by K. F. Breene
“Mr. Morris thinks you’re a witch?” Braiden asked me, anger crossing his face.
I circled the desk until I stood between it and the doors leading to an art studio and a math tutor, facing the way we’d come. To my left, a short hallway led to a different closed door, this one embedded with twelve panes of glass cut through with tiny, shatter-proof black cords, leading to the stair well.
“Mr. Morris thinks I can turn people into believers with my stories, which may then lead to panic and riots when storms come through. It’s never happened before, but he is ever cautious,” I said dryly. “Besides, I am a woman. The term witch comes pretty naturally when speaking of the occult. It’s actually better than some words they could call me.”
Braiden shook his head, looking through the cracked glass of the door at the end of the hallway. “That’s a stairwell through there, right?”
“Oh look, they have Christmas lights on the banister.” Nate pointed, trying to get a better look. “A bit early for that.”
Braiden turned the knob, only to find it locked.
“So what happened here?” Nate rejoined me, standing near the window at the end of the corridor and basking in its light. “A bunch of murders, right?”
“Allegedly.” A puff of white blew from my mouth. The falling temperature bit into my exposed skin. “There’s no solid proof. At least, none that survived. Many believe the people in charge tried to cover it up.”
“Start at the beginning,” Braiden said.
“You’ll probably want to get away from that door.” I clasped my hands in front of me, thankful the others were still in the coffee shop. I hoped they stayed there.
“I’m good,” Braiden said with a stubborn set to his jaw.
“Suit yourself.”
A shadow crossed the windows embedded in the stairwell door to my left. The hallway darkened, bleak and deep gray.
“Oh, whoa.” Nate stretched out his arms as though he could see the skin under his Starter jacket. “I just got a serious dose of the shivers. This is gnarly.” He put his arms down and grinned. “I am digging this.”
“This place had come a long way from its modest beginnings. By the time it closed, the townspeople had largely grown up working at this mill one time or another—”
“Why did they close it, again?” Nate asked.
One of the lights flickered at the other end of the corridor. The entryway beyond fell into a soft haze, almost like fog was drifting in.
“The modern era outgrew the humble beginnings. The business owners opted for a newer, swankier setup. Despite the location change, nearly everyone was guaranteed their jobs after the move…save one.” I paused as another light flickered. A click sounded to my left. The lock on the door to the stairwell. “The groundskeeper.”
Braiden’s head snapped toward the door, which he still stood beside, and then his whole body followed suit. I heard him suck in a breath.
“Oh sh—” The rest of Nate’s word was consumed by a heavy release of breath. “The Christmas lights clicked on. That’s…supposed to happen, right? What time is it?”
I continued in a hollow monotone. It felt right under the circumstances. Creepy. “It was said that the groundskeeper was a good man, though simple. He did his work and did it well, even if he worked a little more slowly than most. But for some reason, the business owners decided not to include Russell in the move. He would be given a watch, a handshake, and a ‘thanks for your service.’ When everyone else moved locations, his employment would be at an end.”
Braiden reached for the handle.
“You might not want to do that,” I said.
“I don’t know about this, Fella.” Nate’s voice was shaking. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
The outline of a slender shape moved through the gloom of the sitting area outside the coffee shop, a slight haze clinging to her school uniform. Her glossy brown hair was tied up in a bun at the top of her head. She held a sack against her hip as she crossed the divide into the corridor.
Prickles crawled up my spine, biting as they did so. It felt like thousands of insects were crawling over my body.
Braiden slowly backed away from the door until he could look around the corner and into the corridor. His eyes widened as the young woman, probably about my age or a little older, sauntered down the hall with an inhuman smoothness. Her lips moved silently and her head turned as she talked to someone I couldn’t see.
A light at the mouth of the corridor went out. The tapping of her footsteps echoed against the walls.
“She doesn’t look right,” Nate said, his voice hoarse. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and blinked rapidly. “She’s still there. But she doesn’t look right.”
