School of the Dead (16 page)

Recalling the concealed rooms and walls in the building, I decided that all of this was where, in olden days, servants came and went: the hidden passages. There had to be a way out. Determined to find it, I reached for the iron railing. Though the metal was icy cold, I gripped it and began to climb.

Pointing the unreliable flashlight beam up, keeping my head tilted back, hoping to see where I was going, I climbed
steadily, if slowly, moving in tight circles, tight enough that I became woozy.

I didn't know how far I had climbed when I reached a place with a small landing off to one side. Dimly, I could see a door set into the wall, as well as another dangling bell. I imagined it was the sealed door that Jessica had shown me on the second floor of the school. I tried the doorknob. It wouldn't turn. Even when I gave the door a hard push, it remained shut. Sealed.

I returned to the steps, looked up, and saw nothing but more blackness. I looked down. It was just as shadowy. I chose to go up. But as I swung back around, my flashlight hit the banister and popped out of my hand. I lunged for it but missed. It dropped like a noisy falling star,
bump, bump, bump
, until sounds and light ceased altogether. Afraid to move, I remained where I was, surrounded by absolute and silent darkness.

I'm not sure how long I stood there, only knowing I had little choice but to continue. Clinging tightly to the banister, staring into blackness, I forced myself to go up again.

Round and round I went, pulling as much as climbing. In all that blackness, I had no idea if I passed other landings, or other doors. I just kept going. I did sense I was moving up
into one of the building's towers, perhaps the tallest one.

I wasn't sure how far I'd gone—I was trembling with cold, and tension, and had lost all sense of time and space—when I realized that the darkness above me had begun to thin, to lighten, just enough to see that I was approaching a ceiling. Moreover, the ceiling had an opening. The spiral steps were coming to an end.

Desperate to get free, I scampered up the remaining steps and poked my head up into a small, dim room. It stank of mildew, mold, and decay. Across the room, opposite where I poked up my head, was a dust-clotted window, through which seeped some shrouded light.

I went higher, pulling myself into the room. At first, the room appeared to be empty. Only as my eyes adjusted to the dimness did I realize that on the room's far side was a small, low bed. On the bed, back toward me, lay someone. Thinking I had come upon Jessica, my heart lurched.

The person sat up. It was the Penda Boy.

The Penda Boy had died more than a hundred years ago, but as far as I could see, he might just as well have stepped right out of the painting in the school office. True, his clothing was much more faded and tattered than in the painting, but I had no doubt it was he.

If he was a ghost—and I believed he was—there was nothing ghostlike about him. Nothing frightening. Not like some fake movie or TV ghost. I could not see through him. His eyes, which were blue, didn't gleam or appear wicked. The only unusual thing about him was a faint glow that seemed to come from within, a glimmering like what comes from a see-in-the-dark wristwatch. What I saw, mostly, was a sad boy in cast-off clothing and odd shoes who made me think of a homeless child.

We stood staring at each other until he said, “You've been avoiding me.” He had a small boy's voice, impatient, with a hint of whining.

“Are you . . . are you Mrs. Penda's son?”

“Not a bit,” he said, his voice abruptly turning defiant.

“Who . . . who are you, then?”

“The boy she claimed as her son.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Penda wanted people to believe I was her child. I have no idea what my real name is. She gathered me up from Market Street and put me in the school to use me.”

“Use you?”

“To keep herself alive.”

“How . . . how could she do that?”

“She took most of my soul so she could live.”

“Are you . . . dead, then?”

“Somewhere between dead and alive.”

“Is she . . . alive?”

“The same.”

“But . . . where is she?”

“Below.”

“Here?”
I said. “In the school?”

“Where else would she be? This building is nothing more than a home for her. A school of the dead. A monument to her wickedness.”

When I just stared at him, he went on. “I was the first soul she tried to take. Back then, she didn't do it very well, which is why part of me didn't die.”

“Does she know you're here?”

“Of course. She has tried to get rid of me many times, but I always get away. You may be certain I've worked very hard to make sure she doesn't see me, though once, we scuffled and I broke her leg. There isn't that much life in me. The energy I have allows only one person to see me. I usually pick the one she's chosen. Like you.”

“What do you mean, ‘chosen'?”

“Do you think,” he said with scorn, “that this school exists for students? Don't be stupid. It's here so Mrs. Penda can take young souls. She does it every seven years. The soul she takes
renews her life, and a few friends' lives. She's done so for more than a hundred years. What do you think that school slogan means? ‘Respect the past and protect the future.' Respect
Mrs. Penda
. Protect
Mrs. Penda
.”

“But why me?”

“You were close to someone who died. Whoever it was, a part of you died too. I smell it on you. It's very obvious. I'm sure Mrs. Penda smelled it too. It's harder for her to take the soul of a fully alive person. Easier to take someone half dead, the way you are.”

“How . . . how will they take my soul?”

“They'll get you into one of the towers and draw out your soul. Bokor knows how. Painful—to be sure—but they don't care.”

“You said Mr. Bokor . . .
are there more?”

“Bokor taught Mrs. Penda his arts. Then there's Mr. Batalie. And his wife, the woman they call Mrs. Z.”

“Batalie's
wife
?”

The boy nodded. “She stands guard over the whole school. And,” he added, “they have their servants.”

“Servants?”

“A few children—previously taken—who do what they are told.”

Mac, Barney, and Jessica
,
I thought, and then asked, “What
happens to the others?”

“They wander about searching for souls so they can live again. It's you they want now. If they don't get your soul, they'll perish. In fact, the whole building will go. It's preserved solely by the force of Mrs. Penda's being.”

I suddenly understood the fear I kept seeing in
their
eyes. It was not
me
about whom they were worried, but
their
own existence.

“What happens if they . . . take my soul?”

