of the forest, standing as still as he is.
I change course, heading towards him. He fades from view when we near, but another, different figure is off in the distance, hand raised to direct us. Another, and another, and I search their faces in desperate hope of seeing Oscar’s, but he is not among them.
What awaits us at the end of their guiding path is the opening to the tunnels, a dark blemish against a small hillside, just barely tall enough for a man to step inside. Mr. Hart has to stoop a little to clear the overhang. It’s difficult to tell for certain, but I wonder if this is what the ghost was trying to lead me to that night Charles caught me out past curfew. Had I ventured just a little longer, a little farther then, would I have found this entrance? I had not paid it any mind when William and I escaped this way, but now the familiarity is hard to dismiss.
The rain from outside has flooded into the tunnels, and I can only imagine at some point during this rainy season, the entire tunnel will flood and make traversing it nearly impossible.
Mr. Hart marvels as he looks around. “Where in the world did this come from?”
“Not something we’ve been able to figure out.” I squint nervously into the darkness that lies ahead.
Mr. Hart lifts his lantern high and takes the lead, venturing into the corridors with us on his heels. Despite my confusion and disorientation the last time I was here, the tunnels are fairly straightforward. There’s a deviation off to the right at some point, leading to, I believe, the entrance off the kitchens. We press straight ahead, a trail that eventually ends with the ladder I previously took into that unknown hallway.
It’s there that I stop, head tipped back and heart racing. I recall what I witnessed before, the burned man delivering punishment upon that poor boy. Do all the spirits here endure such torture? Is that their fate, to be subjected to Nicholas Mordaunt for the rest of time?
That thought—the thought of Oscar being on the receiving end of that torment—sends me up the ladder without a moment more of hesi
tation.
Crawling into the hallway, I’m instantly aware that the ominous presence of last time is not as prevalent. Possibly because Mordaunt is busy guarding his grave.
I hope to change that.
Mr. Hart follows only after William does, and they both turn full circle, surveying the hall and its row of closed doors.
“None of the faculty knows about this?” William asks.
Mr. Hart shakes his head. “I haven’t a clue where this even is. I’ve seen drafts of the school layout before, but never noticed anything like this.”
“It wasn’t included on any of them. Even the older drafts.” Our maps are old, but certainly not the originals, and I’ve a feeling there’s a reason why those weren’t lying around for anyone to stumble upon. Perhaps Mordaunt wanted to ensure no one else knew about this part of the school.
Without hesitating, I begin down the long hall, grip tightening upon the handle of the axe. I pick the first one on the left. Locked. I heft the axe up high and bring it down into the wood near the knob as hard as I can. It splinters and cracks none too quietly. William and Mr. Hart jump. I repeat the action until the door gives completely and I can shove it open with one foot.
And then I move onto the next.
We want to get Mordaunt’s attention, don’t we?
I break them down in succession, until I’ve discarded my coat to avoid overheating. My shoulders burn in protest, and I have to stop to rest them and swipe the sweat from my forehead.
As I allow myself to recuperate, it gives me the opportunity to study the room of the door I’ve just kicked in. I stoop to pick up my own lantern and step inside for a better look.
At the far side of the room is a bed, not unlike the one in my own room, with a set of shackles latched to the iron frame, and a chamber pot crammed beneath. It’s little more than a prison cell. I stop at the foot of the bed and touch the wall there, feeling the shallow grooves dug into the wood from years and years of someone desperate to claw their way to safety. Then my gaze drops to the mattress itself, and my breath is stolen away.
Clothing. Nothing I would look twice at any other day, except it’s the familiarity of some of the fabric that catches my eye. Slowly, I place the lantern and axe on the floor, daring to pick up the waistcoat from the pile of bloodied rags.
The waistcoat I lent to Oscar the night of the ball, torn and bloodied.
I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from crying out, tears blurring my vision. Was this how it ended for Oscar? Locked away in this miserable room, chained to the bed like some animal? Was he truly so close that I could have found him if I’d only…
I clutch the waistcoat to my chest, choking on the sound of a sob, wanting to call for William but unable to find my voice. Behind me, the floor creaks and I turn, desperate that William has come on his own and I can show him what I’ve discovered.
Instead, I am face to face with Mordaunt’s scorching eyes.
The creature strikes me across the face with more force than a living man would be capable of. It knocks me clear off my feet. I collide with the ground hard enough the air is promptly displaced from my lungs. I choke in a breath. My nose fills with the scent of burning flesh and sends me into a fit of coughing.
Before I can attempt to get up, I’m met with a powerful, charred hand closing around my throat, and Mordaunt begins to haul me along, making it impossible for me to gain purchase on the floor in order to stand.
Out into the hallway it drags me, completely effortless in the action, and I see it’s bringing me to the room at the end of the hall, whose door has opened wide and whose candles are burning bright. The same room I saw that poor boy’s spirit being tortured in before. I cannot breathe around the smoke except to let out a single, strained cry.
It appears to be enough. Mr. Hart and William emerge from one of the other rooms. William’s eyes go wide, and he damned near drops his lantern in his mad dash to get to me. But Mordaunt heaves me into the room. The door slams shut. I’m now separated from my companions.
Not good.
