Four and Twenty Blackbirds

After another moment's hesitation, I followed after the lizard.

Once inside I was slightly more at ease. The first floor was open and mostly empty, littered with a few overturned tables and chairs in addition to the inch or two of miscellaneous trash that covered the floor. There wasn't anyplace for a human-sized threat to hide.

This must have been the cafeteria. The dish room and kitchen at the far end confirmed my suspicions, but did not interest me much. The major fixtures—stoves, ovens, and appliances—had long since been stripped out, and the place was a boring shell. I returned to the front door, and to the stairs I'd seen there. The next floor was no more exciting. A pool table missing two legs leaned against the floor, and a faded cork dartboard hung on the wall next to a cracked chalkboard.

I went back outside.

Once in the sun, I realized I'd been holding my knife with pale-knuckled fingers. I coughed a laugh and folded it closed, putting it down into my boot and letting the belt clip cling to the edge of my sock. I rubbed my hands together to wipe the weapon's glaring red imprint out of my palm.

To my left, on the outside edge of the clearing where I stood, was a one-story, faux-marble Georgian lump with Latinate lettering announcing the Lapton Building. I recognized the name, and I was not remotely surprised. The valley has three or four local families with nothing better to do with their money than to build stuff they can carve their name on, and most of them have been doing it since the Civil War. Three of the original five superfluous columns that flanked the Lapton Building remained, though the overhang and the porch had fallen in years before. I stepped inside unhindered by the door, which was lying in the front yard.

It was like walking into a vacuum.

The air was utterly motionless, and hung around my head as if it were a sedating gas. Feeling faint, I reached one hand for the wall to steady myself. I watched dazedly as my hand went through the weak, old plaster, but I did not hear the sound of it falling in chunks to the floor. A ball of wadded newspaper tumbled by the entryway, accompanied by a platoon of leaves. A dark bird flew briskly by a window, but I did not even hear the startled flapping of feathers, or the rustle of wind-pushed papers.

I reclaimed my hand and clutched it to my collarbone. "It's just this place," I said again, though my voice was not so sure. "What is it about this place?" Seeing that I'd dusted myself with white plaster leavings, I slapped my hand against my thigh and left a pale handprint there on my jeans.

Two signs pointed down opposing wings—one read Boys' Residences, the other (predictably enough) said Girls' Residences. I waded through the debris like it was honey, struggling against the disorientation that crept up on me from all sides.

I followed the sign that pointed to the right and came to three doorless rooms.

Each white-painted, concrete-block cell held at least one rotting set of box springs and two chests of drawers, which could only in good conscience be called chests, for all the drawers were missing. Stray metal hangers tinkled together like wind chimes when I opened the closets, but nothing else remained inside them. Every room had a largish window covered on the inside by a metal grate that could have been sturdy chicken wire. Huge tiles hung down from the ceiling, damp and moldy, and dead wires straggled from the holes to mingle with the hanging weeds.

A discolored scrap of magazine thumbtacked to one wall turned out to be a heart-encircled picture of Donny Osmond. Graffiti beside the photo declared that Michelle, Tammy, and Sharon had shared this room in 1978. It also said that Michelle Wants Them All, Tammy Has Them All, and Sharon Does Them All. Nice.

In the next room I was rewarded with more teenage scribblings. Lisa and Penny lived there, also in '78. They too had an inordinate fondness for Donny, in addition to several other alleged heartthrobs whose faces I didn't recognize.

But where was Leslie?

Next room.

"Leslie Was Here."

I read the handwriting out loud, though to see the words had made my throat squeeze shut. I didn't see any other names, or anything at all to indicate she hadn't been alone. Her room was indistinguishable from the others as far as the contents went, but I snooped around it anyway, hoping to find . . . hoping to find heaven knew what.

I found nothing. I left the room wishing for a souvenir, but there was nothing to salvage.

I trudged back to the front, where a secretary, nurse, or receptionist's desk was lodged in a corner. Its top drawer was empty, but the next one down held a stack of mail. I rifled through the assorted scraps of stationery until I saw my mother's name. A paper clip held a note to the envelope.

"Another one from A. Have sent the letter to her file in Brach."

Brach. Another rich old family likely to have a building named after it, if I looked around hard enough. I took the empty envelope and folded it over, wedging it into my back pocket and wanting to leave. By that time, any destination would have sufficed. The atmosphere was overwhelming in the dormitory—if I didn't leave it soon, I was going to pass out.

