Dead Beautiful

by Yvonne Woon

  “But why?” I said almost to myself. I had to tell Eleanor. And Dante.

  “I don’t know,” Nathaniel said.

  “What time is it?”

  “Four thirty.” Half an hour till I met Dante. It seemed like ages from now. I turned the page.

  So how was it that so many students died of heart attacks at such a young age? And was the school covering up the deaths with claims of disease, war, and natural disaster? To this, many people have answers—conspiracy theories, stories bordering on the supernatural—yet even the most fervent believers are unable to explain why the curse unexpectedly stopped.

  The Second Autumn Fire, which occurred this May, was the first unexplained tragedy since 1789. Even Headmaster Brownell Winters, who has held the post for nearly seventeen years, was left speechless, as he refused to comment on the fire’s origins or circumstances. It consumed the entirety of the north forest, now known as the “Dead Forest,” turning the treetops completely orange—hence the name, the Second Autumn Fire. It then spread across the wall, ravaging the Gottfried Library. “A real tragedy,” local bookstore owner, Conrad Porley, said. “All those books gone forever.” The books destroyed included the few written about Gottfried and its history.

  To the surprise of the members of the Gottfried community, Headmaster Brownell Winters has not participated in the investigation, nor has he attempted to rebuild the library. In early June, just weeks after the fire, he stepped down from his position as headmaster and left the school. When asked about the Gottfried Curse, his only response was, “There are no such things as curses; only people and their decisions.” As for what he meant, that, along with the cause of the fire, remains a mystery.

  I turned the page to read more, but there were only illustrations and photographs. The first was a drawing of men plunging children into the lake, the same lake that was still in the center of campus. The caption read: Doctors cleanse infected students, 1736 outbreak of measles and mumps.

  Below it was a photograph of my grandfather. He was standing in front of Archebald Hall, a forced smile on his face. Two women were standing on either side of him, their hands clasped behind their backs in stiff poses. They were younger than my grandfather. The first woman I didn’t recognize, but the second I did. She was tall, with a narrow face, sharp eyebrows, and graying hair. She was wearing a housedress. The caption read, From left to right: Professor Cordelia Milk, Headmaster Brownell Winters, Professor Calysta Von Laark, 1988.

  The picture had been taken one year before the fire. I stared at my grandfather’s face, trying to comprehend the idea that he had once been the headmaster of Gottfried.

  I stared at the pages, the words blurring into gray. What had been the cause of the heart attacks at Gottfried Academy, and what did it all have to do with my parents, who had been three thousand miles away when they died? I flipped through the rest of the chapter, looking for more information, but there was nothing else of any interest. I stared at the book, frustrated that it didn’t have more answers. The rest of the chapters were about Attica Falls —the weather, the town’s setting, the demographics of the inhabitants. No wonder the book was out of print.

  “Do you think there really is a Gottfried Curse that’s causing the heart attacks?” I asked Nathaniel. If there was, why would my grandfather send me here?

  Nathaniel shook his head. “It’s probably just a story made up to sell newspapers. And even if it’s true, nothing’s happened in twenty years. Everyone knows Gottfried is the safest school ever. I mean, we’re surrounded by a fourteen-foot wall, and we have more rules than the military. It’s like your grandfather said: Curses aren’t real. Science is real. People are real. Statistics are real.”

  “What about the heart attacks? You can’t tell me you still believe it’s a coincidence. My parents, Benjamin, and now this...”

  Nathaniel gave me an apologetic shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Students were gathering at the end of the street, getting ready for the walk back. “Better go,” Nathaniel said as he stood up and brushed off his pants. I didn’t move. Instead, I stared into the book, at my grandfather’s photograph.

  “Are you coming?”

  I hesitated, not wanting to tell Nathaniel that I was meeting Dante. I didn’t want to draw any more attention to us. “I just...need a minute. To think.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “No, go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  “There’s no curse, Renée,” Nathaniel said as he picked up his things. “It’s just—life.”

