The Silent Scream (Nightmare Hall) Page 9

  But Cath was letting it make her crazy. Ruining her first year at college. She looked like she might fall apart at any second.

  “You’ll wreck something,” Cath told Milo. “Mrs. Coates has a lot of antique pieces in this house.”

  “Yeah, right,” Milo said, sinking into a chair. “Antiques, spelled J-U-N-K.”

  Cath sniffed. “I thought poets were supposed to appreciate the finer things in life.”

  “I appreciate the finer things enough to know that stupid goose isn’t one of them.”

  Jess found herself wishing that Cath would call a truce with Linda and Milo. Everyone else seemed to be getting along well, in spite of the tension caused by the stories of Giselle’s death and the recent vandalism. But it was obvious that Cath hadn’t forgiven Milo for the stolen essay, and equally obvious that Linda and Milo were on edge around Cath.

  Remembering Ian’s quote about standing together, Jess thought, we should all be united now, trying to find out what’s going on around here. The vandalism involves everyone, even those people whose rooms haven’t been invaded yet. Because they still could be. We don’t have any reason to think that it’s over.

  After dinner, Linda helped load the dishwasher. “I didn’t know Milo ever went to the library,” Jess said. “Are you sure he’ll know how to behave?”

  Linda laughed and said, “Of course he will. Milo is a poet, Jess. He’s probably spent hours in libraries.”

  “I still have trouble with the fact that Milo lied about knowing Giselle.” Jess knew the statement might rile Linda, but she had to say it. True, Milo had explained why he hadn’t mentioned knowing Giselle. And it made sense. But it still rankled that he hadn’t told them he’d known her.

  “He didn’t lie. No one asked him if he knew her.”

  “But he never volunteered the information. That’s almost the same thing. Even when Ian told us what happened to her, Milo never said a word.”

  Linda’s cheeks reddened, and she was about to answer when Milo and Ian returned from hauling the trash to the bottom of the hill.

  Jess had learned nothing.

  When she went upstairs and passed Linda’s room, she found Linda’s door open. Linda was inside, primping in front of her dresser mirror in preparation for her library “date” with Milo.

  “You’ve done a super job with your room,” Jess said from the doorway. “I love that bedspread.” It was splashed with brilliant flowers in vivid shades of red.

  Linda flushed with pleasure. “Oh, thanks. Come on in. Maybe you can help me tame my hair. My grandmother sent me the spread when I told her my room was plain old white. It helps, right?”

  “It sure does.” So did the seascape posters and high school pennants Linda had tacked on the walls. Her bookshelves were crammed with swimming trophies, and a photo gallery of her family and friends had been taped to the thick wooden frame around her dresser mirror.

  Linda’s eyes were bright with excitement. Jess couldn’t help asking, “Linda, are you sure Milo sees this library thing as a date?”

  Hairbrush in hand, Linda turned away from the mirror to face Jess. “Look,” she said, nervously fingering the collar of her peacock blue blouse, “I know you think I’m being really dippy about Milo. But … I never dated in high school. I mean never. Not once.”

  Jess looked at her inquiringly. “But …”

  “I’m a big girl, Jess. Bigger than most of the guys in my high school. The ones who did tower over me were jocks and they weren’t keen on dating a hotshot girl athlete.” She said the last with difficulty, letting Jess know the pain was still fresh. Putting on her earrings, Linda added wistfully, “My parents were always so proud of their daughter-the-athlete. They never guessed I was lying awake nights wishing I had a date. And,” her round face flushed more deeply, “feeling ashamed because I wanted something so … trivial.”

  “Everyone wants to go out and have fun,” Jess said. “That’s not anything to be ashamed of.”

  Linda slid her feet into black flats. “Well, Milo’s no jock, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s why he appeals to me. Besides,” she added with the smallest of grins, “he’s taller than me. I could even wear heels.” Her grin widened. “Even spike heels.”

