Girl's School Ghost

Girl‟s School Ghost

Mona Whitlock © 2010 by Blushing Books and Mona Whitlock

Copyright © 2010 by Blushing Books® and Mona Whitlock All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Published by Blushing Books®, a subsidiary of ABCD Graphics and Design 977 Seminole Trail #233 Charlottesville, VA 22901 The trademark Blushing Books® is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office. Whitlock, Mona Girl‟s School Ghost eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-376-4

Cover Design by ABCD Graphics

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Chapter One The old woman across from the table fingered the cross at her throat with shaking hands as she turned to the young man sitting beside her. “Troy, are you sure this is all right? You know what Father McNeely says about the..” She dropped her voice as if afraid that someone would hear her next words. “..the occult.” The young man put a reassuring arm around her shoulder. “Aunt Penny,” he soothed. “I don‟t think the church would disapprove of your trying to figure out what is going on. Psychics are hardly witches. They‟re simply using the gifts God‟s given them. And you do what to know, right?” He turned back to me, his expression apologetic. “I‟m sorry. Aunt Penny is very religious. It was all I could do to get her permission to bring you here.” I tried to look as reassuring as I could, although I had no patience for people like Penny Bosworth, people who considered psychic abilities and magic to be evil. Perhaps they‟d skipped over the parts of the Bible that mentioned visions and healings. “Mrs. Bosworth, no need to worry. I was raised to be a good Catholic girl.” I didn‟t tell her that I‟d stopped going to church as soon I left home. “That makes me feel better,” she said. “And you consider your…abilities…a gift from God?” she asked. “Oh. Sure,” I said. “I consider them a gift from God.” I didn‟t say which god I‟d suspected of giving me the gift. “Why don‟t we start by your telling me a little about what‟s happening in your house?” I asked, eager to change the subject from religion to the reason I was really here. Penelope Bosworth began to fiddle with her cross again. “It happened just after I‟d moved in. I was on the phone to my sister – the one back east – and we were talking about the move and everything. The conversation turned other things then and she told me that my former neighbors, Frank and Lula, had bought a brand new car. One of those little Mercedes…I think they call them crossovers. I have no idea how, Frank and Lula don‟t make that much money, I know. And right in the middle of the conversation the base to my portable phone just flies across the room…” “It fell?” I asked, seeking clarification. “No, young lady. It didn‟t fall. It flew. Like someone threw it!” She stood and walked slowly over to the wall, her gnarled hand clutched on the ivory head of her cane. Pointing at a gouge in the wallpaper, she turned to me with an almost triumphant look in her eye. “See!” she said. “I may be old, Miss Logan, but I‟m not crazy. I know what I saw.” I got up and examined the gouge. The shape of it fit the end of the phone stand. Her story fit. “And that was the first time?” I asked. “Yes,” she said. “The second time was when Troy here brought that girl over here.” “Aunt Penny, “that girl” as you call her has a name – Tamara. And she‟s my girlfriend.” Troy scowled at her before addressing me. “Needless to say my aunt doesn‟t approve.” “She dresses like a tart!” the old woman exclaimed. “I almost fainted when she walked in.”

Mrs. Bosworth leaned towards me, dropping her voice again. “That girl was wearing a checkered skirt so short you could almost see her bottom!” Her chin trembled a little. “Scandalous!” “Well, it‟s not like you have to worry about her coming back here,” her nephew spat. “Not after what happened to her. She wouldn‟t set foot in here if you paid her.” “I imagine she‟d do anything if someone paid her enough, girl like that…” Troy started to respond, but I jumped back in. “No offense,” I interrupted, “but I charge by the hour. If you two want to pay me to listen to you squabble, that‟s fine by me. But something tells me you‟d rather not. So why don‟t you just tell me what happened.” Aunt and nephew regarded each other, their expressions indicating that this topic would have to wait till later. “I brought Tamara over to see the house,” Troy said, launching into the story before his aunt could. “I‟d told her all about it, how it was over two hundred years old, all the history associated with it. It was once used as a girl‟s school. Did you know that?” “Really?” I was surprised. Penelope Bosworth had given me very little information on the mansion before I‟d arrived and I hadn‟t put any time into researching it yet. I usually didn‟t do any research until after my initial consult. So often paranormal activity turned out to have “normal” explanation: rats in the walls, dementia, overactive imagination…even piping could be a problem; some pipes and wires emit energy currents that can cause paranoia and anxiety. But none of those things could account for a phone being hurled across the room. Or – as I was about to find out – what happened to Troy‟s girlfriend. “Yeah, it was. One of my great, great, great uncles ran it. It was boarding school for a while. Very exclusive. Very strict. Tamara is a history major at the university --” Aunt Penny interrupted by snorted at this but to his credit Troy simply shot her a look before continuing. “…so naturally she was eager to see the place. It had been mothballed before Great Aunt Penny here decided to come move in here.” “So Tamara was here looking around. She‟d done some research already and knew from photos what some of the rooms had been used for. She said one room had been considered notorious by the girls. She wasn‟t sure why; she was still looking into it. But she wanted to see it. I was down here helping Aunt Penny unpack when I heard Tamara scream.” I was getting interested now. “What happened.” “Something hit her,” he said. “Hit her?” He laughed uncomfortably. “Right on the bum.” OK. This was different. “On her…?” I wanted to be sure I‟d heard right. “Butt. Backside. Ass.” He looked at his aunt. “Sorry.” “Are you sure she didn‟t imagine this?” I asked. “Look,” he said. “I‟m as skeptical as the next guy. I watch those ghost-chasing shows on television not because I believe them, but because I think they‟re funny. But this…this made me a believer. In what I don‟t know, but something hit my girlfriend. There was a mark.” “Really?” I raised my eyebrows, intrigued. This had gone from weird to freaky. “It scared Tamara half to death. She ran out of this house..” “Good riddance,” muttered the aunt.

“…and I chased her. She got two blocks before I caught up with her. She was distraught. I asked her what happened and she said she was..” He looked uncomfortably at his aunt as he continued. “…She was bending over looking in a trunk in the room and „wham‟ something just hits her right across the ass. Auntie‟s right. Her skirt was short so it got a good deal of bare skin on the lower half of her butt. I thought it was going to take an act of Congress to convince her to let me get a picture.” I‟d been taking notes and now put down my pencil. “Wait,” I said. “You took a picture of her…? “Butt,” he said. “Yeah, I did.” Troy reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a Polaroid. I felt weird looking at another girl‟s ass. I mean, not that there‟s anything wrong with that but I just don‟t swing that way, you know what I mean? Tamara had a nice butt, though. The little plaid skirt she was wearing was hiked up to the small over her back. There wasn‟t much to the panties she wore. They were little more than a thong, so a small triangle of fabric covered less than half her cheeks. Given the choice of underwear and the short skirt I was beginning to have feelings of sympathy for poor Aunt Penny. Scandalous indeed. But it wasn‟t the style of dress that stood out so much as the rectangular patch of red across the white buttocks. Tamara had been hit hard, hard enough to leave an angry mark. “Wow,” I said, shaking my head. I dragged my eyes from the photo. “And you‟re sure no one else was in the house?” “Absolutely,” he said. “Do you think Tamara would talk to me?” I asked. Troy shrugged. “She might,” he said. “But if truth be told, she‟s kind of embarrassed about what happened.” “So she actually can feel shame. That‟s encouraging,” Aunt Penny, who had disappeared into the kitchen when he produced the photo, was back and putting a tea tray on the table. Troy rubbed his temples; his resistance to her barbs was clearly wearing thin. “Anything else?” I asked. “I hear things,” Penelope Bosworth settled herself into her chair and passed me a teacup. “Oh? What kind of things?” “Crying. Footsteps that sound as if they‟re going from the middle of the upstairs room to the corner. One of the oddest things is the old chalkboard in the last bedroom on the left. It won‟t stay clean. There are lines on it.” “Lines?” “You know, lines. The kind naughty children sometimes have to write. The day I moved in I was feeling uncharacteristically spry so I visited all the rooms. The old chalkboard was pushed to one side and there were ten lines on it. I remember this specifically because the script was so pretty. „I must not talk in class unless I desire to suffer consequences. That was what they all said.” She lowered her voice again. “The next morning when I went into the room to direct Troy here to the old Victrola I wanted him to take downstairs, there were fifteen lines on the board.” I looked at Troy. “Can you confirm this?” I asked. “I‟m not crazy,” Penelope insisted. “I‟m not saying you are,” I replied. “I just always like to get verification if I can.”

“I can confirm that there were fifteen lines,” he said. “I know because Auntie had me erase them. Only the next morning….” He shook his head as if unable to believe what he was telling me. “They were back.” I jotted this down, trying to keep up my professional appearance. This was really unusual. But it was also exciting. This was way better than the work that made up the bulk of my profession – doing readings and contacting dead relatives. “Do you mind if I walk through the house with you?” I asked. “From what I‟ve heard it would definitely seem that something is going on here. The upstairs seems to be a hot spot. Perhaps if we go up I can pick up on whatever is causing the activity.” “Of course.” Troy stood and started to help his aunt up, but she declined his offer. “You two young people won‟t be too offended if I stay here, will you? My gout is acting up today. I‟d rather just sit here and sip my tea.” “You‟re not afraid?” Troy asked. “No,” she said. “If I get lonely I‟ll just call Millicent.” “That‟s one of my other aunts,” Troy said. I picked up my notepad and tucked it in my satchel. For this part of the investigation I wouldn‟t need anything but my senses. I followed Troy through the house. As we walked, I envisioned my hidden eye – that‟s what I called the part of myself that could seen and sense things others could not – beginning to open. When I was a little girl, my powers had scared me because I couldn‟t control them. My first psychic encounter had been at Uncle Ray‟s funeral when I was four. Uncle Ray was my mother‟s younger brother. He was more like a playmate than an uncle. He had a wide mouth that looked almost too big for his face when he smiled, which was just about all the time. It had earned him the nickname “Joker” among family and friends. He used to pull my ribbons out of my hair or muss it up when I walked past, and then yell to my mother that she ought to fix my hair once in a while. My mom was pretty young herself when I was born and tried to be a good mother. She was meticulous in everything and didn‟t appreciate her brother‟s attempts at humor where I was concerned. Four-year-old kids don‟t really “get” death. It‟s a pretty abstract concept. When Ray was killed in a car accident my mom told me there‟d been a terrible accident and that Ray had been taken up to heaven to live with Jesus and Mary and the saints. I think that was when I first started having real doubts about Christianity. I liked Ray; it didn‟t seem right for Jesus and the Holy Mother to be kidnapping people, even if it was by accident. Given the sanitized version, I wasn‟t that upset. I figured since Jesus loved us he‟d allow Ray to come back to visit. The funeral was close-casket. The accident had been head on and…brutal is the nicest word for the effects on Ray‟s mortal coil, which was hidden from view. So there I was in a room full of weeping relatives and a mahogany casket. It was boring, so when I saw Ray standing there smiling, naturally I was happy. I ran over to where he was, standing off to the side. He mussed my hair up right away. “Hey!” I‟d said, indignant. “Mom‟s going to kill me when she sees my hair.” The smile disappeared. “Don‟t say that,” he said. “Don‟t say what?” I asked. “Kill,” he said. “It‟ll make your mom sad.” “Why?” I tried to smooth my hair but it only made it worse. He looked at me, his face sad. “They didn‟t tell you, did they?”