The woman didn’t glance at any of us as she came near. She slowed to a stop, still in conversation. The faded light sparkled off her shimmery form. I scooted until my back hit the wall.
“Why doesn’t she look right?” Nate whined.
“Ella,” Braiden said in a low voice.
Pressure squeezed my chest as more footsteps sounded. Laughter and chatter drifted through the halls. The shift was done, and everyone was headed to break or headed home for the day.
A gunshot cut through the merriment and echoed off the walls. It sounded so real that I always felt a tremor of terror that this time it wasn’t the past, but the present.
The young woman jolted ramrod straight, hearing it.
Nate staggered back, his eyes wide and his head swiveling all around, trying to locate the source.
Laughter turned to screaming.
More gunshots echoed through the corridor, louder now. Getting closer.
The doorway near the stairs slammed open. Glass shattered. The screams welled up.
Workers surged through the doors and around the corner, sprinting down the corridor and toward the exit. They jostled the woman, frozen in fear, to the side. Pinned her against the walls. Trapped her there.
“None of them look right,” Nate yelled, terror lining his face. “What’s happening?”
The desk went flying across the hallway as though it had been a chair back in that time, and for a moment, the image wobbled. The past faded into the present, showing the chair hitting the far wall, before the planes shifted, and we were once again watching the terrified workers flee for their lives.
“What’s coming?” I heard Braiden ask over the din. His face ashen, backed against the wall, he looked through the wide-open stairwell door with the glass spread across the floor at its base. “Who is that?”
The maddened stampede of workers tapered slightly, allowing for the view of a greasy, brown-haired man, balding on the top, drifting up the stairs.
“That’s Russell,” I said without inflection, the fear shutting off my ability to feel.
The groundskeeper topped the stairs and came at us, his shotgun lowering as he did so. The handle of a revolver stuck out of his belt.
“Ella, run!” Braiden surged forward and grabbed my arm, forcing me to flee like the workers before us. Nate staggered behind, reaching out to the woman, ever frozen in fear. It would be her undoing.
“Running won’t change anything,” I said as the weight of expectation settled over me.
Russell cocked his shotgun.
Chapter Seventeen
The blast blew red across the white wall to our right. Nate screamed and threw his hands over his head, staggering the other way. His foot scuffed the ground and he fell, sprawling out across the floor. He curled into the fetal position, once again covering his head.
I opened my mouth to yell at him that this wasn’t real—this was an episode of the past on repeat, relived by these haunts, a never-ending cycle of terror—but I didn’t have the time.
Braiden grabbed my arm and pulled me into his chest, shielding me with his body. He pushed on, half lifting and half dragging me, doggedly heading toward the end of the corridor.
A blast from the revolver ricocheted against the walls. It drowned out all sound.
A chunk of the ceiling dropped down beside us, the shot having gone wild. I ran with Braiden, the horror of the moment momentarily stealing my senses.
As we reached the end, Braiden shoved me, forcing me left and behind the wall. I stumbled and then tripped, falling into a heap. He braced himself at the corner, his large body prone and flexed, muscles pushing at his shirt and jeans. Eyes fierce, jaw locked, he looked like he was ready to take on an army. Except the danger had passed more than a decade ago.
The mist around us cleared. The screaming and crying died away. Soft sunlight filtered in through the windows of the sitting room behind us, back to comfortable if not cozy. The sound of a door bursting open interrupted the sudden silence.
“Finally,” someone muttered.
“Sometimes it sticks. We have no idea why,” another person said. “Sorry about that.”
“I bet Ella will say it’s because of ghosts.” Buffy’s comment was followed up with a snicker.
Braiden’s face was hard and his eyes tight as Cliff emerged from the coffee shop, followed by the others. Confusion stole over his expression—something I understood all too well. It was hard to come back from something like that and return to the “real” world. But he surprised me. As fast as the mist had cleared a moment before, he relaxed and turned toward me, sticking out his hand.
