Knowing You_The Cursed Series Part 2

by Rebecca Donovan

  “Omigod,” I breathe out. It’s my mother.

  I flip the photo over to find the familiar red ink and the linear lettering.

  What the hell? I hate these cryptic messages! Just tell me what you want already! Whoever it is must be getting some sadistic thrill out of pissing me off. What does this have to do with Allie, or me, or my mother and the Harrisons?

  Maybe it’s time to get answers to the questions I’ve avoided asking. I have to talk to my mother … in person. That’s the only way I’ll know if she’s telling the truth.

  I examine each face again. I only recognize one other. Niall Harrison. He’s the man picking up the boy, who has to be … Parker. The woman behind Niall and Parker, must be Mrs. Harrison, pregnant with Joey.

  On the bottom right corner, “Nantucket, Labor Day Weekend” is scrawled in black ink. I do a quick calculation. This is right around the time my mother found out she was pregnant with me. I know this because my grandmother told me how my mother was afraid she would go into labor on graduation weekend, when she was due. But instead, there are pictures of her in a cap and gown, that looks like a tent because of her protruding stomach. I arrived two weeks later.

  Did she meet my father on Nantucket? And what is she doing with the Harrisons? Who are the rest of these people? Especially the girl sitting next to her—they look like they’re friends.

  Endless questions rush through my head the more I study the image. I know it’s useless. I can pose all the questions I want to myself. The only way I’ll get answers is to ask the right questions to the right people.

  I flip the photo over and read the message again. For the first time I consider maybe it’s not a threat, but a warning.

  Stay away from him. It could easily be a warning as much a threat.

  I know. That was a stupid message, probably just to get my attention, because it could mean anything.

  This is so frustrating!

  I have to talk to Joey about the pictures he found in the attic. Maybe he’ll recognize this one too. In the meantime, I’m going to have to talk to the person who unnervingly knows more secrets than he should, and hope that he’s not the guy I’m being warned to stay away from.

  I tie a red ribbon on the post of the small wooden bridge that passes over the koi pond leading to the guys’ dorm. Then I leave a note in the tree, telling Brendan to meet me at the library.

  I wait at the library long after I find my stupid book for American government. And I keep waiting, not knowing if Brendan saw the ribbon or checked the tree. I miss the instant gratification of texting. Even when someone didn’t text back right away, at least I knew they received the message. The librarian eventually kicks me out a half hour before curfew.

  When I exit, the Court is dark.

  “Shit,” I groan, never having walked through the Court at night by myself. Everything is shadows and sharp silhouettes. I know there isn’t a flashlight feature on the Blackwood phone, having searched for it when a lipstick rolled under my bed and I couldn’t find it.

  The cobblestone path emits a spooky, radioactive glow, but as Ashton translated during our tour, it won’t show me which way to go. I scan the rooftops across the Court, trying to find the peak of the girls’ dorm, but it’s impossible to distinguish among the identical possibilities. So I start in the general direction that I think it’s in. I can’t even keep the presumed building in view because I’m too busy watching my footsteps to stay on the path, occasionally getting swatted in the face with a branch.

  I’m going to be late for curfew. I know it. But maybe they’ll see I’m in the Court when they track my phone and come get me. At least I hope they will.

  I hear a rustling somewhere close by and freeze mid-step, listening for voices.

  “Hello?” I say loudly, wanting it to be anyone, even Dr. Kendall or the rock-head security guard at this point.

  No one responds. But the distinct sound of a branch breaking sets my hairs on end.

  I rush down the path that starts veering away from the direction I want to go until I’m about to walk into water. I stop abruptly, teetering on one leg. I notice a glowing spot sticking out of the water, a couple feet in, on the left. Then another to the right. I wonder if this section’s been flooded. But as my eyes adjust to the moonless night, I can see that there are swings dangling above the water, and logs immersed, intended to be sat on. Large reeds and water lilies blossom out of the water, along with round balls of what looks like moss. This is a garden with everything strategically placed to be stepped and balanced on to explore and navigate.

  Fricken fantastic. I never want meet the geniuses who designed this place.

  Although each garden I’ve discovered within the Court is fairly small, it still surprises me every time I discover a new one. Regardless of how vast the space, it’s curious that they all fit. I’m beginning to suspect that they change the Court a little every day, whoever they are. Because just yesterday, when I thought I was about to enter the garden with the mermaid fountain, I found myself in a small field of plastic pink flamingos and pinwheels, a vivid display of color and sound. It was peculiar and awe-inspiring at the same time.

  But if they’re always working on the garden, changing it, when are they doing it? I’ve never come across a single gardener, although the hedges are perfectly trimmed and the grass is mowed. Then again, I’ve only been here a week, and I work off-campus. I suppose there’s time for them to maintain it without being seen. But a reconstruction seems almost impossible to conceal.

  “Lana, who cares!” I say out loud, knowing this isn’t the time to contemplate the mystery of the Court’s construction. I take a breath and step onto the glowing footpath, balancing on one foot, then the other as I search for the next stone.

  The water splashes.