“They told me,” I said with typical four-year-old innocence. “You went to live with Jesus. But you get to come back and visit.” He sighed and knelt down. “I love your mom,” he said. “But she can really be stupid sometimes.” “No, Fern,” he continued. “I didn‟t go to live with Jesus. I died. I was in a really bad car wreck and now I‟m dead like Wendy.” Wendy was the cat I‟d had a few months earlier. She‟d been hit by a car in front of our house. Her body was stiff when we found it, adhered to the ground by frost. It made a ripping sound when my dad had pulled it free. I shook my head. “No,” I said. “You‟re here. I can see you.” He touched my face. “I can feel you!” I was insistent. “That‟s only because you‟re different,” he said. “You‟re a very special girl, Fern. Very special. You have a special talent that lets you see people who‟ve passed on. People like me. People who come back because there‟s something they didn‟t get to do.” Tears pricked my eyelids. My chest began to ache with the hurt that only comes when you‟ve been given news you don‟t want to believe but know is true. “Is that why you‟re here?” I asked, my voice shaking. He nodded. “What was it you didn‟t get to do?” I asked. He smiled that big, silly smile. “Why, say goodbye to you, of course. When I left Friday night you were sleeping on the couch. I wanted to give you a goodbye kiss.” Ray leaned over then and kissed me. I felt it, cool on my cheek. “Be good now,” he said. “And don‟t be afraid of your gift. Don‟t be ashamed of it. Use it. Use it to help people.” “I can help people?” I asked. “Yeah, on both sides,” he said. “You‟ll help comfort people who‟ve lost loved ones and help those who departed have a peaceful existence on the other side.” “I will?” “Yep.” He stood up. “You just helped me.” Then I heard a strange crackling sound and felt a static electricity that made my hair stand slightly on end. I didn‟t know it at the time, but that was the sign that Ray had crossed over. “Fern, who are you talking to?” My mother was at my side, her eyes puffy and redrimmed. “I was talking to Ray,” I said. “Honey, I told you. Ray‟s not here. He went to live with Jesus.” “No he didn‟t,” I said. “He‟s just dead. But it‟s okay because it just means he‟s on the other side.” My mother shook me. “Fern, don‟t talk like that,” she said. “If Father Albert heard you..” “Fine. Don‟t believe me,” I said. “Let Ray tell you.” But when I looked up he was gone. My mother stood. “Talking nonsense, as if I didn‟t have enough to deal with.” She sighed as she looked down at me. “And you‟re hair is messed up again, too.” Something passed across her face then and I think –at that moment – she knew. For a moment, my mom went pale in the face and looked around, as if half-expecting to see Ray herself. Then, crossing herself, she turned and pulled me back into the crowd of mourners.

After that it was like some sort of psychic floodgate had opened. I started seeing dead people everywhere and became afraid to talk to strangers because I couldn‟t discern if they were living or not. It seriously freaked my mother out when I started having conversations with people she couldn‟t see, and in her fear she‟d punish me. As I grew older it became easier to discern the living from the dead. The dead didn‟t interact with the living, well, not unless they were like me. And while I encountered a lot of departed souls, there wasn‟t anyone I met on my side who shared my gift. You could tell the dead were by their expressions – sad, wistful, melancholy. The man who showed up when his troubled son finally graduated and then faded away with a smile. The woman who blew a kiss at her first grandchild‟s christening, causing the baby to laugh at something no one else could see. The dog that followed its owner‟s casket from church. Oh yes, animals can have unresolved issues, too. Animal ghosts always make me feel better about Wendy. Because she never stuck around I figured she was pretty satisfied that she‟d done everything she needed to do. Cats. Controlling my special ability became something of an obsession with me the year I turned thirteen. That was the year Mr. McCorkle died. He was the old man who lived one block up. Retired from the military, Mr. McCorkle found side work in becoming a full-time pain in the ass. He showed up at town meetings to gripe about everything, from the color of the town‟s new trash bins, which he thought clashed with the grass to the noise made by the school‟s marching band when the practiced in the athletic fields behind our houses. The whole community was ready to run him out of town until someone suggested making head of the garden committee. It changed his personality for the better. He started a drive to plant a community garden, which was really a cool idea. But just when the seedlings started to grow he keeled over from a heart attack. After that, I saw him there day after day after day. Rain or shine he stood there, watching the plants. Mr. McCorkle was the first dead person to seriously creep me out. I didn‟t want to see him, and I hated the way he smiled at me when I passed. He knew I was the only one who knew he was there. I think he delighted in that. So against my mother‟s rules, I went to the library and checked out ever book on the occult I could, looking for a way to manage my gift. I didn‟t want to make it go away. Ray had told me it was a good thing, and in my uptight Catholic family he‟d been the only cool relative I‟d had. Besides, it set me apart from them. No way was I going to spend my days praying to saints like they did, especially since I realized the dead have just as many issues as the living. After hours of poring over books, I found a chapter on psychic abilities in a musty volume that covered a bunch of other topics I wasn‟t interested in. The chapter suggested something called “visualization,” and offered instruction on how to use it to open and close the inner eye that allowed me to sense the dead. The book warned that it would take some practice to perfect this kind of control. But I‟m a determined girl. It took me two years to get it down pat. Seriously. It took that long. But it was perfect timing because the control I‟d mastered allowed me to enjoy life for a change. Do you know how hard it is to have fun at a movie when some sad-eyed homecoming queen is staring at you? A word of advice: Don‟t bury your relatives in prom dresses, wedding dresses or football uniforms. It just makes it worse.

Today I don‟t see or sense dead people unless I want to. And that day, in Penelope Bosworth‟s house, I closed my outer eyes and opened my inner one. To this day I‟m still not sure if that was a good idea.

Chapter Two The stairway was one of those with several landings, the kind that made you dizzy if you looked down from the top. I wondered how on earth Penelope Bosworth had managed the climb, even before her gout started giving her a fit. My eye was opening, slowly. I could control that, too, the speed of it. From what I‟d been told I knew this place had a lot of weird energy flying around at the very least. Open your eye too quickly in a place like this and you‟ll feel like someone hit you in the head with a frying plan. Trust me. I could hear whispers at first. Female voices. Young. I couldn‟t discern what they were saying, but they had the tone of people speaking who don‟t wish to be heard. I opened my eye a little wider and could tell they were behind the doors as we passed, peeking out. But I didn‟t get excited because I know the difference between spirits - which are the real deal - and Leftovers, which is what I call residual energies that exists in just about every place with any kind of meaningful history, especially if that place had some kind of routine. That‟s why forts and schools and hospitals – places with rigid schedules – have energies that even laypeople can sense. It helps if you can think of the atmosphere as kind of like a sponge. Day after day it absorbs and absorbs and absorbs the routine. When that routine is halted, something shifts and all that absorbed energy starts being released. All the regular things – the smells, sounds and temperature fluctuations caused by the heat coming on or going off at a certain time – are slowly squeezed back out. But it‟s all just an illusion, really. So I knew there were no girls behind the door, even though I could hear them whispering. It was the middle of the day, just after lunch. I didn‟t know much about turn-of-the-century girls‟ schools but figured this may have been the time of day they were sent to study or nap or something. Troy couldn‟t hear the voices, but I could tell he sensed something. “This hallway is creepy,” he said. He opened the first bedroom door. It was large and brighter than I would have expected. The wallpaper was cream-colored with a cheery blue flower motif. The walls were lined with individual twin-sized beds. “Bluebells and cockle-shells and pretty maids all in a row,” I said quietly. “Excuse me?” “It‟s part of a nursery rhyme.” I smiled at him. “Girls‟ room, right?” “Right,” he said. “There were several rooms like this. This is the only one that we kept as it was. A cool breeze wafted through the window, and with it came the smell of lavender. It was strong to me but, I could tell he caught it, too. “Smell that?” I asked. Troy‟s face flooded with relief. “Thank God,” he said. “I thought it was just me.” He shut the door. There were several other bedrooms that Troy told me had been redecorated since the mansion had turned back from a school back into a home. They were all nicely arrayed with period pieces made of heavy, dark wood featuring ornate carvings. I didn‟t even want to think how much the antiques in that house were worth.

We were approaching the last bedroom. Troy pointed at the door. “OK,” he said. “This was the room Tamara went in, the one that made her so freaked out. The chalkboard Aunt Penny told you about is in here, too.” “Hold on,” I said and stood in the hallway for a moment, closing my eyes and allowing my inner eye to slowly open all the way. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a gray cat crouched low, the tip of its tail flicking back and forth. It was staring at a mouse hole in the wall. “Troy?” I asked. “Does your Aunt Penny have a cat?” He laughed. “No way,” he said. “She hates cats! Why?” I smiled at him and shrugged. “Just checking,” I said and continued down the hall, shaking my head as I passed the cat. Poor thing. Who knows how many years that ghost cat had spent chasing that phantom mouse. *** If this room had once been organized, it wasn‟t now. Two library tables in dire need of refinishing sat pushed against the wall. Boxes and crates held miscellaneous – but likely valuable – slates, inkwells, quills and other teaching paraphernalia. The chalkboard tilted back on its stand, but the traces of the lines could still be seen. I could feel a presence right away. A male presence. “Someone‟s here,” I said. Usually I don‟t blurt it out like that but this was different than anything I‟d ever experienced. Usually I see the dead. This time I could just feel him. I felt the unnamed presence as distinctly as I felt Troy‟s. But they were different. Troy felt jittery. From Troy I felt the vibes you feel from a kid who‟s scared but doesn‟t want to show it, a kid who is just moments away from grabbing you and begging to be taken home. From the Other I felt indignation, irritation, disdain…judgment. My heart began to race. I‟d felt a feeling something like this before. I closed my eyes again and tried to remember. “What?” Troy asked, sounding panicky. “What‟s wrong?” To a less intuitive person, the questions could have been mistaken for concern. But I knew the truth. Troy was terrified that I‟d pass out and leave him alone in the room with whatever it was I‟d detected. So much for chivalry. I held my hand up, signaling to him to be quiet for a moment as I scrolled through my past in search of whatever memory triggered the feeling I was experiencing. And then, there it was. I‟d been in the eighth grade and Mandy Atwater, a spoiled, blonde-haired bitch of a kid, accused me of cheating off her paper. She‟d done it to get even with me. A week earlier I‟d gotten tired of her cheating off mine, so I‟d purposefully written the wrong answer to every problem on an Algebra test we were taking. As soon as I finished, she giggled and took her paper to the front. As she was walking back I made a great show of crumpling my test paper up and starting over, copying all the problems from the board again and writing the correct answer beside them. Mandy marched up front and demanded to get her test back. Mr. Jordan had refused and ordered her to sit down. I smiled as she stomped back. I‟d picked this class as the one I‟d let her cheat in specifically because I knew the policy. I‟d chosen my teacher well. But this time, so had she. Mrs. Furr was tennis partners with Mandy‟s mom. I was convicted and pronounced guilty on Mandy‟s word alone and sent to see Mr. Pittman, the

