The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

Rachel reads through an article called “The Curse of Shadow Grove” which is little more than the prattling of a 1970s housewife who tries to make sense of the countless unfortunate events that have befallen the town up until then. The article does, however, mention bone figurines, which were found at several accidents, and how Mr. Fraser—probably Mrs. Crenshaw’s father—had called them omens. It also mentions a girl named Mary Wentworth, who set herself alight in the late 1950s. Around the same time Mrs. Crenshaw was in high school.

  “Interesting,” she whispers.

  The Halloween edition of the Ridge Crest Weekly, which dates back to 1981, explores the various urban legends of the school—from the phantom lights seen crossing the football field before dawn to moving hallways that lead nowhere, trapping straggling students in a maze for eternity. One article, titled “The Ghost Boy.” catches Rachel’s attention because it’s the same story she heard as a freshman during orientation week—the one where a boy fell from the bell tower, who now haunts the old schoolhouse. What makes the article stand out, however, is how the author, Harvey Peterson, explains that the supposed ghost boy has a history of haunt cycles, which are always accompanied by odd figurines that are left behind as a warning.

  Rachel sits back in her chair, wiping her mouth as she rereads the last line of the article.

  The last time the ghost boy haunted Ridge Crest High, seven students died.

  Fourteen

  Skull Cracker

  Rachel starts the much-needed, possibly belated, research on the Miser Fae. Her cell phone starts ringing, vibrating like crazy in her back pocket. She reaches around, pulls the phone out, and sees a photo of Dougal filling the screen.

  Mercia grumbles to awareness.

  “I’ve got to take this.” She slides her thumb across the screen. “Hello?”

  “Thank the heavens. Are ye comin’ to the hospital anytime soon?” Dougal is breathless on the other end of the line. There’s loud knocking in the background, a hollow laughter accompanying it.

  Rachel looks to Mercia, who’s still waking up. “I’m sort of dealing with something here.” There’s more knocking, and the hollow laughter turns hysterical. “Is everything all right on your end?”

  “I think Nan pushed the nurses over the edge,” he says. There’s an audible oomph, a few heavy breaths, before he continues, “They’re tryin’ to kill us now.”

  “Wait, did you just say the nurses are trying to kill you?”

  “I can’t blame them, though. Nan’s been a right wench today.”

  “Hold on a sec.” Rachel pulls her cell phone away from her ear and says, “Hey, Mercia. Wanna go save Dougal again?”

  “I don’t need savin’,” his voice fills her bedroom. “Nan’s in trouble, ye know?”

  Mercia nods, and forces herself to stand.

  “We’ll be there in about ten minutes. Can you hold out for that long?”

  “Just hurry, Rach,” Dougal grumbles, and ends the call.

  Rachel returns the cell phone to her back pocket and picks up her car keys from the desk. “Ziggy,” she calls and the Fae light rushes into her room, bouncing off the walls.

  Mercia stares. “You have a Fae light?”

  “Orion left Ziggy here before he left,” she explains. Ziggy hops toward a bag, and rolls inside, ready to leave. Rachel picks up the bag and slings it over her shoulder as she heads toward the door. She grins. “Ten bucks says Dougal is covered in something nasty.”

  “There’s something seriously wrong with you,” Mercia whispers behind her.

  “You’re not the first to mention it.”

  They make it to the hospital in eight minutes flat, a new record for her, but it’s purely thanks to the fact that the streets were near empty and every traffic light was green on the way over. As always, the hospital parking lot is devoid of activity. Full as it is with all the cars, there isn’t a soul around. Rachel doesn’t even see the bored security guard in the area as she climbs out of her car.

  “I hate this place,” Mercia says, closing the passenger door. She walks around the front and catches up with Rachel, before they make their way to the hospital entrance. “I almost hate it more than Hawthorne Memorial.”

  Rachel glimpses at her. “You’ve been there? Inside Hawthorne, I mean.”

  “Yes,” Mercia answers. “I went to visit someone.”

  “Of course.” She doesn’t pry, because it’s none of her business. Still, it is a curious admission.

