“Well, burning sage,” I offered. “It doesn’t get rid of ghosts, but it cleanses the space of negativity.”
Star snorted. “Good luck with that working here.”
I nearly did a double take, I was so unaccustomed to Star being cynical about Windham. Maybe she’d always been, and I’d just been too caught up in my own stuff to notice.
“Let’s see what more we can find out about Sarah Black before we start breaking the fire code,” Star said with a shrug—signaling that she was done with crazy roommate shenanigans for the evening.
While Star did homework, I looked up Lucia Jackson, who of course had a fancy website showing all of her beautiful book covers. The About Lucia section had only a small black-and-white photo of her. She was leaning against a desk, looking slightly uncomfortable and put out—like someone had stopped her on her way to the bathroom to make her take this stupid photograph. She was wearing a scoop-necked black T-shirt and dark-framed glasses, made slightly less severe by the soft-looking blond hair that curled gently around her chin.
I tried to imagine her about thirty years younger, saying, Everyone makes way too big of a deal about the ghost.
I clicked on Contact. There were email addresses there for Lucia’s literary agent, film agent, publicist, and assistant. Seeing all of those different fancy names made me feel dumb. But I clicked on her assistant, since that was the most humble-sounding of the bunch. A blank email template came up. I poised my hands on the keyboard.
Dear Ms. Jackson,
I am a Windham-Farnswood student and a huge fan of your work. Snapdragon Drive is one of my favorite books. I was wondering if you have time to do a quick interview about your time as a student here. I’m interviewing artist and writer alums and would love to include you.
Thank you,
Haley Peppler
It was mostly lies, but now was not the time to pretend I wasn’t capable of lying. I hit Send before I could change my mind.
I doubted I would get a response. Lucia Jackson probably got a lot of dumb kids asking her dumb questions. For now it would have to be enough to know that she probably saw the Dearborn ghost once, but seemed to have turned out okay.
Before getting ready for bed, I checked the Facebook “Haunteds” group once more. Two more people had replied to my inquiry about dates of hauntings:
Anita Simons: Pretty sure it was in January, right after holiday break.
Lauren Calhoun: I’ve kept all my high school and college journals. Scratching on my window. Faint whispery moans and humming in my room. It was February 10.
36
It was easy to end my friendship with Taylor. Too easy.
“No one will ever see the burner phone,” I assured her. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
I’m trying to remember now the look that was on her face when she realized that I had not necessarily thrown it away. That I was not necessarily ever going to—that I was using it as insurance in case she was thinking of punishing me somehow.
“I think we shouldn’t hang out for a few days, though,” I’d said.
I wonder now if my s came out sibilant when I said “days.”
The truth was that I wasn’t trying to be mean, or even to wield this rare power I had. The truth was I just needed to get out from under her. I needed to know who I was without her. I needed to know if I was cruel or kind or neither. I had come here desperate and broken, and my friendship with her had made me feel pieced together again. With a toxic kind of glue, yes, but it was better than being in pieces, nonetheless. The relief at that vaguely whole feeling had made me accept everything about her. Things I hated. Most of all, that the relief was always actually laced with fear. Fear she’d turn on me and treat me like she treated almost everybody else.
I could no longer remember the face of the girl back in Michigan who’d asked me if I brushed my hair. Whenever I thought of it at Windham, her face was Taylor’s.
But no matter, I’d thought, after I’d said those final words to Taylor.
I was studying more now. I was talking to other girls—girls like Star—without wondering what Taylor thought of them. I could put whatever I wanted on my dinner tray without worrying that Taylor might remark about my unhealthy passion for pasta, or the fundamentally gross nature of anyone who eats meatballs, ricotta cheese, hot dogs, cauliflower, or mayonnaise.
When I would see her in the stairwell of the science building, or coming out of the locker room, her face was neutral—if a little tired. Not angry or vindictive or even a little sad. It was like I was one of her already-graduated friends. Just gone.
After she jumped, I began to wonder why I had been so desperate to get out from under her that I had not felt I could wait until June—when she would have been gone anyway. She’d have graduated, and I’d have been free of her.
I told myself it had nothing to do with revenge or cruelty or power.
If I’d really wanted those things, I’d have taken her burner phone to the dean and turned her in. She’d been out of chances by then. She’d have been kicked out of Windham. But I’d never wanted that kind of trouble for her. I just didn’t want to have to be her friend—her shadow—anymore.
37
Five Nights Left
It is true what some of the girls whisper. A ghost looks for her replacement. That is how she breaks free.
I am Sarah, I am Taylor, I am all of the girls who came before.
I bear their anger, their frustration, their sadness, their collective vengeful wish.
38
Tuesday, February 5
“Haley. Haley!”
Star’s exuberant form was heading in my direction as I left the humanities hall after the last class of the day. I tried to focus, and ran my palms up and down my face as if that might wipe the exhaustion away. Ms. Holland-Stone had just given me dagger eyes for forgetting to hand in my Western Civ paper—and then reminded me of her strict twelve-points-per-day penalty for lateness. Everyone had stared at me as I’d told her I’d have it tomorrow. I hadn’t even started it yet.
