These small interventions had made all the difference. She had a clearer head now, was beginning to consider things in a different light. She'd had a terrible fright in that nasty old house, it was true, but whatever had so terrified her was still there, and she was home. The raw fear, the vulnerability, was all a memory; it would fade. In time she might even manage more reasonable explanations for what she'd seen and felt there—maybe, she'd even laugh about it one day.
Hiking up the stairs and careful not to drop her bounty of snacks, she thumbed on her phone and began to reply to Leslie's latest text. She rapped out a quick message—I'm fine—but neglected to hit SEND.
She'd reached the top of the stairs, had started down the hall toward her room, but something in her periphery had incited her to halt. Only moments ago, the hall had been brightly lit, but for the sudden slide of the sun behind a wall of clouds the daylight had much diminished and the corridor was lined now in a temporary veil of shadow.
And in that shadow, something had stirred.
Ophelia flinched, gripped her phone. She didn't look up at once, but intuition told her that something—or someone, more likely—dwelt on the opposite end of the hall, near the bathroom. The air, previously so cool and breathable, became thick with expectation as she hesitated. Prudence dictated a retreat; she would have gone back downstairs if only she could have remembered how to use her wobbly legs. Instead, she stood anchored there, growing more aware of the looming presence with every passing moment. Her throat tightened, her joints became locked and fixed in preparation of a terrible jolt.
Is... is it...
She sucked in a deep breath.
It can't be...
Her watery eyes were cast upward in surveyance of the hall.
A face turned to meet hers from the black rectangle of doorway—a face that should have been resigned to that hellish, mouldering remnant on Beacon Hill.
The ragged edges of its drooping, worm-eaten visage were drawn up into a miserable facsimile of a smile, and from every pore there wriggled a commotion of insectival salutation. No voice issued from that odious maw; none was necessary to convey the meaning behind its expression. The lurker at the end of the hall meant to communicate one thing and one thing only with its pustulent gaze.
I'm here.
4
Ordinarily, Sadie enjoyed leading the children's story hour on Tuesday nights. From 7:00 to 7:30pm, a librarian would meet children in the kid's section of the library and read them a number of popular picture books. The weekly program was a hit with local parents, who used the half-hour block to peruse the stacks on their own or to wait in their cars, enjoying the brief respite. The children weren't always well-behaved, of course, but Sadie thought herself better than most of the library staff at controlling them. Even when things got out of hand, the parents would always show up at half-past seven to scoop up their kids and she'd take a few minutes to straighten up the books and play tables, no worse for wear.
That was how story hour was supposed to go, anyhow.
On this particular evening, the children had complained and frolicked through all three of her picture book choices. One girl, roughly kindergarten-aged, had clocked another child on the head with a block from the building table; another, despite repeated warnings, had loitered around the library fish tank and accosted its resident angelfish, Alphonse, with loud taps. The fish was left darting from corner to corner of the small tank, but no matter where it fled, the boy was always waiting to knock on the glass. Lastly, there'd been a puker in this particular bunch. Sadie's reading of The House of Long Whiskers had been interrupted by a fit of gagging and retching. She'd had to break out the wet floor signs and mop, and even after several minutes of intense scrubbing it seemed doubtful that the paste of gummy worms and cheese crackers would ever be lifted from the carpet fibers.
The kids had largely dispersed by 7:45, and by 8:00 Sadie was getting ready for the final phase of her shift. August was working, too—and his trips to and from the kids section to re-shelve the scattered picture books were punctuated by wry grins and comments like, “What's that smell over there, near the kids books? It's kinda making me hungry.”
The day had proven abnormally busy; seemingly everyone in Montpelier had collectively decided to visit their library that day and the steady flow of patron requests—not to mention phone calls, bathroom checks and computer issues—had seen both Sadie and August go without a lunch break.
