When All the Girls Are Sleeping

by Emily Arsenault

  “Can you change the date of the bulb show?” I asked.

  Alex didn’t reply—and she didn’t look that great. Her eyes were glassier than they’d been when she’d visited my room the other day, the circles beneath them a deeper purple.

  I glanced at Maylin, who didn’t seem to notice.

  “Are you okay, Alex?” I said.

  “Yeah. Just hungry,” Alex said, taking a bite of the dirty roll.

  I didn’t know if I should point out that she didn’t look okay. That rarely helps, in my experience.

  “You need to take it easy,” I said, as gently as I could.

  “Good advice,” Alex said, picking up her fork and stabbing at a piece of lettuce. “I love advice.”

  I made another concerned face at Maylin. Lesbian or no, this was not a girl who was caught up in a romance. More likely, this was a girl who might be having a little bit of a nervous breakdown. And who, for one reason or another, was not sleeping in her own room.

  “What’s this?” Maylin said. I looked up to see she was holding my phone, staring at Sarah Black’s picture.

  The sophomore Chloe was leaning in, gazing at it with Maylin. I was a little too stunned to snatch it away from them right away.

  “It’s…uh…just an old picture. Of a girl who used to go here.”

  “When?” Maylin asked. “Looks really old. Why do you have it on your phone?”

  “I just…Star got me into looking at these old pictures.”

  “What’s that teeny-tiny type below the picture?” Chloe asked.

  I was surprised to hear her speak, because she so rarely did.

  “Death of Local Girl,” Maylin said.

  “No, not there,” Chloe said. “Below the picture. Really tiny. See how blotchy it is?”

  Alex crammed a cucumber slice into her mouth, watched me for a moment while she chewed, and then barked, “For fuck’s sake, give the girl her phone back!”

  Chloe looked wide-eyed and remorseful, recoiling from the phone. Maylin glared at Alex but silently dropped my phone into my hand.

  “It just caught my attention,” Maylin murmured defensively.

  “As these things do,” Alex said pointedly.

  Maylin and I exchanged a look. Yes, somehow Alex knew about us gossiping about her therapy contacts. Somehow Alex knew everything. She always did, somehow or other.

  Maylin and Alex were glowering at each other. But I was more interested in the picture on my phone. Chloe was right. There was a minuscule print below the picture of Sarah, squashed below the bottom of the photo, presumably to fit above the bottom border of the newspaper. I had to zoom way in to even start to see them as distinguishable words.

  I was not focused, as the others were, on the silence that had fallen over our table. I think we had all—even Chloe—registered the same thought at once: an unaccustomed nastiness had accompanied Alex to dinner. There was something wrong with Alex.

  But I couldn’t fully digest this because my fingers were still sliding over the screen of my phone, zooming further in until I could make out the first word. The. Slide to the right. Lord. To the right again. Seeth.

  I kept sliding across the screen. Slowly, slippery, refocusing. Until I’d read the whole thing:

  The Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart. 1 Samuel 16:7

  A Bible quote.

  I eyed Samuel, and felt myself floating above the dining hall table for a moment, vaguely hearing Alex apologize for snapping, and then Maylin saying sorry for being nosy.

  “Haley?” Maylin said.

  Maybe Samuel wasn’t a bad boyfriend after all. Samuel was sixteen. That was what Anthony and I had thought we heard on Thatcher’s tape. But was it really something like, Samuel one sixteen?

  “Umm,” I said. “It’s no problem at all.”

  I threw my phone onto my tray and stood up. “I’m not feeling so great. I have to go.”

  39

  In my room, I Googled 1 Samuel 16:7.

  I used to go to church with my mom before she decided she didn’t have time for it anymore. So I didn’t know all that much about the Bible.

  What came up was a more modern translation than the one that had appeared below the picture in Sarah Black’s death notice, but essentially the same thing: “The Lord does not see as mortals see; they look at outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” And it was often quoted simply as “God sees the heart.”

  I rifled through my desk drawer until I found the old ’90s printout Star had given me of the ghost story accounts. I scanned quickly to confirm. The ghost had said “He sees” to a student named Sheila Hahn in the 1970s.

  Breathless, I opened my laptop and reread the opening of the Darkins report until I found the line I was looking for: Mrs. Bradford recollects that her mother said that the ghost was, in her student days, rumored to quote Scripture during her visitations. But she believes that may have been her mother’s pious embellishment of a topic that otherwise made her uncomfortable.

  “Pious embellishment,” I scoffed. Mrs. Bradford should have listened to her mother after all.

  And then there were the hearts. The hearts Suzie Price had spoken of.

  I slammed the laptop closed and raced down the stairs to the laundry room. Thankfully, it was empty. Everyone else was still eating.

  Behind the dryer where Rhea had shown me, there was the heart with the letters:

  God sees the heart.

  “Uhhhhh,” I exhaled.

  Mrs. Bradford’s mother had attended roughly around 1905.

