The Revenant (8 page)

“Your grandmother was a medium? A
Cherokee
medium? Did she host dark circles and talk to spirits?”

She looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Oh dear,” I said. “Forgive me. My papa was so skeptical of those who claimed to communicate with spirits, and now his words come out of my mouth almost as though I channeled his thoughts.” I reached for her hand and squeezed it until she looked at me again. “Tell me more of your grandmother.”

“First of all, she was white. So banish the notion that only fools and savages believe in revenants these days.”

I looked down.

“She was quite respected in our community,” Olivia continued, “with both whites and Cherokee. She welcomed people in her home and sat with them, but she did not ask for money. Sometimes they would leave gifts or a few coins. But that wasn’t why she did it. Her calling was to reconnect the bereaved with those they’d lost. It was her way of helping cure their grief and helping lost spirits find their way.”

I sighed. “Why tell me all this when you know I don’t believe?”

Her eyes grew wide and mysterious. “Because you and I must hold a séance. I need you to open your mind so we can help Ella find her way home.”

• ••

Later I lay on my bed, turning over the conversation in my mind. Once, my papa had spoken of Spiritualists, his mustache bristling under eyes flashing with contempt. “They’re actors, all of them, sinking to the depths of depravity to scrabble a living. They
pretend
to see spirits, changing their voices to summon their so-called controls. They read people’s expressions, ask them leading questions, and sometimes steal their wallets or have a henchman go through garbage to find their secrets.” He’d stroked his mustache in silence for a moment before turning back to me. “When I die, don’t go to some fool medium. You’ll not find me there, do you hear?”

I wondered what he’d say about sweet, caring Olivia—a respected teacher of
science
. Would he call her a charlatan?

I hadn’t promised to take part in her séance, but neither had I refused. Papa had found the notion of spirits laughable, almost offensive. But I’d heard that strange tapping at night. I’d felt the cold chill in the parlor. I’d seen the fear in proud Fannie’s eyes when she spoke of the dark river water rushing after her. I acknowledged all that—I just didn’t know what to make of it.

Chapter 9

T
HE AIR WAS THICK WITH RESENTMENT
in the chapel that Saturday afternoon. To be sure, there were girls who’d
chosen
not to go to town and sat contentedly reading or working on a composition. But those who were kept from town by demerits were silently seething, unable to concentrate, and sat staring at the wall clock to follow each tick of the minute hand as it traveled the distance of two hours.

I was one of the seethers. This was my first Saturday to stay at the school, and I was surprised by how much I craved fresh air and some variation in the landscape. We were allowed outside for our walk every day, demerits or no, but that was more of a chore than an escape. Without a trip to town, the seminary walls felt as though they might close in on me, and no matter where I went, it seemed Miss Crenshaw’s eyes were following my every move.

And though I wouldn’t—
couldn’t
—admit it to anyone else, I was mourning the lost opportunity to catch a glimpse of Eli Sevenstar. I’d looked at his letter a hundred times since the night of the attempted exorcism. It still twisted my stomach in knots, but it was more than mere jealousy that so affected me. Disgust would have been the proper response to such a note—I told this to myself again and again—and yet a part of me still thrilled at the passion it conveyed. I longed to look into Eli’s dark eyes and find such a passion directed at
me
.

It was absurd, of course. I could not be Eli’s welcoming blue sea. A smile or a pleasant conversation was all I could ever hope for if I wanted to keep my position. And I did want to keep my position, for though I felt trapped at that moment, the thought of leaving such independence was … well, it was unthinkable.

Miss Taylor, the domestic science teacher, sat in a wide wooden chair facing the desks. Though she knitted quietly, her eyes were quick to find any girl who dared whisper. I sat at the back of the room, tasked with shoring up the rear defenses.

A stack of compositions stood on the desk before me. I lifted the top composition and glanced over it—a junior essay on “Tact versus Talent.” The authoress was a sweet girl who’d worked long hours to perfect her penmanship in a composition as mindless as it was tidily scripted. I placed that one at the bottom. The next essay was blotched and spattered with ink. That could wait until later too. The third was neatly penned, and the introduction unfolded in a thoughtful manner. In fact, for several paragraphs the argument struck me as beautifully clear and logical. I was giddy, quite prepared to give it the highest mark, when suddenly it entered territory that confused me. The language was exquisite, but the meaning behind the words was muddled. Did the confusion arise from a flaw in the argument … or in my own reasoning? I couldn’t think how to express these misgivings to the student without looking like a prize fool.

I placed that composition at the bottom of the pile.

When I checked the clock again, five minutes had passed.

Lucy Sharp—who’d received demerits for insolence in geometry class—sat to my right with her head bent over a piece of paper. She applied her pencil to it with such ferocity I feared the paper would tear. At least one of us was getting work done. I took a closer look and saw that she was drawing the same circle over and over. She caught me staring out of the corner of her eye. Frowning, she curved her arm around the page and lowered her head so that I could no longer see whether she wrote or drew.

Two desks away on my left sat Fannie, who also leaned over her work, but with pen and ink rather than pencil. Her task consisted of filling out small white cards with text that I could not make out, no matter how I squinted. After a moment, she caught my squinting, and her mouth curved in a cunning smile. I turned back to my compositions, willing myself not to blush.

During the break, she sauntered by.

“I noticed you staring, Miss McClure. I may as well give this to you now.” She handed me one of the cards with a flourish of her hand. “Mama likes for me to present these early, and in person. I planned to pass them out next week, but you are here now.” Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Here with us. When we all thought we’d be in town.”