Star was breathless.
“They came through,” she said. “The Rochester Library. They already sent the Sarah Georgetta Black article.”
“What’s it say?” I demanded, waking up slightly at the news.
“I don’t know yet. I saw it on my phone but couldn’t open it. We should go to the room and try on one of our laptops.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
We ran to Dearborn—my scarf falling off and trailing behind me, Star’s hands raw and gloveless as she clutched her phone the whole way. When we arrived, flushed and thumping up the stairs, we probably seemed a little giddy.
Anna looked bemused as she was coming down the stairs opposite us.
“Hello, ladies,” she said sharply, her gaze darting from me to Star and back again.
We were all quite suspect to her now—since the latest vandalism. Indeed, Star and me looking breathless together—or me looking enthusiastic at all—was maybe an unusual sight.
“Hello!” Star called back, not slowing down. I looked down at my boots and followed her lead.
A few seconds later, we were behind our closed door and Star was shedding her coat, taking out her laptop.
“Okay!” she said, flipping it open and making a few clicks. “It’s opening.”
I didn’t bother to take off my coat and hat as I leaned over her shoulder. The type of the old newspaper article was small, crowded, and slightly faded in spots.
“It’s too small to read,” Star cried.
“There must be a way to zoom in,” I said.
“Oh. Umm…” She scanned the page. “Here! Oh my God! There’s a picture!”
She struggled to center the page on a blurry photo of a girl. Above the picture was an article in tiny print, and above
that a bold headline: Death of Local Girl, Niece of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Hannaford.
It wasn’t a formal photograph. It was taken outdoors. Sarah Black was standing outside in some grass in a stiff plaid dress, with a fence and a tree behind her. Her pale hair was long, formed into a few thick ringlets—except for a front piece pulled back away from her face. She was looking demurely upward at the camera, heavy-lidded, not exactly smiling, but not exactly frowning, either. She looked impatient—maybe uncomfortable. She also looked about twelve. Maybe she was a very young-looking sixteen. Or maybe more likely this was the only photograph of her the family had.
I dragged my gaze away from the photo to read the article above it.
Death claimed Sarah “Sally” Georgetta Black, 16 years old, at the home of her uncle, mayoral candidate Charles Hannaford, and his wife, Katherine Hannaford. Miss Black was taken sick on Tuesday and was found to have pneumonia. She died on Friday. Her death was a shock to her family and friends.
“That’s the whole article?” I said.
“It’s not an article, really. Just like a…death notice, I guess? Like an obituary.”
“Almost like filler,” I said. “Kind of sad. I wonder if it would have even made the papers if her uncle wasn’t…involved in local politics, looks like.”
“So she died of pneumonia,” Star said. “That’s…terrible.”
“I guess I was expecting something different,” I admitted.
“Like…?” Star asked.
“Like something worse.”
“Dying that young is pretty bad, no matter how it happens.”
“I was expecting a murder or a suicide, I guess,” I admitted. “Or a freak accident.”
Like a freak accident you could blame on a poltergeist. A fire or a flying piano.
“Well…of course you can die a quiet death and still be angry, or have unfinished business,” Star pointed out. “Maybe it’s even worse that way.”
“How’s that?”
Star lowered her voice. “Because no one’s paying all that much attention. Not like they would with a dramatic death.”
I moved my face closer to the screen. “At least now we know what she looked like.”
“Is that how you imagined her?” Star asked.
Sarah Black was small and kind of frail, like most of the accounts of the Winter Girl described. But then, it was hard to tell if the photo was taken when she was still very young—in which case, of course she was small. And she was pale—but in the way most white people looked pale in washed-out old 19th-century photos.
“Can you forward me the article and picture?” I asked.
“Of course,” Star said, clicking her email icon. “And now that we’ve gotten this, I’m thinking we should look up her parents, her siblings, her aunt, and her uncle in the Rochester database. See if we can find out a little more about her through them.”
“Good idea,” I said. “This is great. But I…should do some work now, really. I’ve been falling so behind.”
“Okay.” Star looked uncertain, but retreated back to her mountain of archive photocopies.
* * *
Dear Darla: Can I email you something? I have a question for you.
I wrote to Darla Heaney, who was certain she’d seen the ghost in her window on February 10 or 11. I repeated basically the same message to Lauren Calhoun, the lady who’d kept a journal and also cited February 10 as the date of her haunting.
And although Bronwyn Spruce had never mentioned dates, I also texted her the same basic question.
Sure, she texted back.
I studied Sarah Black’s photo some more before I sent it, trying again to determine the emotion on the girl’s face. Impatience, yes. And if such a girl was stuck here in Dearborn forever, could I blame her for being impatient?
“You want to go to dinner?” Star asked, closing her laptop.
“You go ahead,” I said, minimizing the photo. “I’ll be going down in a few minutes.”
