by Lois Duncan
“It does seem strange,” Kit said. She gazed out past the driveway to the fence. Something was different. Something had changed since the last time she had looked through this window.
“Sandy,” she said slowly, “I—I think—there aren’t going to be any other students.”
“No more students?” Her new friend turned to her incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding. Four students in this great huge place? That’s ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous or not,” Kit said, “I don’t think they’re expecting anybody else. The gate at the end of the driveway has been closed.”
“Yes, it is true. We have only accepted four students for our first session.”
Madame Duret smiled at them across the dining table. The candles flickered above the white cloth, and an unfelt breeze seemed to touch the crystals of the chandelier, moving them against each other with a faint tinkle of distant music. They had just completed the soup course, and Natalie had not come in yet to clear the table.
“There were many applicants,” Professor Farley interjected. “The problem was that most of them didn’t fill our requirements.”
“You mean they couldn’t pass the tests?” Kit asked in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. The examinations weren’t that hard. I passed them, and I’m not an honors student.”
“None of you are, except for Ruth.” Professor Farley nodded toward the dark-haired girl, who reacted with a little smile of satisfaction. “Your selection was not based entirely upon your academic accomplishments. There were other considerations.”
“Like what?” Lynda Hannah asked. “Like who our parents are?”
“It can’t be that,” Sandy said softly from her seat on Kit’s right.
“Let us just say that we found you to be four very special girls.” Madame’s eyes were like mirrors, reflecting the glow of the candles. When Kit leaned forward, she could see her own image peering back at her from the luminous pupils. “You have exactly the attributes we want our students to possess. Does it displease you to be part of a small class?”
“I like the idea,” Ruth said in her clipped, no-nonsense way. “This way we’ll get individual attention and advance faster. That’s the whole reason I’m here. I was bored to death in my last school. But I can’t find an Ethernet cord in my room, and there’s no Wi-Fi signal. I need to hook up my computer.”
“There isn’t a cord,” Professor Farley informed her. “That’s one of the inconveniences of this rustic location, but the scenery and peaceful atmosphere more than make up for that.”
“You’re saying we don’t have Internet?” Ruth regarded him incredulously. “If we can’t get online, then how are we going to do research?”
“Blackwood has an excellent library,” Madame said. “We believe in the old-fashioned concept of students doing in-depth reading to extract information. You still can use your computers to write with, but think of them as word processors. You don’t need canned quotes from unreliable sources to cut and paste onto your papers. And we certainly don’t want you distracted from your studies by playing in chat rooms or posting on social websites.”
“Then what will we do in our spare time?” Lynda gasped in undisguised horror. “I mean, when we’re not in classes or studying for tests and things? I wish there were more than four students. Then at least we could have parties and get together with boys’ schools for dances on weekends.”
“You will not be bored at Blackwood. I can assure you of that.” Madame lifted the little silver bell and shook it. Immediately the kitchen door opened and Natalie came in.
“We are ready for the main course,” Madame told her.
Kit was seated directly across from Jules Duret. How much, she found herself wondering, did he have to do with the selection of the students? She glanced over and flushed to find him studying her. He did not shift his gaze when their eyes met, but continued looking at her, as though trying to fathom some part of her that did not show on the surface.
“My mother is right,” he said slowly. “You will not be bored.”
It was twelve thirty—half past midnight— on the eighth day of September, and Kit lounged on her bed with her laptop, writing a letter to Tracy. She knew it was late to be writing letters. If she had been at home with her light on at this hour her mother would have been knocking at the door, calling in a worried voice, “Kit? Is anything wrong, honey? It’s much too late for you to be up.”
At Blackwood nobody sounded a lights-off curfew, and Kit was glad. Although she had been at the school for a week now and was adjusting well on most counts, she still did not feel at ease at night. The light at the end of the hall had not been fixed—“It’s almost impossible to get electricians to come out this far,” Madame explained apologetically—and though Kit’s own room was often lit by moonlight, she could not shut out a strange nervousness about the oppressive darkness on the far side of her closed door.
She did not sleep well at Blackwood. She dreamed. She knew that she dreamed, for when she woke in the mornings the feeling of the dreams still clung to the edges of her mind, and yet in most cases she could not remember what they had been about. She needed to be very sleepy to turn off the light and settle into slumber, and so she had begun to form the habit of studying and writing letters late at night.
