We were there for a while before we heard the door to the stacks open and then slam shut. A few minutes later, the sounds of a girl sobbing came from the opposite end of the stacks. Taylor must’ve heard it—or seen my surprised expression—because she ripped her earbuds out. And then we both sat silently, listening to some faceless girl blubbering away because she thought she was alone. Because she probably didn’t want her roommate to catch her crying, and had come here for the solitude. She had a distinctive gasping way of crying.
The girl’s sobbing started to turn to sniffles. I doubled down on my homework, hoping—in vain, I knew—that Taylor would do something similarly silent until the poor girl pulled herself together and left.
But then I saw Taylor throw her shoulders back. Her mouth opened, and out of it came a perfect imitation of the girl’s long, gasping sobs—if a bit louder, to ensure that it was heard.
After it echoed through the stacks, I heard myself snigger—from shock or amusement, I wasn’t sure. We heard the rush of a body moving toward the door of the stacks, and the inevitable slam. And then we were alone again, and said nothing about it to each other.
Now I wished we had. What had been wrong with me, that I could let her do something like that and say nothing?
I tried to shake away the feeling that I could still hear Taylor’s fake sob echoing through the stacks—and tried to return my attention to the second paragraph of my essay. I wrote a lame transition sentence to start the first body paragraph. Then I deleted it. Then I opened up Thatcher’s video and hit Play before I could have second thoughts.
My heart thudded at seeing Taylor again. But to hear her say “Say it again, bitch” was strangely comforting. Such a Taylor thing to say, even if I wasn’t sure who she was saying it to. But then the sight of her window set my heart racing again.
After watching it once, I played it again with the volume all the way up. I stopped in the middle, after the faint whisper, played it again. Yes, now that Anthony had said it, I could only hear it as Samuel was sixteen. It seemed like there was another word or two after that, but it got garbled in the movement of Taylor jumping up and running out of her room.
This time I watched the video to the very end—all eight minutes of the empty, silent Dearborn hallway one year ago.
There was something mesmerizing about watching an empty hallway—so much so that I jumped when a noise finally came out of the phone—a muffled squeak and a bang, and then, a moment later, the groan of the heavy bathroom door opening. Taylor’s legs came into view and then the screen image flip-flopped and the video ended.
I pulled the earbuds out and put my fingers resolutely on my keyboard, but could not remember what my English paper was about. Skimming the shoddy introductory paragraph, I tried to steady my breath. Oh yes. The Invisible Man.
My computer dinged an alert, and I toggled back to my internet browser. Eager for any distraction, I sat back up and saw I had a new message on Facebook.
Hi Haley. You can call me Suzie. I am happy to talk to you, but can you tell me who gave you my name? Usually I prefer that the group be kept confidential, and send new member requests to the core group of other members before approving. You are a senior, so you’re living in Dearborn now? Are you okay?
I wrote a reply right away—vaguely amused by all of this cloak-and-dagger secrecy, but nonetheless grateful for the final question of the note (to which I did not know the answer).
Dear Suzie: Another alum gave me your name and info. I am sorry if my note came as a surprise. She was trying to be helpful. I have some concerns about what happened to my friend Taylor Blakey last year. I’m not sure if you’d heard about that or, at least, what Windham has reported.
I hit Send and waited. The reply came quickly.
Haley, I am so sorry about the loss of your friend. Yes, I and other alums heard the sad news shortly after it happened. I am happy to chat about any questions you have, but I don’t know how many answers I can provide. I and the small group of alums I’ve gathered are seekers primarily. We don’t have answers. We hold space for each other and are sympathetic to each other’s experiences with things that cannot be explained.
Oh God, I thought. I could see what Bronwyn meant about some of the ladies being more woo-woo than others. I wasn’t really into holding space. But maybe it was my responsibility to do so for Taylor. Even if she herself would’ve made gagging noises at the phrase.
Do you want to talk or do you prefer this Facebook messaging? I wrote.
I think it might be good to talk. How about this evening? I am leaving for a doctor appointment now.
Okay. I can talk anytime between 6:30 and 9 (EST). I included the EST so she wouldn’t know I’d already Facebook-stalked her enough to see that she lived in Pennsylvania. After adding my phone number, I hit Send.
My stomach was grumbling. I packed up my things, left the library, and started to cross campus toward Dearborn. But once its front doors and castle roof were in view, my feet began to drag. I was cold, but I wasn’t ready to submit myself to another evening in the dorm—endless studying, blank screen, cold hands typing near the draft of the window. Afraid to go to sleep. Afraid to not go to sleep.
I slipped my phone out of my coat pocket. Struggling to tap at my speed-dial numbers with my gloved hands, I had to try a few times.
My mother answered right away.
“Hi honey,” she said. “This is a nice surprise.”
“Yeah. I just had a free moment.”
I gazed at the Dearborn entrance and wondered what the dining hall was serving tonight. Lately, I thought often of the ham sandwiches my mom used to put in my lunch every day. Sandwiches I used to take one bite out of and then throw away. I hated ham, but I never felt like I could tell her.
