“All I have to do is whistle,” I say. We watched To Have and Have Not on Sunday. It was my turn to pick for our weekly movie night. We don’t usually watch old black and white movies, but I’d heard amazing things about the cinematography so thought it might make for a fun change. It hadn’t been a favourite for either of us in the end, but at least we picked up a few lines to quote for fun.
“You know how to whistle, don’t you?” Sevren says. “You just put your lips together—”
“And blow!” Amy shouts, running to catch up with us.
I’d hoped to stay ahead of her all the way to school. There is something very uncool about showing up to school with your seven-year-old sister hanging off your arm, but Amy’s quick when she wants to. It’s times like these I rather regret that our school is K to 12. If it weren’t, she might have to go off in a different direction.
“That’s right,” Sevren says, ruffling Amy’s hair despite her attempts to duck beneath his hand. “You just put your lips together and blow. I’m glad you joined us for that one.”
Movie time has been a Sunday afternoon tradition since Sevren and I were in elementary school. Back then it was me, Sevren, and Stacy. Last year, Stacy stopped hanging out with us, and shortly after that, Amy joined us in her place. Ever since the accident.
Amy hitches her backpack up on her shoulder. “I didn’t like it much.”
“Really?” Sevren opens his brown eyes super wide. “I had no idea. What with how you sat so quietly through the whole thing, completely enthralled from start to finish—”
“Right?” I add. “It’s not like you chattered through the entire movie and chanted, ‘Boring! Boring!’ while we were trying to watch it or anything.”
“Certainly not,” Sevren says with mock sincerity. “Because that would have been, oh, I don’t know, annoying. And you’d never be that, would you, Amy?”
If I’d said that to her, Amy would’ve scrunched up her face like she’d sucked on a lemon and started crying, but when Sevren says it, she laughs and swats his arm with her pudgy fingers.
She is so young, I realise, looking at her tiny hand against his arm. I often forget how young. Sometimes the nine years between us feels like a week and sometimes an eon. I should be nicer to her, I really should.
A bird’s watery call sounds from above and ahead of me. Shielding my eyes against the sun, I lean back to spy the source—a magpie balanced at the tippy-top of a massive evergreen. Its tail flips up as it warbles again. An answering cry comes from behind me and the bird takes flight. I see sunlight through the white feathers on its wings and smile. It would make a beautiful photograph, but the bird is moving too fast for me to get my phone out and switch on the camera in time to capture it so I don’t even try. I wonder what the bird from yesterday was—it was even more striking in its own way than this one.
“Hey,” I say. “You ever seen a grey magpie before?”
“No?” Sevren’s answer is itself a question, his face showing his confusion. Amy skips off with a couple of her friends, and he waves at her but then looks to me again. “Why?”
“I thought I saw one yesterday.”
“You sure it was a magpie?”
“No, what am I? A birdologist? It looked like a grey magpie.”
“Could be some sort of albino.” Sevren shrugs. “Speaking of last night, you wanna tell me what was the matter yet?” He steps back from the river of students streaming down the walk toward school, stops and tugs on my hoodie at the elbow, pulling me out of the flow too.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t even try, Morgan. I know you far too well for that.”
And he does. And part of me wants to tell him everything. The temptation is strong, and I wonder what he’d do if I blurted it all out. Everything. About the accident. Keith. The rumours at school. What would he do? What would he say, if I told him how horrible, how oppressive it is at home? If I told him I run to avoid it all, to dull my mind and keep my thoughts from spinning again, and again, back to one horrible thing or another? To keep from dwelling on my guilt. My shame. What would he say?
What could he say?
There are no words to make things better, and while he’s certainly dealt with his own share of bullying, I feel somehow that even he can’t understand what Keith, Simon, and Darian did to me last night. After all, it’s not like they touched me. Still, I felt flayed to the bone by their words, their eyes . . .
I shake my head. “It’s nothing. At least, nothing new.” That much, sadly, is true enough.
Sevren looks me in the eye until I drop my gaze, look down at the ground, the dying grass and the single yellow leaf at my feet. A photograph waiting to happen. “The leaves are starting to fall.”
Sevren sighs but accepts my attempt to change the subject. “Yeah, will be full-on fall here for real, soon.”
I photograph the leaf with my phone and upload it to my Insta while we walk.
“I can’t wait. Fall is my favourite season.”
“Mine too, and not just because of Halloween.”
I laugh. Sevren has always been crazy about Halloween. Well, about anything dark actually. He’s the guy who, when we were in grade six, got suspended for bringing a Ouija board to school and scaring the younger kids with it. He always has the best Halloween costumes and has two full shelves of books from the “Magic and Occult” section of the bookstore in his bedroom, and each one has been read and re-read so many times they opened to his favourite sections all by themselves.
Every time it’s his turn to pick, he always tries to steer our movie nights toward horror. I never find horror movies scary—most of them are laughable—but Sevren loves them. All of them. From the old black and white classics to the goretastic torture-porn movies I hate. I haven’t always hated them, but ever since the accident, I don’t have the stomach for them anymore. These days they’re Sevren’s favourites though, so when he asks if I mind watching them I always lie and say it’s okay.