The air lightened when I stepped outside, but the heaviness did not release me completely. The weight followed, or rather I carried it with me. My walking felt more labored, and my head seemed stuffed with cotton. Again at the edge of my conscious hearing came the heartbeat, just slow and distant enough not to be mine.

"I'll check that one more place, and that's all. Then I'm leaving." The knife casing in my boot rubbed reassuringly against my ankle. I thought about pulling it out, but then I thought about being stopped by a cop and I decided against it. Better to appear unarmed, if caught. Besides, if there were only hobos or other humans present, they would have made their presence known; and any other unknown watchers were unlikely to be intimidated by a four-inch blade.

"I'll leave it there for now. One more place, though, before I go. Just the one."

I couldn't be sure if I was talking to myself anymore. I knew there must be ghosts—surely there had to be ghosts in a place where two thousand people had died a hundred years before. Yes, there had to be ghosts, and therefore I should be unafraid if they wanted to watch. What harm had ghosts ever done to me?

Leslie.

My mother's name. No. I was focusing on it. I was only imagining it.

Leslie.

The second time I knew I'd caught it, each consonant sliding out from an ectoplasmic throat. I took a deep breath. No, I'd never come to harm from a ghost, but the only ghosts I knew were Mae and her sisters and Cora's easily dissuaded specter—and they were surely not the only dead people, so I could hardly consider them representative of the spirit world as a whole.

"Who's there?"

My question invited the presence closer. Something was different about this entity. Something about its voice, or its touch, suggested more strength than mere spirit had ever shown me. I clenched my fists and held them against my thighs, refusing to move. A faint, chuffing gust of air came and went close against my skin. It was sniffing me, smelling me—tickling the sticky inside crooks of skin at my elbows and under my chin.

It snorted a hard puff of stale air against the side of my face. Not Leslie. It didn't sound pleased.

"No," I admitted. "Not Leslie."

It drew close again, dusty breath rasping against my ear and ruffling my hair.

But I know you.

"No. I don't think so."

I know you, it insisted.

"You don't." My fright-induced patience was growing strained. "Go away. Let me alone. I'm not here for you and there's nothing you want from me."

Ah. It withdrew. Now I do know you. And I will do as you command, for it was you that brought me here. A hateful laugh, distinctly audible, bounded throughout the clearing and echoed itself into nothingness.

I felt alone again. Shaken, confused, and suspicious, but at least alone. I didn't care who the being thought I was, so long as it left me.

While I still had the nerve to do so, I sought out my last conquest.

Brach Hall was situated down the hill behind the gymnasium. It had the same run-down brick-and-white exterior as the other buildings, but it lacked the decorative columns and the sense of architectural frivolousness. The door to this one was attached, but unlocked.

I stood on the landing and half expected a cold burst of wind or will to shove me back, but nothing of the sort greeted me, so I let myself inside. I was pleasantly surprised by what I found. Inside waited a hallway with a dozen or more doors standing ajar and a big open room down at the end. Sunlight gushed and fractured through the jagged shards of glass that lingered in the windows, and even though this place was as filled with forest and human garbage as the rest, it seemed bright and almost friendly in comparison to the rest of the places I'd checked. Best of all, it held the four tall filing cabinets up against the wall. A fifth had toppled to the floor and splayed its contents across the room, so I knew they were full of files and folders.

All I had to do was find my mother's.

It took some time. The files were not so alphabetically arranged as they should have been, and they were organized according to some grouping system that I didn't understand—possibly by age or by classroom standings. By the time I pulled Leslie's up out of the others, the flood of natural light had dimmed into a late afternoon stream, or perhaps it had grown cloudy. It had certainly grown quiet, and in light of my earlier supernatural greeting, quiet couldn't possibly be good. I climbed to my feet and stretched my stiff legs, wondering after the comforting hum of bugs and birds that had been my background noise all day.

I wiped at my sweaty neck and listened.

Still in the distance water leaked and tapped, and down on the road below a car zipped by. I didn't hear the low, rhythmic pulse anymore, or the jagged breathing, but its absence wasn't enough to set my mind at ease. I could tell myself it was my imagination, but deep down I knew better than that. I wasn't welcome here. Whatever eyes were watching, they didn't belong to my late mother.

Without opening it, I lifted the lightly stuffed folder. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">