by Eliza Lainn
“Come in,” I sighed, then leaned forward to blow out the candle. My concentration was ruined—I’d never be able to focus now with thoughts of the Green Man dancing around in there.
Rose poked her head in. “Suit up, we’ve got a case,” she said, her voice unusually bland.
“Everything ok?” I asked, rising.
Her fire had faded considerably in the five minutes since she’d bounded out of my room. And as she spoke, I could see it fading even more. “Noah found us a case.” I flinched at that, but she wasn’t done. “And it’s up at the high school. Kids, Stella. Something is happening to kids.”
Chapter Two
The drive up to the high school felt tense. Rose drove my car—still the most professional looking of the bunch. But she’d killed the radio the moment the car started. And all through the drive, she’d gripped the steering wheel with knuckles so white, my own ached just from watching.
Bronte and I had sat silently in the backseat. The silence had felt too strong to break, so we’d fidgeted underneath it instead. Through every red light, every slow driver we’d get stuck behind, and the agonizing speed decrease in the school zone—we finally made it to main entrance of the high school.
Noah stood out front with another person—a teacher, I guessed. Which Noah confirmed as he introduced us. “Bronte, Stella…and Rose, um, this is Mr. Fitzgerald. The AP junior English teacher.”
The man reminded me of a chihuahua: he was small, large eyes, and shook slightly as if hyped up on coffee…or something. He smoothed over his thinning hair with one hand and reached out the other to greet us.
As I shook his hand, I glanced at Rose and Noah out of the corner of my eye. They weren’t touching. Granted, they weren’t prone to public displays of affection, but they always hugged when they saw each other. And they unconsciously gravitated closer to one another. Now though, they stood awkwardly apart, turned slightly away.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Mr. Fitzgerald sighed. Even his voice shook, wobbling out like a wave. “We’ve had…I don’t even know…just thank goodness.”
Rose concentrated solely on him. A little too much, I figured, as if she were afraid her eyes would slip over to Noah. “Thank you for calling us. Could you tell us a bit more about what’s happened?”
“Miss Harbon—our principal—is inside waiting for you. I offered to come out here with Noah to show you the way. He speaks highly of Apparition Investigations—says you’ll have this wrapped up quickly.”
Our group headed inside.
The three of us had gone to this high school. We’d met in the middle school, but we’d conquered this building—and all its trials and tribulations—together. All the school dances, homework troubles, and boy drama. All the clique fighting and dramatic clashes with other students over silly things, looking back. We’d started out as meek freshmen and ended as big-shot seniors…only to realize what little fish we were when we swam out to college.
Nothing had changed. The walls were still lined with faux wood paneling, the tiles still seemed dull from years of use, and the harsh florescent lights buzzed with exertion. But the cheer squad still painted massive banners and hung them over everything. Trophies still filled the glass cabinets with new accomplishments and accolades. And time marched on.
Noah and Mr. Fitzgerald led us to the main office—still painted a weird off-white blueish color and decorated with Miss Gibbons’ kitsch décor—then through it to the principal’s office.
I’d never been in this room before. There hadn’t been a need for me to visit with the principal. But Rose had been a few times when her temper and wit had helped her best a teacher, and I caught the little smile as she recognized the space.
Miss Harbon’s appointment as the new principal a few years ago had both supporters rallying to her defense and criticizers foaming at the mouth. She was the youngest principal hired in the county, but her educational background had been top tier quality. She was creative in her approach—I remembered that from the few news articles I read on the local news site. But the students adored her, and in the time since her hiring, her field of criticizers had faded to crickets.
She sat behind her large desk, buried under papers and memos. She looked tired, with wisps of her hair falling loose of her bun and black puffs under her eyes. But as tired as she seemed, she looked equally ready to do battle as she rolled up her sleeves when we entered. “Good morning. Rose Fischer, Bronte Carter, and Stella Reycraft, correct?”
We nodded. I began scooting back, behind Rose, so that when she inevitably stood and gave her name, it was given to Rose.
She pushed up from her seat and held out her hand to Rose. “I’m Natalie Harbon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Rose said, shaking her hand.
“If you’ll have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the two chairs in front of her desk. Then she frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t have enough for everyone.”
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, joining Noah behind the chairs.
Mr. Fitzgerald moved to stand behind Miss Harbon as the office door swung open, smacking against the wall behind it.
A woman towered in the doorway, staring down at all of us from her half-moon glasses and beak of a nose. With one hand, she pulled her cardigan tighter and made a production out of shivering. “Forgive me, Miss Harbon, but I feel the need to be present in this meeting.” The elongated way she spoke reminded me of Victorian governesses—all cursive and drawn out, with exaggerated inflection at the weirdest places.
Her eyes roamed over all of us, taking in me, Rose, and Bronte with our Apparition Investigation jackets on. She lingered on the emblems over our hearts and sniffed.