“What are you going to be this year?” I ask, happy for the subject shift.
“I’m not sure,” he says, flipping the section of hair that always falls into his eyes off his face with a toss of his head. “I was thinking, maybe you and I could do themed costumes?”
“What did you have in mind? Like Rocket and Groot?”
Sevren laughs. I like it when he does that. It doesn’t happen often enough. “Something like that. Hopefully we can come up with something a bit better. Maybe Sam and Dean Winchester, or Rick and Morty. We can talk about it and come up with some ideas later on.”
The best costume would be the one people least expected, like something pink and girly for me and cute and fluffy for Sevren. Sevren is a real softie but anyone who doesn’t know him well, which means everyone our age except for me, has no way of knowing that. He looks hard as nails. His hair is always dyed unnatural colours and cut asymmetrically with sharp angles and he wears all black clothes with zippers and pins in all sorts of places they aren’t actually needed. He jingles when he walks, enough that I can usually hear him before I see him. He’d make a hilarious little lamb.
“What?” he says, patting at his face, including the ring through his left nostril. “Is there something oozing out of my nose?”
“I was thinking how awesome you’d look in wool.”
“In wool?”
“Yeah,” I say and step to the side so he can’t noogie me when understanding dawns. “As Mary’s little lamb.”
Sevren frowns then bursts into laughter. “It would be worth it to see you in a blue hoop skirt.”
I have to laugh at that too. I haven’t worn a skirt to school since picture day in kindergarten, and Mom practically had to wrestle me into that one. She wouldn’t be able to do that now . . .
The bell rings then, saving me from another depressing and guilt-ridden train of thought. “See you at lunch?”
We only have one class together, Social Studies. Other than that we only see each oth
er between classes and at lunch. At first it felt like Fate giving us the finger but it turned out okay—both our grades had gone up anyway.
“Can’t,” Sevren says. “Detention.”
Right. The school’s dress code was archaic so Sevren broke it every day without trying. Usually the teachers pretended not to notice but every once in a while one would decide to toss him in detention for it. As if that would do any good.
“And,” he continues, “I’ve got AV club after school. I’ll call you tonight?”
“Deal,” I say, and dart into the stream of students cramming themselves into the school doors.
MATH IS MY least favourite class. Firstly because it’s math, and it’s the last class before lunch so I’m always starving during it, but also because Keith is in it.
I rush down the hall toward the classroom, duck into the door, and take a seat at the very front of the room. Keith always comes in right at the bell and sits at the very back of the room. History has taught me that if I get in early enough and sit near the front I can minimize my interactions with him.
Luck is on my side, and not only am I sitting in a desk before Keith comes in, I also have some books open so I can pretend to read them rather than make any sort of eye contact with him at all. I sigh in relief and smile down at my desk top.
“That is a sight we don’t get to see often enough,” a sexy voice says from across the aisle. Butterflies tremble in my belly and I look up to see Marcus grinning at me. He is delicious. He moved here a couple weeks ago from England and the first time I heard his accent I was lost. He’s tall and broad like a football player. His skin is a warm sepia colour, and his eyes have thick, feathery lashes and are the same deep, dark, brown as Boris’. Puppy dog eyes deep enough to drown in.
“What’s that?” I say as lightly as possible. I’ve only had a half dozen exchanges with Marcus but I remember nearly every word of them.
“Your smile.”
My grin widens, I can feel it, and a faint heat comes to my cheeks. “Well, I—” I don’t know how I planned to finish that sentence but it doesn’t matter because Keith had to pick that exact time to come and stand over us. Because of course he did. I feel my smile melt as I look up to see him leering at me.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, she can do more with those lips of hers than smile. You should ask her about it someday, Marcus.”
“Keith, take your seat,” Mr. Johnston orders, ten seconds too late to save me.
This must be what it feels like to be punched in the gut. It’s like my stomach has jumped into my throat making it hard to swallow. It’s difficult to breathe too, and my face burns with shame. I’m not sure what mortifies me more, what Keith said to Marcus or that both of them can see it upset me.
Keith barks a laugh and saunters toward the back of the room, rapping his knuckles on my desk as he goes by.
I can’t look at Marcus. I can’t. I don’t want him to see my shame, but also, I don’t want to see his face. What if it’s lecherous or mocking? He doesn’t seem that type at all, but if I’ve learned one thing over the past six months it’s that you never know. Keith used to be super nice too. Before.
Math class is sixty-six minutes long and I feel every second of every one of them. Each time someone whispers or sniggers behind me I’m flooded with the cold certainty it’s me they’re talking about. Beside me, Marcus keeps clearing his throat like he’s trying to get my attention, but I’m still not ready to look at him. Not yet.
My neck hurts from holding it straight and stiff, struggling to ignore the noises, the voices around me. I stare at the white board but I haven’t seen a single thing Mr. Johnston has put up there, or processed a word he’s said.
Each tick of the clock reverberates through my skull, my chest, until finally the bell rings.