  They walk into the foyer, Ziggy still hidden within the bag, only to find the receptionist is missing from her post. The girls share a look, before continuing their journey to the elevator. Rachel presses the call button and looks around for any sign of life.

  It feels like they’re in the intro scene of a bad post-apocalyptic movie, one that features zombies just waiting to grab them when they least expect it, because obviously they should have known better than to walk around an abandoned hospital.

  The elevator pings and the doors slide open. Mercia enters first, but Rachel doesn’t budge.

  “You coming?” Mercia asks.

  “Let’s take the stairs,” Rachel says, glancing back to the empty reception area.

  Mercia doesn’t hesitate in exiting the elevator. Better still, she doesn’t ask awkward questions. They quietly make their way around the corner and walk up the staircase, listening to the reigning silence. Only when they reach the third floor landing does Rachel hear a persistent knocking. She halts and listens closely, trying her best to determine what’s going on from afar. Fast approaching footsteps squeak on the tiled floor, rush their way. Three distinct voices join in—giggling, laughing, a maniacal guffaw—the footsteps retreat back to wherever, quick squeaks followed by a slide of some sort.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” a crazed female says in a singsong voice, stabbing with a scalpel at the door.

  Mercia peeks around the staircase and gestures for Rachel to follow her. As quietly as they can, they cross the lobby and hide behind one of the swing-doors leading into the ward.

  “Or we’ll huff,” another female says, giggling. “And we’ll puff-f-f-f.”

  A third voice laughs hysterically. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?”

  “That’s not how the story goes,” the first voice whines.

  Peering through the little window set inside the door, the girls watch on as three nurses loiter in front of the first room to the left.

  Mercia grimaces. “They seem to have gone on an epic pharmaceutical raid. The junkies in Pine Hill would be impressed.”

  One nurse looks their way and they duck down to avoid being seen.

  “Wrong storrry. It’s the wrong storrry.” The second voice rolls her Rs and cackles.

  Rachel glances through the window again and sees the three nurses in front of Mrs. Crenshaw’s hospital room, pounding on the door with their fists and feet. Mandy, the nurse Mrs. Crenshaw had admonished the morning after she’d been admitted, slides down the wall to sit on the floor, still laughing like a maniac. Scattered around her are pills of every color, in every shape and size.

  “My question is, where is the rest of the staff?” Rachel whispers back to Mercia. “And who’s looking after the other patients?”

  “I think all of the other victims were taken to the hospital in the city, because we don’t have enough doctors here,” Mercia says. “In the meantime, what do we do about them?”

  “We need a distraction to get them away from the door,” Rachel whispers. She steals a glimpse at the three giggling nurses. Ziggy begins moving around in the bag, restless, ready to play along. “Not yet,” she says to the bag.

  “And then what?” Mercia asks through gritted teeth.

  “Let’s tackle one problem at a time.”

  Mercia’s shoulders slump slightly, but she doesn’t press for more. Instead, she leans back around the corner and whispers something under her breath before snapping her fingers. Almost instantly the giggling nurses stop their laughing.
Rachel sneaks a peek and sees the scattered multi-colored pills rise off the floor and levitate at eye-level.

  “Ooh. Lookey-lookey,” Mandy says in a childlike voice. “Pretty little pills.”

  The other two nurses are similarly enchanted by the phenomena, staring with wide eyes at the hovering medication. One nurse, the oldest of the three, reaches out to catch a nearby red pill, but it flies away. Her hand moves to cover her mouth, muffling another giggle. Mandy is next in line, opening her mouth to catch a pill in midair, but it moves down the hallway slowly, taunting the three nurses.

  “Let’s catch them,” Mandy suggests, getting to her feet. “Let’s catch them all.” She spins in place and grabs at the pills, missing every time. She lets loose a belly laugh before moving farther down the hall. The other nurses, in a similarly captivated state, try their best to catch the pills as they move away from the door. The one with a scalpel slashes at the pills, but she’s unable to reach her target. “Come here,” Mandy sings and twirls.

  “That’ll keep them busy for a while,” Mercia says.

  “Thanks.” Rachel looks past Mercia to see if the coast is clear before making her way to the door. She knocks twice and says, “Dougal, it’s me. Open up.” Something large drags across the floor on the other side of the door. More objects seem to be moved before the door finally cracks open. “They’re gone. Relax.”

