The Evil Within (24 page)

“Evil surrounds me,” I intoned in a mocking, bitter voice, waving my arms as I made a little circle. I walked up to the nearest statue, of some broad-chested Greek god with curls like Troy’s, reached up, and knocked on his forehead. “Hello? Jerkface? Cupid?”

Did the statue move?

Jumping away, I balled my fist and caught it in my other hand. Snow fell off the branches of a tall pine tree about ten yards to my left, as if someone else had shaken it, hard.

“Hello?” I called, but my voice was swallowed up in the music.

More snow fell—off the tree beside the first one, slightly closer to me. I took a step back, then darted behind the statue, my face pressed against his back. Had I forgotten everything there was to be afraid of?

And then I remembered something: Troy had given his ID bracelet to
Mandy
when we’d come back from the break. She’d worn it a couple of times. I’d noticed, of course. Then she’d stopped wearing it.

“
Jewelry
,” Celia said. “
Like the lockets.
”

“No,” I said, “not like that.”

“
Like that. He’s toying with you both.
” I thought of the crocheted necklace with the crescent moon.

“No,” I whispered again. Then I remembered his “surprise.” Maybe David Abernathy was the
dybbuk
with unfinished business—he had never gotten to finish what he’d started—silencing the two girls he had betrayed—by drilling holes in their brains—or killing them in a fire—

They haven’t been silenced
, I realized.
And he’s still setting them against each other, when they should be joining forces to bring him down.

“Not Troy,” I whispered.

A shadow broke from the tree and glided toward me. I couldn’t make it out; it was a black-hole blackout; darkness folding into the snow-laden night. The wind shifted, and the pine trees bobbed. The coldness on the back of my neck pressed down hard—
Celia—
and I waited to see if she knew what was going on. If she knew what I should do.

The shadow drifted closer. As my eyes adjusted, I could make out a shape gliding just in front of the trees. It was a person, moving carefully, trying to sneak up on me. Was it Miles? My stalker?
The
Stalker?

I licked my lips and pressed them together, knuckles white as I held onto the statue, staring at the figure; I dared him—her?—to show himself.

Then someone raced up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder, and I screamed.

“WHOA,” Rose said, as she and Charlotte raised their hands and took a step back. She was holding my parka, my Doc Martens, and my gloves. “It’s just us, Lindsay.”

I checked their eyes. Normal. For the moment.

“Oh my God, did you really try to steal Troy from Mandy?” Charlotte asked. “You’ve got a pair, woman.”

“I think there’s someone over there,” I said, gesturing with my head. “Someone hiding.”

“Someone making out?” Rose asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Then . . . ?” Rose prompted. “Hello? We skedaddle?”

Rubbing my freezing hands between her cashmere mittens, she started walking with me as Charlotte trotted backward, staring at the spot I had indicated. My kneecaps ached. I had stood still so long my bones felt as if they’d begun to freeze together.

“Do you think it’s the Stalker?” Charlotte asked me, looking anxiously over her shoulder. “Should we go tell Ehrlenbach?”

Before I could answer, Rose said, “Yeah-huh, we should. Come on, let’s hustle it up. If there’s some psycho out there, I don’t want Ehrlenbach to miss him.”

I went back inside the gym with them, my mind working overtime. Troy had promised me a surprise—something only I would like. Was it something to do with Mandy besides breaking up with her? Something happening to her?

I suddenly realized I
had
to find them. Mandy might be in terrible danger. Of all the ironies in the world . . .

“
So are you. Don’t go
,” Celia pleaded.

And I didn’t know where to go. I hadn’t asked any questions about the surprise because it was meant to be . . . a surprise. And I’d been afraid. I didn’t want to know . . .
to confirm
. . . that something was wrong with him.

That
he
was what was wrong.

I felt sick. I should have asked, should have pushed.

I had to ditch Rose and Charlotte, had to get out of there. I tapped Rose on the shoulder. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I yelled, so she could hear me.

