Change Of Season

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by Dillon, A. C.


  "Autumn, Miraj is precisely that: a mirage. She’s not a real person."

  The air rushed out of her chest, leaving her gasping. What? That’s crazy! Her knuckles gleamed white as she gripped the arm of the couch to steady herself. How dare she accuse her of, what, making her friend up? She wasn’t there when Miraj stopped those two guys on the street. She wasn’t there when her only outlet was venting to her friend. And what was with all of the comparisons?

  "That’s bullshit, and you really need to take it back, Dr. Stieg."

  Emma sighed deeply, leaning back into her chair. "I’m sorry, Autumn. I can’t."

  Miraj didn’t like people in general. Of course she hadn’t met her friends! Why was that so important? It wasn’t so improbable to keep separate circles of friends. People did it every day.

  "I’m not crazy!"

  "No, you’re not."

  "You just said I was!" Autumn screamed.

  "I never said that at all."

  "I can read between the lines just fine. I study literature. I know when I’m being called-"

  A memory: the beach, late at night. That last encounter in December. Miraj had still been angrily accusing her of being a fool. She’d settled onto a remnant of a fallen tree, straddling the log and refusing to even look at her close friend. She’d felt too weary to stand another moment, too drained to argue. It had grown silent, and she’d turned back, only to find Miraj gone. She’d tried to follow her and apologize, but it was impossible...

  "What is it, Autumn?" Emma asked.

  "No footprints. The snow..."

  The snow was several inches deep, and yet, she couldn’t pick a path out to follow. She’d blamed it on the winds coming off the lake.

  "Maybe I am crazy," she mused aloud.

  "No, no you’re not," Emma insisted, kneeling in front of her. "You’re not crazy to want a friend, or to struggle to cope with intense trauma. What Chris put you through was overwhelming and terrifying. You lived every day waiting for him to return. You wanted to feel safe again."

  Autumn felt her eyes ache, but there were no tears left inside her. She’d cried them out the night before, reconciling her feelings for Andrew with the need to save him.

  "So I, what, made someone up? That’s crazy, Emma! That’s certifiable!" She folded her arms around herself, struggling to see through the vertigo overtaking her.

  I’m crazy. Just like I always feared.

  "Don’t you see who she is, Autumn? She’s not just a character in your writing. Her last name is Winterside. Her thoughts and feelings are the ones you scarcely admit to yourself." Emma tilted her head, catching Autumn’s averted stare. "She’s you. She’s the part of you that’s tired of being afraid of Chris, the part of you that blames him, as you should. The fighter."

  "I’m nothing like her," she whispered sadly.

  "But you are," Emma insisted. "You sent yourself away to protect your family. You rammed the part of you that wanted to stand her ground and fight into a box, separated from it, so you could convince yourself to suffer in silence. Miraj is that other side of you. She could say all that you couldn’t speak of at the time. But now, you do say those things. You’re fighting back. And where is Miraj?"

  "Not here..."

  "Oh, she’s here. She’s back inside of you. You’ve opened the box back up. When you doubt yourself, doubt your instincts, she returns. People debate themselves every day when making tough choices. You’re just more visual than most of us. Nothing more than that."

  Emma seemed sincere, her eyes warm like her mother’s. Her mother never lied; she was honest to a fault. No matter what Autumn believed, her doctor didn’t see her as crazy. It was a small consolation.

  "Autumn, this is a lot to take in. Did you want to extend our time together today? I have more time, if you need me."

  Autumn shook her head weakly. "I’m really tired... Dizzy tired. This... I don’t... How long have you thought this?"

  "That doesn’t matter," Emma replied. "What matters is I felt you were ready to explore it today." With a glance at the clock above, she added, "Did you want to nap here? I don’t feel comfortable letting you walk across campus if you’re dizzy, and I don’t want to escort you and make you feel singled out among your peers."

  "I... Can I? I mean, that’s okay?" The couch suddenly seemed so inviting, its leather seats cooling to her feverish fingertips.

  "Sure. I’ll catch up on emails and such and wake you when I need to go."

  "Thanks."