  This Bible-quoting ghost had been around for more than a hundred years. And that particular bit of Scripture clearly meant something to Sarah Black, or her family, or her history. The ghost, if there was one, was almost certainly Sarah Black.

  Had Sarah Black been in Taylor’s room whispering to her a few nights before she died?

  And quoting the Bible? I knew that students at Windham used to be way more religious in the 19th century—even had religion classes and mandated church attendance. But it seemed like the ghost was barking up the wrong tree, quoting the Bible to Taylor.

  God sees the heart. Sad heart. Sick heart. He sees. I see you in the dark.

  And hearts scratched in the wall.

  Was this a consistent message? I wasn’t sure. The ghost was preoccupied with the heart, that was clear. But what did she want?

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I had two emails that had popped in at the same time.

  First, Darla had written back:

  Hi Haley,

  All I remember from that night was a shrouded, scared sort of face. This picture doesn’t really jar my memory one way or another.

  Darla

  So much for my idea that the Haunteds would all immediately recognize Sarah Black as their ghost. Unless, maybe there were two ghosts, like Star was saying. One who wore white and one who wore black. One who quoted the Bible, and one who said darker things like I made her jump?

  I quickly thanked her for the reply and hit Send.

  My next message was from Lucia Jackson’s assistant:

  Haley, Tonight actually works for Lucia if you can please remember to keep it short. 7:30 to 7:40. Thanks.

  * * *

  At 7:31, the call came from an area code I didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?”

  As if I didn’t know exactly who was calling. As if this wasn’t intimidating at all.

  “Hello, Haley? This is Lucia calling.”

  “Yes. Hi. Thank you so much for agreeing to talk to me. I bet a lot of Windham students ask.”

  “Actually, no.” Lucia’s voice was cheerful, almost youthful. Not what I was expecting from her author photo. “You’re the first one in about ten year
s.”

  “Oh.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I tried not to think about how rich and famous Lucia Jackson was.

  “But all one has to do is be a squeaky wheel,” she said.

  “Um…since we only have ten minutes, I should cut right to the—”

  “Who said we only have ten minutes?” Lucia laughed.

  “Your assistant.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, maybe that’s all it will take. But I’m not setting an egg timer here.”

  I was silent for a few painful seconds, which, in spite of Lucia’s words, I felt I could almost hear ticking away.

  “I actually wanted to know about the Winter Girl. I mean, you know, the ghost that haunts the senior dorm?” I said, hearing my own words rush out with the same sort of helpless dread you feel when you watch something fragile—and just out of reach—falling and breaking. “About your experience with it. That’s the main thing I’m researching. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  An even longer silence followed this time. I stared at the door, praying that Star would not choose this moment to come through it. I hadn’t seen her since dinner.

  Lucia cleared her throat. “Of course.”

  “Okay, great.” I hesitated. “Because your name came up when I started researching this question.”

  “Can I just interrupt you for a moment, Haley?” Lucia’s voice seemed to soften a little. “Are you the scholarship student?”

  I hesitated, momentarily stunned by the relatively personal question.

  “I’m…uh…on financial aid, yes.”

  “No, I mean the Fleming scholarship.”

  “I…don’t know what that is.”

  In the silence that followed my words, I thought I heard Lucia sigh.

  “Oh. Never mind. Someone contacted me recently about this one particular scholarship.” Lucia’s words were tumbling out now, similar to how mine had been seconds earlier. “If I’d make a contribution, or something. Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t mean to be rude. So, we’re talking about the Dearborn ghost here, and you’re interviewing artist and writer alums about that specifically?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Your name came up in particular because when you were a student here, when you were a senior, someone interviewed you about it.”

  “Someone?”

  My mind went blank. I couldn’t remember how I’d told myself I’d skirt around the peculiar details of how I’d come across her interview.

  “Your houseparents. They, um, kept a cool sort of journal of their year at Dearborn. I found it in the archives.”

  Good, Haley. Straight up lying to the celebrated writer. Go for it.

  “Okay. This is sounding familiar now. They were kind of into the ghost thing, I remember. They liked to talk about it.”

  “They wrote down what you said.” I hesitated. “That you saw the ghost but she didn’t scare you.”

  “I see.” Lucia paused for a moment. “Now, why are you researching this, Haley? Are you a senior?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been visited by the ghost recently?” Her voice was sharp again—disapproving? I couldn’t tell.

  “I don’t know. I’m researching this because of my friend. My friend who died in Dearborn last year. I don’t know if you heard about that?”

  Lucia sucked in a breath and didn’t speak for a moment.

  “Oh no…I didn’t. I’m…sorry.”

  “She jumped out of the window of her room on the fourth floor,” I said. After a moment, I added, “Her name was Taylor.”

  “I’m…so sorry,” Lucia repeated, her voice almost a whisper now.

  “Thank you. Now…do you remember those houseparents sort of interviewing you? Your senior year, when you lived in Dearborn?”

  Lucia was silent for a moment. Then she cleared her throat.