principal. The feeling I got when he walked into the room was exactly the same feeling I got standing in the last bedroom of the mansion. “You don‟t scare me,” I said, and smiled. I still couldn‟t see him, but I could feel him. And I heard what he whispered in my ear. “No?” he said. “You just wait, young lady.” I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and closed my inner eye. No ghost was going to talk to me like that and get away with it. Let him see how he liked being ignored. I turned to Troy. “OK,” I said. “In my professional opinion, this house is haunted.” “You‟re not just saying that?” he asked. I looked at him. “No,” I said between gritted teeth. “As far as I‟m concerned, I‟ve got nothing to gain whether it‟s haunted or not, unless you intend to stiff me on my fee.” “Of course not,” he said. “But what do we do now?” I looked around. “I don‟t really know,” I said. “I‟ve only helped one person to the other side – my uncle. But I was four and the closure he needed had something to do with me, so it‟s not like it took any remarkable skill. Your guy – the entity is male – is stuck here. There‟s something he feels like he needs to finish before he fully crosses over.” “Well what is it?” Troy asked. He sounded frustrated. “I don‟t know,” I said. “What about an exorcism?” he asked. “Would that get him out?” I rolled my eyes. This is why I prefer the dead to the living; they‟re just easier to deal with. “No,” I said, launching into the Hauntings 101 speech I‟d become too used to giving. “This isn‟t a demon. It‟s a ghost. A spirit. It‟s not evil, it‟s just…misguided. All an exorcism will do is get holy water spots on your antiques.” He threw up his hands. “So what do we do?” I turned and started walking towards the door. “Wait for it to find closure.” He took me by the arm. “Fern..I mean, Miss Logan. I don‟t know how to do that. And we have to get rid of this thing. Aunt Penny told me she wants to stay at my house until this is…resolved.” Poor guy. That was going to make it really difficult if he wanted to spend any time with Tamara and her nice ass. “Look, Mr. Bosworth,” I said patiently. “You can call me Troy.” “OK,” I tried again. “Look, Troy. Normally I just…diagnose these things. If you want me to try and find out what‟s keeping this guy here I can do that. If I find out I can communicate with him and maybe – just maybe – convince him to move on. But I can‟t guarantee anything.” “How long do you think it will take?” he asked. I looked out the window. It was late October, just days before Halloween. All Hallows Eve. Samhain. The time of the year when the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. That would make it easier. “Give me three days,” I said. “But it‟ll cost you. Fifteen hundred dollars. And I want the money up front.” He chewed on his bottom lip, considering my fee and my refusal to guarantee success. Then Aunt Penny called from downstairs.

“Troy! You finished up there? We need to get back to your place. My gout‟s flaring up! I‟m going to need you to rub my feet!” Troy looked at me. “All right,” he said. “I‟ll do it.” I didn‟t blame him. The living can be scary, too. *** The next day, Troy gave me a check. I took it to the bank it was drawn on and cashed it before calling to tell him I‟d meet him at the mansion just before dark. When I got there he was waiting out from with a girl I knew right away must be Tamara, even though I only knew her by the picture of her butt. She looked like someone who worked out. I would have taken time to envy her were I not so preoccupied with what I had to do. I laid out my plan to the two of them. “I‟m going to spend the night here,” I said. Tamara looked at me like I‟d sprouted another head. “Are you crazy?” she asked. “No,” I said. “I see dead people. That puts me a level up from „crazy.‟” She didn‟t argue with that. “Supernatural activity is stronger at night,” I said. “The term „witching hour‟ isn‟t just a cute phrase. The membrane between our world and theirs is thinnest between midnight and dawn.” “You won‟t be scared?” Tamara asked. “No,” I said. “Not really. The dead are no more dangerous than the living and are a lot more reasonable. Usually.” She looked at Troy, concern on her pretty face. “If you don‟t mind my saying so, Miss Logan, this doesn‟t seem like a real reasonable ghost. Did Troy tell you…?” She blushed deeply. “Yeah, he did,” I said. “And it‟s unusual for them to reach out and physically touch someone who‟s not a psychic. Whoever this guy is..or was…he‟s pretty strong. But like any ghost he wants to find a way out. My job is to help him figure out what it is.” “Maybe this‟ll help.” Tamara reached into the back seat of her car and pulled out a large accordion-style folder. “What is it?” I asked. “Research,” she said. “Since my little…incident…I‟ve tried to copy everything I could on the old Lockwood Girls‟ School.” I took the folder and opened it, genuinely appreciative of her efforts. “Lockwood?” I asked. “I thought the family that owned this place was Bosworth.” “It was…and is,” she said. “It was built in 1802 by Ezra Bosworth and passed down to his sons. But in the 1850‟s one of his boys – Jeremiah - did the unthinkable and sired nothing but girls.” “That was unfortunate,” I laughed. “In those times, yes it was,” she said. The oldest daughter, Sue Ellen, married a young man named Joseph Lockwood. They had two sons. She adored him, but he died in the Civil War defending the Union. The poor girl had nothing to live for so her father, who was dying himself, told her he was going to leave her the family home. He made her promise to take care of it.” “Tricked into having a reason to live,” I said. “That was mean of him.”

Tamara and Troy exchanged looks. I knew they found my sense of humor peculiar, which put them in a very large club. “It was the younger son, Jared, who grew up to found the Lockwood Girls‟ School. It had a stellar reputation for turning out well-rounded, well-behaved ladies.” I reached into the folder and pulled out a picture. It was faded but I knew right away – even without having seen him – that the man who stared out from the yellowing paper was Jared Lockwood. He was tall, with curly black hair, dark eyes and a dimple in his chin. He was elegant and handsome. If he were alive today he‟d be doing ads for the Abercombie and Fitch. “Wow,” I said. “He‟s not bad looking.” “Maybe not,” Tamara said. “But the girls at this school considered him a monster. They were terrified of him. He beat them regularly, although it would seem that what is considered abuse today wasn‟t considered abuse back then. I came across an old article called “Recollections from Lockwood” written by Henrietta Johns, who was a student there in 1894. She credits Mr. Lockwood with making her the „fine, modest lady‟ she would become.” She made a derisive noise. “How sick is that?” “Pretty sick,” I said. “But his days of bossing women around are over.” I dropped the photo back into the photos. “Our man is hanging out in the wrong time period for that.” I held up the folder. “Thanks for this,” I said. “I‟m going to go in and get started reading. I‟m going to go through some of the old school stuff, too, to see if I can‟t find out some more information.” “Know your enemy, right?” Troy said. “He‟s not my enemy,” I responded. “He‟s just a dead guy who needs to be sent on his way.” Tamara looked up at the house. It was imposing in the late afternoon. Clouds were moving in and the wind was blowing, causing the branches of a nearby oak to scratch against the stones. “Are you sure you want to stay here alone?” she asked. “Dead people don‟t scare me,” I replied. “No matter what they may say.” “Say?” She looked at Troy. “Did he say something to you?” “No,” I lied. There wasn‟t any need to tell her what I‟d heard. It would only freak them out more. “Well, call us if you need us,” Troy said. I almost laughed at this. Troy and Tamara would be the last people I could count on if things got hairy. Not that they would. I‟ve never met a ghost I couldn‟t handle. Or so I thought. **** Once inside, I had to admit that even without the haunting this would be a very creepy house. The late afternoon sun came out briefly, shooting shafts of light through the gaps in the heavy velvet drapes. Dust motes few in the light like fairies. But they weren‟t fairies and I knew it because my inner eye was tightly closed. I sat down at the dining room table and opened the folder. Upending it, I dumped the contents out. There was a lot – newspaper clippings, photocopied passages from books, stuff from the Web.

Jared Lockwood‟s obituary was the first thing I picked up, because as far as I was concerned obituaries provided more information on a person than almost anything else, unless they were famous. He‟d been born in 1872 and had died at in 1920 of the Spanish Flu. He‟d been 48. I was surprised to see that he‟d died a childless bachelor. It seemed odd that a man who devoted his life to education would never marry and have kids of his own. On the other hand, there‟s nothing like dealing with kids all day long to make you not want your own. Lockwood had been educated at a teaching college which turned out class after class of men who went on to become headmasters of prestigious boys‟ schools. The obituary gave no indication of why he‟d chosen to turn out young ladies rather than young gentlemen, although I cynically figured I could guess if I put my mind to it. “Pervert,” I said, and as I did I heard a loud sound from upstairs that made me jump. I sat still in my chair, looking at the overhead ceiling. I was just under the room that held the chalkboard. I closed my inner eye even tighter. “Not yet,” I said, although I was getting the feeling this spirit was pretty strong. What I heard was what anyone else in the house would have heard. But that didn‟t mean I had to react. I laid the obituary down and rifled through the papers looking for the account written by former student Henrietta Johns. I found it – several pages photocopied from a book detailing local landmarks, including the former Lockwood School. I found myself surprised that anyone could look back on such a rigid disciplinarian with fond memories. “We lived in fear of Mr. Lockwood,” Johns had written. “The paddle and the cane were employed with regularity, often for what some may deem minor offenses. Gossip, immodesty, sloth, lies, tardiness – all these things could earn one a trip to the Punishment Room, where she would face an hour of writing lines or standing in a corner with her bare, reddened bottom on display.” Gossip? Immodesty? Sloth? I thought back to what Penelope Bosworth had said about the phone base being slung across the room. She‟d been talking to someone about a former neighbor, gossiping about them. Then there was Tamara, with her too-short skirt. She‟d bent over, offering a generous view of what appeared to be Headmaster Lockwood‟s favorite target. Could it be that I was dealing with a spectral moralist? I decided to go upstairs. Maybe some of the personal effects would give me further insight. When I got to the upper landing I took a deep breath and opened my inner eye. I‟d been hesitating, and it occurred to me that it was because I was uneasy. It made me angry, being uneasy. I‟d never been uncomfortable with the dead and I was here to deal with this ghost, not ignore him. When I opened my eyes, I saw the cat. She was at another mouse hole this time. “Hey, puss,” I said. The cat looked up at me, as if surprised that someone was taking notice of her. “You know you‟re never going to catch that mouse, right? That mouse is long gone to that happy cheese wheel in the sky. You should go, too.” She walked over and rubbed against my leg. She was all energy. It was like having someone rub your leg with a slightly live wire. Animal ghost energy is just plain weird. “Go on,” I said. “Shoo.” But the cat didn‟t go. She just looked up at me and blinked lazily before going back to the mouse hole. “Suit yourself,” I said, and headed down the hall.