Star looked reluctant, but then left the room wordlessly. I wondered if I’d hurt her feelings—since we’d had a pretty collegial first dinner together yesterday.
Does this picture of this girl remind you of anything? I wrote as the text of my email, and attached the picture of Sarah Black. In the meantime, Darla had sent her email address, so I sent the same thing to her.
An email came in just as I was finishing up—so fast that I thought it was a delivery failure notice. But I was stunned to see this message instead:
Hi Haley,
I’m Gwen Hildale, Lucia’s assistant.
Lucia is home from LA this week and would like to help.
Were you looking for a typed Q&A or a phone call? Due to Lucia’s tight schedule, a phone call would be preferable—if you can keep it to about 10 minutes?
Best,
Gwen
I was typing an enthusiastic reply when someone tapped on my door.
“Who is it?” I shouted.
“Maylin.”
“Oh.” I hit Send, closed my laptop, and opened the door.
“Come down and eat with me?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, shoving my feet into sneakers and closing the door behind me. “Where’s Alex?”
“I don’t know. She’s been flaking out on me lately. And…” As we headed to the stairwell, Maylin raised her eyebrows at me, clearly wanting me to notice.
“What?” I said.
“Do you think of me as closed-minded?” she asked.
“Umm…no. Why?”
“Say you were attracted to women, like, if you were a lesbian or bi, would you tell me?”
I was startled. “Uh…I’m not attracted to women, so it’s a hard question to answer.”
“But if you were?”
“Umm, I guess I would tell you…eventually?” I was feeling a little too exhausted for this kind of conversation. “When I felt like telling people, I would tell you, too? If that makes sense?”
“Do you think Alex thinks I’m closed-minded?” Maylin demanded.
“No,” I replied. “You guys are good friends. And Alex usually isn’t afraid to tell people what she thinks.”
“But is it possible she would think she couldn’t tell me something, because I’m, like, immature or prejudiced or something?”
We were at the bottom of the stairs now, but Maylin wasn’t reaching for the stairwell door.
“She didn’t sleep in her room last night, I don’t think,” she said softly, glancing up the stairs for eavesdroppers. “And Kaylin Highfield says she spent the night in that sophomore Chloe Schuster’s room.”
“Well, good for Alex,” I said, shrugging. “She never did have any patience for those smelly Farnswood boys.”
“Chloe’s the girl she tutors,” Maylin pointed out, as if this made the matter particularly scandalous.
“Well, that’s fine. And maybe, actually, they were busy studying and she got tired and fell asleep.”
Maylin shook her head. “Chloe’s roommate, Rhea, slept on Kaylin’s floor. She said Rhea didn’t really say much, just that she and Chloe needed a little break from each other. But then Kaylin’s roommate saw Alex sneaking out of the room at like five-thirty or six in the morning.”
I hesitated before replying—thinking about the therapist thing Maylin had noticed. And now this. Alex not sleeping in her own room.
“Where do you get all of this information, Maylin?” I asked, trying to keep a neutral tone. “Why don’t you just ask Alex if you’re curious?”
Maylin made a face. “Wouldn’t that be rude?”
“Maybe,” I admitted, pulling the stairwell door open for her.
When we got to the dining hall entrance, I scanned the room for Alex but didn’t see her. I saw Maylin doing the same. Star was
at a corner table, digging into a plate of spaghetti, flanked by other friends.
“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight,” I said to Maylin.
I’d just barely put my tray down when I saw that Bronwyn Spruce had texted back.
No. The picture doesn’t do anything for me. What’s this about?
I just wanted to get your reaction. We have reason to believe this girl, who died at age 16, might be the Winter Girl.
Who is “we”? Bronwyn wanted to know.
“Who’re you texting?” Maylin asked.
“Oh. Uh…sorry. Just a friend.”
Maylin raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Although I never really told anyone point-blank that I had no friends from back home, I think it was fairly obvious to anyone who knew me.
I sucked up a strand of spaghetti and replied to Bronwyn.
My roommate and me. Does this look *anything* like the girl you saw in your doorway?
“Are you upset with me for saying those things about Alex?” Maylin demanded. “Do you think I’m a bad friend because it bothers me that she might be keeping that from me? Do you think that makes me self-centered?”
“What? No, Maylin. Of course I’m curious, too.”
Bronwyn replied:
Not really. Maybe a little? Photo doesn’t strike me.
I was a little disappointed with this tepid reply.
Okay, thx, I typed. I was staring at the Sarah Black photo again when Maylin nudged me hard.
Alex and Chloe were approaching the table together. Alex dropped her tray of spaghetti and salad with a clumsy clatter. A dinner roll bounced off her tray and onto the floor.
I put down my phone and bent to pick up the roll.
“Want me to toss it?” I asked.
“Five-second rule,” Alex said, taking it from me. “Thanks.”
“What’ve you been up to?” Maylin asked after the two girls settled in seats next to each other.
“Just running around trying to take care of shit,” Alex mumbled. “Among other things, I think we timed about half the bulbs wrong in the greenhouse.”
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