“I was thinking it would be really nice to come home for the next break,” I said, trying to sound cheerfully casual.
“Oh? Oh. Last time it sounded like you weren’t sure. But I can look for a bargain flight online.”
“Well…I mean, if you see something really cheap.” I felt myself hedging.
My mother already strained to pay the small portion of the tuition the school had allotted as our responsibility.
“I’m sure we can find something reasonable,” she said. “It would be nice to have you home.”
The words made my eyes sting. I wanted to be home—for the first time in a while. Even though my mother and brother and I had almost nothing to say to one another anymore, and needed lots of Netflix and chips and root beer to fill the silence and the vague but constant hunger. Even though the whole house smelled like our old dog, Lippy, who didn’t seem to recognize me anymore; even though the worn kitchen linoleum never seemed clean no matter how much you mopped it.
At home, I could at least hear my mom say, “Try to sleep, Haley.” It had never helped all that much when I was a kid, but maybe it would now.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I blurted, to keep myself from crying.
“What?” It sounded like my mother was sucking on something. Like a cough drop.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I repeated, gazing up at Dearborn’s stern brick facade. Lately, I was also starting to wonder about all of the building’s former occupants over its hundred-plus years. How many of them had been as sad as me, as messed up as me?
“Sometimes,” she said, smacking her lips. “Why, is there a ghost at Windham?”
“Yeah. A pretty famous one. You didn’t know about that, growing up in Heathsburg?”
“Oh…we had our own horror stories to deal with, Haley.”
I gripped the phone tight, chastened and silent. “Uh…yeah, I know.”
Life was hard for my mother growing up in Heathsburg—in the shadow of Windham-Farnswood. Her father died when she was ten. Her mother had been a secretary at a local gas company. My mother had two older s
isters and a younger brother, and they had to use food stamps. Like a lot of Heathsburg townies, she would never have been able to afford Windham tuition. And she had not quite had the grades for a scholarship, although she had tried for one.
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” I said. “But I should go—I’m about to miss dinner.”
* * *
It was after seven p.m. and Suzie hadn’t called yet. In the meantime I’d written to Lily Bruno, sending her the same message I’d sent to Jayla, hoping my success rate would carry over.
Hi Lily. I hope you’re doing well at college. As you might know, I was a friend of Taylor Blakey’s. I was wondering if you would be willing to talk to me about the night she died. There are some things I’d just like to settle for my own peace of mind, if that makes sense? Thanks, Haley
As I hit Send, I crossed my fingers that they weren’t friends.
I’d also watched Taylor’s video twice now tonight. I felt compelled to watch the long minutes of empty hallway without skipping. Something about the sounds at the very end—the soft squeak and bang before Taylor opened the bathroom door and retrieved her phone—unsettled me almost as much as the stuff in her room. I just couldn’t quite say why.
“Star?” I said.
Star looked up from her laptop. “Yeah?”
“How does Ms. Noceno respond when people come into the archives looking for information for nonacademic projects? Just, like, personal interest kind of stuff?”
“I don’t think that happens much. I bet she’d be thrilled. Why?”
“I have a few questions I think she could help with, but…What if I came in asking about darker topics? Like deaths and other tragedies on campus? Would that bother her? I mean…not recent deaths. But stuff like that.”
The school archives seemed a sensible place to start learning about the people who’d lived here before us. Maybe I could also look up that girl Sarah Chase. And see if I could find something about a Samuel.
“She loves it when kids come in,” Star said. “And even if you were asking about something morbid like campus deaths, she wouldn’t blink an eye. Of course she knows people are interested in stuff like the Windham ghost stories, especially the Dearborn ones. People research that every so often for little projects or the school paper.”
Star closed her computer. “You could come with me to archive hours tomorrow. I could help you.”
“Well…sure. I’d appreciate that.”
Star leaned forward and sank her chin into her hand. “How about at two-thirty? That’s when it opens, and I usually go right when it opens.”
Before I could answer, my phone started to buzz, showing UNKNOWN NUMBER on the screen.
“Hello?” I said, giving a little thumbs-up to Star as I slipped out of our room.
“Haley? This is Suzie Price. How are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you in Dearborn right now?” Suzie sounded pleasant, motherly.
“Yeah. Umm, in the hallway of the fourth floor.”
“Ahh. Well, I’m glad you could talk. How is your final semester going?”
“Not bad,” I said, pacing down the hallway a couple of steps and then back again.
“I loved so many of my Windham teachers,” Suzie said.
“Yeah,” I murmured, even though I didn’t entirely share the sentiment.
Apparently sensing my impatience, Suzie said, “Now. Let’s talk about your questions.”
“I…um…just wanted to hear what you and your friends’ experiences had been in Dearborn that made you feel like there was paranormal activity here.”