I decided to go back into the girls‟ room first. I shut the door behind me. The room was growing dark as the light faded outside. I flicked the light switch and the room filled with a dim glow. The light fixture ahead had five bulbs but only two were working. But that was enough. I walked from one bed to another, hearing giggles and whispers. I concentrated hard and could make out snatches of conversation – girls‟ talking of boys they could see from the windows, girls quizzing one another in Latin, girls warning to be careful or else “he” would find out. No prize for guessing who “he” was. I opened the drawers of the bedside tables. There was little of anything useful, which disappointed me. I‟d hope to find some of the girls‟ personal effects. There was a ribbon in one drawer. I picked it up and was instantly surrounded by the smell of vanilla and caught another bit of conversation replayed by the atmosphere. “Melinda, let me borrow it. Please?” I smiled and put the ribbon back. As I did I looked up to see the cat. I had – as ghosts do – come through the closed door and was now staring at the floor, its tail flicking and flicking and flicking. “You don‟t give up, do you?” I asked. I walked over to scratch my phantom friend on the head but as I leaned down I noticed the board she stared at was slightly raised. “You trying to show me something?” I asked. I lifted the board when it came dislodged I put it aside and peered into the space underneath. Something was there. I reached in and pulled out a dust-covered book. Carefully I brushed the dust off and when I did the word “My Diary” emerged. I turned to thank the cat, but before I could a mouse leapt from where I‟d retrieved the book. Both prey and predator raced across the floor and threw the wall. I heard a squeak and a growl and then the same crackling sound I‟d heard when Ray passed over. Game over. I smiled sadly. “Say „hi‟ to Wendy for me,” I said. I sat down on one of the beds and opened the diary. Now I was getting somewhere.

Chapter Three The diary had belonged to a girl named Jennifer Wheatley. Inside the front cover was a photo of her. She was pretty and petite, with large eyes wavy hair that may have been auburn or brunette. She wore a modest dress with lace at the collar. Conventional clothing. But despite that her eyes were the eyes of a rebel. I know this because I see those same eyes staring back at me from the mirror every morning. I open the page to a random entry, expecting to read of secret crushes or gossip. But instead I was immediately treated to a glimpse of what like must have been like for spirited girl living under the rigid constraints of Lockwood‟s notorious headmaster. “I hate him,” the entry began. “I‟ll say it on paper only because I dare not say it aloud even though I desperately want to.” “Mr. Lockwood caught me drawing during Latin class today. And although I already know the lesson and can conjugate the assigned verbs backwards and forwards he ordered me to see him in the Punishment Room after class.” “I could hear Henrietta and Elizabeth laughing, but they stopped when he looked at them. Had I laughed he‟d have hauled me from my seat and caned be in front of them. For whatever reason, he seems determined to make an example of me. I know it is because I am not like the others.” “I did not cry. It would have just made the other girls happier. Through the rest of the class I could feel Mr. Lockwood‟s eyes on me. I did not show my fear. Perhaps I should have. Perhaps if I had he would have been easier on me.” “Normally Latin class seems to go on forever. Today it sped by. I remained seated as the matron came to collect the other girls, who headed back to their room for the afternoon break. Soon it was just me and Mr. Lockwood.” “Why do you insist on testing me, Jennifer?” he asked. “I was just sketching.” I replied. “Excuse me?” He stepped to my desk. “Excuse me, sir.” I corrected myself, saving him the task. “You know the rules,” he said. “In class, the only time you put writing implement to paper is when you are working on assignments. If you wish to draw silly pictures do it on your own time.” I said nothing. “Jennifer, do you think I like to redden your bottom?” “I looked up at him, knowing that no answer I gave would earn me mercy. Why not just be honest?” “Yes,” I said. “I believe you do. I believe you are a cruel man who takes pleasure in correcting us. Why else would such a cruel man head up a girl‟s school?” “The next thing I remember was being jerked from my chair. Mr. Lockwood had me by my long hair, and pulled my face to within inches of his. It was the first time I‟d seen him pushed to anger.” “You dare question my integrity?” he asked.” My silence was my victory. I looked at him, too angry to care. I did not even try to hide the mockery in my eyes.

“Very well, then,” he said, and strode from the room, dragging me like so much baggage along with him. He was so tall it was all I could do to keep my footing as we made our way down the hall.” “I hate the punishment room, and not just because of what takes place there. There‟s but one small window, so it always seems dark and gloomy. Mr. Lockwood keeps wall sconces lit so in the evening or on cloudy days like this long shadows are cast across the walls and floor.” “As soon as we were inside, he pulled me to him again. His tone was quiet and menacing as he berated me.” “Insolent, disobedient girl,” he said. “Always pushing boundaries. Always testing. The way you act, one would think that you were a senator‟s daughter or a princess rather than a would-be urchin here by grace alone.” Such words used to make me cry, for I knew my family was not of means and that I was at the school due only through a scholarship bought by a distant uncle. “Whatever you did unto the least of me, you did even unto me,” I said, looking him in the eyes. He smirked. “It‟s refreshing to see that you remembered your Bible versus, little witch. Now I shall remind you of another: Spare the rod and spoil the child.” He pulled me then over to the small desk he kept by the chalkboard and pushed me over. I did not fight as he forced me to assume the position I‟d become all too familiar with. But I did feel the fear I‟d been trying so hard to keep at bay.” “Prepare yourself,” he ordered. “No.” “You would test me even now?” The disbelief in his voice delighted and terrified me. I didn‟t answer, just stayed still as I continued my act of passive resistance. “Very well, Jennifer,” he said. “He laid the cane down on the desk right by my face where I would be forced to look at it as he raised my skirts and undid the ties at my underwear. I felt them fall from my body and closed my eyes, trying my best to separate my mind from what was about to happen to my physical being.” “But the pain was too great. I screamed as the cane whistled through the air and landed on my helpless bottom. Mr. Lockwood‟s hand was at the small of my back, holding me down so hard I could barely breathe. He lashed me furiously; I never understood how he could stripe me so without breaking the skin. But could those stripes have hurt any more if he did? I do not think so.” “My lips did bleed, though, from being bitten as I tried to stifle my cries. But as usual I failed miserably and soon Mr. Lockwood reaped the rewards of his correction as I sobbed out my apologies and regrets at disobeying him.” Did I mean those things I said? At the time I truly did. Wouldn‟t you? After he finished – deciding either his arm was tired or that I could take no more – Mr. Lockwood tossed the cane aside and lifted me up. He studied my face a moment, looking into my eyes. “Your spirit remains intact,” he observed. “Bent but not broken, just as it should be.” “I found myself wondering what he would do should he ever decide to break my spirit, but pushed that thought immediately from my mind. Some things are best not dwelled upon.” “To the board, Jennifer.”

I started to drop my skirts but a look from him stopped me. I‟d almost forgotten. When standing in the corner or writing lines, my bottom was to remain bare. I looked away as I tucked the hem of my skirt into the sash at my waist.” “I will obey the just rules of Mr. Lockwood‟s class, for they are for my betterment.” “I wrote the line over and over until my hand cramped. When I reached the end of the board I erased the lines and started over. I did this until Mr. Lockwood, who had left the room, came back and gave me leave to stop writing.” “Now I am sitting on my bed alone. All the other girls are asleep as I write by candlelight. As always I will hide this book when I finish writing this, for one cannot speak freely here.” “But I do have reason for optimism. I am done with yet one more day at Lockwood School for Girls. I am one day closer to leaving it for good.” I shut the book. The man was a beast. An absolute beast! I‟ve never been angry with a ghost before, but now I was. Putting the diary back in its hiding place, I dropped the board back down and walked out the door and down the hall to the last room on the left. I took a deep breath before I opened the door. As I did I concentrating on opening my inner eye as wide as I could. Not that I needed to. I think even if it had been halfway open I‟d have still seen him there. He had his back to me and as staring out the window into the night. He had perfect posture and was smartly dressed in a suit of his era. He was tall, event taller than he looked in his photo. And when he turned I realized his face was even more handsome. Jared Lockwood regarded me with an authoritative expression. “You can kill the attitude,” I said. “I‟m not one of your students, Lockwood.” He shook his head. “The lack of manners of your generation never ceases to amaze me,” he said. “Sometimes it makes me question why I even stay.” “So why do you?” I asked. He smiled at me. It was a condescending smile. “Why don‟t you tell me? You‟re the expert.” “I‟m not an expert,” I said. “I just have a natural gift of being able to talk to the dead.” “The gift of a witch,” he said. “Go to hell,” I sat reflexively. He stepped forward. He was quick, far quicker than I imagined he would be. Even if I‟d seen him reach for me I‟d have not been quick enough to avoid him. That surprised me, but not as much as his grip. He only held me with enough force to restrain me. “Would that I could,” he said. There was intense hurt in his eyes. He looked away ashamed, I think that I‟d seen it. “Would that I could.” He let me go. I felt guilty. Sometimes I can be a real bitch. “You don‟t have to stay,” I said. “There‟s nothing holding you here.” “And there‟s one less thing now that you sent my cat away,” he said. Wow. I was really batting a thousand. “I‟m sorry,” I said. “I didn‟t mean to…let your cat go. But I would like to help you to the other side.” He laughed. “Yes, I quite imagine you‟d like to actually earn the money you were paid.” I frowned. “I didn‟t guarantee them anything, only that I would do my job.” The ghost looked at me with disdain.