  “Relax? I almost gotta scalpel through my eye,” he grumbles, opening the door wide enough for her to enter.

  Rachel crinkles her nose in disgust; the sharp tang of urine emanates from Dougal’s damp shirt.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says in a serious tone.

  “What did I tell you?” Rachel says to Mercia, grinning.

  “You’re twisted, Cleary.” The corner of Mercia’s lip lifts into a conspirator’s smile.

  Rachel notices the dented metallic bedpan lying near the wall, the discarded chairs and metal cupboard standing behind Dougal. She shifts her attention to the tiny figure lying beneath the thin blanket. The only sign of her being alive is the movement of her chest, a rhythmic up and down as she inhales and exhales, softly snoring.

  “Nan’s out cold ever since the sedative they gave her this mornin’,” Dougal explains. “I don’t know how we’re gonna get Nan out of here.”

  “I can help with—” Mercia is interrupted by a mechanical chirruping sound. She fumbles with her cell phone, checks the screen, and frowns. “Sorry, it’s my mom,” she says, before answering with a cheerful, “Hi, Mom.”

  Rachel and Dougal walk a few steps away, closer to Mrs. Crenshaw, giving Mercia some privacy.

  “What?” Mercia says loud enough to earn Rachel and Dougal’s attention. She waves them over and pulls the cell phone from her ear, before placing the call on speaker.

  “I said: your aunt just called to say Sheriff Carter is walking up and down Main Road in nothing more than his underwear and hat, calling out for some or other ‘gosh darn gunslinger’ so they can have a duel. Annabeth Garter is running around on all fours like an animal, biting people. Not to mention Johnny Markham hijacked the school bus and is acting like he’s a pirate on the open seas.” Ms. Holstein’s voice is clear, not a hint of humor in her words. “Hawthorne is now suddenly on lockdown, so there’s no telling when I’ll get home, but you need to get somewhere safe as soon as possible.”

  “I’m nowhere near home—”

  “Where are you?”

  Mercia pauses, grimacing. “I’m with Rachel Cleary and her cousin.” When, after a few moments, her mother doesn’t respond, Mercia says, “Mom? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” Ms. Holstein says, sounding none too happy. Mercia switches off the speaker and puts the phone back to her ear, the conversation continuing in whispers.

  “So, the sheriff’s gone off the rails, too, eh? Like the nurses? Like everyone at school did?”

  “Sounds that way,” Rachel whispers back. “One problem at a time.” She says this more to herself than him, but he grunts an affirmative, anyway. “I think our best bet is to move your grandmother to Saint James in the city. We’ll help you get her to the car, but I can’t leave while the town’s lost its marbles.”

  “Aye, I know,” Dougal says. “But I don’t feel comfortable leavin’ ye here by yerself either.”

  Rachel pats his shoulder and smiles. “I’ll be fine. I’ve caught myself a witch, after all.”

  “What if she goes bonkers and turns on ye?”

  “I won’t,” Mercia answers. “Witches have a natural immunity against outside influence. That’s how I know Orion isn’t human—I can see through his glamor.” She flashes Dougal a bright, white smile. “My trick won’t keep the nurses occupied for long so we should probably get your grandmother out of here before they come back.”

  Dougal nods and takes a step closer to the bed. Mercia stops him, gestures for him to stand aside, before she mutters under her breath and raises her arms beside her. In response, Mrs. Crenshaw’s sleeping form rises from the bed and slowly moves forward.

  Dougal’s expression twists in terror. He almost lunges closer, his arms outstretched. When he realizes she’s not going to fall, he mutters, “Just in case, yeah?” However, the fear in his face doesn’t fade.

  Rachel exits the room first, looks down the hallway, and finds it as empty as when they had entered. “All clear,” she says over her shoulder, stepping out of the way.

  The sleeping Mrs. Crenshaw, with the blanket still draped over her, files out of the door first. She turns gently, swaying from side-to-side, before Dougal is there, arms stretched out beneath her to catch her if she falls. Mercia follows, her brow creasing with concentration. She moves her hands to stabilize Mrs. Crenshaw and slowly walks behind her.