DEAR TRACY, she typed now, I’M SORRY I TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE. I SENT A NOTE OFF TO MOM THE FIRST DAY I WAS HERE SO THAT SHE WOULD FIND IT WAITING FOR HER IN CHERBOURG, AND THEN I GOT SWAMPED WITH SCHOOLWORK. BESIDES, I’VE GOTTEN SO USED TO TEXTING AND E-MAIL THAT WRITING A REAL LETTER THAT HAS TO GO IN AN ENVELOPE AND BE ADDRESSED AND STAMPED IS A TOTAL DRAG.
THE WORK HERE IS HARDER THAN IT WAS IN PUBLIC SCHOOL, MOSTLY, I GUESS, BECAUSE THE CLASSES ARE SO SMALL. THERE ARE ONLY FOUR OF US HERE—CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? FOUR STUDENTS IN THE ENTIRE SCHOOL! SO IT’S ALMOST LIKE HAVING PRIVATE TUTORS. I’M TAKING MATH AND SCIENCE FROM PROFESSOR FARLEY, A SWEET OLD MAN WITH A FUNNY LITTLE BEARD—REALLY NICE—AND LITERATURE FROM MADAME DURET. AND PIANO FROM JULES! I GUESS I’D BETTER PUT A ROW OF EXCLAMATION MARKS !!!!!!!! TO GIVE YOU AN IDEA OF WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE. I WISH MY CELL GOT A SIGNAL HERE SO I COULD SEND YOU A PICTURE. LET’S JUST SAY, ALL OF A SUDDEN I’M GETTING INTERESTED IN MUSIC.
THE THREE OTHER GIRLS HERE ARE VERY DIFFERENT. MY FAVORITE IS SANDY MASON—SHE’S SHY AND QUIET, BUT NICE, AND I’VE STARTED TO STIR HER UP A LITTLE WITH PLANS TO SHORT-SHEET THE OTHER GIRLS’ BEDS AND MAYBE RAID THE KITCHEN ONE NIGHT AND BRING THE FOOD UP TO THE ROOMS FOR A MIDNIGHT PARTY. LYNDA HANNAH AND RUTH CROWDER KNEW EACH OTHER BEFORE. THEY WENT TO THE SAME PREP SCHOOL LAST YEAR, AND WHEN RUTH’S PARENTS DECIDED TO SWITCH HER TO BLACKWOOD, LYNDA TALKED HER MOM INTO LETTING HER CHANGE SCHOOLS TOO. RUTH ISN’T VERY PRETTY, BUT SHE’S SUPER-SMART, AND LYNDA’S THE OPPOSITE, PRETTY BUT NOT MUCH IN THE BRAINS DEPARTMENT. THEY SEEM TO BALANCE EACH OTHER OUT.
I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW WE WERE SELECTED. PROFESSOR FARLEY SAYS WE HAVE THE “SPECIAL ATTRIBUTES” THEY WERE LOOKING FOR IN THEIR STUDENTS, BUT I CAN’T IMAGINE WHAT THOSE ARE. WE SEEM TO HAVE NOTHING IN COMMON WITH EACH OTHER, AND I DON’T SEE HOW YOU COULD HAVE FAILED TO GET ACCEPTED IF I WAS. I TRIED TO ASK MADAME DURET ABOUT IT, BUT SHE ONLY SAID THAT SHE DIDN’T DISCUSS TEST RESULTS.
I WISH I COULD SAY I LIKE IT HERE. IN SOME WAYS I GUESS I DO. EVERYBODY’S REALLY NICE TO ME, AND THE CLASSES ARE INTERESTING. BUT THERE’S SOMETHING—I DON’T KNOW HOW TO PUT IT INTO WORDS, AND YOU’D PROBABLY LAUGH AT ME IF I TRIED—BUT I’VE GOT THIS CREEPY FEELING THAT SOMETHING’S WRONG. I FELT IT FIRST WHEN WE ENTERED THE GATES AND STARTED UP THE DRIVEWAY, AND I FEEL IT MORE AND MORE EVERY DAY, AS THOUGH—
Somebody screamed. Somewhere in the blackness on the far side of the door. It was a funny scream, choked off in an instant as though a hand had been pressed suddenly to cover the mouth.
It went through Kit like an electric shock. Her hand jerked, typing a string of nonsense. Pulling herself upright on the bed, she sat, tense and shaken, listening. There was nothing but silence.
