Thorn Abbey

by Ohlin, Nancy

  Soon after that, me getting injured on the Kerrith stairs. The glowing seagull. The burning-hot inscription in Max’s book of love poems. The flying ember at the Corn Roast. The bloodred message on the wall above my bed. The lounge vandalization.

  And all the rest of it, too: tapping noises on the ceiling, temperature changes, more sleep-talking.

  I think about last Tuesday, when we found Devon’s lifeless body on the beach. She was dead. She was absolutely, positively dead. I’m sure of it.

  When she got home from the hospital, she was so chipper and cheerful at first. She acted so sweet around her mom. The same person Devon routinely called a “psychotic bitch” and “annoying whore.”

  If you met her, you’d think she was the sweetest, kindest, most together girl.

  Then she drugged Max and tried to have sex with him.

  And turned him in to the police.

  It was all an act.

  She was the worst thing that ever happened to me.

  I bolt straight up.

  Oh my God.

  Devon doesn’t think she’s Becca.

  Devon is Becca.

  40.

  AT A QUARTER TILL FIVE, I FINALLY GET A TEXT FROM MAX.

  It’s over. All is well. Meet me at the assembly at five and I’ll tell you everything.

  Assembly? At five? And then I remember. There is a special Founder’s Assembly in Lanyon Hall, commemorating the founding of Thorn Abbey.

  Despite the fact that I’m freaking out and hyperventilating and basically losing my mind, I manage to remember that I’m supposed to be in dress uniform for this event. I peel off my jeans and hoodie and throw on my white blouse, plaid skirt, navy blazer, and tights. I glance in the mirror. My skirt is inside out. My tights have a big hole in them. Cursing in frustration, I ransack my dresser for a new pair of tights while I balance on one leg and peel off my skirt.

  I have to take a deep breath and chill.

  But how can I?

  Becca never died. Not really. As far as I can piece together, her spirit lived on even after her body was gone and messed with me . . . and Max? . . . and other people too? . . . all these months.

  I should have listened to Kayleigh. Thorn Abbey is haunted. And now Devon, or the person who used to be Devon, is possessed by Becca’s ghost. Or demon. Or whatever.

  I peer nervously around the room. Is Devon/Becca here right now? Can she turn invisible? Slink into walls and ceilings? Read minds? I have no idea how paranormal creatures operate or what superpowers they have, if any.

  I have to get out of here, like, now. I don’t want to be alone.

  And I have to tell Max right away. We need to find Devon/Becca and stop her somehow before she does any more damage.

  That is, if Max will believe my demented story. I barely believe it myself.

  Once inside Lanyon Hall, I sprint all the way to the main auditorium in my good shoes. Or what Devon used to call my “knockoffs of discount shoes pretending to be knockoffs,” back in her super-bitchy days.

  I brush back a tear. I can’t believe Devon is actually dead. She wasn’t a saint. Far from it. But she didn’t deserve to have her life taken by an evil succubus who used to be her best friend.

  As I run, I try Max on his cell several times, but the calls keep failing. Reception in Lanyon is spotty. I heard the school is planning to renovate the building next year. Hopefully, there will be real coverage then. It’s after five, so the halls are pretty much empty except for me and a couple of other latecomers, including Mila Kunis.

  “Hey, Tess. Where’s the fire?” she jokes.

  I smile grimly at her and hurry my steps.

  Outside the auditorium, I pull open one of the double doors and hold it for Mila Kunis. A few others slip in too. The door closes behind me, and a faint clang sounds above the din of everyone talking.

  The room is packed with students, teachers, and administrators. On the stage, Headmaster Henle fiddles with the microphone; he taps it and turns it on and off while behind him a panel of speakers sip water and wait patiently.

  I spot Max in one of the back rows. He cranes his neck and waves me over. I see Franklin on the other side of the aisle, and Yoonie, Elinor, and Priscilla, too. Killian is up front. But I don’t see Devon/Becca anywhere.