  Rachel keeps an eye on the hallway beyond, waiting until the others are nearing the lobby, before she walks backward to join them.

  “We need to take the elevator down,” Mercia says, out of breath. “I won’t be able to keep Mrs. Crenshaw stable on the stairs.”

  Dougal inches toward the wall to call the elevator.

  “What d’ya got there?” an unfamiliar voice says from the other side of the lobby.

  Rachel pivots to look at the door that leads to another ward only to find the missing security guard staring at Mrs. Crenshaw. His hair is disheveled, uniform shirt is half unbuttoned to reveal his vest beneath, and his finger is itching for the Taser on his belt.

  “Deal with it, Rachel,” Mercia says through her teeth.

  Without hesitation, Rachel opens her bag and Ziggy flies out into the open.

  Rachel raises her hand and points at the security guard. “Ziggy, go play with the nice man.”

  Ping. The elevator doors slide open and Mrs. Crenshaw floats inside, Mercia following behind.

  “Dougal,” Rachel says, reaching over Mercia’s shoulder to hand him her car keys, “don’t waste time getting out of town.”

  “Be careful,” he says, taking the keys.

  “See you in a bit,” Mercia adds just before the doors slide shut on her.

  Rachel watches as Ziggy zigzags in front of the security guard’s face, keeping the guy preoccupied by blinking brighter and then dimming. Whenever the security guard reaches out to touch the Fae light, Ziggy zips away. Amused, the guard doesn’t notice when Rachel slips away.

  She rushes down the staircase, grabbing the railing and using her momentum to propel herself around the landing. Rachel whistles loudly, and a few seconds later, Ziggy is by her side, bouncing off the walls.

  “Good job,” she says as they make their way to the first floor’s landing.

  Fifteen

  Step on a Crack, Break your Mother’s Back

  Rachel exits the hospital just in time to see Dougal reversing out of the parking space, his grandmother lying unconscious in the backseat of the Hyundai. Mercia stands at the curb, watching them go, snaking her arms around her waist to hold herself.

  “Thank you,” Rachel says as
she walks up to Mercia’s side, who’s face has become wan. “I truly appreciate your stepping in to help Mrs. Crenshaw.”

  Mercia offers a weary smile. “It’s the least I could do for her.” She gestures for them to walk, and Rachel falls into step beside her. “I wasn’t born with epilepsy.”

  “You weren’t?” Rachel says.

  Mercia shakes her head. “Not a lot of people know I have two older sisters. Kelsey, the eldest, is twelve years older than I am, and Laura, the middle child, is ten years older than me. Kelsey swore off magic and left Shadow Grove when she was sixteen, opting to go live with her dad in California. Laura, is a different story altogether.”

  Mercia tries the door of a car parked in a reserved space, which belongs to a Dr. Ramsey. Initially, the door doesn’t budge, but with a snap of her fingers, Mercia springs the lock open. She pulls the driver’s side door open and climbs inside. Rachel walks around the front of the car and opens the passenger door.

  Ziggy flies into the car, slips in between the gap of the front seats, and hovers in the backseat as Rachel joins them.

  “Anyway,” Mercia continues, searching for the spare key, “when I was six-years-old, Laura was babysitting me one night while my mother and grandmother were at a coven meeting or something. I don’t remember the details.” She sits back in the seat and inhales deeply before snapping her finger again. The engine whirrs to life without a key in the ignition. Mercia reverses out of the parking space. “That night, I saw Laura do the type of magic we aren’t allowed to do—dark, ancient stuff. Where she got the book is anyone’s guess. But she saw me watching her and, well, she tried to wipe my mind, to rid me of the memory of seeing her with that infernal book. Something went wrong with her spell, though.”

  “I’m sorry to hear, but what does Mrs. Crenshaw have to do with it?”

  Mercia drives out of the hospital’s parking lot and into the street. “They couldn’t risk fixing me with witch magic, not when there was a chance I’d have permanent brain damage, so my mom went to see Mrs. Crenshaw and asked her to see if there isn’t anything the faeries could do for me.”