by Diane Hoh
He nodded and got to his feet. “Sure. But that’s not what happened here, Rachel. The painting looks exactly the way it always did.”
“Then why,” she asked, standing up and facing him, “was this sent to me?”
“Maybe the artist saw you admiring it at the exhibit,” he said matter-of-factly. “Since no one else seemed to like it, he very generously decided you should have it. Don’t you remember that old saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth? You do like it, don’t you? Just hang it somewhere and appreciate it. That’s what art is for.”
“But the initials,” Rachel protested, waving a hand toward the painting. “You really think that’s just a joke? Telling me to mind my own business?”
“You don’t know that’s what it means. Maybe those are really the artist’s initials. Or maybe they stand for something else. Here,” Aidan strode over to the painting and hefted it, “let me help you hang it. Where do you want it?”
Rachel shook her head. “I’m not sure I want to hang it at all. This whole thing is just too weird. Slide it under my bed for now, okay?”
Still holding the painting, Aidan hesitated. “You sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes. I’m sure. I’ll think about it tomorrow.”
Shrugging, he bent to slide the painting under Rachel’s bed. When he straightened up, he said, “Seems kind of rude, hiding it like that. But it’s yours now, so I guess you can do whatever you want with it.” Then, in a totally different tone of voice, he added, “Party at Nightmare Hall tonight. Feel like going? I’m not an atrocious dancer.”
Struggling to push the painting from her mind, Rachel forced a grin. “Have you been dancing since you were eight, too?”
He returned the grin. “Twelve, but never with my brothers. So, how about it?”
Nightmare Hall was actually Nightingale Hall, an off-campus dorm in an old house. Sitting at the very top of a wooded hill, the house was old and creepy, so shrouded by tall, black oaks that its faded red brick seemed charcoal in color. It had been nicknamed “Nightmare Hall” after a suspicious death in the house. The name had remained long after the mystery had been solved.
The gloomy old house didn’t appeal to Rachel, but she couldn’t turn down a night with Aidan. “Sure. Sounds like a good time.”
“Great. I’ll give Sam and Joseph, maybe Paloma, a call, see if they want to join us, if that’s okay with you.”
Oh, peachy. “Sure. That’d be fun.” Especially having Samantha along to steal Aidan’s attention. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to go.
But Samantha and the others were with them later as they drove up. It was the gravel driveway leading up the hill to Nightingale Hall.
Rachel’s spirits lifted. The house didn’t look nearly as threatening up close as it did from the highway. It was alive with lights and music. Several people sat on the porch swing laughing, others wandered the grounds. It looked pretty much like any other Salem U. party.
Once inside, however, Rachel viewed the steep, winding staircase leading from the foyer up to the second and third floors with alarm. It would be so easy for someone to trip on those stairs and take a terrible, bone-breaking fall.
Just like the image in the still life.
No. She wasn’t going to think that way. Not tonight. She was there to have fun. Now, if only Samantha would meet a guy and vaporize for the evening.
“Does Sam have a boyfriend?” Rachel asked Paloma in a whisper as they moved through the crowded foyer to a large library, cleared now of all furniture except the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the carpet rolled back for dancing. The music was so loud, Rachel was sure the others couldn’t hear her question to Paloma.
“Who?”
“Sam? Does she date anyone?”
“Well, you probably won’t believe this, but I don’t think she dates a lot. Most guys are intimidated by her looks and her money. That spells power to them, and in a way, they’re right. Sam’s a control freak. You should see her room. Everything perfectly in its place.” Paloma continued, “She may not be much of an artist, but she’d make a great gallery owner or museum director. Very efficient, and she loves being in charge. She’s pretty much running the exhibit, single-handed, although we’re all supposed to be helping.”
Rachel was surprised. That wasn’t how she’d seen Samantha at all. In Sam’s case, apparently, looks really were deceiving.
“She knows her art,” Paloma said admiringly. “She’d make a great teacher, but she’s one of the ones who won’t be happy unless she’s actually painting. Too bad.”