  I almost fall over. It sounded small, like someone tossed a stone in the water. “Hello?” I call out again, balanced in the middle of the pond. I wait. Silence. My heart is pounding. When no one responds, I hop to the next stone, wanting to rush across. I’m even tempted to walk through the water, but I can’t tell how deep it is, and fear what may be on the bottom.

  When I finally reach the dry path, I search for the rooftops again and try to figure out which building I thought was the dorm. At this point, it doesn’t matter. I’m passed curfew.

  Wait.

  I pull out my phone from my messenger bag. Frustrated with myself for waiting this long to use it to call for security. But when I press the button to light up the screen, nothing happens. The battery’s dead. I swear I charged it at Lily’s last night. Unless … in my drunkenness, I plugged in the wrong phone, that is somewhere on my bed right now.

  “Dammit!” I cry out, tempted to throw the useless phone in the water. I shove it back in my bag and continue to follow the glowing cobblestones. When I come to an intersection, I choose the path that looks like it’ll lead to the closest building.

  Until the path starts curling away again. No wonder students have breakdowns and start crying when they lose their way in the dark. I’m on the verge of being one of them. This place is maddening!

  Someone coughs behind me. I whirl around. Or at least, that’s what I thought it sounded like. This time I don’t call out. I’m either being paranoid and hearing things, or someone’s following me. I’m wishing for my pink switchblade right about now. Out of habit, I reach for it in the small tear in the bottom seam I made to hide it when I’m at school. It’s empty.

  I continue to walk, but with each step, I’m shrinking, or everything’s growing. The hedges on either side appear to be getting taller and taller until I’m swallowed by the dark. Even the glow of the cobblestones becomes so faint I can barely see where I’m walking. Which explains why I collide with a wall of branches, walking into a dead end.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I holler, sputtering out needles.

  On the other side of the hedge, I hear the pounding of footsteps. Someone’s running, coming closer and closer. I back into
the corner of the hedge, seeking safety within its solidity, and listen as they approach. It’s like they’re running right beside me—if I reached out my hand, I could touch them. And just as quickly, they’re gone, the pounding rhythm gradually fading.

  I’m not alone.

  When it’s silent again, I feel for an opening, some passage to allow me to slip through the hedge without backtracking. That’s when I discover what I thought was a wall is actually two overlapping lines of hedges with a narrow corridor between. Whoever was running really was right next to me.

  As much I don’t like the idea of following in the same direction as the runner, this path brings me in the direction of the closest buildings. And maybe, the runner is lost too and not trying to torment me. But that doesn’t explain why they didn’t respond when I called out.

  Whatever. I can speculate all I want. It’s only going to drive me crazy because I’ll never know unless I find whoever it is. Or they find me. And honestly, I’d prefer neither of those things to happen.

  I run my hand along the hedges, feeling for another faux wall, when a stinging pain forces me to pull back. Thorn bushes are woven into the wall, making the narrow passage even more treacherous to navigate. This school really is twisted. How is any of this making me into a better person? If anything, it’s making me angrier.

  When I’m finally free of the thorny corridor, I find myself in an open garden with beds of flowers planted around a massive tree with a twisting trunk and thick boughs that split and twist off wildly from the center, forming an expansive canopy of leaves. I follow a path of thick grass that parts the flowers and encircles the tree. I feel insignificant beside it. The tree must be a hundred years old. It has that majestic feel to it, like it’s been on this earth longer than any of us and has seen and heard many secrets in its lifetime. Secrets that are now confined within the rings of its smooth, twisted skin. I rest my ear upon it, wondering if it’ll whisper them back to me.

  The breeze picks up, and I hear an indistinguishable voice rustle through the branches. My legs tangle and I trip clumsily, circling and searching. A light gust sweeps through again, and I swear I hear it. A low whisper, like a buzz of bees. I can’t quite decipher the message being carried to me in the wind. I wait for it to speak again. My pulse races in anticipation.

  The rustling of leaves reaches me first, then within the cool breath of air on my cheeks, I hear it, drawn out until the one syllable sounds like an entire song.

  “Run.”

  I spin around. The wind grows stronger, loose strands of hair whip against my face. It feels like an approaching storm, but when I look up, there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The branches creak and the leaves clap frantically until my ears are filled with the violent rage of the wind ripping at the tree.

  So … I run.

  The path steers me through a curtain of dangling branches of a willow tree. I sweep them aside and find brief shelter beneath their canopy. I continue to sprint through to the other side, thrusting an arm out to toss the branches aside. When I emerge, I’m instantly struck by the silence. Everything is perfectly still.

  My foot catches on a raised stone, and I sprawl on a set of wide steps, my knees and elbows absorbing the shock of the fall. These cobblestones are covered in moss—as much as the impact bruises, it doesn’t cut my skin.

  I remain on my hands and knees a moment, catching my breath. Raising my head, I take in my new surroundings. The path curves and twists through a Japanese garden. Pushing myself off the ground, I survey the serene setting, or as much as I can in the dark. The small bonsai trees are easily identifiable, and I hear water trickling from somewhere. I find a stone bench under a miniature pagoda and sit to calm myself.