  “I remember talking to them about the ghost a lot, yes. Oh my goodness. That housemother that year was a trip. Her big hair and her advice for the lovelorn. I don’t know where the hell Windham found those two. It was an odd year at Dearborn—my understanding is that they were gone by the next year. Rumor had it the lady was Headmistress Bradford’s hippie niece or something, that she was basically putting them up in Dearborn for a year until they got on their feet.”

  Interesting that Lucia and the other girls had found the Darkinses odd enough to come up with a rumor like that. And that the reality was far weirder.

  “Just…um…a couple more things about what you said about the ghost?” I prompted.

  “Oh. Sure.”

  “You said that you saw the ghost but she didn’t scare you. That you just kind of acknowledged her and moved on with your life.”

  “That…sounds like me, I guess.”

  “So it’s true? You saw her?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “And it didn’t scare you?”

  Lucia was quiet for a moment.

  “Haley…your friend…Please tell me if this is an inappropriate question, and if it is, I apologize. But can I ask what this has to do with your friend?”

  “Well, I’m getting around to that. The ghost you saw…Did you get a bad feeling when you saw her? Do you think it was a ghost capable of doing something evil?”

  Lucia didn’t make a sound for about a minute.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “You think your friend’s death had something to do with the ghost?” Lucia asked quietly.

  I tried not to overthink my answer. About how what I was saying might in fact sound a bit like a potential Lucia Jackson novel. Or just sound crazy.

  “Maybe,” I admitted. “Umm, are you in front of a computer? Do you mind if I email you something, while we’re on the phone?”

  “Sure,” Lucia replied. “But my assistant forwards me all of my email from my author account. So here, use this address instead of what you used before.”

  She rattled off a different email address from the one I’d gotten off her website.

  As I started to prepare the attachment with Sarah Black’s photo, I asked, “You saw her in the hallway?”

  “Yes. The housemother reported that I said that?”

  “Was it true?”

  “Yes, but…”

  Lucia paused for a moment before continuing.

  “But it’s…fuzzy. High school wasn’t a great time for me. Maybe I didn’t see what I thought I did. Maybe it’s best not to…”

  She trailed off.

  “Did the ghost say anything to you?” I asked.

  “Um…no.”

  “Do you think there was something special about you, that made you be able to see the ghost and not be scared of it?” I asked, growing concerned that my ten minutes would soon be up.

  “Oh, now…what would give you that idea?” Lucia asked.

  “Did you really see ghosts when you were a little kid?” I could feel now that I was fighting back tears of frustration.

  “No,” Lucia admitted. “That part’s not true.”

  “Why did you say that, then?” I demanded. “To those houseparents?”

  “I was seventeen,” she said quickly. “I can’t remember exactly. I mean, I was shy. I did weird things for attention. I might have had a little crush on that househusband or whatever they called him.”

  Her ability to admit to a lie so casually took my breath away for a moment. Then again, it was a teenage lie from thirty years ago.

  “It was his wife who interviewed you, not him,” I reminded Lucia.

  “Oh. Well, of course I don’t really remember what was in my head then. I’m sorry.”

  “But you saw the ghost, and she didn’t scare you.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “That’s true,” Lucia said quietly.

  Please tel
l me how not to be scared. Please tell us all.

  “There was a girl the year before you who got really freaked out by the ghost…had to leave campus?”

  “Yes. Yes, that was sad. How did you know about that?”

  “The houseparents wrote a bit about her, too. Do you remember her name?”

  “They wrote down my name but not hers?” Lucia asked.

  “Umm…”

  I sucked in a breath. What was a little white lie between liars?

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Probably they wanted to protect her privacy. It sounded like she had such a terrible time. I…wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing her name, even if I remembered it. She…she’s probably suffered enough.”

  I felt slightly embarrassed for asking. Now the famous author thought I was an insensitive snoop.

  “You should have gotten my email by now,” I murmured.

  “Oh! Yes. Here we are. This is kind of fun.”

  There was a click and then a pause. And then I thought I heard a little gasp.

  “Where did you get this, Haley?” Lucia demanded. “You’re a Fleming girl, aren’t you?”

  The Fleming scholarship. A Fleming girl. Why did she keep bringing up Fleming?

  “Is that the ghost you saw in the hall?” I asked, my pulse quickening.

  Fleming. I grabbed a pen and scribbled down the name on my hand. I had heard that name before. Now, where had it been?

  “Where did you get this?” she said again.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d gotten over on Lucia, or why it felt so satisfying to do so.

  “From the Rochester Public Library archives. Is that the ghost you saw in the hall?”

  “Yes,” Lucia snapped. “But I was probably a little crazy. Windham brings that out in certain girls. And you can quote me on that, if you like. I’m afraid I need to go now.”

  “You do?” I said dumbly. I underlined Fleming, pressing my pen hard into my palm.

  “I’m afraid so. I have a conference call with the West Coast in a few minutes, actually. But Haley—please do accept my condolences about your friend. I hope you find the answers you’re looking for. Truly, I do.”