But Paloma didn’t sound as if she was Wasting any pity on Samantha. She slid into a chair and surveyed the crowded room. “I think what Aidan likes about Sam, in case you’re interested, is her knowledge of art.”
Rachel’s expression was glum. In a million years, she’d never catch up to Sam in that area.
“Just remember, Rachel,” Paloma said, “if what Aidan wanted was someone to talk art to, he already has that in Samantha. My guess is, that’s not what he’s looking for.”
“Thanks, Paloma,” Rachel said.
Halfway through the evening, they were joined at their table by the party’s hosts, three of Samantha’s friends, whom Rachel had just met: Jessica Vogt and Ian Banion, who had been dating for some time, and Milo Keith, a quiet, bearded poet with a dry wit. All three lived in the off-campus house, and they entertained the group with unnerving stories of some very frightening incidents that had taken place in the house in the past. Any other time, Rachel would have been intrigued, and pressed them for more details.
But now, she found the stories unsettling.
To escape, she asked Aidan to dance with her. He was every bit as good at dancing as he was at volleyball, Rachel was glad to discover.
Bibi arrived with Rudy Samms. She was wearing a flaming red dress and heels that made her at least four inches taller than Rudy. He looked as glum as ever, and Rachel wondered how anyone could possibly have a good time with such a surly date.
But when she saw them dancing together later, she was astonished to see Rudy throw his dark head back and laugh aloud at something Bibi had just said. So, the guy did have a sense of humor, after all. Amazing.
Still, when she passed them later in the foyer, he was once again wearing that same dark, closed expression. How did Bibi stand that?
Each time Rachel passed the steep, winding staircase at Nightmare Hall, she viewed it apprehensively, remembering what she thought she had seen in the still life.
But as the evening came to a close, Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been in the house for hours, and not once had someone taken a terrible tumble down the staircase.
She probably had imagined the falling body in the still life. An optical illusion, that’s all it had been.
The vigorous game of volleyball and hours of dancing had taken their toll on all but Aidan. “I’m not ready to call it a night,” he complained as they left the house.
“You never are,” Joseph said. “If I hadn’t seen you out in the sun for myself this afternoon, I’d swear you were part vampire. I’m going to hit the sack, and since I’m driving, I guess you’ll have to come with me. Unless you want to walk back to campus.”
Aidan looked at Rachel inquiringly. “You up for a hike?”
It was a nice night, balmy, with a star-sprinkled, navy-blue sky overhead. Rachel was tired, but the idea of just the two of them walking along the street alone was tempting. “Sure. Why not?”
It wasn’t that far to campus. Rachel found herself wishing that Nightmare Hall was much further away. They began talking about the future. “Art is such a competitive field,” Aidan admitted as, holding hands, they darted across the street to campus. “Tough to make a living, but not impossible. The safest way is commercial art, like advertising.” He grinned down at Rachel. “You think I’d fit in on Madison Avenue?”
“I think you’d fit in anywhere you wanted to,” she said staunchly.
“Yeah?�
�� He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “Thanks. Paloma’s going to make a beeline for New York when she graduates, and Sam probably will, too. Sam would love the power of New York. But I think Joseph and I are going to head for sunny California after graduation, see if Disney Studios could use a couple of smart-aleck animators. Do the Mickey Mouse thing. Are you a Mickey fan?”
“His ears are too big. But I’ve always had a thing for Tweety Bird.”
“He’s not Disney.”
“Does that mean I can’t like him anymore?”
Aidan laughed. “You can like anyone you want to. As long as I’m on the list somewhere.”
When they reached her room, he asked her once more if she’d like him to hang the painting before he left.
“Aidan, it’s almost two o’clock in the morning.” She opened the door and peered inside. “Bibi’s not home yet, but you still can’t be pounding nails into the wall.”
“Only one nail. But okay. Tomorrow, maybe.”
Why was he being so insistent about that painting, Rachel wondered after he’d left.