  Jess laughed. “You look really pretty,” she said sincerely. “And forget about not dating in high school. I mean, look at someone like Giselle McKendrick. Everyone says she was so popular. She probably dated a lot. But it didn’t make her happy, or she wouldn’t have done what she did.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Suicide,” Linda sighed, and bent over to adjust her shoe.

  The word “suicide” had barely left her mouth when there was a sharp, cracking sound from the mirror behind her.

  And then, as Jess watched in horror from her seat on the bed, the wide square of glass exploded outward into a thousand pieces.

  Chapter 17

  THE MIRROR EXPLODED WITH such force, the chunks and shards and slivers of glass were propelled far out into the room, like arrows shot from a bow. It was that very force that saved Jess, who sat on the foot of the bed, directly in the line of fire. The glass arrows were flung over her head and beyond her, to pierce the pillows, stab the wall pennants and posters, and dive into the floor near the head of the bed.

  Linda, her eyes wide with terror, remained frozen in a crouched position.

  “Oh, God,” she breathed when the last piece of shattered glass had clinked to the floor, “what was that?”

  Jess, her face hidden behind her hands, whispered, “Is it over?”

  Linda straightened up cautiously. Her face was as white as the wall behind her. “I think so.” She glanced at her dresser. “My mirror is gone.” There was awe in her voice. “Totally gone!”

  The explosion had been heard by the others. Feet ran down the hall, someone pounded on the door. “Linda?” It was Milo. “What was that?”

  “The mirror attacked us,” Linda said without emotion, as if she couldn’t believe it herself. “Watch out for glass on the floor.”

  Ian was right behind Milo. He went to Jess, sat down next to her. “You’re not hurt?”

  She shook her head. A tiny piece of glass fell from her hair to the bedspread. She slid her hands away from her face, checking quickly for cuts. She found only one small scratch on her left hand, another on her right forearm. She saw none on Linda.

  “What happened?” Cath cried as she entered the room. She was wrapped in a long yellow robe, her hair clustered into a careless ponytail. “You broke your mirror?”

  “I didn’t break it,” Linda said, leaning against Milo. He put an arm around her and she sent him a grateful look. “It broke. By itself. It … exploded.”

  Jess nodded. “That’s exactly what happened. I know it sounds crazy, but no one did anything to it. Linda bent to fix her shoe and the mirror exploded.”

  “If I hadn’t,” Linda interrupted, pressing a fist to her mouth, “if I hadn’t bent over …” the thought was too horrible to finish and she fell silent.

  Jess finished the thought in her head. If Linda hadn’t been bending over, she could have been sliced to ribbons by all that flying glass.

  Cath sank down on the bed, next to Ian. “Mirrors don’t just … explode.” She looked to Ian for confirmation. “Do they?”

  They’re not supposed to, Jess thought as Ian shrugged. But then, lots of things happen in this house that aren’t supposed to.

  Trucker appeared in the doorway. “What a mess! Somebody throw a rock through the window?”

  Jess hadn’t thought of that. The window was open, and had no screen. Maybe some neighborhood kid had been practicing his pitching skills?

  “I didn’t see a rock. Did you, Linda?”

  Linda shook her head. “I didn’t see a thing. I heard a crack, that’s all.” She looked doubtful. “I guess something could have hit the mirror.”

  When they had carefully cleaned up the glass, they all searched under the furniture for some object that might have mad
e the mirror its target. They found nothing.

  But because something thrown from outside was the only explanation that seemed to make sense, they all agreed that they simply weren’t looking in the right places, that whatever had hit the mirror was almost certainly somewhere in the room.

  It wasn’t until they were leaving, toting brown grocery sacks filled with broken glass, that Jess remembered what she and Linda had been talking about when the mirror exploded. Giselle … they’d been talking about Giselle’s suicide.

  And she remembered the first time that topic had been mentioned, in Ian’s story on the front porch that first night. An upstairs window had suddenly slammed shut. Then they’d gone inside to the kitchen. And as they’d talked about the incident a little more, the light had gone out abruptly. And now, tonight, Linda had mentioned the word “suicide,” and the mirror had exploded.

