It’s a curse having an imagination like mine. I tried to push it down, stifle it. Lock it in that box again. Determined only to concentrate on the library door at the end of the corridor.
The library seemed to be guarded by the statue of a long dead cardinal, his hands clasped around a Bible. Pray for me, I thought, as I passed him. For I felt as if the dark, grey day was closing in on me.
I knocked on the door but there was no answer. Finally, I pushed it open and stepped inside. Here, in the library, there were more wooden pillars lining the walls, holding up the ornate ceiling.
‘Mrs Devoy?’ I called out for the librarian and my voice seemed to echo into the high roof. There was no answer. There was no one but me in the library. The books Mr O’Hara had asked me to collect were on a table by the door, just as he’d said. I picked them up but I didn’t want to take them without letting Mrs Devoy know I’d been there. I walked between the bookshelves to the study room at the back of the library.
I pushed open the door. ‘Mrs Devoy?’
You know when a room is empty, don’t you? You know when there is no one but you there.
No one but me.
The library grew darker. Heavy grey clouds seemed to settle themselves in the sky; the wind whined through the old windows.
No statues at least in here, I thought.
Only wooden bookshelves and stacks of books, and pillars that stretched to the ceiling. Carved at the top of each pillar was an angel. Some praying and looking up to heaven, others gazing down to earth. Some with fingers twined and yet others with their hands held open.
I looked up to the top of one pillar. This angel seemed to be watching the door, as if she too was waiting for Mrs Devoy to come back. Her hands were held together. Fingers linked.
There was a footstep in the corridor. I was sure I heard it. Mrs Devoy, perhaps, on her way here. I looked quickly at the door, waiting for it to open, and the librarian to step inside, laden with books. The only way I ever saw her.
No one came in. The door stayed shut. There was no other sound. And after a moment, I looked back to the angel.
And she was staring at me.
At me.
This wasn’t a mistake. She was looking right at me. Her blank eyes seemed alive. And her hands were no longer linked in prayer. They were open, her fingers stretched towards me. I began to tremble. It seemed the library was growing darker by the second. And I turned my eyes, my terrified eyes, on the angels at the top of each of the pillars.
They were all looking at me.
Every angel eye had searched me out.
Every angel eye was watching me.
I backed away. I wanted to call again for the librarian, scream for her, but my voice was stuck in my throat.
All I wanted was out of that library.
I grabbed at the brass handle of the door and pulled. It seemed stiff and for another terrified moment I was sure I wouldn’t be able to get it open. I’d be trapped in there. I didn’t even dare look back. So afraid those angels would suddenly wrench themselves from the pillars and fly towards me.
At last, I managed to prise the door open, and I stumbled back into the corridor. I was sure the statue of the cardinal outside the library had been looking up to heaven. Now, his head was bent towards me. His eyes looked alive now, and they were watching me. He seemed to have moved closer too. He was no longer holding the Bible. His stone hand was held out, his finger pointing.
Impossible.
He hadn’t moved.
This couldn’t be happening.
It was as if dusk had fallen in the corridor. The long grey shadows, turning to black, were edging closer. One of the books slipped from my hands, dropped to the floor. I bent to pick it up. Something moved close by me. Some kind of shadow. I bit at my lip. It was only a cloud passing the window; I kept telling myself that’s what it was. A cloud passing the window. But as I looked up, the corridor seemed to stretch into the shadowy distance. Something was scratching at the windows. Like someone with long-nailed fingers trying to get in.
It’s only the trees brushing against the glass, I yelled silently. This isn’t happening. Why couldn’t I scream? I turned back to the statue. Couldn’t stop myself … His eyes had followed me, were still watching me, and his hands had moved again. They were held out to me, as if he was offering me something.
No!
I turned again and began to run.
No! His hands had always been like that. He had always been facing this way. The angels hadn’t been looking at me. I was imagining it. Seeing things that weren’t there.
All I wanted was to get back to the class, my friends, company.