Deciding that she would never be able to sleep with it under her bed, she slid it free and hauled it over to the double closet she shared with Bibi, pushing the painting inside, against the rear wall.
Then she closed the closet door and padded back to her bed.
She got into bed thinking that of all the Saturday nights she’d spent on campus since late August, this one definitely was up there in the top ten. The day had started out so poorly, and ended so well.
But as she put her head down on the pillow, prepared to burrow into it as she always did, her left ear landed on something small, cold, and hard.
Rachel lifted her head. She had taken off her earrings before she’d undressed. Couldn’t be an earring.
She reached over and switched on the bedside table lamp.
There, on her pillow, was a tiny brass monkey, like a charm for a bracelet.
It wasn’t hers. She had never seen it before.
Its miniature paws were covering its eyes.
Rachel picked it up. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked down at the small charm.
She knew the symbolism of the paws over the eyes. Three monkeys. One with its paws over its eyes. “See no evil.” Another with its paws hiding its ears. “Hear no evil.” And still another with its paws covering its mouth. “Speak no evil.”
The one she held in her hand was the “See no evil” monkey.
How had it got into her room, onto her pillow?
What was it doing here? What did it mean?
Rachel shook her head as she thrust the monkey under her bed and reached over to turn off the light. You know, she told herself, sliding down beneath the covers, her eyes wide in the darkness. You know what it means. It means the same as “M.Y.O.B.” It means, don’t see what someone doesn’t want you to see.
Rachel flopped over onto her stomach. She felt stiff and tense again, as if the relaxation of the party had never taken place.
If someone didn’t want her to see certain things, why was he painting them into his art?
She couldn’t help seeing what was there, could she?
What was she supposed to do now? Pretend she didn’t see what she saw?
She was grateful now that she hadn’t told anyone what she’d seen in the still life. True, they’d all seen her staring, and must have wondered. But she hadn’t actually said anything.
Who had put the brass monkey on her pillow? What was going on?
Sleep was a long time coming, and when it did, it was a restless, fitful sleep.
Chapter 7
THE HOUSE THAT HAD been ablaze with lights only a few hours earlier is dark now, a hulking, ominous shape looming up from behind the oaks towering over it. A deep, unnatural silence has fallen over the hill, and not a leaf stirs on the trees or the shrubbery flanking the front porch.
Inside, the same, dark silence permeates the three-story house. But this silence is anxious, tentative, as if the house itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Something bad …
The first sound to break the silence is the creak of a door opening somewhere on the first floor. Then footsteps going up the staircase, soft, whispering footsteps, like that of feet wearing socks or moccasins.
The footsteps belong to a tall figure in flowing black. It tiptoes along the darkened hall as if it knows its way.
A hand reaches out, turns a knob, opens a door. The figure disappears inside the room.
The room faces the skinny, rusted fire escape running along the outside of the house from the ground to the attic on the third floor.
It is a warm and balmy night, so the window is wide open, although no breeze stirs the white lace curtains.
The figure in black moves toward the bed, where deep, even breathing sounds.
The hand reaches out again, this time to shake a sleeping shoulder and whisper harshly, “Get up! There’s a fire! Hurry!”
The dreaded word, “Fire” awakens the unsuspecting resident of Nightingale Hall. “What?” he whispers, the way people do in the dark, “what’s wrong?”
“No time,” the voice whispers back, “no time to talk. There’s a fire! You’ll have to climb out the window to the fire escape. Hurry, hurry!”
A sleepy-eyed, dazed Milo Keith, tall and skinny and bearded, jumps from the bed, instinctively grabs a pair of jeans lying crumpled on the floor and yanks them on. He reaches desperately for a notebook of his latest poetry lying on the bed, but the hand stops him. “No time. Go! Hurry!”
Milo stumbles to the open window. With one last, reluctant look at his possessions, which he believes are about to be lost forever in a roaring blaze, he climbs over the sill onto the ancient fire escape. He sees no sign of flames, smells no smoke, but thinks maybe the fire has begun on the opposite side of the house.