But I heard it, she told herself. I know I heard it. Somewhere in the quiet dormitory someone had shrieked. In pain? In terror? Perhaps only from a nightmare, and yet, perhaps for some other reason. For help?
I won’t, Kit thought. I can’t. I just can’t open that door and go out there.
But what if one of the other girls was sick? No one screamed without reason. Was someone lying even now in one of the rooms along the hall, shaking with fear or in physical agony, praying that her cry had been heard and would be answered?
Slowly, as though impelled by something other than her own will, Kit got off the bed and crossed the room to open the door. The terrible blackness of the hallway stretched before her, lessened only by the patch of lamplight that fell from her own doorway. Beyond this there was nothing but stillness and darkness.
Kit stood with one hand on the doorjamb, listening. The only sounds she could hear were the thud of her own heart and the quick, sharp rasp of her breathing.
Perhaps I imagined it, she thought. Perhaps I dozed off a little, there on the bed, and dreamed.
And then she heard it—not a scream this time but a little moaning sound, half a sob, half a wail. It seemed to come from the end of the hall where Sandy had her room.
Well, that does it, Kit told herself resignedly. I have to go.
Drawing a deep breath as if in readiness for a dive into icy water, she stood poised for a moment on the edge of the patch of light. Then, bracing herself, she stepped out into the blackness.
For an instant she felt that she actually had plunged into water. The dark rose around her, filling her eyes and nose and ears, pressing on all sides so that she could not catch her breath. As her initial panic began to subside, she forced herself to fill her chest with air. Stretching out one hand, she groped for the wall. She found it and steadied herself against it and then, carefully, one step at a time, she began to work her way down the hall toward Sandy’s room.
With each step she tested the floor ahead of her. It was ridiculous, she knew, and yet the darkness was so total that it seemed that she was moving forward into nothingness, that suddenly the boards of the floor might be gone as though they had never existed and she would find herself stepping off into infinite space. Or, even worse, what if there were something—something whose existence she could not even begin to contemplate waiting for her up ahead? A shudder ran through her, and she turned her head to glance back at the comforting light from her room.
As she stared back at it, she saw the pattern of light grow smaller. Slowly, steadily, the edge of darkness was encroaching upon it.
That’s impossible, Kit thought frantically. And then there was the short, strong click of the door coming closed and the entire hall was in darkness. Don’t panic, Kit told herself firmly. The door blew closed, that’s all.
But how could it have blown shut when there was no wind? The air in the hall was absolutely still. The stained glass window at its end was sealed tight.
Should she keep moving forward or turn and work her way back to her room? Just the thought of the bright security of that lighted haven was enough to make her long to reverse her steps. But it would not alter the fact of the scream, of the moaning sob.
There’s no way, Kit thought, except to keep going. I’ve got to find out what’s wrong.
Step by cautious step, always keeping one hand upon the wall to orient herself, she moved down the hallway. The floorboards creaked slightly under her feet, and the sound seemed a shriek in the silence. When at last her hand touched the edge of Sandy’s door, she drew a deep, shuddering breath of relief.
She groped for the knob and found it. Closing her hand upon it, she tried to turn it. It would not move.
“It’s locked!” Kit spoke the words aloud, unable to believe them. How could Sandy possibly have managed to secure the door when the locks were located on the outside?
Kit released the knob and rapped hard with her knuckles on the thick wood. The sound seemed to fill the night.
From somewhere within the room there came a small moan.
“Sandy!” Truly concerned now, Kit called the name aloud. She made her hand into a fist and began to pound upon the door in earnest, heedless of whomever else she might wake with the noise. “Sandy, answer me! Are you all right in there? Sandy?”
When there was no answer from within the room, she grabbed for the knob again, giving it one final twist out of desperation. To her astonishment, this time it turned quite easily and the door came open. Immediately, a gust of cold air swept over her, as damp and chilling as though it had come from the Arctic.
“Sandy?” Kit cried, and as she stepped into the room she knew, with a sharp, unexplainable certainty, that her friend was not alone in the dark interior. Someone else was with her.
Fighting a terrible desire to turn and run stumbling and staggering back along the hallway to her own room, Kit groped her way forward. The icy air was all around her, so intense that she found herself growing numb.
“Who is it?” she cried shakily. “Who’s in here?”
