Thinking about it now, something bothered me about that. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and clicked through to the video, skipping to the very end.
Right before Taylor came back to her phone on the floor, there were two sounds. First a muffled EEEEE and then a bang. And then the familiar OARRRR-thump! of the bathroom door. When I’d watched it before, I’d attributed the whole set of sounds to the bathroom door. But now I wasn’t so sure.
I pushed the bathroom door open and let it fall closed again. OARRRR-thump! I went into the hallway and pulled it open, then let go. OARRRR-thump!
There was no screeching or banging. Maybe that was a separate sound from inside the bathroom before the door was opened. So what had Taylor done in the bathroom right before coming out? Knocked something over? Knocked a soap dispenser off the wall?
After I finished brushing my teeth, I stopped in front of Taylor’s door and considered its proximity to the bathroom and her neighbors. Lily on one side of her and Jayla on the other. Only two other rooms down this corridor—one next to the bathroom, the others across from it. These side halls were always quieter than the long main hallway where Star and I lived.
Shivering, I reached out and touched the crystal doorknob of Taylor’s room. Maybe I could get into the room sometime, and search for hearts scratched in the walls.
“Haley?”
I whirled around, and there was Anna. She was wearing fuzzy panda slippers with her tights, pencil skirt, and crisp-collared white shirt.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
I stared at her stupid feet. I hated fake quirkiness. It was the common overcompensation of someone who knew, deep down, that they really shouldn’t be working with teenagers.
“It was so cold out here I was worried,” I mumbled. “I was worried it would be open again.”
It was actually true on some level—so why didn’t it sound believable?
“You were her friend, weren’t you?” Anna’s tone softened. “Star mentioned it.”
I looked up at her face. A little too pretty to confide in. I wondered how she managed as a counselor.
“I was just noticing how cold it was out here,” I said, ignoring her question. Since she already made clear she knew the answer. “In the hallway.”
“The thermostat is set for lower as the night goes on, to save oil,” Anna explained, folding her hands in front of her. “Since it doesn’t make sense to maintain the temperature all night when everyone is sleeping. It’s not a matter of budgeting so much as being environmentally conscious.”
I nodded. No, certainly it wasn’t a matter of budgeting. One year’s tuition here could pay for about a third of my mother’s house outright.
“The hallway is always colder,” Anna continued. “It’s a bigger space and doesn’t have as many heating vents.”
I nodded.
“Well, good night,” I called, heading back in the direction of my room.
“Good night, Haley,” Anna returned. When I reached my door, I turned and saw she was still watching me, her hand slithering behind her ear, touching her hair, checking the tightness of her bun.
I half expected her to say TRY to sleep. But then I remembered that she wasn’t the person who said that to me. And that no one had said that to me in years.
17
I guess I’ve come to accept that when I lie here in the dark, it’s going to be about Taylor.
The way I dumped Taylor all at once last year—probably she deserves my nights. Probably she deserves more than that, even.
Maybe I thought that the sibilant thing made me special. And maybe it did. But I would come to learn soon that Taylor asked everyone questions like that.
That’s a tighter shirt than you usually wear. Are you trying a new style?
Oh. You decided not to take AP Bio after all?
Why do you think you’re so much shorter than your brother? Is one of your parents short?
Four meatballs! Impressive. Do you, like, really love meatballs?
Questions people weren’t sure how to answer. Questions that often had a little jab embedded in them somewhere. But she was generally such a bubbly and engaging conversationalist, one tended to focus on that and try not to be offended. Most of the time, I told myself at first that she didn’t know how her questions came across. She delivered them so innocently, so sincerely. And we all had our childish little blind spots.
It wasn’t until December of my first year that I started to see it differently.
We were in the locker room, changing together after cross-country. Most of the other girls were in the showers.
She caught sight of my ridiculous stash of Avon deodorants—six identical purple-capped plastic mushrooms peeping out from behind my pile of clothes.
What’s that about? Do you have half a dozen armpits?
No. I laughed. My mom buys them in bulk. I brought them straight here from the mail room yesterday. She probably forgot that she already gave me a set. I have a few already in my room.
I didn’t explain that her friend gave her a deal on bulk Avon deodorants. It was way cheaper than buying them one at a time or in a grocery store.
Can I have one? Taylor asked.
I handed her one, not considering why she might want to smell like Avon antiperspirant instead of her usual expensive Chanel aura. She walked over to Kylie Puckett’s locker, which was open. Kylie was in the shower still.
She positioned it right in the front.
She needs it, Taylor said. I mean, she kind of smells like a dude sometimes. Let’s go.
I was stunned for a moment. It was kind of true. Kylie was a sophomore like Taylor—the only other underclass runner on varsity besides Taylor and me. She was faster than both of us. But she did sweat quite a lot.
Let’s go, Taylor repeated.