  Hours must have passed since I left the library. What if I never find my way out? I know I’m being irrational. The Court isn’t infinite, although right now if feels like it is. I’ll reach one of the buildings … eventually. Maybe I should stay here. Let them find me. Don’t they say to stay in one place when you’re lost to make it easier to be found? But I guess it depends on who’s looking for me. I still don’t understand why I haven’t heard a single guard.

  I stay in the garden long enough to grow frustrated. I’m getting out of this fricken place, even if it takes me all night. Within my renewed conviction, my rational thoughts have convinced me that it was my hysteria that turned the wind into voices and footsteps. I imagined it. Because why would anyone follow me? What’s the point? Besides, how would they know their way around in the dark any better than me? These thoughts don’t really explain anything, but they make me feel brave enough to stand back up and keep going.

  I walk for what feels like days, okay … hours. The distinct sounds of the seagrass rattling in the breeze reach my ears, and I rush toward it. Finally, a garden I recognize. I select the path that I’m certain will bring me to the dorm.

  I gasp with relief when I smell the roses. And when I reach the trellis, I release a broken sob, heavy with exhaustion.

  A ribbon is tied to it with a piece of paper flapping in the gentle breeze. I untie it.

  I crumple the note in my fist. “Fuck you,” I seethe.

  Whoever’s sending me these notes, whether threats or warnings, has to go to school at Blackwood. And since there aren’t many students enrolled for the summer, how hard can it be to figure out who? Whoever it is, knows me—or at least, they think they do.

  But do I know them? And that’s when my grandmother’s voice echoes loudly in my head.

  Trust no one.

  Thaylina closed her eyes to the blackness in his heart. She struggled against the green cloak, but she was not strong enough. His hot breath stroked her neck. Thaylina cried out when his fangs pressed against her tender skin.

  “Lana?”

  I sit up.

  And tip over, landing on stomach with a grunt. The hammock rocks above me.

  “Are you okay?” Mr. Garner’s voice carries from somewhere, also above me.

  I shake off the weariness that clings to me like a scratchy blanket and push myself off the ground. “Maybe.”

  “What happened to you? I’ve been up half the night wondering where you’ve been.”

  “I got locked out,” I explain, stretching my eyes open, fighting exhaustion. I didn’t sleep much, even after I found the dorm. And despite what everyone says about Ms. Seyer being everywhere, she must have awful hearing because I pounded and screamed at the door until I felt like my wrist was about to break. I opted to sleep on a hammock but startled at every sound, my rational voice silenced by paranoia. It was the best night ever, and I say that with sincere sarcasm.

  “My phone died.”

  Mr. Garner sighs heavily. “Well I’m glad you’re okay. Looks like you had a rough night.”

  I can only imagine what I look like, and I have no desire to find out.

  “What time is it?” I ask, recognizing that I can now see what was once shadows and silhouettes.

  “Five-thirty. I came out to look for you as soon as the sun rose. Security did a sweep around the perimeter, but they don’t check the Court when the dorm monitors are in residence, at least that’s what I was told. They’re most concerned with keeping people out and you in. When your phone didn’t come online, they checked your last location and knew you were on campus, and that’s all they cared about. I argued with them for an hour, but they said you were in violation. And it was up to the school to hand out sanctions once you came back online. Guess it happens all the time. Regardless, they should have searched for you in the Court.”

  “Thank you,” I say, appreciative that someone realized I was missing. “But I don’t know if they would have found me. It’s impossible to see anything in there at night, forget about finding someone who keeps moving. That’s probably why they don’t check the Court.”

  “It still isn’t okay. C’mon, I’ll let you inside. Try to get some sleep. And as much as it sucks, you’re expected to attend your class this morning.”

  I
collapse on my bed without removing a single item of clothing or cleaning off the clutter from when I dumped my overnight bag. I regret that decision when I’m woken by my phone beeping what feels like minutes later—making sure to charge it was the only thing I accomplished before falling on my face. My neck hurts, my knees ache and I have something sticking into my side. I reach down and pull out a brush and drop it on the floor.

  I lift the phone to find a message from Mr. Garner. Thought you’d need an alarm to wake you in time for class. This is it.

  Why do I have to be his only job?

  I force myself out of bed, regretting that skipping isn’t an option. Blackwood has zero tolerance for absences. They take it seriously. I could lose off-campus privileges for the summer, which includes working at the country club. If I was confined to this campus for the next two months, I would seriously go insane.

  Dirt, leaves and needles swirl around the drain when I shower. My body aches from falling, and I have a dark bruise forming on my left knee. My arms are marred with superficial scratches, and my head aches, like I bumped it—although I don’t remember doing that. The mysterious head injury could also explain why I thought I heard things. It feels like a strange dream now that I’m looking back on it, like none of it was real.

  The Court has returned to its whimsical semblance when I enter, taking the well-traversed path to the Great Hall for breakfast. Until I can’t. Where I usually veer right around a fountain is now a straight path that leads to a sculpture garden of abstract art made of twisted metal.