  The sun began to set, splitting on the horizon like a yolk. Tucking the book under my arm, I walked down the street until I reached number 46. It was a dilapidated building that looked like a hotel from the 1800s. Dante was waiting for me, leaning against a porch pillar.

  “You look worried,” he said, taking my bag.

  “Take this instead,” I said, handing him the book as I sat down. “Turn to chapter seven.”

  When he finished reading the article he was silent for a long time.

  “Did you know about this?” I demanded.

  “About the Gottfried Curse? No.”

  I searched his face. “You know something,” I said, my hair blowing around my face, tangling with my scarf. “You knew that there was something off about Benjamin’s death and you wouldn’t admit it. Here’s proof. My parents and Benjamin and all those other people who died of heart attacks at Gottfried. It’s all the same.”

  Dante took my hand. “Come with me.”

  The inside of 46 Attica Passing was dimly lit by wall sconces and had patchy red carpeting on a staircase that zigzagged up the building.

  “What is this place?” I asked, running my hand up the banister.

  “A boarding house.”

  I glanced up at the numbers on the doors, and then at Dante.

  The stairs creaked under his feet. “I live here.”

  We walked up three flights of stairs and then turned down a hallway. It was narrow, with floorboards that were warped and uneven. Dim lamps hung from the ceiling, filling the hall with hazy yellow light. His room was toward the end. There were doors on either side of his, but it looked like no one had lived there for decades. He fished around in his pocket for a key.

  His room was freezing. Both of his windows were wide open, letting in the thin November air. He turned on a small desk lamp.

  “When I found Benjamin Gallow, he had already been dead for days,” Dante said. “His face looked older, like he had aged ten years. His tie was balled up and shoved in his mouth. That’s all I know.”

  “His tie was in his mouth?” Just like my parents and the gauze. Sort of.

  Dante nodded.

  “Like a gag?”

  Dante said nothing.

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “I don’t know. He might have done it to himself. People do odd things when they’re afraid.”

  “What do you think scared him?”

  “Death,” he said quietly. “Isn’t that what scares everyone?”

  I glanced around his room. It would have been cozy if it hadn’t been so cold. It was clean but cluttered, with stacks of novels and stationery and encyclopedias coloring the walls. Piles of piano music sat on a side table by the window: Schubert, Rachmaninoff, Chopin, Satie, and dozens of others I had never heard of.

  Beneath the window was a modest bed, with one pillow but no sheets or blankets. Across from it was a wooden desk, upon which lay an open book with a pencil lying in its crease. Next to it was a box of salt, three cinnamon sticks, and a handful of shells and rocks. Dante didn’t protest when I picked them up, turning them over in my palm. “Were there coins around his body?” I asked as I wandered through his room.

  “No,” he said, watching me examine his belongings. He seemed surprised at my interest in such small, mundane objects. Of course they were only interesting to me because they were his.

  A small collection of cologne and deodorants were gathered on his dresser. And at the
end of the room was a bookcase. I tilted my head to read their titles. Rituals, Spells, and the Occult; Arabic Number Theory; The Metaphysical

  Meditations; The Republic. Some were in English, but most were in Latin.

  “When I found my parents, they were surrounded by coins,” I said softly, tracing my fingers across the worn spines. “And there was gauze in their mouths. The police said it was a hiking accident. That they died naturally. But I just don’t see how that could be.”

  “Renée,” Dante said softly. He was standing behind me, his voice filled with yearning. He took a step toward me until he was so close I could feel his knees graze the back of my legs. “I believe you. And if I knew how to help you, I would. That’s why I brought you here. So you would know me. Trust me.”

  “Why?” I said, blinking back memories of my parents dead in the woods. “Why me?”

  “When I’m around you, I feel things....” His hair tickled my collarbone. “Things that I haven’t felt in so long.”

  Every muscle in my body tightened.