I yanked on my pullover and shoved my feet into boots even though I hadn’t yet put on my socks. I threw the socks and remaining deodorants into my backpack—because after this, I couldn’t be seen with that weird old-lady brand deodorant in the locker room. Kylie would know where hers had come from. Or rather who.
That night I told myself that Taylor hadn’t really meant to do that. It was a prank of impulse and opportunity. If she had had a chance to really think about it, she would’ve changed her mind.
18
Nine Nights Left
The story, of course, starts with a girl. This girl was smart, but time would reveal, fragile. She came here from miles away with high hopes and gentle ways. Probably she had some starry-eyed notion that this place would change her—make her tougher, smarter, better. But it did the opposite, sadly. It broke her.
Some girls are built up here, but it can’t really happen, can it, without a few being broken along the way.
19
Friday, February 1
The archives were housed in a long glassed-in room on the top floor of the library, separated from the regular stacks with an elaborately carved wooden door. It was open only three days a week for a few hours—every minute of which Star seemed to camp out there with Ms. Noceno, the oldest and least friendly of Windham’s three librarians.
As we closed the door behind us, Ms. Noceno glanced up from her computer and pushed her red-framed glasses up her nose.
“You brought a friend,” she said to Star—in a tone that wasn’t quite approving.
“Yes,” Star said, taking off her backpack. “She’s doing a little research of her own, but doesn’t know where to start.”
“Wonderful,” Ms. Noceno said, glancing at her computer once more before focusing her gaze on me. “I don’t know how much Star has told you about how things operate here. Most of the older materials—letters and journals and original school documents—are kept in the locked files behind the divider wall. We have everyone look at them at the fr
ont tables here, and ask that you not bring in any bags or pens—that you work with a pencil, or you can take pictures of materials with a phone. You can request to look at anything you want—and all of these binder indexes here in the front are a good resource for figuring out which original materials you might want to request be brought out. I can give you a quick tutorial on those, but what are you hoping to research today?”
I looked at Star, who was already making herself comfortable at one of the long wooden tables, opening a notebook, looking about as happy as a kid about to blow out her birthday candles.
“I want to research the history of Dearborn Hall,” I offered. “Or…parts of its history.”
“Parts of its history,” Ms. Noceno repeated. “Any specific parts?”
“Yes. I would like to research student life in the hall first. Just generally.”
I felt like that sounded respectable. I didn’t really want to bring up tragedy and ghosts right away. And to start with the vagueness of Samuel might make me look a little dumb.
“Okay. Well, there’s a great deal of information on that. We’re lucky to have a large number of student letters throughout the school’s history, and for a time there was this tradition of housemothers keeping a journal of the year’s events in the dorm. Like social events and things. Now, what era were you hoping to study?”
“Not one particular era.” I exhaled, deciding to come clean. “I wanted to see, uh, among other things, if I could determine when the ghost stories about Dearborn began.”
“Interesting.” Ms. Noceno’s expression looked strained, like she might be holding in a coughing fit or a sneeze. “I think I have a couple of head starts for you on that. Although I doubt anyone could pinpoint the exact beginning of those kinds of stories. It being an oral tradition, of course.”
“Didn’t you want to research, like, student tragedies in the dorm, too?” Star piped up, tapping her pencil on the table. Then, when she suddenly seemed to realize what she had just said, a dark blush bloomed on her neck and cheeks. “I mean…uh…historical tragedies?”
Ms. Noceno drew a slow breath into her nostrils, considering both of us for a moment. “Star, shall I get you the Bromley papers? You’ve been working with the third box lately, right?”
“Yes, please,” Star said. “When you have a chance.”
“I’ll be right with you—what did you say your name is?” Ms. Noceno asked.
“Haley,” I said.
“Okay, Haley. I’ll be right with you after I get Star’s things,” she said. “And then we can sit down and discuss what materials will be most useful to you. See, Star has it easy. Because Caroline Bromley is one of Windham’s most famous alums, there’s an extensive set of files on her specifically, organized decades ago. We have about eight files like that, on specific alums.”
I nodded. I knew there was a famous poet among the Windham graduates, plus a senator. Fancy ladies, those Windies.
“Is there one on Lucia Jackson?” Star asked. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”
Lucia Jackson was a well-known author who had also gone to Windham. One of her crime novels had been turned into a Showtime series. Alex really liked her books—said they had strong, quirky women characters. I’d never read any of them—never had much time for pleasure reading at Windham.
“She’s a little young to have a file,” Ms. Noceno said icily. “Maybe she’ll get one when she’s dead.”
Ms. Noceno disappeared behind the wall divider, leaving Star and me to our awkward silence. Star continued to tap her pencil on the table, avoiding my gaze.
“Did I offend her?” I whispered.
Star shook her head with a tiny smile. “She’s like that with everyone.”