Miss Harbon smiled graciously, though I caught Mr. Fitzgerald’s rolling eyes. “Yes, Mrs. Delacourt, please come in.”
Mrs. Delacourt strolled into the room, coming to flank Miss Harbon’s left side. She stood impossibly prim and proper, her hand still bunched at the wool of her cardigan despite the rising heat in the tight space from so many people crammed inside.
Miss Harbon lowered herself back down into her seat. “You’ve met Mr. Fitzgerald outside, I’m sure, and this is Mrs. Delacourt, our junior algebra teacher.”
Another junior teacher, I realized.
Instead of offering a hand, Mrs. Delacourt inched her head a fraction forward. Then immediately jerked back to prim attention.
“Noah is one of the school district teachers over at the middle school,” Miss Harbon continued, “and it was actually through a happy accident that I ran into him yesterday at the grocery store. We chatted for a bit and I let him know about a problem we’ve been having here at the high school—and imagine my surprise when he knew of some people that might help me.”
“With a ghost?” Rose asked.
Mrs. Delacourt noticeably flinched at the word. Mr. Fitzgerald, on the other hand, seemed to shake even harder with eagerness, his eyes alighting.
Miss Harbon sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes, Miss Fischer. With a ghost.”
Chapter Three
“Or delinquents,” Mrs. Delacourt cut in scathingly. “There is no evidence yet to suggest ghosts or goblins or any of the other…other…balderdash fantasy stories might suggest be responsible.”
Noah and I exchanged a quick look at the word balderdash. And for a second, we seemed on the same page. But just before he quirked up a smile, he turned back toward the teachers across the desk.
“Or delinquents,” Miss Harbon allowed with a soft sigh. “Or whatever it is. To be completely blunt, I have no idea what’s causing this.”
“Causing what?” Bronte asked.
“A startingly high number of absences due to illness,” Mr. Fitzgerald explained. “Restricted solely to the junior class.”
“The junior class?” Rose asked for clarification, reaching into her jacket pocket and pulling out a small notebook.
Mrs. Delacourt sniffed at the motion.
Miss Harbon nodded. “It started about the beginning of the term. More than a few students were out sick. We didn’t think much of it at first, but as time progressed, more and more juniors were calling in sick. We’d get a few from the other grades every now and then, especially with a bug going around, but this thing with the juniors, it feels…”
“Different?” Rose guessed.
The principal nodded.
“And what makes you think it’s a ghost?” Rose asked.
Mrs. Delacourt sniffed again. And I had the sudden urge to introduce myself and steal her name. Or maybe shout. Granted, my practice hadn’t produced anywhere near the same impact as when we’d been at the Horton, but I bet with her, I could shout the prim right out of her—
“I don’t,” Miss Harbon answered, pulling me from my thoughts. She sighed. “Or maybe I do—I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve called out people to check the building, to see if it might be a fungus or something. I’ve had contractors comb the junior hall. I’ve had doctors examine my sick kids. I’ve checked with the places my kids work, to see if they picked up something from their jobs. I’ve met with parents, I’ve called in psychologists, I’ve done everything else I can think of and no one can give me a solid explanation as to why my juniors are getting sick.”
Mr. Fitzgerald held up a hand, as if he were a student in class. “I’m the one who suggested we contact ghost hunters.”
Mrs. Delacourt sniffed at that.
Everyone ignored her.
“I do believe in things that science can’t explain yet,” he continued, “and, as Miss Harbon has put, if we can’t find a reason that science or explanation can give us yet, I vote we try more unusual approaches.”
“To the laughingstock of the rest of the faculty,” Mrs. Delacourt murmured under her breath.
Mr. Fitzgerald furrowed his brow but continued regardless of her jibe. “I love these kids. And something is happening to them—something I’m at a loss to explain. I know a little about the occult. You pick it up here and there when you’re teaching literature. And I can’t help but wonder if something supernatural is at play here.”
“Stories,” Mrs. Delacourt said loudly, drawing out the word. “Fairy tales. None of which occur in reality, Jon.”
He turned slightly to his coworker, hands balling into fists at his side. “Then tell me what’s making these kids sick, Delores, because something is happening to them.”
Miss Harbon rose. “That’s enough, you two.”
Rose cleared her throat delicately. “No offense, Miss Harbon, but are you sure it’s something abnormal? Kids get sick all the time.”
“Not at these numbers. Our district average for sickness absences hovers at around thirty percent during this time. But the junior class is up in the seventies.”
“But why a ghost?” Rose pushed, waving at Mr. Fitzgerald with her pen. “Sickness and illness could be tied to a number of supernatural things—but why did you first and foremost think of a ghost?”
Mrs. Delacourt snorted triumphantly. “Yes, Jon, do tell your macabre theory.”