There was a statue at the top of the stairs. I would have to pass it. St Teresa, Jazz had informed me when I had asked her. She had always looked so gentle, with closed eyes, absorbed in prayer. As I ran towards her, I looked up.
And her eyes were open. She was looking down at me too. Watching me.
I tried to draw in great gulps of air, and yet I could hardly breathe.
At the top of the stairs, I dared a look back at the line of statues along the corridor. And all the eyes had turned to me. They were all watching me, their hands all held out to me.
They had moved. I was sure of it now. And if I went back into that library those angels would be watching me too. Maybe even now loosening themselves from their wooden pillars, getting ready to fly out of the library and down this corridor towards me.
It was all too much, too much for anyone to take in. I screamed, took a step back and began to tumble down the stairs.
7
Jazz was staring down at me when I opened my eyes. Behind her, looking concerned, were Mr O’Hara and the rest of the class.
‘What happened, Tyler?’ Jazz asked.
I blinked, trying to get her into focus. They all seemed to be swimming in and out of my vision. The whole class was there. Adam, and Mac, and Callum and Aisha and the pale boy and the sullen girl. All watching me.
Jazz looked round at them. ‘Move back, move back. Give her some breathing space here.’
Jazz was born to give orders. They all moved, except for Mr O’Hara.
‘Can you stand up?’ he asked.
‘Of course I can,’ I wanted to say. I wasn’t hurting anywhere. Why couldn’t I say a word?
I knew the answer. I was afraid of what I might say if I did speak. Of what I wanted to say. What I wanted to tell them.
The statues moved. They’re alive. The angels in the library are alive.
I could see the statue behind Mr O’Hara. St Teresa. Her eyes were closed again. Not a glance at me. Uninterested.
I’d be accused of lying if I told anyone about them. No one would believe me.
Jazz helped me up.
‘I think I should take her along to the medical room, sir,’ she suggested, as if she was a teacher too. ‘This isn’t the first time she’s fainted.’
‘I think that’s a good idea, Jasmine.’
Mac was watching me as we passed him. I’d never noticed before how brown his eyes were. ‘Not the first time you’ve fainted, eh, Tyler. Going to get a reputation if you don’t watch out.’ He was smiling, but there was something in the smile I didn’t like.
I spoke at last. ‘I fell. I tripped. Couldn’t help it.’ The words tumbled out. Sounded like a lie even to me.
Jazz pulled me on. ‘He’s winding you up. Don’t listen to him. Here, have some gum.’ She offered it as if it were some kind of medicaton that would make me feel better.
I shook my head. ‘Don’t want any.’
As I hobbled along to the medical room. Jazz asked me again, ‘What happened?’
I longed to tell her. I liked Jazz. Knew she liked me. But could I trust her? Trust her not to think I was an idiot. Trust her to believe me?
Not worth the risk, I decided.
‘My imagination,’ I said. ‘I was hurrying along that corridor, and suddenly realised how dark and eerie it was … I looked back an
d lost my footing. That’s all.’
It sounded so logical it could be the truth. I almost believed it myself.
Jazz looked disappointed. ‘Aw, I see. I thought it might have been something else.’
‘Something else? What else could it have been?’ I wondered then if she’d seen the statues move too. I wanted so much for her to say it. Because then, both of us couldn’t be wrong, could we?
Jazz blew a bubble. She waited till it burst before she answered me. ‘Just thought you might have seen the ghost.’
8
I didn’t tell Mum or Dad about the fall. When I got home, all the talk in the house was about some local girl who had gone missing. The papers were full of it, and it was the lead story on the regional news on television too. She lived not far from our house.
Anyway, there was nothing really to tell. I wasn’t hurt. I only had a bruise on my shin you could hardly see. I didn’t want anything to worry them. I would keep my imagination for my stories.
That gave me the idea. If this was one of my stories, what would I have the character do next?
Well, I thought, she’d look into the history of the college, see if anyone else had ever claimed that the statues came alive. Had seen the statues watching them. Surely that shouldn’t be too difficult?