I cannot breathe, and the edges of my vision have begun to darken. I can only claw at the hand around my neck, chunks of burned flesh catching beneath my nails, and the feel of Mordaunt lifting me and cold steel clamping around my wrists.
It releases my throat, shackles and chains pulling taut, drawing my arms above my head. I’m left dangling with only my toes making contact with the floor. As my vision clears just enough, I can see the rows of tools lining the walls, better befitting a torture chamber than a school. Mordaunt has me strung up like a pig readied for butchering, and as he moves to the wall, I can hear the desperate voices of William and Mr. Hart from the other side of the door.
I pull against my restraints, which serves to do little beyond cutting painfully into my wrists. How many others stood in this place, just as I am, and how many died here? At its hands, at headmaster King’s? The thought of it happening to anyone is horrid, but the thought of it happening to my best friend makes me sick to my stomach, and fury edges out the fear.
“Nicholas Mordaunt,” I snarl. “That’s your name, isn’t it? You opened this school.”
The creature stops, distracted, and turns to study me.
Speaking to it likely will do me no good but to buy some time, and if that’s all I can do right now, then so be it. “How many have you murdered here? Why? Why are you doing any of this?”
From the wall, Mordaunt retrieves a cat o’ nine tails and closes the gap between us, the smell of it filling my nose again, so overpowering I begin to hold my breath. It stops just before me, and its twisted mouth pulls back from blackened teeth in an ugly sneer. Then it leans in close, so unbearably close, so that I can see every detail of its shrivelled, piercing eyes and disfigured face, and hear the low, cracked sound of its voice when it speaks.
“Because…I…can.”
There is nothing to brace me for the cat being brought down against my back. Nothing to stifle the scream of pain torn from my mouth. Because it is nothing like being beaten, nothing like taking a birching from the headmaster. There is no moment of reprieve to be had because the creature brings it across my skin again without pause.
Again
And again.
And again. Until I cannot see beyond the pain.
Again, until the moment wherein the door splinters wide open and the room floods with a most brilliant light amongst the shadows. Through my swimming vision and smoke, Mr. Hart’s silhouette can be made out, axe clutched tightly. Around him steps William, and in his hands, he holds a long scrap of wood—from one of the broken doors, I’d wager—the end bound in sheet fabric and set aflame, granting him a far brighter light than any candle could offer.
And a much more effective weapon.
He marches forwards, thrusting his makeshift torch in the creature’s direction. It recoils with a furious snarl.
With Mordaunt retreating to the corner of the room, William shouts, “Get him down!” He doesn’t take his eyes off the creature, and as it begins to circle, so does William, keeping himself a steady barricade between it and me.
I cannot see Mr. Hart from my position, but I hear him moving behind me, searching the walls, and a relieved Aha! not a moment later. He rushes to my side, rising to jam the key into my shackles and releasing them. The sudden jostling sends pain shooting through my body anew, and he catches me so I don’t immediately crumple to the floor.
“Are you all right? Can you walk?”
A shudder ricochets down my spine as I force myself to straighten up. Rather than answer his question, I grab William’s free hand. “The other door,” I manage. “We need to get it open.” Going back the way we came, with Mordaunt currently between us and the hall, would be suicide. We cannot lead it back into the woods or anywhere near the cemetery. With any luck, Preston and the others will be making progress in their digging.
Please, Lord, let it be a shallow grave.
Mordaunt lingers by the exit, snarling. On
e by one the candles in the room proceed to die, plummeting us into darkness, save for the light of William’s torch. It grows far darker than should be possible, a smoky, thick darkness that makes it difficult to breathe, and I can no longer see a single wall nor either door in the room. I drag William closer to me with one hand and Mr. Hart with the other—I can feel William’s hand trembling in mine—attempting to keep us all within the small circle of safety the light offers.
“Straight back,” Mr. Hart orders. “Towards the door.”
Slowly, we make our way through the darkness, and I can feel the creature, sense it, just out of sight. An occasional flicker of smouldering red, a waft of burning flesh, fingers brushing dangerously close to my face, always out of the corner of my gaze.
Mr. Hart’s hand finds the wall, and we inch left until he comes to the door. He grabs the doorknob, twists, and—“Locked.”
Shit.
He wastes no time in lifting the axe to begin hacking away, but the process is difficult. We cannot put too much distance lest he be out of the protective circle of light that Mordaunt is still trying to figure out how to breach.
A look at William shows that the torch is on its last legs; it’s begun to burn low, engulfing more of the wood than it should, and William’s fingers are beginning to suffer the consequence.
“Give it here,” I demand. He shoves me back behind him, unwilling to relinquish his hold.
The door caves after only a few strikes of the axe. Mr. Hart shoulders it open, grabs my arm, and shoves me through before reaching for William to do the same to him.
As we’re herded through, William loses his battle with the torch. The flames lap across his hand and wrist. He cries out, forced to drop it and recoiling in pain. It’s served its purpose. We’re out of the darkness, spilled into a room filled with wide windows and moonlight, scuttling back and away from the door which we cannot, unfortunately, shut now that it’s been broken, and a quick look around shows me where we are.
The headmaster’s office.
I blink repeatedly to make certain I’m seeing things right. The same office I took a lashing in months ago. The same office Oscar came to again and again. The same office he may have entered and never left. At least, not through the same door.