Through all of Mrs. Delacourt’s insults, Mr. Fitzgerald had been relatively calm. Now, though, he looked flustered as he glanced to Miss Harbon for support.
She withered back into her seat. “Because, around the time this all started, we lost one of our junior students in a car accident.”
“I heard about that,” Noah said. “Scott Epson, right?”
Miss Harbon nodded. “That’s right. About killed his poor mother, Margaret. Single mother, only child. It crushed her, poor thing.”
Rose solemnly wrote his name down in her notepad. She gave the silence in the room a moment before she very softly asked, “Anything else, Miss Harbon?”
The principal shook her head. “No. No, I think that’s everything. I just…I’m not sure what’s happening here, Miss Fischer. I don’t personally believe in ghosts, but I’m not above asking for your help if there is even a remote chance this could help my kids. So please, do whatever it is you have to do. You have free reign of the building. I have contractors lined up if you have questions about the building. And the staff knows to help you with anything you might need—or to get me if it’s something beyond them. We’re also prepared to pull students for you to ask questions, provided that the guidance counselor, Mr. Andrews, is present as well. Is there anything else you need from us?”
Rose stood, sliding the notepad back into her pocket. “No, I think that’ll get us started.”
Miss Harbon leaned slightly to see Noah. “I’ve talked with Allan and he said you’re more than welcome to help AI as you requested—you’re lucky your principal is as fascinated with the occult as our Mr. Fitzgerald.”
Shaking excitedly, Mr. Fitzgerald addressed Miss Harbon. “Really? Allan is a fan of the occult?”
“We’ll show ourselves out,” Rose said, waving behind her back for us to head to the door.
Fortunately, the four of us quickly stole out as Mr. Fitzgerald began to pepper Miss Harbon with more questions. Unfortunately, Mrs. Delacourt came with us.
She eyed us as she circled around us in the front office, heading for the door. Then, with a final sniff, she bustled through.
“We’ll head back to the apartment and fill in Cyril and Oliver,” Rose said, intently focused on me and Bronte. Then, with a sigh and apparent mental effort, she turned to Noah. “Are you free to join us?”
“Yeah. I’ll meet you there.”
He reached out to hug her goodbye, for a second forgetting himself. With his arms still outstretched, he took a hasty step backward. Then he hurried out the door.
Rose sighed, running a hand through her hair. “This is going to be a long one, isn’t it?”
Chapter Four
“And so, they think this boy is somehow connected to whatever’s causing the juniors to get sick,” I finished, still twirling a loose strand of the throw pillow in my lap between my fingers. I looked up to see the Lord of the Rings figurines roughly where’d they’d been when I started: floating over the ottoman. “Any questions?”
“And is there usually a strong connection between illness and ghost sightings?” Cyril asked.
I turned and relayed his question to Rose at the dining table. She bit down on her bottom lip, thinking through her answer, and I could practically see the direction her mind had taken.
The Green Man.
He was the personification of our ignorance. What little information we used in our cases either came from Rose’s fascination with the occult or Noah’s experiences with ghosts and perceptions.
We didn’t know how ghosts were made. There were the typical, accepted beliefs everyone had: ghosts persisted because of violent emotions or unfinished business. But we didn’t know that for certain. And along with that, we didn’t know exactly what influenced how much of their spirit lingered. We’d met ghosts so faint, their minds so fractured, they either didn’t remember dying or their essence had boiled down to a single thought. Conversely, we had Oliver and Cyril, full of complexity and depth.
What made them so different? What abilities did all ghosts have? Cyril and Oliver could use telekinesis when agitated but that seemed to be only because they were more coherent, stronger even, then most.
And psychics—what made us different from normal people, like Rose, who spent time with ghosts but didn’t have impacted perceptions? How did our powers materialize? What influenced the shape they took? Were they all different?
Not to mention we didn’t know anything about monsters, either. We all assumed they were ghosts without their humanity—and Sebastian had justified that belief. But was that the extent of it? And what made them so strong, so poignant, when other ghosts were weak?
We didn’t know anything, really.
But the Green Man did. Or rather, we all assumed he did—yet another thing we speculated on, without knowing certainly one way or the other. But it seemed likely he knew more about the occult and the paranormal than
we did.
And I knew that grated on Rose’s nerves.
She shrugged, finding a half-answer. “Not really—but it wouldn’t surprise me. Ghost sightings can be associated with smells and odd feelings. Maybe a particularly powerful ghost could cause sickness too?”
“Like a monster?” Bronte asked, shivering.
Rose hesitated before she offered a smaller shrug.
I glanced over at Noah. “Care to chime in?”
His eyes darted over to Rose before they fell down to the floor. “I don’t know of any connection between ghosts and people getting sick.”
“Then what about the boy who died? Scott Epson? Do you know anything about him?”