  I scoot into the seat next to Max. He smiles wearily and wraps his arm around my shoulders. “I’m so glad to see you,” he murmurs.

  His hair is rumpled, and there are black circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days. My heart aches for him. He’s been through so much these past twenty-four hours.

  And now I’m about to tell him the worst part.

  I take a deep breath. “Max. We have to talk.”

  “I know, I know,” Max says hastily. “I’m really sorry about what happened yesterday. And today, too. The meeting went on forever, and it was a fucking nightmare. My parents are in Hong Kong on business, so they had our family lawyer fly up from the city to represent me.”

  “But, Max—”

  “No, it’s okay. Everything’s fine now. It’s complicated. This morning, Devon went to the police and told them that she saw me kill Becca, the night she died. But Franklin gave me an alibi, so I’ve been cleared.”

  Franklin gave me an alibi. What alibi? Max didn’t mention Franklin when he told me about that awful night with Becca.

  But we don’t have time to get into that now. “That’s great news,” I say, giving him a quick hug. “I’m glad you’re okay. But that’s not all I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve figured it out. Devon isn’t Devon. She’s Becca.”

  Max looks at me like I’m a total lunatic.

  Microphone feedback screeches over the speakers. “Okay, well, now that we’ve got this puppy working . . . welcome to our annual Founder’s Assembly!” Headmaster Henle says loudly.

  Everyone claps politely.

  “Before I introduce our speakers, I want to say a few words about what Thorn Abbey means to me, both as a physical and nonphysical entity,” he goes on.

  Max leans toward me. “You’re joking, right?” he whispers.

  “The physical entity, of course, is what we owe to the generosity and long-range vision of the late, great Mr. Augustus Thorn. The nonphysical entity is the rest of it: our mission, our curriculum, our high standards.”

  “I know it sounds insane. But the person you think is Devon is actually Becca in Devon’s body,” I whisper back to Max.

  The precalc teacher, Mr. Millstein, twists around in his seat. “No talking, please,” he says sternly.

  “Sorry, sir,” Max apologizes. He turns to me and mouths: What?

  Frustrated, I pull out my cell phone and start composing a text:

  B’s ghost or whatever has been haunting Thorn Abbey. She tried to keep us apart and break us up. She also tried to make my life miserable. Sometimes she used D to help her.

  Last Mon. you told me you never loved B and said those other things about her. I think that made her really mad. So she killed D and took over her body.

  I’m afraid of what she might do next.

  I pass my phone to Max.

  As he reads, the color drains from his face.

  “On this day in 1875, Augustus Thorn gifted his magnificent estate to our school,” Headmaster Henle says, sweeping his arms in a wide circle.

  Just then, I notice a strange smell. A burning smell.

  Max shoves my phone at me.

  HOW DO YOU KNOW ALL THIS??????

  I type back:

  Too much to explain now. I read B’s old diary. It was in D’s desk. There was a new entry from last Thurs. The day “Devon” came back from the hospital. B wrote that D had to die because she wasn’t obeying anymore. She wrote that people had to know what really happened last spring, whatever that means?

  Max reads my text intently. And shakes his head. And keeps shaking his head.

  “No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”

  He looks as though he might start crying. I stroke h
is arm. It can’t be easy for him to learn that his dead ex-girlfriend is a murderer. Also, that she’s not exactly dead.

  The burning smell is stronger now. A few seats over, a girl sniffs and asks, “Is that smoke?”

  Several people point to the ceiling. I glance up. A thin ribbon of black curls out from under one of the fluorescent lights. More smoke snakes out from the overhead air vents.

  “Fire!” someone yells.

  Pandemonium ensues. People scream and scramble out of their seats. I snatch my phone from Max and try to call 911, but there’s still no signal. No one else around us has service either.

  “The sprinklers should go off any second,” one of the teachers shouts nearby, trying to calm us.