“Your job,” he said reproachfully. “Your job should be raising children, tending to your home and being a good wife to your husband.” I laughed. “Wow. You are stuck, aren‟t you. Sorry, teacher, but times have changed. Women do more than obey their men and make babies these days.” “A testament to the lack of proper guidance,” he said. “You mean like the guidance you gave Jennifer Wheatly?” I asked. “Impertinent girl. Impertinent just as she is,” he said. “Don‟t you mean „was‟?” I asked. “You would also benefit from a sound spanking,” came the reply “Being direct, are we?” I asked. “And here I was thinking that sneaking up on unsuspecting mortals was more your style.” “You mean the little slattern who bent over and offered her bum up for a proper smacking?” “That „little slattern‟ is the girlfriend of the man who hired me, Lockwood. And offered or not, you have no place hitting women like that. Like I said, you may be a ghost but you‟re stuck in a modern time.” And you, young lady, are standing in a house where time has stood still. I would think as an interloper you‟d have better manners.” “You‟re the interloper,” I said. “Someone else owns this house now. Your time is past.” I sighed. “Look. I don‟t mean to be insensitive, but whatever is holding you here..” “….is none of your business,” he said. “And now I shall ask you to leave, unless you would prefer a spanking and some time writing lines.” I felt a chill run up my back, even as my anger flared. The ghost was threatening me. I wanted to laugh in his face, but I knew that he was strong. If he moved for me I could not close my inner eye fast enough. And even if I did he was strong enough to assault me. He‟d prove that by assaulting Tamara. I backed away. “I‟ll go,” I said. “But not because I‟m afraid. I‟ll go because you are. And because you need time to process what I said.” He smiled. “Of course,” he replied. “Feel free to call later when you can exercise better manners.” I walked to the doorway but lingered there for a moment. I wanted to show him that I wasn‟t afraid. But he wasn‟t buying my act. I could see it in his eyes. I went back to the girls‟ room, feeling more frustrated than ever. This wasn‟t going to be like it was with Uncle Ray. No warm and fuzzy goodbye for this guy. He seemed utterly miserable stuck in the world of the living, but at the same time he seemed perfectly content being miserable. I was getting tired. Conversing with the dead is exhausting. I laid down on one of the beds, closing my inner eye as I did. But I could not close my actual eyes. For some reason I was unusually restless. “Whatever,” I said, and sat up. No way was I going to be able to get to sleep. I got up and walked over to the board in the floor. Lifting it, I took the diary from its hiding place. “Hello, Jennifer,” I said, and opened the book. The first thing I saw was a self-portrait of Jennifer, a self portrait of her with her face in her hands, weeping. I began to read.

“My respite, my escape, my homecoming…denied by cruel fate. A priest from the church came today to give me the bad news. My family‟s home was destroyed in a fire last night. They think it started in the chimney above the cookstove. If only my uncle had hired a chimneysweep instead of paying to send me here I would be happy and my family would live. So I am an orphan, and worst of it is that the cruel Mr. Lockwood has stepped forward to offer me lodging until I am of age. So here I am, just as everyone else leaves to spend Christmas with family, delivered like a present into the hands of a man who seems to delight in tormenting me. To be sure he would say otherwise, and did when he came to me to express his condolences over my loss. Had he been someone I trusted I would have gladly told him that I felt orphaned long before my family died. My mother had remarked more than once that having me home meant one more mouth to feed. She had remarried since my father died, and I knew she did not like the way her new husband looked at me. She was all too eager to see me packed off to school, even if it made me sad. I would like to have gotten to know the half-brother she bore before he died too young with my mother and step-father. „I have always had your well being at heart,” Mr. Lockwood said to me as I sat in his office. „You may think otherwise given how strict I am, given that I am stricter with you than I am with the other girls. But there is a strangeness, an otherness about you, Jennifer, that I fear will lead to pridefulness or excessive adventuring should it not be refined or curbed.‟ I said nothing. It was nothing new for him to remind me that I wasn‟t like the other girls; not just because I was poorer, but because I remained aloof and untouchable no matter how often he bent me over his desk. I believe he thought my strength a weakness, or a direct challenge to his authority – a challenge he seemed determined to meet again and again. It was not that I wanted to test this man. So many times I‟ve wished I could just submit to him the way the other girls do. One look from him and they burst into tears, the promise of what he may do to them is enough to make most of them obey. He asked me if there was something to say. I said yes, there was. I said that while I appreciated his charity that it was unnecessary and that I was capable of caring for myself and would take my leave, perhaps hire myself out to a workhouse and return after holiday to study since I did not want to waste his money. „You apparently fail to understand the situation,” he said. „You are now my ward, Jennifer.‟ His ward? I looked up at him. „No,‟ I said. „I am of age. I know girls my age who are married.‟ „In the slums, yes, and with their father‟s permission‟ he said. „But your uncle wants more for you than such a life. So you remain here.‟ I looked away, blinking back the tears. Even now I did not want him to see my fear, my grief, my disappointment. „Unpack your bags, Jennifer,‟ he said. And then he walked from the room.” I closed the book. Jared Lockwood had taken Jennifer Wheatley in as his ward. I‟d not been expecting that. From the way he‟d interacted with her I‟d have thought he‟d be glad to get rid of her. Why on earth would he allow her to stay in the school, which also served as his home? Perhaps her mysterious uncle offered to pay him extra. It would make sense; even if a wealthy relative could afford a young female ward didn‟t mean he‟d want one. It was likely easier to leave her at the school.

“Poor thing,” I said aloud. I could understand how she felt. I never felt comfortable anywhere, least of all Catholic school. I lived for summers and breaks. I could only imagine how I would have felt if I‟d been informed that one of the nuns had adopted me. I opened the book again to a later entry. “I reluctantly wore one of the dresses he bought for me today. I wasn‟t willing to risk another spanking by refusing him again. I was still frustrated that Mr. Lockwood failed to understand that it was discomfort – and not ingratitude – that kept me from wanting to wear the frocks. I was fine with my old ones, but he said no ward of his would dress as a pauper. Mercifully he did not tell the other girls that I was his ward. I asked him not to and did not look at him to gauge whether it hurt his feelings or not. I did not care. I had not asked for this. My new finery did not spare me the taunts of my classmates. Right away they started in with their jibes. They‟d heard rumors of my house burning down, and could not resist a chance to turn my loss into their amusement. “Was that dress your inheritance?” Millicent asked. The other girls laughed. Unknown to them, he‟d been standing by the door. They stopped laughing when Mr. Lockwood called them to the front. As they stood there, trembling, he ordered me to stand. I wanted to fall through the floor. Was he going to announce my new status? My eyes pleaded with him for silence, for secrecy. I held my breath, waiting for him to speak. “What did these girls say to you?” he asked. I felt the eyes of all my classmates on me. Please, no. Don‟t make me tell. I said the words to myself, but conveyed them silently to him. “I will make you tell,” he said and I felt myself gasp and saw him look at me in surprise as I realized that he had given a verbal answer to my silent question. He‟d heard me. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me or join them up here, Jennifer.” I wasn‟t going to let that happen. “They asked me if the dress was part of my inheritance,” I said, realizing that protecting them wouldn‟t earn me their friendship, but would earn me their shared humiliation. Mr. Lockwood looked at the two girls standing before him and asked if this were true. They nodded solemnly. He told them they would get ten strokes each with the paddle there and then, to be followed by six strokes each with the cane later in the punishment room. I wanted to look away, but that is forbidden, too. Mr. Lockwood requires us to watch, so that we may learn from the chastisement of our sisters. He made them bend over his desk and hiked their dresses up. He bared their bottoms – Millicent‟s fat wobbly one and Greta‟s skinny, boyish one. I felt sorrier for Greta. She was nothing but skin and bone. Perhaps that is why he hit her lower on her bum, because that was where she was most padded. Either way, by the time he‟d hit them each ten times they were red – Millicent all over and Geta‟s on the lower half just above her thighs. The girls weren‟t allowed to get up. They just stood there shifting from foot to foot sobbing like babes as the paddle markes turned puffy on their skin. Around me, the other girls shifted in their seats. I did not. I just stared straight ahead relieved that – this time – it wasn‟t me.

Later that day he took them to the Punishment Room. I could hear the whistle of the cane. We all could. We could hear the shrieking, the pleading ,the begging and then their footsteps as they walked – one to the board and one to the corner – to stand and write lines. As one finished the lines she replaced her friend in the corner so that she could write her lines, too. The other girls whispered behind their hands. I knew what they were saying. This was my fault. Even though I‟d been the victim of taunting, the fact that they‟d been caught at it was my fault. I‟d planned or schemed it somehow. They hated me, and that didn‟t bother me except that I often felt so lonely. Did he know this? Perhaps he did, because the next day Mr. Lockwood brought me a kitten. The other girls looked at me in jealousy as he presented it to me. By then word had spread that I‟d been invited to stay at the school. “The rest of you have mothers,” he said as I stroked the little cat‟s gray fur. “Jennifer has no one. Now she has a cat. And should some harm come to it I shall blame all of you.” The other girls knew this was a preemptive warning and let my feline friend alone. She slept on my bed that night, her purr soothing me to sleep. When she wasn‟t following me around she was chasing mice in the hallways. That alone earned her the endearments of the other girls. Lady – that‟s what I named her – soon became something of a bridge between me and the other girls. They would come to my bed and pet her and talk to me, and even if that was the only time I ever got any attention, at least their words were kind. I shut the book and put it on the bedside table, wondering if the mouse-obsessed ghost cat had once belonged to Jennifer. It occurred to me that it had, and it also occurred to me that Mr. Lockwood seemed to care for the girl a great deal more than his closed demeanor and strictness would indicate. This case of the Girls‟ School Ghost had become a mystery – a mystery I was determined to solve.