When Ms. Noceno returned, she handed Star a gray box file and set another identical one on the table, closer to me. As Star happily opened her file, Ms. Noceno gestured for me to sit.
“Tell me a little more, Haley,” she said, taking the seat across from me. “Is this an academic project? For a particular teacher? If it’s a personal project, that’s fine, too. I’m just trying to get a sense of the parameters here.”
“Well…,” I began. “Mostly personal. There is a history of people having frightening experiences in Dearborn. At least in recent decades. I think that’s undeniable, based on some conversations I’ve had with a few…friends and alums.”
Ms. Noceno tilted her head with mild interest. “Recent alums?”
“Recent and not so recent,” I said. “So I’m researching the history of that specifically, not whether or not there was some dramatic death in the building long ago, like girls used to like to talk about.”
I hesitated. They liked to talk about it before it actually happened.
“Because I don’t know if that’s really the key to when the stories started, or what they’re really about,” I added.
Ms. Noceno nodded. “I think I understand what you’re saying. And I think that’s a smart way to go about it. Look at the reported experiences first—the stories—for what they are—rather than jumping to conclusions about what kind of incident or history must have caused it. Which is how most students try to approach it, when they come in here with the Dearborn ghost on their mind. They’re always looking for something they can’t find. A murder or suicide story that doesn’t appear to exist, as far as I can tell.”
“Does that happen a lot? Students looking for that?”
Ms. Noceno shrugged. “Every so often. Interest in the ghost waxes and wanes. Students tend to leave disappointed when they see that Dearborn doesn’t have the kind of history the stories tell them. Yes, it has a history of supposed hauntings. But it has no history of a girl dying there in a white nightgown in the 19th century. That’s the jackpot everyone seems to think they’re looking for.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling a little stupid. “I’m just not sure where to start. I’ve never been to the archives before.”
“Now, first of all, each building—at least, each of the older buildings and certainly all of the residential buildings—has its own box of files.” Ms. Noceno tapped the other box she had brought out along with Star’s. “I took the liberty of bringing it out, because I thought you’d like to see it. Now, there is a small independent file about Windham ghost stories, but all the material is relatively recent, except for a few cross-references to other files. I’ll get that for you as well. It was only my immediate predecessor who saw fit to give it its own file, so it’s a little sparse. I think previous librarians were reluctant, maybe because of the school’s religious origins. People have relaxed about these things in more recent decades.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’d like to look at the file, even if there’s not much in it.”
Ms. Noceno nodded. “But the bulk of our archives are our letter collections. And finding your topic in those is a little trickier, a little less straightforward. The letters are filed alphabetically by the name of the writer, so to speak. Students and teachers, mostly. The binders list the letter collections chronologically, starting in 1867, which as you probably know is the year Windham opened. The binders contain summaries of most of the letter collections. So if you’re looking for specific types of content, you need to read through the summaries. Of course, I’m familiar with what’s in a fair amount of those letters. Certainly not all of it. But there are many collections I’ve read over, or at least whose summaries I’ve read over. So when a student comes in looking for a specific topic, I often can direct them to letters that I know address it. Like I know that the Mary Trowell Downing collection has a great deal about the early athletics program, just for example. And more relevant to your studies, I know that there is mention of a supposed ghost sighting in Dearborn in the Louise Johnson Riley collection. She went here in the early 1920s, and her family gave us all of her letters in the ’60s or ’70s, I believe.”
“I wo
uld love to see that,” I said.
Ms. Noceno nodded. “And there may be other references to ‘the ghost’ in other student letters we have in the collection that I haven’t read…but there is no direct way to find that out. We used to have a volunteer—an elderly local alumna—who read through all of the letter collections and summarized their contents for the indexes. Since she stopped coming in a few years ago, there is a small amount of material that hasn’t been so meticulously read through…she didn’t quite finish the project…and we’re still getting new material on top of that.”
“More old letters?” I asked.
“Sometimes. I mean, we’re not likely to get a lot more 19th-century material at this stage, but alumnae and their families do send things when they surface. Letters or pictures or pennants. I think sometimes it makes people feel better, when they have deceased relatives, to send us stuff like that, rather than to throw it out. It’s not all useful to us, but we try to treat it respectfully. Anyway…now, to clarify…is this primarily a study of the supernatural lore of Dearborn Hall, or a broader study about student life? Because you mentioned student life when we started talking.”
“Umm…a little of both?” I said.
Ms. Noceno studied me, her crow’s feet deepening for a moment. “Okay. Well, as I said, I have a box file for each building. Those don’t contain the student letters, but there are pictures and some housemother journals and some other random goodies. Would you like to start with the Dearborn one?”
“Oh…yes, of course. That sounds good.”
“All right. I’ll start you on that and then bring you the Riley letter.”
“Thanks,” I said, and opened the front snap of the box I’d been given.
When All the Girls Are Sleeping Page 10