Before beginning to descend the fire escape, he turns slightly to say, “There’s no one else out here. Is everyone in the house awake? Are they safe? I can help …”
Two hands reach out of the open window and push, hard.
Caught off guard, an already dazed Milo loses his balance, and, too startled to cry out, topples backward. His skinny legs flailing wildly, he tumbles end over end down the unyielding metal stairs. He does cry out once, only once, as the back of his skull takes a particularly sharp and painful blow. Still he continues to fall, propelled by his own momentum, until finally he comes to a rest halfway down the metal stairs.
No lights go on inside the house. After an exhausting party, the residents of Nightmare Hall are too lost in sleep to hear that single cry.
Milo lies stunned, his legs dangling over one of the metal rungs. He fights to cling to consciousness. Blood trickles from his head.
Above him, the figure cloaked in black makes a muted sound of satisfaction, whispers something, then turns and leaves the room, not rushing, not hurrying, walking calmly.
Outside, the figure turns only once to look up at the fire escape at the side of the old, gloomy house. The hooded head nods at the sight of two legs dangling over the edge of a stair halfway down. The legs hang limply, lifelessly now, evidence that the victim has lost his valiant struggle to remain conscious.
Then, whistling softly, the black figure, just one more dark shadow among the gnarled old oaks, moves on down the driveway and up the street toward campus.
Chapter 8
RACHEL JOLTED AWAKE AS if she’d been prodded with a hot wire. Her eyes flew open to bright daylight, telling her she must have had the nightmare during the last few moments of sleep.
She remembered every second of it. Every awful second.
Milo … Milo Keith, the skinny poet she’d met the night before at Nightmare Hall, had been in her nightmare. Rachel sat up in bed, scooting backward until she was huddled in a corner. Was Milo really lying on that fire escape, his head bloody, his legs still dangling over one rusted rung?
Or had someone discovered him by
now?
Or … Rachel clenched and unclenched her fists … or had it never happened? Maybe this time it was just a nightmare. Maybe Milo was sound asleep in his own bed, unscathed.
She had to know for sure.
Leaning forward, she grabbed the campus telephone book from her bedside table and, a moment later, dialed Nightingale Hall’s number. Bibi heard the pushbuttons clicking and groaned a complaint, but didn’t fully awaken.
A woman’s voice answered. “Mrs. Coates here,” she said briskly. “Who’s calling, please?”
Rachel didn’t give her name. “Could I please speak to Milo Keith?”
“Oh, my dear,” the woman said in a quieter voice, “that would be impossible. Milo has had a dreadful accident. He’s been taken to the hospital in Twin Falls. I was just on my way there. If you’ll give me your name, I’ll be happy to tell him you called.” She paused, and then added, “If he’s conscious when I get there. He wasn’t when the ambulance took him away. Took a terrible blow to the head …”
Rachel hung up. She sank back against the pillow, fighting nausea. It had happened. While Mrs. Coates hadn’t actually said that Milo’s “accident” had taken place on the fire escape, Rachel knew that it had. He had tumbled down those rusty metal stairs just like the figure in the still life.
No, no, no! Again, what she’d seen in a painting had come to life in a dream. And again, the terrible vision had become reality.
How was that possible?
Rachel’s skin felt fiery, as if someone were holding a torch to it.
Would the still life arrive at her door, wrapped in white plastic, as the seascape had?
She buried her face in her pillow.
“What’s the matter?” Bibi asked when she awoke a few minutes later and saw Rachel crumpled in a ball on her bed. “Are you sick? Too much partying?”
Rachel rolled over and sat up again.
“Rachel, what is wrong with you? You look like one of those masks Aidan’s always making out of plaster. The ones at the exhibit. All white and pasty, like unbaked bread dough.”
“Milo Keith fell down the fire escape at Nightmare Hall last night,” Rachel said dully. “He’s in the hospital.”
