The Ghost of Graylock

by Dan Poblocki

  Neil felt chills crash like an ocean wave on his back, but he still didn’t know what to say.

  Bree leaned forward, pulled her damp hair behind her ears. “Tonight, in the bathtub, I didn’t fall asleep like I told the aunts.”

  “Yeah, I figured that.”

  “I was lying in the water, rinsing my hair, when all of a sudden, I couldn’t sit up. Something was holding me down. It felt like a rope was wrapped around my neck.”

  “Like in the dream we both had the other night?” said Neil, his breath coming out quickly. Bree nodded. “It wasn’t rope. It was the lake weed.”

  “I opened my eyes,” she said. “They stung, but I could see that I wasn’t in the bathtub anymore. All around me was a kind of darkness that I can’t even describe. It was bigger than just the lake. It felt huge, like outer space. I could see a light shining on me from above. Someone was standing on the shore. Watching. I scrambled to reach out to the person, but I couldn’t move. The weeds held me. I started to scream.

  “Finally, the person crept closer, but instead of helping me, their hands pressed me deeper into the water. I choked. I thought I might die. The pins and needles came. It was the most horrifying pain. I remembered something I heard in biology class: It hurts like that when you’re drowning.” Bree hugged herself, shuddering the thought away. “Then I was back in the bathroom. Sitting up. Gasping. Moments later I heard you pounding on the door. I tried to compose myself. I didn’t want to scare the aunts.”

  “You weren’t very convincing,” Neil said, trying to smile.

  “These … visions are getting worse,” said Bree. “We already learned that the ghost who followed us home from Graylock Hall wasn’t Nurse Janet. The ghost is one of the patients who drowned in the lake. What happened wasn’t an accident. The girl was murdered.” Bree took Neil’s hand and squeezed. “All these bad things she’s doing, she’s not doing to hurt us. She’s showing us what happened. She wants us to figure out who killed her.”

  IN THE MORNING, NEIL CALLED WESLEY IN A PANIC. “Come over,” he begged. “I need your help.”

  By the time Wesley pulled into the driveway on his bike, Claire and Anna had disappeared into the barn to clean and organize. It was Sunday. Both of the aunts had taken the day off, so Neil and Bree didn’t have to follow either of them into town.

  Bree’d been quiet since breakfast, so Neil decided to let her be. Upstairs, she’d picked up her viola for the first time since coming to Hedston. He knew she must be contemplating their late-night conversation. Music helped her think. She practiced her scales, sliding her fingers up and down the chord progressions faster and faster, the music sounding like a swarm of panicked bees.

  The boys sat on the front porch, and Neil filled Wesley in.

  “Wow,” said Wesley afterward. “So your sister thinks this … spirit … is pointing you toward a killer?” He glanced around, bracing himself against a chill that wasn’t there. “What if the killer is still alive?” Wesley spoke slowly, his voice filled with worry. “Say you find out who did it.”

  “We go to the police.”

  “And tell them what?”

  Neil shook his head, unsure.

  “You know I’m into this stuff as much as you are,” said Wesley, clenching his hands nervously, “but it sounds dangerous.”

  Neil stared at the ground at the bottom of the steps. A warm wind rustled the front lawn. He remembered what Bree had said the night before, about all ghost stories being sad, about putting himself in their shoes. For some reason, her comment made him think of his mother, her crying fits, the way she’d insisted she felt alone even as he sat right beside her. He understood now what was happening here. A desperate soul, lost in a downward spiral, had found him, asking for his help. Neil hadn’t been able to give it to his mother — in fact, he’d practically run away from her. Now was his chance to do something right.

  “I’m sorry,” said Wesley. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt again. That’s all.”

  Neil glanced at the wilted gauze taped to his shin. “You didn’t seem to care about that a couple days ago when you told me about Graylock.” He didn’t mean to sound unkind, but Wesley still crossed his arms.

  “That was different,” said Wesley. “It was supposed to be fun. Things have changed.” He was quiet for a few moments. Thoughts of the dead girl seemed to fill the air between the boys. Maybe she was here now, listening. “We could try communicating with her. Maybe she’ll go ahead and tell us what she needs us to know. I have a Ouija board at home. Or we could do automatic writing.”