Hurrying through their duties, the librarians planned to lock up at nine sharp and to head to a local restaurant for a late dinner. August had helpfully reminded her about the previous shift's bet—she still owed him a meal—and suggested they go to a fried chicken joint called Colonel Cluck's just down the road when work was done. “It's a nice place, affordable, and they have this cutesy southern thing going on with the décor. They don't play anything but Patsy Cline and Hank Williams on the radio, too. Nothing aids my digestion like the comely whine of pedal steel guitar.”
Not having eaten since leaving her apartment that morning, Sadie was hungry enough to dine just about anywhere. “Fine. But it better be cheap.”
Fixing herself a small coffee and dumping several creamer packets into it to blunt her hunger, she stationed herself behind the front desk and tried her best to maintain an agreeable expression whenever patrons walked up with questions or concerns. She guzzled the coffee while troubleshooting the third photocopier jam of the day. An elderly man solicited her help in logging into a computer, only to attempt to access certain lewd sites that the library network blocked by default, and she'd struggled to keep a straight face while explaining to him the reasons why such content was blocked.
August took a few moments to drop a small pinch of fish flakes into Alphonse's tank and fielded his dozenth compliment from an old woman on the print of his bowtie. It was perhaps his tackiest one yet, boasting an explosion of lime green shamrocks. Finally, when the clock was closing in on nine and the library had mostly emptied, he pulled the cord on the fountain and began dimming the lights. The remaining patrons got the hint and filed out shortly thereafter.
They broke protocol, locking the main entrance at 8:55, after the last patron had checked out their materials, and then divided the stacks of remaining returns for re-shelving. Sadie cleared out the book drop and scanned a bunch of DVDs back into the system, then carried them by the armful to the movie section, where she placed them with spacy, hypoglycemic inaccuracy. Banging into desks and chairs with his cart, August sprinted from one corner of the building to the next until his cheeks were red and he'd finally gotten through all of the returns.
Putting out the lights, the duo was all set to leave by 9:30. The director, Marsha, would be in the next morning, and it was possible she'd have some complaints about the state of the place. During a recent staff meeting, she'd urged closers to vacuum the floors, sanitize the desks, computers and children's toys, empty the waste bins and clean the bathrooms and staff offices. August summed it up well as he fished out his keys and led the way to the side door. “Don't worry about it. If Marsha bitches, I'll take the blame. I'll lie and say I did a bad job because I was sick—that I was the one who barfed on the floor back there.”
Sadie's stomach groaned without surcease as they stepped outside into the humid evening. The sun had fallen out of the sky and clouds were gathering in ashy clumps, promising rain. Clutching at her stomach, she followed August to his car, taking a casual glance up and down the empty lot.
Or, almost empty lot.
Across the way, near the flagpole out front, stood a lone individual.
Suddenly, the gnawing hunger in her gut was chased away by pangs of fear. She stumbled and gave August's shirt sleeve a rough tug. “H-Hey, there's someone there.” Memories of the eerie visitor at the tail end of her last shift—coupled with August's claims that someone had recently been killed in the vicinity—had largely fallen into the background of her mind. Now, they resurfaced with a vengeance.
August s
hrugged. “They're probably just putting something in the book drop. Or else they got here too late—didn't know we closed at nine.” He unlocked the car and threw open his door.
Sadie hesitated on the blacktop, though. Staring at the figure in the distance, she saw this one didn't look quite the same as the last—in fact, this one didn't strike her as eerie or suspicious in the least. From the sparse light coming down from the nearest streetlight, Sadie thought she could make out long, brownish hair; a pair of jeans and a light-colored T-shirt. Filled with relief at having sighted what appeared to be a normal person, rather than some nebulous phantom, she started back across the lot. “Just a second, August.”
The woman out front—yes, she could see that it certainly was a woman now—offered a shy wave.
“Sorry,” said Sadie, closing the gap, “can I help you with something? We actually just closed up at nine. Sorry for any inconvenience. We open again at nine in the morning, though.”