I sweep the books off my desk and into my open backpack in one motion and rush out the door, almost knocking Mr. Johnston over in my rush. I’m so quick that I’m the first person in the hallways. Behind me, a stunned silence fills the classroom, but I’m barely two steps down the hall when I hear Keith’s great hoot of laughter and a general uproarious reaction as my classmates join in.
Laughing with Keith.
Laughing at me.
I think I hear my name as well, beneath the laughter and the stampede-like noises of students spilling into the halls, but I don’t stop. I don’t even pause. I race out of the school, letting the doors slam shut behind me.
Chapter Four
I FLEE THE school, my hair streaming out behind me. How could I have ever, ever been attracted to Keith? How? And how could he do this to me? Why? I hadn’t told anyone, anyone about what had happened that day. Why was he so bent on destroying me? My reputation. My heart.
I can’t believe he said that to Marcus. Now Marcus will think I’m a slut, like everyone else does.
My chest hurts. It feels hollow, empty but for the pounding of my heart. The air is cold against my wet cheeks and my backpack heavy on my shoulders. Still, I run and run. I run until my legs find their rhythm, until the sound of my feet on the sidewalk drowns out Keith’s laughter reverberating in my mind. And then I run some more.
Habit takes me to the abandoned hospital, and I run around and around the big block it’s situated on. My house is only across the street but I’m not ready to go there yet. So around and around I go until my lungs scream for air and my legs shake with exertion. Then, when my physical discomfort finally matches the agony within me, I slow to a jog, and eventually a walk.
Keith is such an asshole! Why would he do that? Why? My thoughts go around and around in the same way I’d circled the hospital. They chase each other in predictable patterns and always come back to the same place.
“Fuck him,” I say aloud. There’s no one here to hear me or care, but I like how the words sound coming from my mouth. Defiant. Strong. “Fuck. Him.”
I look through the fence at the hospital. For a building that fascinates everyone in the neighbourhood, it isn’t much to look at. It’s a plain squat rectangle constructed from the most depressing shade of grey bricks and concrete imaginable. Most of the windows are blinded with boards, and those which aren’t serve as thoroughfares for pigeons and crows. It sits in the middle of a huge lot with a handful of outbuildings scattered on it, surrounded by a bent and battered chain-link fence that’s topped with curls of evil-looking wire.
Even adults call it the haunted hospital. They’d called it that for as long as I could remember, even before the fire that had hurt two teenagers, even back, Dad had told me once, when it was still in use. Its dark reputation started when it was still under construction, he’d said, and had grown ever since.
When I was a kid I’d liked to pretend I was secretly a princess and it was my castle. It was under an evil curse but someday I would find the magical item to break the spell and return my kingdom to its former glory. I’d even, on occasion, let Sevren in on the game. Sometimes he would be the prince who came from far away, bringing the magical thing needed to make everything better, and sometimes I would be the one who came to save him. Even then, though the hospital/castle was an integral part of our play, we’d never ventured onto that side of the fence. Never.
I want to go in. I’ve always wanted to but have never been brave enough to do it. To trespass. Now, I’m struck with a strong desire to give it a shot. It’s against the law. I know that. That is what has kept me on this side of the fence up until now, but everyone else goes in, why shouldn’t I?
I’m tempted. Really, really tempted, but Sevren would be crushed if I went in without him.
Sevren was even more fascinated with this place than I was.
Back when we were kids, Sevren and I had spent hours and hours re-telling stories about the haunted hospital and the neighbourhood boogie man, Dr. Woods.
Dr. Woods had been around for a very long time, or at least his legend had. When I was growing up kids didn’t tell stories about Bloody Mary or Candyman on sleepovers to scare one another
, we held flashlights under our chins and told tales about Dr. Woods.
The legend varied, as legends do, but the core ideas remained largely unchanged. The stories said that the hospital had had a whole floor dedicated to patients whose illnesses weren’t physical—a mental hospital within the regular hospital. That section was run by Dr. Woods. He was, it was said, a cruel man, one who used the patients within his ward as the subjects of any number of experiments, the nature and depravity of which were limited only by the imagination of the person telling the tale. It was said that eventually Dr. Woods committed a crime so villainous, so heinous, that the patients rose up en masse and rioted.
The stories said some patients cornered him in his office and tore him apart with their bare hands, leaving Dr. Woods as a ghost haunting the grounds of the hospital, roaming through the hallway in search of those upon whom he could reap his revenge.
The stories had been quite scary when I was younger, but as I grew older I began to understand that they were just that, stories. And I felt a little bad for sharing them because of the stereotypes ingrained in them, but there was always a little tingle in the back of my brain when I looked at the hospital and thought about Dr. Woods.
And maybe, if I’m being completely truthful with myself, maybe that was one reason I’d stayed away even as a teenager. Because they weren’t just stories. There were plenty of incidents of people being hurt or killed in the abandoned hospital. The logical part of my brain knew there was no such thing as ghosts and that bad things tend to happen in old abandoned buildings, but there was always a little voice in the back of my mind whispering, “Yeah, but what if . . . ?”
I pause, curl my fingers through the chain link, and let the opposing sides of my mind argue with one another. Then my stomach growls, totally ruining the mood, and I drag myself around the block to my house.
Chapter Five
Hollow Page 2