  The soft music played on as Autumn stretched out along the couch, sinking into the cushions with a weary murmur. Crazy, sane, it didn’t matter anymore. She was too tired to debate it, too broken to fight it. For now, she would cocoon. Meditative metamorphosis.

  "She’s you." It echoed in her dreams, a lullaby. "The fighter."

  ***

  "I’m already creeped out and we haven’t left yet," Veronica confessed, pulling her hair back into a messy knot.

  "Nothing can top living in this room," Autumn countered. "Besides, I’ve been down there twice and nothing ate me. No white alligators or rats the size of Logan. Did you bring the flashlight?"

  "In my pocket." Veronica leaned against the bathroom wall, watching Autumn tie her own hair back. "Have you heard from Andrew?"

  "Not since last night, and I don’t expect to." Her chest ached at the thought of him, at how they’d parted. "Okay, it’s time. Do you remember where we’re going?"

  Veronica nodded. "You’re leading the expedition anyway, but yeah. Weird side door into Media Studies, down the hatch. God, I could use a drink for this!"

  "You can back out, if you want," Autumn offered.

  "No, no I can’t. Just a little shaken still."

  The dangling sheet incident had rocked Veronica, dredging up lingering grief and worst case haunted scenarios about the tunnels. She refused to speak of it, insisting it was fine, but Autumn was the queen of that game of Let’s Pretend and saw through to Veronica’s battered heart. As desperately as she wanted an accomplice, she couldn’t bear to push her beyond the breaking point.

  "It’s okay to be afraid," Autumn said quietly. "I am, too. But we need to know more to figure out the truth."

  Veronica nodded firmly. "For Nikki?"

  "For Nikki."

  They set out just after nine, propping the stairwell door to Ashbury just in case and taking Autumn’s scenic route around the quad in spite of it being a Friday before curfew. No sense in risking any witnesses, particularly instructors with a predilection for carving into human cadavers and taking notes. Each of them concealed pocket-sized flashlights in their bulky winter coats, along with Veronica’s iPhone for photos and video, should it come to that. Autumn still couldn’t watch the paranormal investigation’s video, but she hoped to not experience the live re-run tonight. Her session with Emma had shaken her up enough.

  "Over here," Autumn whispered, leading Veronica to the service door.

  "You’d think they’d be able to afford fixing the lock," Veronica joked weakly.

  "It costs a lot of cash to keep Logan from torturing us, I suppose. Come on, and watch your step."

  The tunnels were as dreary and damp as she remembered, only they were also frigid now. Flipping on her light, she waved it to their left.

  "Ms. St. Clair, welcome to Haunted Casteel Tours. To your left you will see a long stretch of tunnel that carries straight to the laundry room of Trudeau Hall, as well as several short tunnels to your right. These dead-end or lead to stairwells up into the theatre. To our right," she continued, "we have a tunnel that eventually winds and loops back beneath the theatre, as well as one branching towards Pearson hall and alternately, according to the delightful sign, an operating theatre, once upon an asylum."

  "Are you shitting me? Have you not seen movies about evil doctors?" Veronica grimaced, turning on her own light. "Can we please avoid scalpels and things with shiny blades?"

  "We’ll go the other way first, then. Fair warning: Pearson’s suppo
sedly haunted."

  "Lovely."

  They headed to the right, passing by Autumn’s quick way into the building, which reminded her in turn of the night Andrew helped her back to Ashbury undetected. Who had been following her that night, and why? Would he – or she – be down here tonight? At the first fork, they ventured right, their trajectory carrying them towards Pearson Hall, the Senior Academics building, and possibly Athletics. Every scrape of boot on gritty concrete echoed, every absently kicked rock or stick startled her. The tunnels were obviously ignored, decomposing mulch and mildew combining in a nauseating, possibly noxious scent. Autumn drew her coat collar higher, filtering the air through the bomber material.

  The walls were seldom marked with signage, but from what they’d been able to estimate by direction and distance, they were nearing Pearson Hall. Pipes grew larger, steam bursts more frequent, and up ahead on the right, there was a door with signage – indicating a room of maintenance purposes. We must be under a building, or close to it.

  "It smells terrible down here!" Veronica hissed. "I wish I’d known to bring one of those SARS masks."