Chapter Four I should have known that I wouldn‟t be able to sleep. The diary wasn‟t a mystery novel, but even so I felt that somewhere in the pages I‟d find clues about why Jared Lockwood was still around ninety years after his death. I went back to the beginning and started to read. I found nothing extraordinary. The diary began several weeks into Jennifer Wheatley‟s third year at the Lockwood Girl Schools, and described the day-to-day life of an introverted student who realized from the offset that she would not fit in. I liked the fact that Jennifer never seemed to care whether the other girls liked her. She had an independence about her that apparently infuriated the “alpha” girls who were used to having their favor curried or instilling tears with a few well-chosen words. Jennifer didn‟t care for their company; she preferred to be alone. And she didn‟t care enough about what they thought of her to cry when they told her that they didn‟t like her. But the girls had to be careful of how they treated her in front of Mr. Lockwood, who would punish them if he caught them being cruel to her. So instead of direct cruelty – although that still occurred – the other girls began to specialize in blaming Jennifer for things they themselves had done. It did not always go well for them, but sometimes the girls were successful and I found myself getting angry as I read her accounts: Someone scratched my name on the banister today. It was not me. Mr. Lockwood called me forward in class and questioned me. I denied having done it and so he proceeded to call forth every girl in class. Of course they all denied it to. I felt confident he would not punish me without proof and was comfortable. Then he called us all forward and had us line up before him. He told us all to turn out our pockets. As I did I was seized by a sickening feeling. In my pocket was a hairpin with wood splinters stuck in the end of it. On my way into class Millicent had bumped into me unnecessarily hard; I now realized that at that very moment she must have secreted the pin in my dress pocket. I stood there looking stupidly at the pin. “What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked me. I didn‟t know what to say. I just stood there, looking stupidly at the pin as beside me the other girls smirked in satisfaction. “It‟s not mine,” I finally said. “It was in your pocket.” “It‟s not mine.” It was a simple but unbelievable explanation given that it was right there in my pocket. Mr. Lockwood dismissed the other girls to their seats and informed me quietly to meet him in the Punishment Room after class. I could feel the victorious eyes of the other girls on me as I took my seat. I did not return their gaze, nor did I look at the clock as it ticked away the minutes. I just let my mind kind of go out of my body and ignored everything but my lesson until the class was over. I did not even wait for Mr. Lockwood to instruct me to go to the room. I did it on my own and stood by the window looking out until he came in.

“Why would you do such a thing?” he asked me. Those were his first words. I did not respond. He‟d already decided I‟d defaced the banister, and arguing would do no good. “Answer me.” I refused. I knew I was making him angry and so I told him that I had only one thing to say, that he could beat me if he liked but if he did he would be punishing an innocent person. He studied me for a moment and said something I will never forget. “Someone has to pay, Jennifer. And all the evidence says it must be you.” He bent me over the desk then and raised my skirts. I closed my eyes, wishing I could physically leave my body as it was punished, but my power has its limits. I can shut most things out, but not this. Mr. Lockwood landed six blows on my bottom. The smacks of the paddle landing seemed deafening to me and I was ashamed of the cries that escaped my lips as the pain went from bad to worse. By the time he was finished my bottom was throbbing with hurt and tears were coursing down my face. I would not look at him as he guided me to the board and instructed me to write “I will not deface school property” a hundred times on the board. He left the room and I stood there with my skirts tucked into my waistband and my bottom aching so bad I felt it in my toes and poised the chalk to write. But I could not write what he told me to. I had done nothing wrong. When Mr. Lockwood came back in a half hour later I had resigned myself to another paddling. For I had filled both sides of the board with neat script reading, “I DID NOT deface school property.” We faced each other from across the room, Mr. Lockwood and I. This time I held his gaze. And I held my breath. He picked up the eraser and walked to the board. His back was tense as he erased. I expected him to tell me to go to the desk and bend over. But instead, he ordered me to do something else. “You may go back to your room, Jennifer,” he said. “It would seem that you have learned much this day. Go and reflect upon it.” I looked up from the book, wondering if I would have been so brave. Even as a ghost Jared Lockwood cut a stern, intimidating figure. For a young woman he must have seemed imposing indeed. But somewhere inside her, Jennifer Wheatly had found the resolve to stand up to him when it mattered most. I continued to read, incensed by the girls‟ cruelty towards her. She excelled academically in spite of everything and Lockwood seemed to notice this, although he did not cut her any slack. He seemed to single her out for some reason, admonishing her more severely than the other girls on the rare times when she did do something out of order. I was having a hard time figuring out what he was thinking, and Jennifer didn‟t seem to give much though to it. Or perhaps she did, but she did not put it down on paper. Lockwood‟s installation as Jennifer‟s guardian in the wake of her family‟s death seemed to drive her further inward even as the headmaster began to demand even more of her, even if her status as his ward remained between the two of them. In class when one of the other girls

inquired as to why Jennifer did not leave over Christmas vacation, Mr. Lockwood informed her that asking after matters that were none of her concern would earn a severe spanking. He looked out at all the other girls as he said this, his message clear: The topic was off-limits. The girls only became more hostile to Jennifer, and I could only surmise it was because they realized that she‟d been invited to stay by the handsome schoolmaster. On my travels through the house I‟d found hidden initials scratched into the wood of the house. JL + LV one read. I knew that a Laura Vandros was in Jennifer‟s class. One of the popular girls and a close friend of Millicent, she‟d obviously harbored a crush on the dashing authority figure; it likely did not please her to know that he was protective of Jennifer. And protective he was. By springtime the abuse by the other girls had ramped up. Jennifer awoke more than once to find her hair tied to the bedposts. One of the girls poured sand in her shoes. The came up with awful nicknames for her and taunted her about her dead relatives and her impoverished state. They harassed her to tell them why she was staying at the school when they went home on break. But she never answered them and took to spending more time alone. Her favorite place to escape was the old barn behind the house, where she‟d climb to the loft and sit and read for hours when the other girls were taking her exercise. One afternoon when one of the girls came up with a ditty about her family being burned alive, she finally broke down in tears and fled. “I can only take so much,” she wrote. “I will always hear their song in my ears.” Jennifer‟s family, no food, no class. Cooked themselves till they turned to ash. I was a stranger to my mother. I barely knew my brother. But to make light of their brutal deaths makes me question the goodness of humanity. I had told myself I would not let them get to me, but they did and I fled to my hiding place in the barn. Only today it was with disastrous results. Halfway up to the loft one of the rotted steps gave way and I fell to the floor. I could not move my ankle, it hurt so badly. It would not bear my weight. Later I would hear that the girls who had taunted me gave a false report to Mr. Lockwood that I had run away to town. He spent hours looking for me, apparently, before coming home to be tearfully confronted by a girl who had seen me head towards the old barn. She‟d been afraid to come forward for fear of repercussions by the other girls. He came for me around midnight and found me sitting up against the wall. I was cold, hungry and too tired to cry. “Silly girl,” he said, and lifting me up into his arms. “Are you going to beat me?” I asked. “No,” he said and kissed me on my forehead. “But don‟t run if they are cruel, Jennifer. Just come to me instead and I will make it right.” “They‟ll only hate me more if I do,” I said. “I only want to be left alone.” “You do not have to worry about them,” he said. “I‟m expelling them from the school for the remainder of the term.” I asked him to send me away instead. It was I who did not belong. I was like the flawed wolf driven from the pack. I was out of my element and I realized this, even if Mr. Lockwood did not. But he would not hear of it. “I will never let you go,” he said.

The girls were in their room when we returned. Mr. Lockwood bore me upstairs and to the door and stood outside. “Young ladies, I seek permission to enter.” I could hear gasps from within, for the girls‟ quarters were off-limits to male visitors. Mr. Lockwood had never set foot inside and even though he was flanked by two matrons he took pains to seek permission before entering. My roommates granted it out of curiosity more than anything else and I could feel their jealous eyes on me as he bore me to my bed and ordered the physician sent for. I cried out as he removed my shoe and stocking. My ankle was swollen and later I learned it was badly sprained but fortunately not broken. As the doctor worked on me, Mr. Lockwood motioned six girls to follow him out – all of them my tormentors. Their eyes filled with fear and they cast accusing glances at me as they passed. I was glad for this, for Mr. Lockwood had told me that Prudence had informed him of what happened and I did not want her to be their new target. I could hear the sickening sounds of the cane. Each girl got ten and the hallway filled with sounds of their screams and cries for mercy. I could hear them trop to the corner or the board. He kept them up all night long. They did not appear for class in the morning and by midday each one had been collected by their furious and embarrassed parents. It was a sign of disgrace to be dismissed from the exclusive school. The girls, including Millicent, hung their heads in shame as they departed. Things seemed to go better for Jennifer after that. With the other girls gone the rest of the term passed smoothly. She did not escape punishment, however. Whenever Mr. Lockwood deemed it necessary she was chastised, although the occasions were rare. And when he did correct Jennifer for something he took great pains to explain to her exactly why she was being punished. All this Jennifer documented in her journal, which offered few and vague glimpses of whatever emotions she felt towards a man who seemed to take an unusual interest in this particular student. “He wants me to stay after I am finished with school and become a teacher,” she wrote. “I am taken aback by his offer but also flattered. Mr. Lockwood says the position would afford me stability and a place to stay as long as I need it. But he warned that even as an apprentice teacher I would be subject to his guidance. Will I do this? He could press the issue and keep me here if he wanted. But I want the decision to be mine. I will soon have to decide what I will do. I have but half a term left. My eyes began to feel heavy. I was tired and the journal was almost finished. I‟d read it tomorrow, I told myself as I climbed into one of the beds and went to sleep. Nothing bothered me that night. I was surprised to wake up after having enjoyed a restful, dreamless sleep in the girls‟ room. I reflected on my conversation with Lockwood as I drifted off to sleep. There was something about his demeanor with me that was almost…dismissive was the only word that came to mind. He knew I was there to drive him out; he knew I was being paid to make him leave. And yet he seemed unconcerned that I might actually do it. Instead he staled the room, obviously preoccupied with whatever was keeping him there.