“You become a wandering ghost, or perhaps a servant to Mrs. Penda—and her friends—while she becomes young and starts school again for seven more years. She's done it many times. If you're going to save yourself, you need to listen to me. You have very little time. Three days! Tell me what the old woman asked you to do.”

“I don't know any old woman.”

“Oh, don't be a pudding head!” he cried, his voice shrilling with exasperation. “Mrs. Penda disguises herself as someone young. Black hair and, with her vanity, looking older than her classmates.”

“Jessica?”
I said.

“Exactly.”

I stared at him. In the momentary silence he said, “There's someone else seeking you.”

“Who?”

“I'm not sure. One of Mrs. Penda's victims, I think. A former student. He's often around, looking to come back to life. An older man.”

“What does he look like?”

“Gray hair flops over his forehead. Dressed in a checkered shirt. Tan suspenders.”

“That's Uncle Charlie! Have you seen him?”

“I don't know who he is, but I've been seeing him often lately.”

“But if you saw—”

He cut me off. “Listen to me. I don't care about the ones already lost. I'm trying to stop them from getting new ones. But we don't have much time. Tell me what Mrs. Penda asked you to do.”

“During the Halloween party they intend to open one of the sealed doors so I can get into the towers. Since I'm the only one who sees you, I'm to lead them to you so they can get rid of you. But . . . they haven't told me how.”

He said, “Yes, she wants to get rid of me. But only you can lead her to me. It's your soul she needs. Very well. Do as she tells you. Which door will you go through?”

“I don't know.”

“Find out and let me know. As soon as you pass through,
I'll be there. I'll hide you from them until Halloween at midnight. If we can keep you alive until then, they'll come to an end.

“Now, will you,” he asked, reverting to that sad look I had seen so often, “help me?”

“I have to ask you about the old man who—” Suddenly bells began to ring.

“What's that?” I said, startled.

“Mrs. Penda is summoning her friends to a meeting. Her ‘board of trustees,' she calls them.”

“Where do they meet?”

“At the bottom.”

I thought of the meeting room. “Will they come up here?”

“Do they know you are in the building?”

“I'm not sure. Please, you have to get me out.”

“Are you going to help me or not? The last one promised to help but ran away.”

“Austin?”

“I believe that was his name. He lacked courage.”

I turned back toward the steps.

“Stop! You can't get away without me. You need my help. I need yours. We must come to an agreement.”

“I just want to get out of here.”

“And I don't want them to remain the way they are,
pretending to care for children when they only mean to use them. I'm tired of being on guard all the time, tired of trying to save the one they pick. Over the years, I've lost too many. You're the best chance I have to stop them. It's so close to their deadline. If you help me, we can destroy them.”

“Will you really protect me?”

“If we agree.”

I looked toward the steps and then back to him. He had come closer and was holding out his hand. I didn't know what else to do, but I reached out. It was like shaking hands with water.

“Follow me,” he said, and went to the head of the steps.

I hesitated.

“You'll be able to see,” he assured me. He started down. Sure enough, the soft glow that emanated from within him was enough to show me where to place my feet.

Down we went, round and round. How far it was, I didn't know, but he led me to a little landing like the one I'd found before. A door was embedded in the wall. He lifted his hand as if about to push it open.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Be quick,” he whispered.

“That old man you saw—”

“A ghost. One of Mrs. Penda's friends.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Of course I am. Now go.”

“How,” I asked, “are we to talk again?”

“I'll think of a way.”

That he used the same words as Jessica made me suddenly suspicious. At the same moment, he put his small hand to the door. It swung open noiselessly. Stepping to one side, he said, “Hurry.”

No need to be urged. I hurried through the doorway and found myself in a deserted classroom, where a window allowed in some dwindling daylight. I looked back. The boy had gone. The door was nothing but the faintest of outlines on the wall.

I all but tumbled down the steps to the reception hall. Seeing that the school office door was open and lights were on—suggesting people were there—I raced out through the main doors.

Once on the sidewalk, I started for home, but, unable to keep from looking back, I stopped. My eyes went to the high tower window. I was sure I saw the Penda Boy looking down.

I tore home as if my life depended on it.

Which I thought it did.

At home—my parents had not yet come from work—I slammed the door to my room, threw myself on my bed, and pressed a pillow over my eyes. No need to see. My head burst with images, from the time I discovered the steps within the chest to when the Penda Boy let me out into that empty classroom.

He had said lots of appalling things, but nothing worse than about Uncle Charlie. Some of the things Uncle Charlie had said came back to me, such as, “Hey, Tony, wouldn't it be great if the two of us never died?” and “When I go, I really want you to join me.”

I could have no doubts: Uncle Charlie had arranged for me to come to Penda so I might enter Mrs. Penda's seven-year cycle, so he could come back to life. That's why I'd seen him when I first came to the school. That's how people like Batalie knew I was his relative. That's how Jessica knew where I lived.
He'd
told them.

I scolded myself: Uncle Charlie would not, could not
do that to me. It was too awful. Let him be a ghost, but not one plotting to kill me. I refused to believe it.

Pushing those thoughts away, I went over the agreement I'd made with the Penda boy: that I would pretend to go along with Jessica. Instead of leading her to the boy, he would hide me—in one of the towers, I supposed—until midnight
on Halloween. According to him, that would be the end of Mrs. Penda and the school, whatever that meant.

But . . . I had heard so many lies I had to ask myself if what the Penda Boy had said was true. In the end, I decided I needed to prove to myself that Jessica
was
Mrs. Penda. It would have to wait until tomorrow.

At dinner that evening, Mom said, “How was school today?”

“Fine.”

Dad said, “Same old, same old?”

“Mostly,” I replied, eyes on my spaghetti and meatballs.