  “I don’t know about that. If she could tell us everything, don’t you think she already would have?” asked Neil, shaking his head. “I feel like this girl must be new at this. She’s learning. She can’t talk, so she haunts. She’s frightened, so she shows us what scares her. She comes when we’re most capable of seeing her — at night, in dreams, when our minds are open. She actually brought me and Bree to the moment of her death.”

  “Great,” said Wesley, “so if this girl drowns you, I’ll remember to tell everyone she didn’t mean it.”

  Neil shook his head, not in the mood for jokes. “All this is only a piece of the puzzle. And you’re right, the bigger picture is scarier. Someone killed her at Graylock Hall.” Someone who may still be out there. The cherry-colored music of Bree’s viola drifted out from the window above him, mixing with the breeze, floating off into the woods. Neil hugged his legs close. His own touch stung slightly — a reminder of his last trip into the woods. “That has to be where the answers lie.”

  NEIL WALKED TO THE TREES at the back of the aunts’ property. Wesley reluctantly followed. It would be easier for them to sneak away while Bree played the viola. If anyone asked, they would say they were simply looking for one of those ancient New England rock walls the old farmers had left behind centuries ago, before the lands had changed hands and the fields had become forest.

  As the foliage enveloped the view of the large Victorian house behind them, Neil began to feel queasy. Was he really about to do this again? What if the dead girl showed him exactly what he needed to know? And what if he didn’t want to know it anymore? Out here, surrounded by a camouflage of green, where animals hid and watched — and possibly stalked — all his talk about doing something was leaking out of him like air from a punctured bicycle tire.

  “You coming?” said Wesley, crunching through the brush ahead.

  “Right behind you,” said Neil, ignoring the tremors in his gut.

  And then there was Graylock.

  The boys helped each other underneath the fence, strolled across the bridge and down the long walk onto the island. When they came around the corner of the building toward the place where they had last entered — that broken basement window — they were surprised to find boards covering the opening. Fresh, glimmering nails penetrated through the new planks into the old window’s frame.

  “Someone knew we were here,” said Wesley.

  “Yeah,” said Neil. “Looks like they didn’t want us to come back.”

  “I’m not sure which is worse,” said Wesley. “A killer ghost? Or a killer-killer. Maybe we should take the hint.”

  Neil peered back past the rows of pines toward the bridge. No one appeared to have followed them, but that didn’t necessarily mean the boys were alone. Wesley was right. Maybe this was too dangerous.

  An odd sensation began to tingle at Neil’s toes. It was a numbing feeling, the beginnings of “dead limb,” like when you kneel down and cut off the blood supply to your feet.

  The girl was nearby, and she wanted them to keep going. What else would she do to spark them onward? Choke them? Blind them? Tangle them in lake weed? Before he could think too much, Neil tugged Wesley’s sleeve, pulling him farther along. “The youth ward is this way. Right?” Wesley dragged his heels.

  After a long walk, just before the tip of the land met the dark water of the lake, the boys found a broken patio. A half-moon of concrete radiated out from t
he building. Flowering weeds had grown tall through the cracks in the pavement, obscuring some old hopscotch paint below — a rudimentary sort of playground.

  Looking up at the building, Neil recognized the tall windows that stared back at him. The youth ward was on the other side. In the wall to their right was a door. Neil stepped upon the clingy green stalks and made his way to the entry, remembering what Mrs. Reilly had said about this door being broken all the time. He reached out and clasped the handle. When he pulled, the rusted hinges screamed. The darkness inside had been waiting for him.

  He turned around to find Wesley staring at him, exuding unease. The boys said nothing as they stepped over the threshold.

  They walked quickly up the steps that led up to the main room. Neil pushed open the wire-mesh door. The cake still sat on the table to his right. The air was musty. Nothing had moved. Nothing had changed.

  “Now what?” asked Wesley. He glanced at the ceiling, wearing a look of concern. He obviously did not want to go upstairs.