“Hurry up now, Fella,” he said softly, his smile uneasy.
I took his hand and allowed him to pull me up. When he let go, his arm came around me, giving me a quick squeeze before letting me go and stepping away. Sparing one glance for the corridor, he walked forward to meet everyone, his confident swagger erasing any hint of fear he might’ve had from a moment before.
“What took you so long?” Braiden asked as the others filed out.
Scarlet drifted to the side with two paper cups, her eyes wary.
“The door got stuck.” Maria put a hand to her hip. “We were trapped in there forever.”
“Overdramatic much?” Buffy flicked her hair. “It was, like, two minutes.”
“What’d you do to Nate?” Leo asked with a wicked grin.
Braiden looked over his shoulder, laughing. The sound was forced. “Ella told a helluva ghost story and I kicked the desk to punctuate the pivotal scene. He didn’t take it so well.”
Cliff and Leo burst into laughter as I edged around the corner to get a look. Just like before, a square of sunlight streamed in from the window at the end, now highlighting just the end of the leg of the overturned desk. In the middle of the corridor, curled up in a little ball with his arms wrapped tightly around his head, Nate lay on the floor.
“What a clown.” Emily rolled her eyes. She gave a small shiver and rubbed her arms, glancing around. “What’s with the air conditioning? It’s October.”
“Let’s get out of here before someone sees the desk,” Braiden said. He walked forward without glancing back at me. “I’m tired of the tour.”
Unexpectedly, the words stung, his tone suggesting I was a bore and a waste of his time. I watched the others follow him, muttering their approval.
Scarlet silently drifted closer. She handed me one of the warm cups. “What happened?” she asked quietly, sneaking a peak at Nate still curled up in a ball.
“Same thing as last time. This time, though, the scene played through to a shot from the revolver.” I contemplated going for Nate, but I didn’t want to cross the threshold. I doubted the scene would play again so soon, being that the energy in the building had to be thoroughly sapped at this point, but I didn’t want to chance it.
“The revolver?” Scarlet asked in a haunted voice. She’d fared about as well as Nate had when she’d seen the scene. She hadn’t run, though. She’d reacted similarly to that ill-fated young woman, pushed against the wall and frozen with fear. “I didn’t see a revolver when it happened with us. Did…did he…get anyone with it?”
“I don’t think so. We need to get Nate out of here.”
Scarlet clutched the neck of her sweater. “Hopefully Braiden will deal with him like he dealt with the others.” She sighed as she stared at Nate, now peeking up through his arms with eyes as wide as the world was round. “I suppose I’ll have to get him. Remind me never to rely on him in an emergency.”
Like she could talk. “What do you mean, how Braiden dealt with the others?”
She gestured the way they’d gone. More people drifted out of the coffee shop, migrating toward the chairs. “He spun that story before taking them out of here. That’ll save you. They’ll think Nate was imagining things. Hopefully Nate just shrugs it off. You really shouldn’t have brought them here, Ella. If he doesn’t decide he was hallucinating, he’ll go around calling you a witch. You should’ve seen the dark looks Dirk was giving you. Just stay away from them. They’ll make the rest of your high-school year—”
“I know, I know.” I, once again, caught my fingers midway running them through my hair. I needed to pick a less hairspray-riddled hairstyle. “Can you please get Nate? The sooner the better. Hopefully we still have a ride when we get out of here.”
Scarlet tentatively crossed the threshold into the corridor, picking her footing carefully despite the floor being cleared of debris.
“Do you know what I wonder?” she said as she edged toward Nate. “Why are all those workers in the scene? I mean, I know why the younger woman would be, since she died. She’s obviously not at rest. But the others look like they got away free and clear. So why are they in it?”
I shook my head, having no good answer for her. I’d pondered that myself. Even with a revolver, Russell wouldn’t have been able to get them all. Especially with the shoddy shooting.
“Maybe the fear haunted them throughout their lives, and a piece of them will remain here forever? Or maybe the moment was so horrific, it left an imprint.” Those were the only guesses I had.