  “Tess! This way!” Max grabs my hand and practically drags me to the exit closest to us. He and I push at the double doors. They open slightly, then jam. Through the thin crack between the doors, I can just make out an orange lock, like for a bike, dangling from a chain.

  Frantic, I glance around at the three other sets of double doors. People are pushing them, pounding their fists, shouting for help.

  Oh my God. Someone has barricaded all four exits and set the place on fire.

  Becca.

  I cover my eyes with my hands and squint up at the ceiling. The smoke pouring out of the lighting fixtures and air vents is thicker and heavier now. Brown stains bloom and bubble across the white acoustic tiles, and the metal frames around them sag and crumple. Becca must have started the fire in the attic or whatever’s above the drop ceiling.

  “Please stay calm!” Headmaster Henle’s voice booms over the speakers. “Starting with the first row, please form an orderly line, make your way up the center aisle, and come up to the stage. There’s an emergency exit behind these curtains.”

  More pandemonium. Everyone rushes to the front of the auditorium. The smoke swells and spreads and slowly banks down. It hovers a few feet above our heads like an ominous cloud.

  Max tugs on my arm. “Tess, come on. We need to go!”

  “Okay, okay!”

  We join the mob storming toward the stage. My eyes sting and burn. Max coughs. The smoke continues to descend.

  “Are you okay?” I gasp.

  “Yeah, are you?” he asks.

  A piece of acoustic tile comes crashing down, spitting flame. The drop ceiling is breaking up. Through the smoke, I can make out a light fixture dangling precariously on a wire.

  More screams, more chaos, more showering debris. A small fire sizzles and spreads across the carpet.

  “Tess, look out!” Max yells.

  I feel his strong arms grab me from behind. At the same moment, Becca’s face flashes in my vision. “It’s your turn to die, bitch,” she says, laughing shrilly.

  And then . . . darkness.

  41.

  THIS TIME, THE DREAM IS DIFFERENT. MAX AND I ARE TOGETHER. He is lying next to me, and we are holding hands. I’m not sure where we are—maybe in Hunters’ Meadow, maybe on the beach. The sun is blazing down on us, and when I close my eyes, I see white. His body is warm and familiar against mine. I feel peaceful, content.

  But something is obviously bothering him.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  “I’m so sorry, Tess.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I would have told you before. But I was afraid you’d hate me.”

  I sit up and gaze down at him serenely. “Max! I could never, ever hate you.”

  He sits up too and cradles my face with his hand. “I wish that were true. But it doesn’t matter now. I need to tell you everything. Before it’s too late.”

  “Tell me what? Before what’s too late?”

  He looks away. “I killed Becca.”

  I smile and trail my finger down the jagged scar on his cheek. “Uh-huh.”

  “No . . . listen! That night, she and I took a walk. To the beach. I told her that I wanted to break up.”

  I stop smiling. He isn’t joking.

  This dream is getting really weird.

  “At first she tried to talk me out of it. She cried and begged,” Max says. “But I told her I was sure this time.”

  “And?”

  “She was furious,” he goes on. “She screamed at me, practically frothing at the mouth. I’d never seen her like that. Then she laughed at me. She said I was a stupid idiot . . . that she’d been getting with Killian behind my back the entire time we were together.”

  “Her cousin Killian?” I say, as if I didn’t know.

  “Yes, her cousin Killian. Anyway, by then we’d reached the cliff. When she told me the thing about Killian, I called her some pretty awful names and told her I never wanted to see her face again. She grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let go. We struggled, and next thing I knew, she went over the side of the cliff.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “It was horrible. The thing is, I have no idea if she fell by accident or if I pushed her or what. I ran down to the water to look for her. But I couldn’t find her.”

  He is talking faster and faster now; the dream is speeding up.

  “I should have just gone to the police and told them the truth. But I was scared they’d throw me in jail forever. So I did the dumbest thing I ever did. I covered it up. I took her favorite sailboat from the school marina and let it float out to sea. There was a storm later that night, so everyone figured her boat capsized and she drowned.”