I knew the Bosworths would want some sort of update but when I checked my cell phone I realized it was dead even though it had been fully charged the day before. This didn‟t surprise me in the least. Ghosts strong enough to manifest to the average person often draw energy from electronic equipment. So if you‟re ever in a haunted house and your flashlight goes out, there might indeed be a ghost about. I need to contact the Bosworths, and I was hungry, too. So I decided to charge my phone in the car while I went to get something to eat. I‟d really not planned to still be at the house, and was irked that it would likely take the entire allotted time to convince Jared Lockwood to move on. Even though I‟d been paid up front, I had my professional credibility to consider. I needed to be successful at my task, especially if I had any hope of getting my name out to others desperate enough to pay for some professional ghost-busting. It was six miles to the nearest McDonald‟s. The houses along the way were all decked out for Halloween, which was now just one day away. The displays were impressive. This was a town that took its Halloween seriously. I like that. Halloween always makes me feel more normal for some reason. All around me are people trying to be different. It takes the pressure off of me to try and be normal. I ordered two coffees and a breakfast sandwich, which ate in the car. By the time I was finished, my phone had enough of a charge to call the Bosworths. Troy answered right away and seemed relieved. I‟d told him not to contact me at the house; I‟d even taken the phone off the hook so I wouldn‟t be disturbed. I‟m sure waiting for me to call had made them nervous, and I think Troy was disappointed that the ghost was still there. But he was encouraged that I was still working on things and hadn‟t been scared away. I stopped at the Pederson Hardware Store on the way in to pick up an oil lantern. I wanted to spend part of my gloomy day in the Punishment Room with the ghost of Mr. Lockwood and knew better than to trust my flashlight. All I could find were electric lanterns and stood there in frustration wondering whether they even made the old-timey ones any more. “Can I help you, young lady?” I turned to see a wizened old man coming towards me. He was lightly stooped over and walked with a cane, but he managed a cheery smile nonetheless. He seemed awfully old to be working. I was impressed. I nodded towards the lanterns. “Don‟t you have any that use oil?” I asked. He peered at the shelf, scowling. “Darn Edward,” he muttered. “Excuse me?” I asked. “My great-great nephew. Edward. At least I think he‟s a great-great. Might be a few more greats in there. More like an ingrate, moving things around.” He laughed at his own joke and I joined it, admiring his humor. “He‟s the store manager now but when he goes on a break I escape from where he keeps me parked by the potbelly stove up near the front and try to help the customers so I won‟t forget I still own this place.” He peered at me. “What were you looking for again, young lady?” I smiled patiently. “Lanterns,” I said helpfully. “Oil lanterns?” He tapped his skull and then waggled is finger at me, cackling. “The memory,” he said. “It comes and goes.” “I think Edward had one of the stock girls put the oil lanterns back here in the decorating section,” he said as he led me past the plumbing fixtures and hunting and camping gear to a

small area with nostalgic houseware items. “Back in my days you didn‟t get light unless you had an oil lamp.” I studied him for a moment. “Have you lived here al your life?” I asked. “Yep. Born and bred here. I‟ll die here too, probably sooner than later. I just turned 99.” “Wow,” I said. He held out a craggy hand. “Silas Pederson‟s the name.” I shook his hand. It felt like paper stretched over chicken bones. I was afraid of shaking too hard for fear of breaking it. But even with his frailty I knew he was wrong. His life force was strong as an ox. He‟d make it to 103. At least. I had a flash of inspiration. “Mr. Pederson,” I said quickly. “What do you know about the old Lockwood Girls‟ School? I‟m investigating the odd goings-on over there.” “Ah, so you‟re the one I‟ve been hearing about.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Turned out a lot of well-disciplined girls. Jared Lockwood was a tough disciplinarian. Those girls respected him and if they got out of line he made them get right back to toeing it. It was a loss to the community that he died so young. But grief‟ll do that to you..” I shook my head. “I thought he died of the Yellow Fever.” “He did,” the old man said. “But the Grim Reaper‟s visit was like a blessing to that man. I don‟t think he wanted to be among the living.” “Why?” I asked. “He never would say. Lockwood was a private fellow. He was always a dour, but in the last ten years of his life he hardly smiled at all. I can‟t imagine why someone so sad with his life as it was would choose to stick around.” He handed me a lantern. “You sound almost as if you believe that his ghost exists.” Silas Pederson shook his head. “You don‟t live as long as I do without seeing some strange things. Take the old Wilcox place for instance. Word is that the ghost of Gerald Wilcox pretty young wife still haunts that old house. Nobody will buy it. Shame, too, because if it was fixed up it‟d sell for a pretty penny.” “What happened to her?” I asked. “Flung herself out the window in nineteen hundred and ten after being forced to marry a man she didn‟t love. She had dreams of doing something else with her life, but back in her day women didn‟t have much say. They just did as they were told. Most of the time, anyways.” I pondered this. “Where is the old Wilcox Place?” I asked. “It‟s up on Mill Point Road. Down at the very end. It‟s marked No Trespassing. It‟s not a safe place to go. I think the owner lives out of state now but if you write him you might be able to get permission to check the place out.” “Thanks,” I said. “For everything.” “You‟re welcome, young lady. Now you be careful up at that old school. And you mind your manners or else old Jared Lockwood will make you mind.” He cackled at his joke but I only managed a half-hearted laugh. Jokes like that are funny to people who‟ve never had any real experiences with ghosts. If Silas Pederson were an unfulfilled man he might realize after death how unfunny his observation was. But he never

would. He was a man who seemed to be pretty happy with his life. When he left he‟d go to the other side with no reason to return. I was pretty sure of that. What I wasn‟t sure of was how I was going to get rid of Jared Lockwood‟s ghost. It was already noon, and I just had a little over one more day.

Chapter Five So Lockwood Girls‟ School wasn‟t the only haunted house in town. As I drove back to the school I told myself that if I solved this case I‟d reward myself by visiting the old Wilcox House. It wasn‟t that I needed to see ghosts. As I drove I opened my inner eye and caught sight of several. An stone-faced man stood in a graveyard watching a funeral, even though he wasn‟t among the living. Had he waited until the guest of honor had died before he left? The look of hatred on his face was unmistakable, and I wondered at his story. But I only had one to deal with today. The air was growing cold and clouds were moving in. At this rate it would be a dark and stormy night for trick-or-treaters this year. The house seemed gloomier than ever. This time instead of going up to the girls room I went straight to the room the girls had all so dreaded. The door opened as I approached. A good sign. I thought. Perhaps he‟d talk to me today. Jared Lockwood was standing there, waiting. He was as handsome as ever. I could see why the girls all had crushes on him. “Enjoying your stay?” he asked. “Not really,” I said. “I need to get home before my plants die.” I turned to him. “You don‟t belong here. Please tell me what I can do to help you cross over.” He rounded on me. “Impertinent girl,” he spat. “It is you who are where you do not belong. I was in this place long before you were a shadow of a thought in your mother‟s mind. And you stand here and tell me to leave?” “Mr. Lockwood, we all have our time on this earth. Yours is past.” He smirked. “If that were so then I would not be able to stay, even in this form.” I didn‟t know what to say to this. “You can‟t rest while you remain,” I said. He walked to the window and looked out. I walked over and stood beside him. Out the window I could see the tops of the trees and just above them the top of a huge, ramshackle house. “I‟d rest even less if I were to leave.” “Why?” I asked. He looked down at me. “I‟ve been more than patient with you, young lady. But my patience is at an end. Leave this house. If you stay I will consider it an act of disobedience and act accordingly.” I felt my temper flare. This ghost dared to threaten me? “I told you,” I said evenly. “I‟m not afraid of you.” He took hold of my arm and I gasped. His grip was as strong and solid as any man. I wouldn‟t have been able to tell the difference except for the odd electrical surge that went with it. Outside, the streetlamps flickered. “And I told you that you would be.” “No!”

I fought as he pulled me over to the desk. My foot hit a box on the floor and it toppled over, spilling slates and long-empty inkwells across the floor. A cane had appeared in Jared Lockwood‟s hand. Now I was scared. He pushed me over the desk and leaned forward, his breath cool in my ear. “Do you think my decades as a schoolmaster left me unable to deal with errant, arrogant girls?” I tried to rise but could not. “No,” I said, groaning in frustration. “But I‟m not a girl. I‟m a woman.” “You may be a woman, but not one that ever learned to defer to authority. In my day you‟d have a husband to do what I‟m about to do.” I tried again to stand. “I told you!” I cried. “I don‟t have a husband. Did it ever occur to you that not every woman wants to marry? Some don‟t you know!” The pressure on my back disappeared. I stood quickly and watched as he laid the cane down on the desk. “You‟re quite right,” he said. “Some don‟t.” My heart was thudding in my chest. “You never married, did you?” I asked. His answer was a hard, hurt look that puzzled me. After my brush with other-worldly discipline I didn‟t think it wise to press him, but my curiosity got the better of me. “Why?” I asked. “It‟s not like you weren‟t surrounded by ladies of marriageable age. Most of them had money. All came from good families. Well, all except Jennifer Wheatley.” He covered the space between us so fast that I didn‟t see him move and I‟m ashamed ot say that his presence hovering above me made me scream in fright. “What do you know of her, ghost seeker?” he asked. His face was furious now, his cold hand at my throat. I was shaking now, trying hard to get ahold of myself. “Nothing other than that she was a student here!” I squeaked. “Let me go!” “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Has she spoken to you?” Spoken to me? Was he crazy? He loosened his grip so I could speak. “No!” I said gasping. “You‟re the only ghost here!” He relaxed even more. “Of course I am,” he said bitterly. “But you know of her. Tell me how.” “I found her diary,” I said. He looked at me, his eyes widening. “Where?” “In her room,” I said. His eyes lifted and looked towards the direction of the room. “I‟m forbidden from entering,” he said. I recalled then what Jennifer had written in her diary, that the schoolmaster never let anyone in. He looked down at me. “I used to paddle the girls if they stole through one another‟s personal things,” he said. “I don‟t think Jennifer would mind,” I said. “She has to be dead by now. If she‟d lived she‟d be well over a hundred years old.”

He let go of me and I saw what looked like misty tears in his eyes. “Yes, she would have.” “Would have?” I asked. “What happened…?” “Leave me,” he said. “No,” I persisted. “I want to know what happened!” “Leave me!” he said. He turned back to me, his expression heavy with warning. “No.” I shook my head. “Not until you tell me what happened. I want to know, Mr. Lockwood. Did you love her?” I should have stopped, but I‟ve never been one to know when to quit while I was ahead. He lunged for me but this time I was faster and flew out the door with him hot on my heels. I made for the girls room and ran inside, turning to see him standing on the threshold. Lifting an elegant hand, he pointed at me. “No. More. Questions.” he said, and then vanished before my eyes. I shut the door and slumped down against the wall, gasping as I willed my heart to slow down. I‟d never pissed off a ghost before. Now I was stuck overnight in a house with one. But at least I was safe in the girls‟ room. I stood and turned the light on. It flickered dimly. Lockwood had drained energy from the house as well. But since I was stuck in the darkening room I figured I‟d best make use of what light I had left. I found the diary where I left it beneath the floorboard and opened it to where I‟d left off. Jennifer Wheatley had decided to take John Lockwood up on his offer. She was going to be a teacher, and the subsequent pages were filled with her hopes and dreams. Just as I suspected, the headmaster took her under his wing. He allowed her to work as an apprentice in what would have been her final year. She taught several classes attended by the incoming girls and was well-liked. It was like reading the happy ending and I was glad for her. If anyone deserved a happy ending it was Jennifer Wheatley. Then I came to the final page. The entry was short and shocking. “My uncle is here to collect me,” it read. “He‟s informed me that I am to be married and that I have no say in the matter. My tears and entreaties were lost on him. A business associate – a much older man whom I have never met – became captivated by my picture and when he found out I was unmarried and of age, asked for my hand.” “How can this be? I love my life as it is. I love this school, both the good memories and the bad. I love the students. I love teaching. And I love Jared Lockwood. And I believe he loves me, too.” “He tried to reason with my uncle, even requesting my hand and offering uncle a huge dowry if he were allowed to marry me instead. But my uncle said he had already given his word.” “I am beyond grief, beyond tears. I do not want to live. And I know I cannot if I am taken away. I will not, cannot live life as Mrs. Gerald Wilcox.” I couldn‟t breathe for a moment. It had been Jennifer. She had been the one Silas Pederson was talking about! She was the woman who had flung herself from the rooftop. Of all the things they tell you about ghosts that are wrong, one common myth is correct: people who kill themselves have a hard time crossing over. After all, they never wait for life to resolve the issues that are causing them pain. Instead they try to leave, but it‟s never successful.