Scarlet paused next to Nate, her face screwed up in thought. “Maybe. That sounds plausible.” She bent and touched Nate’s arm. He jolted. “Come on, Nate, you’re overreacting.”
Again, like she could talk. She’d been sobbing by the end.
Scarlet shook Nate again. “Come on, Nate. Time to get moving. It’s all over now. The drugs have worn off.”
I grinned despite myself. “The drugs?”
“Yeah. The drugs I slipped into his water in the truck.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “Drugs, plural?”
She gave me a look that said, Shh—I’m fabricating a story here! “Yeah. You know, the ones that hop you up and make you see things?”
“Like…’shrooms?” I asked.
Her look darkened. “Something like ’shrooms, sure. Just not as powerful.”
Nate loosened a little, his hands pulling away from his head. “Drugs?”
“Yeah. Ha ha ha.” Scarlet grabbed her stomach, punctuating the worst fake laugh in history. “You love your ghost stories, so I figured you might want to live one. Was it fun?”
Nate’s body uncurled little by little. He looked up at me. “Ella?”
“Yeah, sure,” I lied. “Drugs…that Scarlet cooked up in the chemistry lab. You know how smart she is. She can do crazy things with a Bunsen burner.”
“B-but…” Nate stuttered, letting Scarlet help him sit up. He pointed a shaky hand at the overturned desk.
“Braiden was in on it,” I said.
“Actually, he made me do it.” Scarlet patted Nate’s back. “He thought it would be fun. Was it fun?”
“Did you give it to him?” Nate asked.
“Not this time. Come on. They’re waiting for us outside. Let’s go.” Scarlet glanced back at the desk nervously.
“But…that chick. What happened to that chick? She didn’t run. Why didn’t she run?”
“All a figment of your imagination,” I said from the sitting area, turning away and squeezing my eyes shut against the memory of the red splattering the wall.
“Of Ella’s imagination, actually, since she was telling the story,” Scarlet corrected.
Silence rained down for a moment.
“That’s messed up,” Nate said, getting up. He took a long look at the overturned chair, shaking his head slowly. When he finally let us lead him out, he was muttering about horrible stories and what a bad idea it was to teach chemistry to smart people.
The others stood in a loose circle when we got to the parking lot. Braiden glanced over, his gaze hitting Nate and then Scarlet before pausing on me. Something flickered in his eyes, and I remembered how, in the heat of the moment, when he’d thought we were all in danger, he’d shielded me with his body.
He hadn’t been acting, he’d been reacting, and he would’ve protected me with his life. Whatever the Old Woman had in mind, Braiden proved that his motives were pure.
“Let me guess,” Dirk said to Braiden with a sour expression. “You want us to invite her.” He pointed at me.
“Oh, please. Haven’t we had enough of the nerd herd?” Buffy threw her empty paper cup on the ground.
“Oh sure, ruin the earth for everyone like you ruin high school.” Shaking her head, Scarlet retrieved the cup.
“I know I’ve had enough of the nerd herd,” Maria muttered.
“How about it, Fella?” Leo asked me with a smirk. “Want to come with us to McKinley Mansion?”
My blood ran cold. Scarlet dropped the cup.
“Wh-what?” I asked.
“Forget her. She can tell a good story, but when it comes to reality, she loses her nerve,” Cliff said. “I say leave her behind.”
“You guys aren’t seriously considering going to the mansion, are you?” Scarlet asked. “Because that would be crazy. People have died at the hands of that mansion.”
“Uh, professor?” Cliff raised his hand. “Mansions don’t have hands.”
“Maybe she’s right.” Emily licked her lips. “I heard that anyone that goes in…never comes out.”
“Oh puh-lease,” Leo said. “That’s just what they say to keep people out.”
“But what about the stories of the Old Woman?” Emily insisted. “She steals kids and takes them back there. No one ever sees them again.”