  “Like what?” I whispered.

  He ran his fingers through my hair. “Warmth,” he said. I could hear him breathing.

  My voiced trembled. “What else?”

  He reached his arms around me and slipped my coat off. It dropped to the floor, and he laughed when he realized that I had worn two cardigans beneath it. Slowly, he unbuttoned them. He inched closer and leaned in. “Smells,” he uttered into my ear and buried his face in my hair. A draft blew through the open window, and I shivered. I felt his hand on my shoulder as he brushed the hair away from my neck.

  “Tastes,” he said, and kissed my neck so gently that I could barely feel it.

  A prickling sensation budded underneath my skin and began to travel down my body. I leaned into him, and he let his hand slide down my arm. His fingers were cold, and my skin quivered under his touch, cooling and then warming, as if an ice cube were being rubbed across my body. He slipped his palm into mine, entwining our fingers together. I turned to him. “What else?”

  He gazed at me with a yearning look that almost seemed sad. “Pain.”

  Raising my hand to his face, I touched his lips. As he kissed each of my fingers, I closed my eyes, feeling his hand on the small of my back.

  “Desire.” He tightened his grip around me and kissed my collarbone. I ran my hands through his hair, pulling him closer, and raised my lips to his. But he turned his head and pulled away before we kissed. Surprised, I shrank back from him.

  Then he pressed his body against mine, pushing me against the bookcase. It banged against the wall. The books on the top shelf clattered to the floor. His hands roamed across my body, tangling my tank top.

  My body felt soft and watery, like my insides were melting. “Dante.” I hardly noticed his name escape my mouth. “Dante.”

  The entire room blurred around us until the only thing I could see was Dante. Suddenly I felt weak. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t feel, I couldn’t smell. Everything tangible seemed to be slipping away from me.

  “Stop,” I said softly. “Please stop.”

  He let go of me, and I folded onto the ground. “What’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling beside me. Fallen books surrounded us, their pages open and fluttering in the draft.

  I searched for the words but I couldn’t find them. How could I possibly explain the dozens of contradicting ways he made me feel? “It’s too much,” I whispered. “My legs... I can’t hold myself up.”

  Dante went rigid as he stared at me with alarm, but his face softened when he realized he was frightening me.

  “I... I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I said, my voice cracking. “What’s happening to me?”

  He pressed his forehead to mine. “Please, don’t leave yet. Just lie with me for a little while.”

  He led me to his bed, pulling a coat over me, and I curled up beside him.

  “You make me feel alive,” he breathed.

  And we lay there together until the sun rose, Dante resting his head on my chest, listening to my heart beat.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Flood

  I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO A DIFFERENT world. Outside, everything was dusted in white. It was the first snowfall of the season; the unexpected kind of snow that drapes itself over the ground like a blanket, covering street signs and burying cars. I blinked. Last night couldn’t have been real. But it must have been, because there was Dante, lying beside me. His eyes were closed. Asleep, he looked statuesque, as though his features had been carved out of stone. I held out my hand, my fingers quivering as they grazed his cheek. Suddenly, his eyes opened. I gasped and pulled back my hand.

  He smiled. “Did you sleep?”

  I nodded and stretched my legs like a cat. “Did you?”

  He propped himself up on an elbow and played with a lock of my hair. “I never sleep.” I rolled my eyes. “You must’ve slept at least a little.”

  He traced his finger around my elbow. “Let’s get you back to campus before they realize you’re gone.”

  Instead of going through the main gate, Dante walked me to a street on the edge of town. Because he was a day student, he was allowed to go on and off campus as he pleased. I, on the other hand, had to be more careful.

  “How do I get back?”

  “There are two ways. You can try to sneak past the guards at the gate, but they practically sleep with their eyes open, and there’s a good chance you’ll get caught.”

  “What’s the other option?”

  Dante hesitated. “It isn’t pleasant.”

  I looked up at him expectantly. “That’s okay.”