This was an old school, with a murky history. Strange things must have been seen before by other people. And hadn’t Jazz and the others said there was a ghost?
I began that very night, sitting at my computer, searching the internet. But the school’s official website wanted to attract pupils, not put them off by informing them of strange and mysterious stories from its disturbing past.
It was only when I logged on to another website that I found what I wanted. It gave graphic details of the murder, and of Father Michael. There was a photograph of him. A faded black and white print. A tall, thin priest, all in black, with a stern face and hooded eyes. I remembered seeing him in one of the photographs, outside the Rector’s office that first day with that same grim expression. He looked sinister. I could imagine him stalking the corridors of St Anthony’s at midnight. Almost hear the swish of his robes. The story said Ben Kincaid, the boy, had sneaked back into the school to vandalise, to steal, and Father Michael had found him, confronted him.
But Ben had taunted him, as it seemed Ben Kincaid had taunted all the teachers, and that had sent the priest over the edge of reason. Father Michael had snatched up a knife and Ben had run. The priest had followed him relentlessly. I could almost see it happening. Every day I walked those long, dark corridors; it wasn’t difficult to imagine Ben hurrying through the deserted school, realising this time he had gone too far. The only sound he could hear as he ran was the footfall of the priest close behind him.
Ben Kincaid grew more terrified by the second. Trying each door in turn, pulling at them, finding doors locked, windows tight shut. In his panic he ran to the one place there was no escape from … the chapel. Only one door. No other exit. Yet, this should surely have been the one place he’d be safe.
Sanctuary.
Once inside a church even criminals were meant to be safe … especially from a priest.
As I read on, it was as if I was back there, hurrying through those long winding corridors, looking around for a way out, as if I was running alongside Ben Kincaid. I pictured him stumbling into the chapel, searching for a place to hide. And there was nowhere. I saw him crouch down at the foot of a statue in the old chapel, trying to squeeze himself behind it. And all the time those footsteps were coming ever closer.
I was as afraid as Ben Kincaid must have been. I had never been so afraid. Never wanted so much to live.
But it was too late. Because the chapel doors suddenly flew open. The hinges shook. Wood cracked. And there he was, filling the doorway. Father Michael. I saw the knife glint in his hand. Two strides and he would be on me, two strides and his hand is raised, and …
I leapt back from the screen, sweat pouring from me.
It was one thing to empathise with a victim, but this was something more than empathy. It was as if I had been there, seen it all. As if I had been, for that moment, Ben Kincaid. And it scared me.
I was afraid after that to look back at the screen. It took me a while to go back to the computer, close that website and skip away from the grisly details of the murder.
I wanted to know about the statues, the ghost. But no matter how many websites I visited, there were no reports of a haunting. Or any other strange happenings at St Anthony’s. No sounds in the corridors, no footsteps in the night, no statues with a life of their own.
It seemed I was alone.
9
My friends had told me the school was haunted. Had they only been joking? I had to find out. Next day, I asked Jazz why she’d thought I had seen a ghost.
She shot forward in her seat. ‘Did you!’
‘No, of course, I didn’t. But what made you think I did? Has anyone seen a ghost before?’
Callum blew out his cheeks in disgust. ‘No. If this place is haunted, it’s the most boring haunting in the world. Nobody’s ever seen a thing.’
But I saw Jazz lift an eyebrow when he said that. ‘Do you know different, Jazz?’ I asked her.
Her cheeks flushed. ‘I don’t believe in any of that stuff. But somebody did see something, years ago, before our time. I heard about it.’
Mac entered the conversation. ‘I never heard about any of this. Who was this?’
Aisha nudged him. ‘What was his name again, Jazz? Loney, or something funny like that.’
‘First name was Bill … that was it. He was expelled, remember?’
Mac looked puzzled. ‘Him that was expelled for stealing? He’d just come out of borstal or something. Nobody would have believed him anyway.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ Jazz said. ‘Nobody believed him. He was a bad lot. But he said he saw things.’