  "It’s much worse over here. I want one too." Gesturing to a branching up ahead, Autumn’s light reflected off a bronze plate on the wall. "Looks like we have a sign."

  Veronica rushed ahead, perhaps eager for an escape to fresh air. Studying the sign, she muttered beneath her breath.

  "What?"

  "Just look."

  Bringing up the rear, Autumn quickly understood her friend’s angry reaction. To their right, the sign indicated the Patient Dormitories – Pearson Hall, as it was now known, as well as the male complement, MacDonald Hall. To their left, however, lay something far more disturbing than a haunted dorm.

  "Staff Quarters," Autumn whispered.

  "These tunnels run all the way to the Faculty," Veronica said. "Looks like Grant has pretty handy access to students."

  "Veronica, we don’t know that for sure."

  Hollow reassurances, at best. They had yet to locate a way off campus, a way around the school security measures. But this... If the tunnels truly ran all the way out to Faculty Housing, it opened up the possibility that their musings about Professor Grant were actually viable – making him a killer.

  "Let’s go find out," Veronica stated firmly, heading down the left corridor.

  Her friend strode headlong towards the secluded corner of campus where instructors and their families made their home. Bringing up the rear, Autumn scanned the walls, seeking further signage or other markers. The further they drifted from the Media Studies building, the more intense her trepidation. Neither of them knew a way above ground from here, and as she’d learned on her last exploration, blind guessing could prove disastrous. Eighty feet down, the tunnels branched again, forming a cross. The glint of bronze plating taunted them from a distance, daring them to move closer.

  "We should probably head back soon," Autumn suggested.

  Veronica ignored her, focused on the signs ahead. A sudden burst of steam from an overhead pipe sent Veronica sideways into the opposing wall, grimacing as her hand planted in mold.

  "Gross!" Waving her light, she ushered Autumn ahead. "What do they say?"

  Autumn anxiously approached the plates, angling her light to reduce glare. "Operating Theatre is left, which means this path probably reconnects to the tunnel I went down last time..."

  "And the right?"

  Sickened, she replied, "Staff Quarters."

  Veronica scraped her palm clean along the edge of the latter sign, smudging it with mold and dirt. "He’s been here since 1998, and he graduated in 1980. Means and opportunities."

  "But what’s the motive?" Autumn asked. "That’s what bothers me, V. Why? And why make Nikki look like a suicide?"

  "I don’t know." Veronica sighed, shaking her head. "My head hurts, Ryan Buell. Maybe you’re right about ending this episode of Paranormal Prep. Let’s head back for tonight, and come again another day."

  "Backtrack or take the left?"

  "Screw it, let’s take the left. Can’t be any worse than this."

  It was a solemn march, the two of them trekking towards their exit. Each was deep in thought, neither willing to verbalize their conclusions. For Autumn, it was still uncertain: perhaps there was a tunnel off campus. They were wandering blind down here, and with all of the endless branches, it grew impossible to ascertain which remained unidentified. There was also the fact that Miraj had managed to get on and off campus-

  But she’s not real. Or is she?

  Autumn shoved aside the tangled threads of her session, still wrestling with Emma’s words earlier in the day. She needed to focus on Nikki now. She’d wanted them to come here for some reason. Was this it? Was she trying to help them confirm Grant as her killer? Or was something else lingering in the filth and shadows?

  Another branching of tunnels greeted them five minutes down the unlit tunnel, a right and straight ahead their only options. Mentally, Autumn mapped the campus, trying to ascertain which would carry them back to their entry point. She was getting turned around, and panic began to swell within her chest.

  "Ugh, I think I know where the Operating Room is," Veronica grumbled, waving her light.

  Autumn glanced over, edging towards the gleaming metal dancing in the beam. A needle, uncapped, lay on the ground, lodged in a mucky puddle. A few feet away, a rotting half of a latex glove lay crumpled near the wall. Another needle and shattered glass.

  "Is this not a health hazard? Did they not inspect this school for this crap?" Veronica was seething. "If only there was a way to report this garbage."

  Autumn nodded, stepping closer to examine the debris. "If I get expelled, I am totally ratting them out. Maintenance workers could hurt themselves. Wait, what is that?"