  The thought that there might be a connection was so off-the-wall and made so little sense, that Jess dismissed it as too, too weird.

  But even as everyone was repeating how lucky the two girls had been, escaping serious injury, an uneasiness settled over her and she knew that it wouldn’t go away until she left the house.

  So Ian had no trouble persuading her to go see a movie on campus. Jess jumped at the chance to get away from the house.

  I would have seen something coming through the window in Linda’s room, she thought as she collected a jacket and her campus I.D. I would have.

  Cath surprised everyone by deciding to go to the movie, too, adding, “I’m not staying here alone.” Linda and Milo agreed to go on to the library.

  And Jess decided that pretending that everything was normal was much better than acknowledging the waves of uneasiness that crawled up her spine like ants. And as long as they were out of the house, she could pretend.

  The movie was hilarious, and Ian held her hand the whole time. Feeling completely safe in the crowded campus theater, Jess relaxed and laughed, forgetting her uneasiness.

  After the movie, Trucker drove them into town for pizza. Vinnie’s, which served the best pizza in town, was mobbed. Jess saw Jon in a corner booth, a ponytailed blonde seated next to him. Remembering Jon’s telephone conversation she knew, without checking, that the girl’s eyes had to be blue.

  Spotting Jon, Cath deliberately turned to Trucker and began chatting animatedly, as if she had, at that very moment, suddenly realized how attractive he was.

  Jess hid a smile. Cath says she’s not interested in Jon, she thought to herself, but if she’s not at this very moment trying to make him jealous, then I’m a pizza-hater.

  She hoped Trucker wouldn’t take Cath’s flirting seriously. It would be a mistake. While the others accepted Trucker as a friend, Cath still snobbishly saw him as “the handyman.” She would never seriously consider him a potential boyfriend.

  Although Jess had a good time, she found herself missing Linda and Milo. She was so surprised by the fact, she mentioned it to Ian.

  He nodded. “Yeah, me, too. Maybe that means the residents of Nightingale Hall are starting to come together as a group, right?”

  Cath and Trucker had gone to the jukebox to make selections, so Jess felt free to say, “I know Cath hasn’t forgiven Milo for the essay she thinks he stole. But at least they’re speaking to each other. That’s a beginning, right?”

  But her optimism began to dwindle the minute they left the restaurant. And by the time they drove up the gravel driveway, it had completely disappeared, and dread had taken its place.

  She stared up at Nightingale Hall and knew she didn’t want to go inside.

  It wasn’t a safe place to be.

  She would have felt silly saying so. No one had seen the shadow on her wall or heard the scream. Linda’s shredded bathing suit had been forgotten, and the shattered mirror was being attributed to an object being tossed through the window by a neighborhood kid.

  So, everyone else jumped out of the truck and walked into the house as if it were an ordinary dorm, where ordinary things happened.

  And Jess followed, because although she was almost sure now that Nightingale Hall wasn’t the least bit ordinary, there didn’t seem to be any other choice.

  In her room, Jess found she was too unsettled to sleep. Wrapping the quilt around her shoulders and switching on her bedside lamp, she grabbed a pile of papers from her desk and sat on the bed intending to sort them out until she felt sleepy.

  History essay, math assignment, notice about overdue library books, a letter from her sister Nell, a photograph …

  Jess’s hand paused in midair.

  The photograph wasn’t hers. She had never seen it before.

  It was dusty. She wiped it off with an edge of the quilt, and as she did, she remembered Ian pulling several pieces of paper from underneath the chest of drawers. This picture must have been one of them.

  Leaning back against the headboard, she held the small, square, colored photograph closer to the blue lamp on her nightstand.

  There was something very wrong with the picture.

  The girl whose head and shoulders filled the square space was very pretty. Her hair was thick, shoulder-length, and very blonde, her bright blue eyes clear, her skin smooth, her face oval. She could easily, Jess thought, be considered gorgeous.

  But across her face, someone had drawn a nasty, thick black slash.

  Who was this girl?

