Rachel takes a break from her research to shower and put on some clean clothes, have some lunch, and tend to her blistered feet. Afterward, she quietly makes her way back to the room, where Mercia is fast asleep, and reaches under her bed. She searches around until she finds her keepsake box, lifts the lid, and slips Nova’s poem inside. With that done, she returns to her desk.
Rachel reads through an article called “The Curse of Shadow Grove” which is little more than the prattling of a 1970s housewife who tries to make sense of the countless unfortunate events that have befallen the town up until then. The article does, however, mention bone figurines, which were found at several accidents, and how Mr. Fraser—probably Mrs. Crenshaw’s father—had called them omens. It also mentions a girl named Mary Wentworth, who set herself alight in the late 1950s. Around the same time Mrs. Crenshaw was in high school.
“Interesting,” she whispers.
The Halloween edition of the Ridge Crest Weekly, which dates back to 1981, explores the various urban legends of the school—from the phantom lights seen crossing the football field before dawn to moving hallways that lead nowhere, trapping straggling students in a maze for eternity. One article, titled “The Ghost Boy.” catches Rachel’s attention because it’s the same story she heard as a freshman during orientation week—the one where a boy fell from the bell tower, who now haunts the old schoolhouse. What makes the article stand out, however, is how the author, Harvey Peterson, explains that the supposed ghost boy has a history of haunt cycles, which are always accompanied by odd figurines that are left behind as a warning.
Rachel sits back in her chair, wiping her mouth as she rereads the last line of the article.
The last time the ghost boy haunted Ridge Crest High, seven students died.
Fourteen
Skull Cracker
Rachel starts the much-needed, possibly belated, research on the Miser Fae. Her cell phone starts ringing, vibrating like crazy in her back pocket. She reaches around, pulls the phone out, and sees a photo of Dougal filling the screen.
Mercia grumbles to awareness.
“I’ve got to take this.” She slides her thumb across the screen. “Hello?”
“Thank the heavens. Are ye comin’ to the hospital anytime soon?” Dougal is breathless on the other end of the line. There’s loud knocking in the background, a hollow laughter accompanying it.
Rachel looks to Mercia, who’s still waking up. “I’m sort of dealing with something here.” There’s more knocking, and the hollow laughter turns hysterical. “Is everything all right on your end?”
“I think Nan pushed the nurses over the edge,” he says. There’s an audible oomph, a few heavy breaths, before he continues, “They’re tryin’ to kill us now.”
“Wait, did you just say the nurses are trying to kill you?”
“I can’t blame them, though. Nan’s been a right wench today.”
“Hold on a sec.” Rachel pulls her cell phone away from her ear and says, “Hey, Mercia. Wanna go save Dougal again?”
“I don’t need savin’,” his voice fills her bedroom. “Nan’s in trouble, ye know?”
Mercia nods, and forces herself to stand.
“We’ll be there in about ten minutes. Can you hold out for that long?”
“Just hurry, Rach,” Dougal grumbles, and ends the call.
Rachel returns the cell phone to her back pocket and picks up her car keys from the desk. “Ziggy,” she calls and the Fae light rushes into her room, bouncing off the walls.
Mercia stares. “You have a Fae light?”
“Orion left Ziggy here before he left,” she explains. Ziggy hops toward a bag, and rolls inside, ready to leave. Rachel picks up the bag and slings it over her shoulder as she heads toward the door. She grins. “Ten bucks says Dougal is covered in something nasty.”
“There’s something seriously wrong with you,” Mercia whispers behind her.
“You’re not the first to mention it.”
They make it to the hospital in eight minutes flat, a new record for her, but it’s purely thanks to the fact that the streets were near empty and every traffic light was green on the way over. As always, the hospital parking lot is devoid of activity. Full as it is with all the cars, there isn’t a soul around. Rachel doesn’t even see the bored security guard in the area as she climbs out of her car.
“I hate this place,” Mercia says, closing the passenger door. She walks around the front and catches up with Rachel, before they make their way to the hospital entrance. “I almost hate it more than Hawthorne Memorial.”
Rachel glimpses at her. “You’ve been there? Inside Hawthorne, I mean.”
“Yes,” Mercia answers. “I went to visit someone.”
“Of course.” She doesn’t pry, because it’s none of her business. Still, it is a curious admission.
They walk into the foyer, Ziggy still hidden within the bag, only to find the receptionist is missing from her post. The girls share a look, before continuing their journey to the elevator. Rachel presses the call button and looks around for any sign of life.
It feels like they’re in the intro scene of a bad post-apocalyptic movie, one that features zombies just waiting to grab them when they least expect it, because obviously they should have known better than to walk around an abandoned hospital.
The elevator pings and the doors slide open. Mercia enters first, but Rachel doesn’t budge.
“You coming?” Mercia asks.
“Let’s take the stairs,” Rachel says, glancing back to the empty reception area.
Mercia doesn’t hesitate in exiting the elevator. Better still, she doesn’t ask awkward questions. They quietly make their way around the corner and walk up the staircase, listening to the reigning silence. Only when they reach the third floor landing does Rachel hear a persistent knocking. She halts and listens closely, trying her best to determine what’s going on from afar. Fast approaching footsteps squeak on the tiled floor, rush their way. Three distinct voices join in—giggling, laughing, a maniacal guffaw—the footsteps retreat back to wherever, quick squeaks followed by a slide of some sort.
“Little pig, little pig, let me in,” a