Now I knew what happened, and I was pretty sure why Jared Lockwood was refusing to leave. Even though he could not get to her – ghosts have boundaries and only the strongest of the strong can break the – he could sense she was still on this side of the veil. And he would not leave until she did. I was wagering that she felt the same. I also understood his sadness. He‟d tried to reason with her uncle, to save Jennifer from a life she did not want. He had failed and she had killed herself. He felt responsible. The question now was what to do. I didn‟t want to risk angering Jared Lockwood. He‟d specifically said no more questions. But if I could reason with her, convince her to leave then perhaps he would follow. I picked up the diary and walked back to his door and laid it down outside. “I know what happened, Mr. Lockwood,” I said. “I know what happened to Jennifer. I know she killed herself and that‟s why you won‟t leave. There‟s nothing else I can do so I‟m going to leave. Thanks for letting me stay here. I‟m putting Jennifer‟s diary in the hall in case you want it for a keepsake. Of course, if she ever decides to cross over then you won‟t need it. You‟ll just cross over with her….” I heard something hit the wall in the other room, as if being thrown. I stood, afraid, and ran down stairs as quickly as I could. I could feel his hurt, his anger, his darkness enveloping me. I expected him to grasp me at any moment, prepared myself for the feel of his strong, cold hands. But he did not and soon I was outside the house, my hands shaking as I fumbled for my keys. The lanterns were in the car. At least at the Wilcox house I‟d have some light to see by. I used the interior light of my car to read the map. Mill Point Road was less than a mile away, and as I traced it with my finger I realized that the house Jared Lockwood‟s ghost had been staring at earlier that day was the Wilcox place. The thought filled me with sadness. How terrible it must be to stare out that window, at that house, knowing first it was her new home as another man‟s wife and later knowing it was where she‟d died from unhappiness. The road up to the house was rutted with disrepair. I was careful as I drove, for the weather wasn‟t helping. The wind was kicking up, causing my car to rock. The sky spat rain and leaves at my windshield. It was as if nature were trying to keep me from reaching the house. But I‟m stubborn, and within twenty minutes I was at the gate. It was locked. No problem. I had a pair of snips in the car. I cut through the chain, opened the gate and walked past the weathered No Trespassing signs. I was careful navigating my way up the crumbling steps. The door opened easily enough. Well, easily enough for someone using a crowbar. Right away I sensed an oppressive sadness, a longing, a sense of desperation so deep that it went through my chest like a knife. I was used to picking up on how ghosts felt, but feeling what they felt was something new. I wanted to run from the house, to fall down and cry. Or maybe both. But instead I swallowed hard and walked through the house. “Jennifer!” I called. “Jennifer. Come out. Please! I need to talk to you!” I heard something from the stairwell above and lit the lantern with shaking hands. When the warm glow filled the room I looked up to see a barn owl staring down at me from the railing. Her black eyes blinked at me. I looked back, frozen in place by her beauty. The bird crouch, spread its wings and launched itself upward and through a hole in the ceiling. I watched her go and when I looked back there was Jennifer.

She looked just like she had in her photo. Beautiful, with long chestnut hair and fine, delicate feature. She was as small and petite as Lockwood was tall and foreboding. I wondered if her diminutive size was part of what had awakened the headmaster‟s natural protectiveness. “Hello, Jennifer,” I said. She said nothing for a moment. “You can see me?” She sounded almost offended. “Yes,” I said. “Specifically I came to see you.” She turned and began descending the stairs, seemingly as fascinated with me as I was with her. “People come from time to time to look for me. To hear me rattle my chains, moan, do whatever it is ghosts are supposed to do. None have ever seen me. Until now.” She stopped at the foot of the stairs. I could smell lavender and feel the chill off her skin. She was as strong as Lockwood, but with a softer, sadder prsence. “What do you want?” the ghost of Jennifer Wheatley asked. “I want you to go to the other side.” She shook her head. “I can‟t,” she said. “I don‟t think I‟m wanted. All that awaits me is hell.” I felt my heart lurch with pity and anger. “Can it be any worse than what you‟re existing with now?” I asked. “No.” Her answer was short and honest. “No, probably not. But I know this existence at least. I know this house. And here I can be alone save for my owl friend and what few visitors come poking around.” I sighed. “Jennifer, would it help you go if you knew that by moving on you could release a spirit who is stuck here in a sadness as deep as your own?” She looked at me. “Who?” I dreaded to tell her. She already had enough guilt over killing herself without my making it worse. But there was no choice. “Jared Lockwood,” I said. Can a ghost faint? Jennifer Wheatly‟s ghost looked close to it. She swayed and dimmed, like a hologram on the verge of collapse. For a moment I thought I‟d lost her, but she solidified and stood before me, paler than pale, her eyes glittering with tears. “He‟s still there?” Her voice was barely audible. I nodded. “I read your diary, Jennifer. I know what happened. You were forced into a marriage you did not want.” She turned as I was talking and glided up the stairs. I followed her to the top, to a small room. A window looked out over the yard. The glass had long ago been shattered. She pointed down with a pale, graceful hand. “There,” she said, “is where I fell. I wasn‟t aiming for a dramatic death, just an end to pain. But it was dramatic. I landed on the railing. My husband found me impaled there, face up, dead eyes staring up at the sky, blood running down my cheek and pooling on the ground.” “I saw it all,” she said. “Saw him find my body from where we are standing. He did not cry, did you know that? He was simply angry that I‟d left him, angry that he‟d have to purchase a casket. He was quite the miser, you see, and the only reason he‟d married me was as part of a business arrangement with my uncle.” “He took a new wife shortly afterwards, but she was afraid of me. I never did anything to scare her, but she could sense my presence. The house has been abandoned every since.”

I wanted to congratulate her on getting the house from her ex, but didn‟t think it was appropriate. “When I died,” she continued, “I told myself that death would be better than life because at least one day I would see Jared again. But I realized later that it was a horrible mistake. I am stuck between worlds, and I have tried to leave. But something keeps me here and I know not what it is. And now you come and tell me I can atone myself by helping my one true love, who is stuck here in sadness like mine? Tell me, stranger, am I the cause of this sadness?” I would not lie to her. “Yes,” I said. “He senses your presence. He senses that you are still here. And he won‟t go without you. I think he blames himself for what happened.” “Why doesn‟t he come?” “He can‟t any more than you can leave here,” I said. “I guess he‟s just not strong enough. But if I can go back to him and give him some sort of proof that I‟ve spoken to you, carry some message that only the two of you would know…” She thought a moment. “I had a cat,” she said. “He gave it to me.” “Yes,” I said. “A gray one.” “When she was small she got out and was lost for days. I was told not to go after her, but I did. I was punished for it later, but I did not care, for I found her stuck in an old milk can in the barn. She was near death with a cold. Jared gave her whiskey on the end of a napkin to help heal her. I teased him about it, about having the whiskey, for he had warned us against drink.” She laughed. “He threatened to spank me for my impertinence, but I could hear the humor in his voice. Looking back, I think he fancied me even then. But he was a man of standards and only when he feared losing me did he try and win my hand from my uncle. But it was too late.” I stood, eager to get back and tell him the story. “I‟ll tell him,” I said. “I‟ll tell him the story and tell him that you want to cross over so he can, too. You do want to, don‟t you?” “If I will see him again, then yes,” she said. “For with him even hell would seem like heaven.” “I don‟t believe in either,” I said, and turned to pick up my keys. “I‟ll be back.” Outside the wind was blowing harder. The black branches of the trees danced and swayed in the wind. I hurried to my car, eager to get to the Lockwood house and tell Jared what I‟d learned. I shut the gate behind me and fastened the chain as best I could using the broken lock. The rain was falling harder then as I turned my car around. I could barely see the road. I remembered there was a large oak in the curve of the road, but was the curve to the right or the left? I couldn‟t remember? More rain and leaves pelted my windshield. There was the tree. I turned my wheel. The next thing I was aware of was a deafening crunch. And pain. And darkness. **** My next awareness was of being carried. I moaned. My head felt as if it were splitting and the pain in my leg as excruciating. I could feel rain pelting my face. I opened my eyes, but my vision was blurry. All went black again.

Where was I? I could see now. I was in the house now, in Wilcox House. My pain was gone. I sat up and smiled at the couple standing before me. “Stand up.” Jared Lockwood extended his hand. “I can‟t,” I said. “Yes you can,” he said. “It won‟t hurt. I promise.” Beside him, Jennifer smiled. “Trust him.” I stood. The pain was gone. It was remarkable. What had he done? “How did you get here?” I asked. “I heard your cries,” he said. “I knew you were hurt. It took almost all my strength. And then some. I‟m afraid all the lights in town will be out for a very long time. The main generator at the power plant is blown.” I laughed. “So you‟ve found each other again,” I said. “And you‟re moving on. I‟m happy.” And I was, until their faces turned serious. They looked at one another and then at me. “We,” he corrected. “We‟re moving on.” I felt a surge of fear. “We?” I looked down then and saw my body. I looked like I was sleeping, but I was not. I was dead. “No,” I said. “No.” “I was hoping we could help you,” he said. “But the damage was too extensive, I‟m afraid.” I felt sick and swayed a bit. Jared Lockwood stepped forward and caught me. I could feel his mouth against my ear. “Do not worry,” he said. “I‟m a teacher, remember? I can guide you along, instruct you. No matter what it‟s like on the other side.” I looked at him and smiled. “It‟s always been my experience that three‟s a crowd,” I said, and looked down at my body, closed my eyes and willed myself to go back. I felt myself draw a painful breath at the very moment I felt Jennifer and Jared leave. Then I heard the sirens and knew that everything would be okay. I was in the hospital for three weeks. But I survived. Today I work as a fulltime psychic specializing in hauntings and am a published author. When I‟m not ghost hunting, I‟m lecturing. I‟ve seen a lot and done a lot. But no case will ever match the one that – for a short time – took me from the world of the living into a realm I‟m still not quite ready to join.

The End

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