  Dante didn’t look particularly excited about it, but he nodded and took my hand.

  We stopped in front of a run-down house with a dirt driveway lined with overgrown shrubs, now covered in. We kept to the edge of the yard, crouching low behind the bushes. Behind the house, the yard expanded into a white field surrounded by a circle of naked trees.

  “Where are we going?”

  But just as the words left my mouth, we stopped. In front of us, shrouded by a crab apple tree, was a stone well. Its narrow mouth was covered by a wooden board. Dante wiped off the snow and tossed the board on the ground.

  “Remember those tunnels from the article?” he asked.

  I nodded, my cheeks growing red from the cold.

  “This is one of them. It leads to campus, beneath the pulpit of the chapel. I found it by accident when I was wandering around out here last summer. Supposedly there are dozens of others, but this is the only one I know of.”

  I peered into the well. The hole was dark and narrow, just large enough for a body to fit through. A warm draft emanated from somewhere inside its recesses. I couldn’t see to the bottom. “Is there still water in it?”

  “It was never a well,” he said, wiping his hands together. “It doesn’t even run deep. You just have to climb a few feet down and then it curves and opens into a tunnel.”

  It looked like it could crumble at any minute, and the fact that it had been built in the 1700s merely affirmed my doubts. I kicked the ground with my shoe until I found a pebble beneath the snow. Picking it up, I threw it into the well. It didn’t make any sound.

  Frowning, Dante gazed at me, deep in thought. “You’d better climb in or you’ll be late for class.”

  I looked up at him with surprise. “You’re not coming?”

  Dante shook his head. “I don’t go underground.”

  I gave him a strange look. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a childhood thing. Bad experience.”

  I hesitated, wanting specifics, but then nodded. After all, it was just a tunnel, right?

  Dante rummaged around in his bag. “Take this.” He handed me a candle and a box of matches. “You might need it. When you’re down there, just walk straight. Don’t take any turns.”

  I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “I’ll see you in class, then?”

  “Yeah. But in case w
e don’t get a chance to talk, meet me in front of the chapel tonight? Eleven o’clock?”

  “Why wouldn’t we have a chance to talk?” I asked, trying to hide my bewilderment.

  “Just meet me in front of the chapel. I have something to tell you.”

  I nodded, and Dante helped me into the well.

  A makeshift ladder was made out of bits of stone sticking out of the well’s interior. “Bye,” I said, and began climbing down. With a worried look, he watched until I disappeared into the darkness.

  The well was murky and constricting. I couldn’t see anything, and I barely had enough space to bend my knees. I climbed slowly, unsure of what would meet me at the bottom. A few rungs down, my foot hit dirt. I struck a match.

  In front of me was a cavernous tunnel, big enough to stand in. The walls were made of caked dirt, which crumbled off under my fingers like chalk. It smelled faintly of mulch. Feeling around in the darkness, I struck another match and lit the candle. Every so often I felt a cool breeze coming from the opposite wall, where the tunnel forked off to the left. I pressed myself closer to the wall, trying not to think about what would happen if I got lost. Finally, it sloped upward, and I came to a dead end. Blowing out the candle, I pulled myself into the damp air of the chapel.

  I emerged below the pulpit, through a corrugated grate.

  The chapel groaned and wheezed as the winter wind blew around its steeples, and I could hear bats chirping from the stairwell. Light filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting red shadows across the floor. Not wanting to linger any longer than necessary, I snuck through the pews, my footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceilings as I unlocked the dead bolts and stepped out into the November morning.

  In the snow, the Gottfried campus was transformed into a sprawling, pristine landscape. Each tree, each cobblestone, each blade of grass was frosted in a delicate layer of white. A group of boys passed me on the way to the dining hall, and I checked my watch. It was almost eight a.m., and I still had to shower and get through all of my classes before I could see Dante again. Buttoning my coat, I ran across campus, replaying the events of last night over and over in my head.