She nodded, swiveling her head right and left; then she pointed. “
Voilà
,” she said, and I followed her line of vision. Dr. Ehrlenbach had her back to us, speaking to Dr. Melton. I wondered if they’d found out about the fight in the pool room. About Spider’s accusation.

I didn’t see Miles. Or Julie, or anyone else who’d been in the pool room.

“Where are Julie and Spider?” I asked Rose, but she and Charlotte were already heading off toward our headmistress. I would have to check on Julie later.

For a flash of an instant, I wondered if I would ever see her again. If Troy hurt Mandy, or me . . . or worse . . .

Don’t think like that
, I told myself, feeling the flutters of panic. My chest got tight and I couldn’t breathe. As I dashed back outside, I became light-headed. I gripped my hands together, glancing fearfully around, in case whoever had been lurking in the statue garden had followed me back to the gym. Maybe it was just someone making out.

Maybe pigs could touch down on Mars.

Shaking, I put on my parka, my Doc Martens, and my gloves, and checked my cell for just the tiniest possibility that a text message from Troy had come in. Nothing. I stashed it back in my pocket and took a ragged, but deep breath. I tried to clear my head but I couldn’t quell the panic.

Where was Troy?
Who
was Troy?

Then I struck out for the old library. That was where we had been meeting of late, so it seemed likely that would be where he—or David Abernathy—would spring a “surprise” on me. Shayna had seen his ghost, crying over a piece of jewelry—one of the lockets he had promised to two desperate, terrified girls.

Cold pressed over the back of my neck. “
Liar. Deceiver
,” Celia said, through me.

I felt her anger boiling inside me. The snow tumbled and fell, creating bulky objects in the air, like giant foggy vampires swarming over the mountains. I tucked in my head and began to run, partly to keep myself warm, but also in hopes of outpacing anyone who was trying to follow me. As before, I had no idea how I would find my way. I assumed Celia was sufficiently motivated to do it for me. Last semester, Julie had served as bait to lure me to the operating theater. This semester, Mandy—

—I slowed. Would Troy want me to meet him at the library, or the operating theater? He and I had never met there. But that was where the fire had happened.

And the lobotomies.

The same panicky sensation caught hold of me as when I stared into our swimming pool and saw Celia again, after I thought I was free. I lurched forward, unsure of my path in more ways than one. At least if someone was trying to follow me, they’d have as hard a time as I did. Unless they saw with different eyes, like Celia. Then nothing could keep them from me—not the snow, or the dark, or the past.

THE LIBRARY WAS CLOSER.

As the snow flurried around me, I stood in front of it and stared at the upstairs window. The shutters were open, banging against the side of the house. I remembered seeing them open at night, then nailed shut by light of day. I even had pictures on my cell phone.

I took another deep breath and walked through the doorway. I was out of the snowstorm, at least; but if someone was behind me, he—or she—could see me now. I turned around, detecting no one; and edged sideways, holding my breath until my chest hurt. I aimed the light from my phone at the floor and exhaled slowly, trying to stop the jitters, the panicky trembling, and the intense desire just to lose my mind.

There were no lights on in the reading room. I peeked around the doorway, listening. Nothing.

A thump overhead made me jerk; I clutched the phone and flattened myself against the wall. My heart beat so hard I could hear it in my ears.

“I wish I had a rock
now
,” I muttered, but I didn’t really mean it.

Yes, I did. I so did.

My pulse beating at thrash-metal speed, I walked back down the way I had come, stinging with fear, aching with cold. I knew the stairs were to my right, but I couldn’t make myself walk past the open doorway. It was dark, and unless I turned my cell phone light back on, no one would see me. But I was paralyzed.

“H-hello?” I called. But my voice was a dry whisper. I tried again, waiting for a blast of courage from Celia. Nothing.