“Well…not all of the women in the group are my friends, per se, and our experiences vary quite a bit. I can start with my own, though.” Suzie paused and I slid into a sitting position next to my door. “I lived in a single in Dearborn. Several times I woke up feeling a presence in the room. Oddly, I didn’t always feel it to be the same presence. Usually it was dark and weighty. But occasionally I’d wake up laughing, and feel for the first few moments that someone was there…laughing with me. I would hear it for a few seconds as I was waking up.”
I shuddered and pulled up my knees, wrapping my long cardigan around them.
“I never saw the girl…but two of the people in the Facebook group have seen her. Two women who graduated more than a decade apart and had never met each other before…had remarkably similar stories.”
“Can you tell me?” I asked.
“Both of them experienced a couple of nights of waking up to the sound of some slow knocks on their doors. Like that was the portent, or the seeking permission to enter. And then both of them had an experience of waking up and seeing a girl…a pale girl in a white nightgown. One of them saw her standing in her doorway, watching her. The other…even scarier. Standing right over her, staring down.”
“Wow,” I breathed. It sounded like Bronwyn had shared her story with the group.
“I know. In both cases, they reported that the girl looked angry. With the one where the girl was standing by the bed, she whispered something. Something like ‘sad heart.’ And then the girl reached out and yanked the sheet over her face.”
I was speechless for a moment. Forget sleeping tonight.
“That’s the worst of the stories…or at least the worst of the actual sightings. I know there is someone who saw the girl in the basement when she was doing laundry at night, but she’s not part of the group, so I haven’t heard the details. But I’ve noticed a heart theme with some of the hauntings, when you look at them collectively. There was that ‘sad heart’ thing, but also a couple of women who were haunted in the ’80s or ’90s say that they found a shape of a heart scratched in their wall or on their door shortly after. And I believe there was one other alum who said she heard some kind of whispering about ‘your heart.’ Not with a sighting. Just hearing a murmuring.”
“Really?” I said. Goose bumps started to cover my arms. And then, it felt like, the rest of my body. “So maybe there’s a theme of a broken heart?”
“Maybe.” Suzie sounded a little skeptical.
“Did anyone ever mention the name Samuel in any of these hauntings?” I asked.
“Umm…not that I can recall. Why?”
“I just heard something about that once, that’s all,” I said. “So…um…how did you all find each other? All you alums?”
“There are several Windham alumnae Facebook groups. That’s how I first got in touch with my friend Jane Villette, who graduated a few years after me. We hadn’t known each other then, but it was through other social media interactions that we discovered we’d both had memories of visitations in Dearborn. Because of their sensitive nature, we ended up making a separate group just for those discussions. A couple of people had experiences so bad that it kind of developed into almost a mental health issue, I’d say. So we don’t want the discussion to be public. Even among other Windham alumnae.”
“Okay,” I said, wanting to encourage her to talk but feeling weird about the words almost a mental health issue. “I see.”
“We don’t contact each other that often. It’s just…when you have an unusual experience, it’s nice to know there are others out there that have had it, too…who know you’re not crazy.”
“Yeah…makes sense,” I offered.
“And not all of us have such dramatic stories, either. Some are stories like mine. Feeling watched. Feeling a presence. Hearing knocks or just strange little accidents. A smoke alarm that always went off at three a.m. A lamp falling over spontaneously and breaking. Some books flying off a desk. Stuff like that. Now, how can I help you? Are you wanting to speak to other Haunteds directly?”
Haunteds. I felt my chest seize.
“Is that what you call yourselves?” I asked.
“Oh! Not generally. It’s just what we call the Facebook group
, is all.”
“I guess I’d like to be on the Facebook list in case I have more questions. If you’re willing.”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“And…one more thing. Has the building ever been professionally…assessed, I guess is the right word…for paranormal activity? Because I saw the reference to…”
I clamped my mouth shut. I wasn’t supposed to have seen the screenshot of the Haunteds’ discussion.
“I heard once Ronald Darkins’s name mentioned by an alum,” I corrected myself. “I, uh, looked him up recently.”
“Oh.” Suzie sighed and laughed a little. “That’s just a little bit of fun. Rumors about Ronald Darkins coming and staying at Dearborn. It was kind of a running joke later, at reunions and things. I’m surprised you’ve heard of Ronald Darkins. He was kind of a flash in the pan…and probably before you were born.”
“Oh,” I said. “So Ronald Darkins wasn’t a Farnswood student or anything like that?”
“Oh no.” Suzie laughed again. “Is that what the story is now? It’s hard with all of these Dearborn rumors, separating the legends from the real stories, of course.”
“I know what you mean,” I offered. I was distracted by the now distinctly cold feeling in the hallway.
“Well, in any case, I should probably tootle now. But I want you to know you’re welcome in the group. So I’ll send you an invitation, then. And you can contact me anytime if you have more questions.”
“Thanks,” I said.
We said goodbye. I decided to go brush my teeth and grabbed my toiletry caddy. Once I was in the bathroom, its heavy door closed behind me with its usual groan and thump. I hesitated before going to the sink—because that sound reminded me of the very end of Taylor’s video. Right before she came out of the bathroom and picked up her phone.
When All the Girls Are Sleeping Page 9