“Oh,” said the woman, nodding. She ran a hand through her brown hair—streaked in faint silver—and presented an embarrassed smile. “Guess I didn't make it in time tonight.” She cleared her throat, taking another step toward Sadie and then stopping. A curious look came over the woman's face. She was fairly tall and thin, somewhere on the latter edge of middle-age, and her features were pressed just then into something like confusion. “I, uh.. I wasn't actually coming to use the library. It's just, I needed to speak to someone.”
Sadie had been preparing to head back to the car, but stopped short. “Sorry, you needed to speak to someone about...?”
The woman took another step, her eyes firming up into a penetrating and enigmatic stare. Then, they widened. The beginnings of a smile flashed across her narrow lips but it never fully took root. “It's... it's you, isn't it?” When Sadie didn't reply, the woman took yet another step, nodding firmly. “Yes, it is! Sadie Young?”
Sadie flinched at the mention of her name. “Er... yes?” Smiling confusedly, she glanced back at the car. August hadn't moved yet, was probably toying with the radio. “Sorry, do I know you?”
With a great sigh of relief, the woman came within arm's reach and chuckled. “Well, it's been quite a few years, but I'd say that you did know me, once. Must be seven or eight years since we last met?”
Sadie studied the woman's face awhile in the low light, tried to place it in her memory. There was something familiar about it, but try as she might she couldn't summon a name, and at the risk of staring at the woman awkwardly for an extended period, she finally said, “I don't recall...”
The woman held out a hand to shake—then, thinking better of it, withdrew it and seemed to prepare for a hug instead. “It's Rosie. Remember? Your old neighbor? I used to live in the house next to your grandparents?”
“Rosie?” The name clicked, and Sadie was thrust headlong into memories of her youth. Summers long-passed, spent running through her grandparents' yard with other neighborhood kids. The face before her had been a little younger then, but that it was a part of that same idyllic world there could be no mistake. Donning a huge smile, Sadie leaned in for the offered hug. “Of course! How could I forget. Sorry—it's been a long day, and... It's been years!”
Rosie pulled away slightly and made no secret of looking Sadie up and down, shaking her head all the while. “I can't believe how you've grown! When you first moved in with your grandparents you were so young. You've become such a beautiful woman.”
Cheeks flushing, Sadie waved off the compliment with a laugh. “It really has been awhile. Those days, in the old neighborhood—they feel like they were so long ago! And yet, if I close my eyes and think about it, it's like I never really left. Speaking of beautiful women, your daughter must be—what—a high-schooler now? Fifteen? Sixteen? When I left for school she was still just a kid, but I'll bet she's shot up like a weed! How is she these days?”
The mirth on Rosie's face fell away with unexpected swiftness. Beneath the smile she'd only just worn there was haggardness. Her eyes widened, and Sadie saw now that they were the reddish eyes of a woman who'd known neither sleep nor respite from tears in a long while. The lines around her mouth deepened in a sullen frown that was becoming an imprinted habit, and her brow grew knotted.
Noting the change, Sadie realized she may have just touched upon something she shouldn't have—that she'd struck a raw nerve—but before she could back-peddle, Rosie's expression softened somewhat as if to dissuade her.
“As it so happens,” began Rosie, “Ophelia isn't doing all that well.” She looked up into the dark sky—less because she was interested in anything up there and more because she wished to siphon the tears forming in the corners of her eyes back from whence they'd come. “Things have been difficult lately, and uh... Well, it's hard to explain.” She cleared her throat, her lips quirking in a pained half-smile. “Actually, that's kind of what this is about. I was...” She stopped again. “I'm very sorry to turn up like this—and especially as you're getting off work—but I wasn't sure who else to turn to.”
Sadie nodded slowly, but said, “I'm... not following. You need my help with something? Something... that has to do with your daughter?”
“That's right.” Rosie looked to the idling sedan across the lot, then back to Sadie. “Do you have some time to talk, by chance?”
“Uh... sure, I guess. But what's this about?”