  “Oh, Max.”

  I start to cry. I can’t stand the thought of him in so much pain.

  But this is just a dream. My dream. I can help him.

  Max wipes my tears away. “You hate me now, right?”

  “No, I don’t hate you. What happened is in the past. You need to forgive yourself and let it go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

  He laces his fingers through mine. “I love you, Tess.”

  “I love you too, Max.”

  “I’ll always love you.” His voice sounds far away.

  “I’ll always love you too.”

  He leans over me and kisses me on the lips tenderly. So tenderly.

  “Let’s wake up now,” I tell him.

  But it’s too late.

  He’s gone.

  When I open my eyes, Max is lying next to me, clutching my hand.

  “Max?” I say. But my throat burns, and my voice is a useless rasp.

  I start to get up, but pain sears through my head and forces me to stay still. What happened to me?

  The air is dense with smoke and unbearably hot. It smells awful, like burning plastic. It’s also insanely loud. I hear flames roaring, water gushing, chain saws grinding.

  Oh, right. There was a fire in the auditorium.

  “Is anyone trapped?” a man shouts. He sounds weirdly amplified.

  Something tickles my face. There is a heavy cloth over my nose and mouth. I touch it. Max’s school blazer. He must have put it there to protect me from the smoke.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, squeezing Max’s hand. It hurts to move my head.

  He squeezes back.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  His hand goes slack and falls away from mine.

  “Max?”

  To hell with the pain. I turn toward him. His eyes are closed. Blood gushes out of his head.

  “MAX!”

  A figure in black and bright yellow suddenly looms over us. Over Max. “We need more manpower here, now!” he yells.

  No. This can’t be happening.

  I close my eyes and pray.

  Please let him live.

  Please let him live.

  Please let him live.

  42.

  HE DOESN’T LIVE.

  He was one of six students who didn’t make it.

  Max died saving my life. From what the firefighters and the medics could piece together, he pushed me out of the path of a fallin
g light fixture. It landed on him instead, and he suffered massive internal and external injuries. He was conscious long enough to put his blazer over my nose and mouth. He died soon after.

  Three students are still in intensive care. Including Franklin, who suffered brain damage and is in a coma.

  The girls—Priscilla, Yoonie, and Elinor—all escaped with minor injuries, as did Killian.

  In the hospital, Officer Phibbs asked me a bunch of questions about Devon. Or the person everyone thinks is Devon. She’s missing, and the police are searching for her. She’s the lead suspect in the arson.

  According to Officer Phibbs, she left fingerprints on the centralized smoke detection and fire sprinkler systems when she disabled them. And she crawled through a maintenance hatch to throw gasoline-soaked rags on top of the drop ceiling. The fire grew like crazy in that confined space before anyone noticed it, at which point it was too late.

  Officer Phibbs asked me if I could think of any reason my roommate tried to burn down the auditorium with all her classmates and teachers in it.

  She’s not my roommate, I wanted to say. She’s a demon who killed my roommate, then possessed her body.

  But I didn’t have it in me to explain. He wouldn’t have believed me, anyway.

  I just hope she’s back in hell, where she belongs.

  I’m ten minutes late for the memorial service for Max and the other fire victims. It took me forever to figure out what to wear. I wanted to look nice for Max.

  When I realized that Max wouldn’t be there, and in any case would have teased me for obsessing about an outfit, I smiled. Then laughed. Then burst into tears. I couldn’t stop sobbing for almost an hour.

  I hurry toward the quad, smoothing down my navy-blue plaid skirt over my panty hose with the run in them. The service is being held there because Lanyon Hall has been closed indefinitely for renovations. Fortunately, it’s pretty warm out for March.

  After the fire, Mom came and stayed with me for ten days. At first, I couldn’t eat or sleep. I couldn’t do anything but lie in bed in a fetal position. The doctor prescribed some medication for me, though. And now I’m able to function. Sort of. Barely.