I pictured Mandy. Happy, smiling. Then I saw her as a drowning victim, with an ashen face and shiny eyes. And then as a
dybbuk
, haunting the world because of her horrible murder.

That last image give me a push, and I broke free of my frozen state and dashed to my right, shoe tip colliding with a bottle; it went skittering. I braced myself for whoever was upstairs to call out; still there was silence. My hand smacked the banister and I started up, shining the light down again, glancing into the blackness behind me. Chills popped off the top of my skull, like static, as I climbed in slow motion, as if I were wearing leg weights.

I reached the landing, standing in darkness, listening for tell-tale creaks, for breathing, for someone else. The room with the window was behind me; I had to turn around to see it. Sucking in another breath, I pivoted, waiting for it, waiting . . .

The pitted, dark wood door was shut, but a slice of flickering yellow light ran along the bottom, giving me something to see by. There was a rusty latch chipped with white paint in place of a knob.

I tried to exhale, but I couldn’t; with my chest about to explode, I walked to the door and raised my fist, hesitating, trying to make myself move again; and I knocked.

No answer.

My eyes fluttered back in my head as I forced the air out of my lungs; and I put my hand on the latch and pushed down. The door began to swing open.

As the hinges creaked, Celia seemed to activate. Cold on cold, fear churning inside me like a gasping fish. I could feel her thrashing, trying to force me away from the door. I tried to respond but the door vanished, and I was staring at the blurry, translucent image of a twenty-something heavyset guy sitting at an oak roll-top desk. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and over that, a thick white apron, like a butcher’s. His hair was parted down the center, and he was crying, his voice echoing as if we were both underwater.

I was stunned.

That’s not David Abernathy.
Not from what I could remember from the pictures I’d seen. I realized suddenly that I never asked Shayna what her ghost actually looked like. So who was this?

I took a step forward. He didn’t notice me; he just kept sobbing. I saw the glint of a brass chain in his palm, smeary and unfocused.

Shayna’s piece of jewelry
, I thought.

I licked my lips and tried to speak. No good. I tried again, and said, “Hello?”

Ignoring me—or not hearing me—he lifted up the chain, sending beams of light all over flocked wallpapered walls. There was a large brass skeleton key attached to the end, and a book similar to the one Troy had shown me. The writing swirled like smoke, and then the elaborate, thin letters came into focus.

“
Leave
,” Celia said.

And the man gasped. He turned his head to the left and stared straight at me. I stared back at him.

“Is someone there?” he said.

He couldn’t see me, but he had heard Celia. I waited; then he opened the center drawer of the desk, at his waist, and coiled the key inside. He began to cry again, burying his face in his hands.

I looked back down at the page of the open journal.

13 February

Tomorrow they will move my darling Belle and the other young ladies into the cells within the operating theater. I have seen the instruments laid out—the cloths for the chloroform, the pick, the hammer. She will be the first.

No, no I cannot let it happen. I must free her from this fate!

But I am watched. I have protested the conditions of this wretched place; it is believed that the mad can feel neither heat nor cold night and so they dispense with comforts for those chosen by Marlwood for the procedure. Thus they suffer in thin shifts with no heat, though the snow piles up around their prison doors while Marlwood warms his fat butcher’s hands in his stately mansion on the hill. Last Tuesday, Leticia Dunwoody froze to death, although they wrote her parents and explained that it was “a strange malady” that took her.

I have tried to give Belle such warmth and comfort as I can. I have brought her coffee and blankets and so the others hate her, for I cannot do it for them all. But could they but draw hope that one of them, at least, lives like a human being?

And I watch my love, suffering, and I
see
, oh, God, I see it all. I see Abernathy go into her cell and I see her quiet and anxious after, gazing at me, begging for my help. Evil, evil. Like Marlwood he is, a scoundrel and a rogue and if I could dash his brains in, I would.

I will help her escape, though it may mean my job and livelihood. This I swear. I shall do it, or die trying.

—Edward Truscott, Orderly, Marlwood Reformatory