  Who was she kidding? She knew perfectly well who it was. She knew as well as she knew her own name that the girl in the photograph was Giselle McKendrick.

  Chapter 18

  STARING DOWN AT THE photograph, Jess realized she’d seen the face before. But where?

  Then she remembered. In the photo booth, at the arcade. The face she was looking at now was the same face in the “double exposure” on their strip of film.

  Giselle had been in their photo? How could that be?

  A violent shudder seized Jess, and she wrapped the quilt more tightly around her shoulders. Tearing her gaze away from the photo, she glanced down at the pile of papers in her lap. Ian had unearthed more than one paper from under the chest. What else had been hiding under that bottom drawer? Did she really want to know?

  There was a sheet of paper, letter-size. No envelope. The paper was white, unlined, a trace of gossamer cobweb clinging to its upper right-hand corner. It had been folded twice, and the creases remained.

  The typewritten words had faded. But they were legible.

  Dear Giselle, Jess read, and with a sharp intake of breath, she closed her eyes, letting the letter fall.

  But she knew she had to read it.

  She sank back against the pillows and read:

  Dear Giselle,

  Your time has run out. You’ve stalled long enough. You haven’t answered any of my phone calls or my letters. So I’m coming there and you’d better be ready to leave with me. I’m not taking no for an answer.

  The letter was signed, Your Forever Love.

  But it didn’t sound very loving.

  Jess gripped the sheet of paper in her fist. Its angry message repeated itself in her head. What did it mean? The writer intended to come to campus, that was clear enough. To get Giselle and take her somewhere … and he sounded very, very angry.

  But … Giselle hadn’t left campus with anyone. She hadn’t left campus at all. Not … alive.

  So … she must have said no when he came for her.

  But in the letter, he said he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Had he meant it? And if he had, what had he done or said in return for her no that was so awful it had driven Giselle to suicide?

  Unless …

  Jess sat up straight in bed. Her eyes stared blankly at the spot on the wall where, in her dream, the dreadful shadow had hung. Unless Giselle hadn’t committed suicide.

  The word “apparent” rang in her head. “Apparent suicide.” “Apparent” meant that it seemed like suicide. But maybe it wasn’t.

  Jess awoke in the morning stiff and cramped, half-
sitting, half-lying against the headboard. The weather outside was drizzly and gray, and cold, damp air drifted in through the open window.

  She dressed quickly in jeans and the gray Salem U. sweatshirt, grateful for its fleecy warmth. Stuffing the photo and the letter in a rear jeans pocket, she hurried down to the kitchen. Everyone else was already eating breakfast.

  The kitchen seemed dismal without the sun’s warming rays streaming in through the wall of windows. The gray mist outside had made the rest of the world disappear, and the room became a dreary, isolated island.

  Trucker had made coffee. Jess sipped the strong, hot liquid gratefully and took a seat at the table. Unhappy with the weather, her housemates barely grunted as she sat down. Only Ian smiled at her.

  “I found something,” Jess said when they were all seated. She placed the letter and the photo side by side on the wooden table between an open cereal box and a round tub of butter.

  Cath lifted her head. “A dead body in the basement?” she said in a weary monotone. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Ian studied the picture. “Who is it, and who went crazy with the black marker?”

  “I think it’s Giselle McKendrick, and I’m sure the person who drew the slash mark is the same person who wrote the letter. I think the photo is some kind of threat.”

  The letter was passed around the table. “Well,” Linda commented, “he’s no poet, that’s for sure. Doesn’t have a way with words.”

  When the photo reached Milo, his face paled and the hand holding the picture trembled slightly.

  “Is it her, Milo?” Jess asked gently.

  He nodded, and swallowed hard. “Her hair looks longer, but it’s her.”

  “There were other letters,” Jess said, retrieving the picture and the letter. “He says so. They could be here somewhere.”

  “Then why did you only find one?” Cath asked.

  “This one slid down behind the dresser.”

  When Trucker read the letter, his only comment was, “Tough guy. I know the type. All talk and no action.”