‘What kind of things?’ I asked.
Jazz gazed at me. ‘You did see something, didn’t you?’
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her, but Mac broke in. ‘Oh, come on, don’t ask her that! She’ll jump at the chance to say she saw a ghost.’
‘What are you saying that for?’ I snapped at him.
He only tutted and moved back. As if he was fed up with me.
But of course, that decided me. I couldn’t tell them anything. I shook my head. I might tell Jazz, or Aisha, but never Mac. Not after that. ‘I just like ghost stories, that’s all.’
Jazz almost whispered, ‘The cleaners will only work in twos in this school, did you know that?’
‘You told me that before.’
‘It’s true,’ Jazz said. ‘If anybody has seen anything weird happening in here, when this school is empty, it has to be them. They say that boy was telling the truth.’
‘Yeah,’ Aisha agreed. ‘I’ve heard the cleaners say … they’ve seen a lot of strange things happening in this school at night time.’
Mac and Adam put on creepy voices. ‘When … it’s… daaark …’
I didn’t ask any more. The boys would have made a fool of me.
But I knew I couldn’t let it go. A boy who was expelled, who had seen things? Cleaners with strange stories? I made my mind up. I was going to speak to the cleaners, see what I could find out.
It was easy to find an excuse to stay after school and speak to them. I would pretend I’d lost my bracelet when I fell down those stairs.
That same day instead of heading home, I made my way along the empty corridors to their room. I had waited till Jazz and Aisha had left the building. They would probably laugh at me too, or ask me more questions, or want to come with me. And this was something I had to do alone.
The women, there were three of them, were all crammed into a tiny room, getting ready to start work when I arrived.
‘And where do you think you lost this bracelet?’ one of them asked me. She said her name was Myra.
‘I think it might have been on the
upper floor, near the library. I fell, you see. Who is it cleans there?’
‘Mrs Sorenson over there,’ Myra said. She pointed to a big woman bending over pulling something out of her bag. All I could see was her butt.
‘Mrs Sorenson works there on her own?’ I asked innocently. ‘I heard that the cleaners will only work in twos up there.’
Myra snorted. ‘Och, are you a new lassie? Bet your pals told you that.’
She let out a cackle of laughter and nudged the woman beside her. ‘Hear that, Ella. We’re scared to work on our own.’ She turned back to me. Her smile faded. I hoped I hadn’t offended her. ‘Think we’re a bunch o’wimps? We’re no’ frightened to go anywhere in this school,’ she said. ‘Don’t care what kind of noises I hear.’
‘So … you do hear noises?’ I sounded eager, I knew I did.
‘This is an old school, wi’ draughty, rattling windows. Of course you hear noises. But nothing supernatural.’ The woman, Ella, answered me this time.
Mrs Sorenson came over then. ‘Aye, Ella, you were quick enough to ask to be moved when you came here. Away from that upper floor.’
Ella snapped back at her. ‘But nothing to do wi’ a ghost. It’s my arthritis. It kills me going up the stairs.’
I asked Mrs Sorenson. ‘Do you hear things up there?’
She looked at me boldly. ‘Oh aye, I’ve heard things.’
Ella tutted when she said that.
‘Yes, I have!’ Mrs Sorenson insisted. ‘I think somebody’s behind me and then when I turn … there’s nobody there.’
‘Don’t listen to her, hen,’ Myra said. ‘She’s winding you up.’
‘You just heard things … you’ve never seen anything?’ I asked her.
‘The spirits haven’t been able to materialise for me,’ Mrs Sorenson said.
At this, Myra started to laugh. So did Ella. ‘You see, hen, Mrs Sorenson here considers herself something of a medium. So she stays on the upper floor hoping Father Michael’ll come walking through the walls and she can start charging money for his messages from the other side.’
Mrs Sorenson waved a mop threateningly. ‘That’s a lie! Take that back.’
Out of the Depths Page 3