Rosie's eyes narrowed. “Do you remember back when you first moved in with your grandparents?” She didn't let the question hang in the air—she followed it up right away with another. “Do you remember the things—the spirits—you used to see?”
Up to this point, Sadie had been listening closely, and with every intention of assisting this old acquaintance. Now, she visibly bristled. She took a step back as if to distance herself from the very suggestion behind that question. “W-What's that have to do with Ophelia?”
Wringing her hands at her waist, Rosie sniffed back a sob. “You... you were, uh... a special girl. I remember it well. You could see things—tune into things—that the rest of us couldn't. And, well, the problems that my daughter is having... The medicines, the therapy... they don't seem to be helping. I don't think it's a medical problem, in fact...” She bit her lip, but then blurted out, “I think something has its claws in my daughter. Something like that.” Head lowering as if in a bow, the woman pleaded through a wail. “I need your help, Sadie.”
The world began to spin around her and her mouth swelled with saliva as though she might vomit. She hadn't even heard the details yet and already Sadie wanted to run, full-tilt, away from this woman.
5
The psychologist was a nice man with a lengthy Indian surname, and he'd been seated patiently in the corner of her room for more than twenty minutes now, waiting for her to answer the questions he'd so gently posed. Scratching at his grey, thinning hair, he'd tried breaking the ice a few times with small-talk. “How do you like the food?” he'd asked at one junction. “Is the bed comfortable? I had my gall bladder out last year and could hardly sleep during my stay in the post-surgical ward upstairs!”
Ophelia had mustered weak answers to these queries. No, she hadn't much enjoyed the meals served at the Montpelier General Psychiatric Ward. No, the bed she was confined to for much of the day was not particularly comfortable.
Eventually, the doctor had yanked the pen from the breast pocket of his jacket and put on his reading glasses—a cue that he was moving to more serious topics. Signaling at the inside of his right wrist, he nodded to her. “Tell me about that.”
Ophelia's blank gaze drooped down to her lap, where her hands sat in a limp heap. Both wrists had been bandaged—the right one a good deal more than the left. She stroked the mess of tape and gauze with a few fingers and offered a weak shake of the head. The nurse in the emergency room had done a nice job with the dressings; her arms looked like handsomely-prepared parcels, except that the tape and such had been set down to bind the seams of her severed skin rather than those of an envelo
pe.
The doctor, sensing her hesitance, peered across the room with a warm smile and studied the small window near her bed. “If you aren't ready to talk, I understand. I'm doing my rounds till five tonight; I can come back.”
The moan of an old cart wheeling through the hall outside rang out as a shift nurse buzzed from room to room, distributing afternoon meds. Today's nurse down this wing was Karen—a butch middle-aged woman, kind and accommodating enough. She'd talked about her dogs—three rescued greyhounds—the last time she'd come in with a little plastic cup of pills that, in her words, would “take the edge off” for Ophelia.
The pills flowed in constantly, and it was true enough that they left her feeling subdued and hazy. She hadn't gone off the rails since her admission two days previous, and someone had always been by with another foul-tasting tablet whenever her mind got around to recalling just what had sent her into a suicidal fury to begin with.
Karen's shadow passing by the doorway looked all wrong. It splashed across the polished tile floors like motor oil, then ran up one of the walls as if slapped on by a brush. Ophelia shook her head, raked her fingers through her black tangles. The daylight warmed her bed and cast her blanketed form in brightness; it highlighted, too, her uncommon paleness. She stared detachedly at her hands and gave each finger a little wiggle. They looked like those of a porcelain doll.
The physician crossed his legs and decided to change tack, sliding the reading glasses further up the bridge of his long nose. “I was talking to your mother earlier,” he began. “She mentioned a few things... You weren't acting like yourself before this happened, were you?”
Ophelia flinched at the mention of her mother. Even through the haze of anti-psychotics, the memory of her suicide attempt—and her mother's reaction—remained uncomfortably clear. “W-What about my mother?”
The Haunting of Beacon Hill Page 4