  Neil shared his fear. “We saw the girl in room 13. Maybe she’ll appear there again.”

  Wesley shook his head. “She only appeared because she was able to draw from your batteries. Your flashlight and camera.”

  Neil sighed. They’d left the aunts’ house in such a hurry, they hadn’t considered that the spirit might need another energy source in order to communicate with them. “Maybe we should poke around down here instead, then. Save me another bloody nose. Where did Eric find that file folder he took last time?”

  Wesley nodded at the closed door in the opposite wall, the one beside the cake table. “He came from there. Remember?”

  A small window provided enough light to show them that the room was a small office — a nursing station perhaps. A desk was shoved in a corner, piled with junk — folders, a typewriter, a bulky stapler. Tall wooden filing cabinets lined every wall. “The patients’ information is all here,” Neil said, “or at least, information on the ones who lived in this section of the hospital. Maybe we can find the files of the girls who died?”

  “We don’t even know their names,” said Wesley. “When I looked online, I couldn’t come up with anything specific about the deaths. Something about ‘confidentiality.’”

  Neil caught sight of a metallic object glinting on the desk, buried slightly by dusty office supplies. The object was sharp. A knife maybe? He crept closer. When he touched the tip of it, a wave of relief rushed over him, followed quickly by another one of disappointment. It was only a letter opener.

  “Check this out,” Wesley said. He pointed to the large pad of paper on which the opener was lying. “A calendar. Maybe someone wrote something down, something we can use.”

  “Worth a peek, I guess.”

  The boys cleared away as much stuff as possible so that they had a complete view of the calendar. The yellowed page showed June from twenty years ago. There were several pencil markings, but most were so faint, they were barely legible. Neil leaned close and squinted, trying to read them. “Karen B.’s birthday,” he said, pointing to the box marked with the number 5. “That must be the party that happened out in the common room.”

  Wesley sighed. “Does that mean we should be looking in the files for a Karen B.?”

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  Wesley shrugged. “I don’t know about you, Neil, but this is starting to feel like an impossible —” He stopped, turning his head toward the door.

  Neil stepped closer to him. “What’s wrong?”

  Wesley waved him quiet. “I heard something.”

  Then Neil heard it too. The hinges that had screamed at them from the door downstairs were whining now. The boys weren’t alone here after all.

  Neil stepped toward the doorway, but Wesley held the back of his shirt, shaking his head. Neil had no intention of walking into the main room; he simply wanted to shut the office door. To hide.

  The small window on the opposite side of the room presented the option of a fall to the grass below. Was it worth the risk of breaking his neck?

  Peering around the edge of the door, Neil heard footsteps. Wesley clutched Neil’s hand as they both watched the top of a head rise past the lip of the stairs inside the cage. Long dark hair, messy, covering her face — a girl in a dirty white dress. Neil remembered a horror novel he’d read several years ago in which a couple of kids were haunted by a gang of evil girls who looked similar to the one rising up before him.

  But this wasn’t a character from a book.

  Wesley pulled Neil back, just as the girl reached for the cage door. They backed up against the desk, knocking into a pile of folders. To their horror, the pile wobbled. It fell, as if in slow motion, and they scrambled to catch whatever they could, but it was too late. The folders fell to the floor, sliding across the room in a straight line, one on top of another, like dominoes, toward the office entrance. The boys held their breath as the sound of the cage door slammed in the main room.

  Then a soft voice whispered, “Neil? Wesley? Is that you?”

  FOR A MOMENT, NEIL WAS THRILLED AND TERRIFIED. The ghost knew their names! She’d spoken to them!

  Then, as his brain began to work again, he came back down to earth.

  “Bree?” he called out grudgingly.

  Footsteps sped toward him, echoing in the other room like gunshots. Then his sister’s face was in the doorway. She was panting, out of breath. She did not look happy. “What are you two doing in here?”

  “I could ask you the same question,” Neil shot back.

  “You left me at home!” Bree stepped into the room, standing on the pile of folders that had sprawled on the floor.

  “Sorry,” said Neil. “I didn’t want to make a scene.”