From somewhere close she could hear the sound of breathing, long heavy breaths as though someone had been running for a long way. The closer she drew to the spot where she knew the bed should be, the more intense the cold became, until she began to wonder if she could bear to move an inch farther. Stretching out her hand, she felt for the edge of the bedside table and then for the lamp that she knew must be standing on it. It seemed as though her hand was pressing through a wall of ice.
Then she touched the base of the lamp, fumbling along it, and found the button. She pressed it, and immediately the room was filled with blessed light.
Blinking her eyes against the sudden brilliance, Kit glanced wildly about her. The alien presence, if it had ever really existed, was gone. The room fell into place around her, as familiar as her own. The only two people in it were herself and Sandy.
Her friend was sitting straight up in the bed, staring at her. Her eyes had the blank, unfocused look of a sleepwalker, and her skin had a bluish hue, as though she had been outside for a long time in the cold. Kit reached out tentatively and touched her arm.
“You’re frozen!” she said. “My god, Sandy, pull up the blanket. What’s going on?”
“Kit?” Sandy spoke the name in a hesitant voice. “Kit, is that you?”
“Of course it’s me.” Kit tugged the blanket up and hauled it over her friend’s shoulders. “Cover up before you get pneumonia. How did your room even get so cold? Sandy, are you awake? You look so—so strange—”
“Yes. Yes, I guess so.” Sandy gave her head a shake as if to rid it of a dream. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”
“It’s later than that,” Kit said. “I’m here because you yelled. Don’t you remember?”
Sandy looked at her blankly. “No. No, I don’t. I guess I must have been dreaming.”
“Your door was locked.”
“It couldn’t have been. You know I can’t lock it from the inside.” Sandy paused, and then repeated Kit’s words. “It was locked? My door?”
“Yeah, it was, but then it came free again the second time I tried it. Someone was in here. I could swear it, Sandy. When I stepped into this room I could feel somebody. I couldn’t really see or touch someone, but you know how it is when you feel a presence, when you know a room isn’t empty?”
“I was dreaming,” Sandy said. Her voice was thin and frightened. “At least, I think I was dreaming. There was this woman by my bed. She was young—maybe in her mid-twenties—and she was wearing a long dress, kind of old-fashioned-looking. She was just standing there, looking down at me, and I could see her even in the darkness.”
“Of course, you were dreaming,” Kit said. Her legs felt weak, and she sank down on the edge of Sandy’s bed. “You must have been.”
“Yes,” Sandy said. “But Kit—it’s not the first time.”
“It’s not?”
“I mean, it’s the first time this exact th
ing has happened. This woman—a stranger—and the funny clothes and everything. But it’s not the first time I’ve had odd dreams. You know how I told you that I live with my grandparents?”
“Yes.”
“My parents died three years ago,” Sandy said. “It was their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Dad had arranged a trip as a surprise for Mom. It was to be a kind of second honeymoon. They were flying to the Bahamas. The plane went down in the ocean. They never even found the wreckage.”
“That’s awful,” Kit breathed. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was staying with my grandparents,” Sandy said. “The crazy thing was—I knew about the plane. I knew it as soon as it happened. I was in the kitchen helping Grandma with dinner, and suddenly I knew. I said, ‘Gran, the plane has crashed.’ She looked at me as though I were nutty and said, ‘What plane?’ ‘Dad’s and Mom’s,’ I told her. ‘It’s gone down.’ She kept staring at me, and then she said, ‘What a terrible thing to joke about!’ She was so mad she wouldn’t even talk to me, and then, later that night, we heard about it on TV.”
“You said you had a dream,” Kit reminded her.
“It wasn’t that night. I don’t think any of us slept that night. But the next day after the notification was official, I started crying and couldn’t stop, and Grandpa got a doctor over to the house, and he gave me a shot. I did go to sleep then, and that’s when I had the dream.
“Dad and Mom were there, standing next to the bed, holding hands. Mom said, ‘Sandy, you’ve got to get hold of yourself.’ In the dream I answered her. I said, ‘But you’re dead! I’m crying because you’re dead!’ And Dad said, ‘Your mother and I are together. To us, that’s the important thing. We’re happy, and you must be too.’”
Kit looked down at her own hands and saw that they were gripped together so tightly her knuckles were white.
“Did you tell anybody?” she asked.
“I tried to,” Sandy said, “but nobody would listen. They just said that everybody has weird dreams when they’re emotionally upset.”