  Crouching down, she ran her light over what appeared to be a cloth of some kind, rotten leaves and – was that hair? Waving Veronica closer, Autumn confirmed her suspicions, swallowing down the urge to vomit.

  Red hair, tangled in a knot around a glove. As if it were ripped out of someone’s head.

  "Maybe they haven’t inspected since 1999," she whispered nervously.

  Veronica pulled her phone from her pocket, snapping several photos and cursing under her breath. Autumn’s hand shook, the flashlight bobbing up and down as if to agree that yes, this was fast becoming a bad horror film where people emerged from shadows with knives and supernatural strength.

  "We need to get the hell out of here," Veronica said, pocketing her phone. "Like, now."

  Somewhere behind them, a door slammed loudly. The sound of metal striking metal sent them scrambling to their feet, eyes darting in all directions. Staff Quarters. Grant was on the prowl.

  "Kill your light!" Autumn hissed.

  They plunged into darkness, their shallows breath punctuated by the creaking of overhead pipes. Autumn’s heart pounded wildly, flooding her ears with the rhythm of a manic marching band. Perhaps it wasn’t a door. Perhaps something had backed up, like a rusty car engine.

  And then, the footsteps approached. Slowly, deliberately. Someone with patience and confidence.

  "Walk quietly, but quickly," Veronica whispered, taking her hand.

  They took the path dead ahead, walking blindly on tiptoes. If they could find a turn, round a corner, perhaps they could turn the light on and minimize risk of detection. The steps continued to approach, slow, but targeted. Someone was in this tunnel with them.

  Distantly, a single yellow fluorescent bulb flickered over a steel door, its light just revealing a left turn ahead. Autumn nudged Veronica, waving her flashlight and gesturing to the left. Her friend nodded in understanding, the two of them walking faster, seeking refuge. A hundred feet to go. Ninety.

  The footsteps halted.

  Autumn fought the urge to glance backwards, frightened of what – or who – she might see. Had they evaded their pursuer? Confused him? Their beacon beckoned, feet sliding over grit and gravel as they drew nearer. Seventy fee
t. Sixty feet.

  A pebble rolled down a corridor, bouncing off concrete. The sound echoed from the right.

  Fifty feet, then forty. Autumn’s eyes strained in the darkness, her palm clammy and cramped from Veronica’s terrified grip. Maybe Andrew was right about this being a bad idea. Too late now.

  Behind them, someone began to run.

  "Let’s go!"

  Veronica led the charge in their race with the devil, flipping on her light seconds before they rounded the corner, guiding their retreat. This new tunnel curved slightly, course correcting to the right, the floor a mess of puddles that splashed loudly as they ran through them. A dead end loomed, the tunnel splitting to the left and right again.

  "Which way?"

  "Left!" Autumn impulsively chose.

  Follow the evil.

  Their pursuer was keeping pace, slowly gaining on them. With a little luck and a few quick turns, they might be able to beat him to the theatre, perhaps escape into the building and then outside. The tunnel ended ahead, verging onward to their right alone.

  "This can’t be the right way!" Autumn lamented. "Shit!"

  It was too hard to track him now: their footsteps and his echoed off the walls, radiating in all directions. A cacophony of clapping and sloshing in a chorus.

  "Maybe there’s a closet," Veronica murmured, gasping for air. "Hide."

  The walls were barren, devoid of alternatives. Rounding the forced right, Autumn slammed into Veronica’s back as she drew to a skidding halt. A door.

  "It’s locked!" she hisses, jiggling the doorknob.

  "Maybe it’s stuck!"

  Autumn’s chest heaved, her vision blurring. She couldn’t keep running this way. She could sacrifice herself, allow Veronica to continue on.

  How long could you evade a curse?

  Overhead, piercing sirens began to wail. Veronica slammed into the door, cursing and pleading. It was nearly impossible to hear anything now, beyond the shrieking whistle. Autumn clamped her palms over her ears in an effort to stifle its whine.

  "What the hell is that?" she asked.

  With a grunt, Veronica stepped backwards and charged the door anew, falling to the ground beyond as it sprung open.

 

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