  “I saw you head into the woods behind the barn. I didn’t think you’d actually come in here again. Are you insane?”

  “If he’s insane,” said Wesley, “we’re all insane.”

  Neil looked around, the evidence of the building’s history piled up everywhere. “We need to help her.” The word her hung between them, like the humming of a struck bell.

  After a moment, Bree shook her head. “No. We don’t. What we need to do is ignore all this and go. Come on.”

  “After everything we talked about last night? After everything you said?”

  Bree closed her eyes. A glimmer of guilt wrinkled her forehead. “Yeah, well, I gave it some more thought, and I realized that my sanity and my safety are more important than helping some dead girl I’ve never met.”

  Neil clenched his jaw. “You’re lying.” Bree glared at him. “I know you. I’ve seen how much this is bothering you.” She crossed her arms. Her face told him that he was right.

  A metallic squeal sounded from the common room, followed by a loud bang. The three froze, standing wide-eyed in the office.

  “You came alone, right?” Wesley whispered to Bree. She nodded sharply.

  That queasy feeling gurgled in Neil’s stomach again. He thought of sharp metal objects, glinting in gloved hands, carried by a killer. Trying to calm himself down, he said, “There might be a simple explanation.” Then he stepped forward, twisting away from his sister’s grasp, and forced himself to peek out the door.

  One of the chairs had toppled over, as if someone had kicked it away from the cake table, but that was not what captured Neil’s attention. On the floor between the table and the door, a thick brown folder was splayed open. He glanced back at the files that had toppled from the desk. The stray folder sat another ten feet or so from the rest. Could it have slid all the way there?

  Bree and Wesley came up behind Neil, to see what had happened. Neil pointed at the folder near the table. “Was that here when you came in?” he asked his sister.

  Blank-faced, Bree shook her head.

  Neil glanced around, making sure no one was hiding under the table waiting to grab his ankle. Bending down, he examined the folder. He read the name on the tab. “Rebecca Smith?” He stood and held the folder out so they
all could look at it. He flipped through several pages, which appeared to be doctors’ notes, test results, medication forms.

  Finally, Wesley spoke up. “We came here looking for answers. I think someone just gave us a whole bunch.”

  WHEN THEY GOT BACK TO THE AUNTS’ HOUSE, Bree ran upstairs ahead of the boys to change out of the white dress she’d put on that morning. It had gotten dirty during the impromptu excursion.

  Luckily, Claire and Anna were still distracted in the barn. Sounds of the Grateful Dead blasted out from the workshop. Neil felt a pang of guilt as he strolled by the open door. Maybe they weren’t the best custodians, or caretakers, or whatever people wanted to call them, but he knew the aunts cared.

  Carrying the file, Neil and Wesley came around to the front porch, where they lay their prize open between them. Bree sat down beside him before he’d turned a single page.

  Maybe all she’d needed were further hard facts and fewer frightening visions. Maybe he saw their mom somewhere in all this mess. Either way, her new attitude gave Neil hope that they’d made the right decision in going back to Graylock.

  “Look,” said Wesley, pointing at the top sheet. “Her name, birthday, and the date of her admission to the hospital.”

  Neil reached out and turned the page. “And more. Much more.”

  Some pages were clearly missing from the file. Others were stained, water-damaged to the point of illegibility. But there was still a lot of information to take in. As they sat and read, time swallowed the afternoon. The life of Rebecca Smith filled their heads.

  According to the file, Rebecca had been seventeen years old when she first came to Graylock with severe depression. She’d asked to be admitted to the youth ward because she thought she’d be safe there — safe from whom, she didn’t say, but the doctors inferred she’d be safe from herself.

  What little information the doctors were able to get from Rebecca revealed that her childhood had been fairly normal, unremarkable. Then, at fifteen, Rebecca’s mother was hit by a car while walking on the side of the road. After the funeral, Rebecca’d found herself unable to eat, unable to sleep. When she woke in the morning, she would be overcome by a sense of panic that something horrible was going to happen. Within weeks, Rebecca had slipped far away, into her head.