“You might have been here every Saturday for the rest of term had I reported what was
really
going on last night,” I reminded her, keeping my voice low.

She merely sniffed in response. I looked over the card.

YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED AT A

C
HRISTMAS SUPPER FOR SEMINARY FACULTY
,

ADMINISTRATION, AND SENIOR STUDENTS

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
,

THE TWELFTH OF DECEMBER
,

IN THE HOME OF

S
AMUEL AND
C
ORA
A
RCHER
B
ELL
.

“How nice,” I murmured, having never attended such a function in my life. Fortunately, I had ages to pick Olivia’s brain on the matter.

“We’ve held this party every year since I was a little girl. It’s always entertaining to see the teachers in their finery. I’m sure you have something quite splendid in your wardrobe, Miss McClure.” Her mouth curved into a cold smile. “I look forward to marveling at it.”

I forced my own smile. “Your script on this invitation is as pretty as copperplate, Fannie. I wonder why it is that I can barely read your compositions? Ah, well, now I know what you are capable of.”

She pursed her lips, and then turned as Miss Crenshaw entered the library with a bundle of letters in her hand. “Oh, look, the mail has come,” she said, nodding toward the door. “Are you expecting anything, Miss McClure?” She lifted her eyebrows and waited. “I didn’t think so,” she said with syrupy sweetness. “I’ve noticed you never get mail. You post letters in town, and yet you never receive a reply. In fact, you never seem to
expect
a reply. It’s very curious. I have grave doubts about this beau of yours.”

My hands clenched into fists under the table. “I already told you I’ve not been writing to a beau.”

She pouted in mock sympathy. “And not a single letter from family or friends? Ah, look,” she said as Miss Crenshaw handed her a small bundle, “here are two for me!”

How I longed to tear that lovely hair from her head! She was sassy and rude, and … her curiosity about my mail was alarming. She was a sly one—no doubt about that. I’d need to be more cautious when posting my letters.

And I’d need
something
decent to wear to her blasted party.

That night, as I stared at the ceiling and mused on rivers and welcoming seas, the tapping started its familiar rhythm. I banged my head against the pillow, cursing whatever was truly responsible for the noise. Finally, I got out of bed with a groan and sat in the wooden chair by the desk.

The tapping stopped.

I heaved a sigh, relieved by the silence but knowing it would start again as soon as I’d returned to my bed. So I laid my head on the desk, shivering at a sudden chill near the windows.

A shriek pierced the quiet.

I leapt from the chair, and it skittered backward with a shriek of its own. I nearly fell but caught myself, knocking my elbow painfully on the desk. My fingers shook as I fumbled with the match, but finally I managed to light my lamp and carry it out into the corridor. The door next to mine opened, and a pale face peeped out. “Get back in your room and stay there,” I whispered. The poor girl’s face softened with relief as she shut her door. The screams continued, sounding more and more terrified. I considered a retreat to my own room. Couldn’t I pretend to have slept through it all? But Miss Crenshaw would frown upon such cowardice, and she frowned at me quite enough already. So I took a deep breath and made my way down the stairs.

Crossing through the vestibule to the corridor, I listened—the screams had seemed close when I was in my room, but now it was clear they were coming from the far end of the school. I heard movement behind me and turned to raise my lamp. Olivia walked toward me, her own lamp in hand. A shorter figure followed close behind her. It seemed to be the domestic science teacher, but I was unaccustomed to seeing prim Miss Taylor in her nightgown and ruffled cap.

“Where is she? Where is the screaming coming from?” Olivia’s face was strangely contorted in the flickering lamplight.

“It might be the chapel,” I whispered.

“I know we must help her, but my feet are heavy as iron,” cried Miss Taylor, “and I can barely catch my breath. Shouldn’t we get Miss Crenshaw?”

“It’s only fear that weighs us down,” said Olivia. “That girl is in distress.” She slipped her arm through mine and nodded toward the darkness at the end of the corridor. Biting my lip, I stepped forward with her.

The screams grew louder as we neared the chapel. Strange crashing noises filled the gaps between them.

Miss Taylor whispered from behind us. “Is she knocking over the furniture?”

“
Something
is knocking it over,” said Olivia, pulling me closer as we came to stand before the door. She withdrew her arm from mine and grasped the doorknob. It would not turn. She handed Miss Taylor her lamp and put both hands to the knob. Still it would not turn.

“It’s locked,” she gasped.

“There is no lock on that door,” cried a voice from behind us. Miss Crenshaw emerged, white-faced, from the darkness of the corridor. She carried no lamp, and her gray hair hung in an untidy braid over her shoulder.

“How can that be?” The lamp swung wildly in Miss Taylor’s trembling hands. The screaming continued in the room, though the voice was growing hoarse and less piercing.

“Let me,” said Miss Crenshaw, brushing past us to apply her own hands to the doorknob. When her efforts failed, she pounded on the door. “Let go of the knob! We wish to help you.”

Olivia clutched at the principal’s shoulder. “The screams are too far away. She can’t be holding the knob.”

Miss Crenshaw stepped back, her hand to her mouth. There was a final crash and a terrible cry, and then … silence.

“Try the door now,” I said.

Eyes wide with fear, Miss Taylor shook her head. Miss Crenshaw still clutched at her mouth. Finally, Olivia stepped forward and put her hand to the knob. Each of us gasped as it turned in her hands and the heavy door opened.

Taking the lamp back from Miss Taylor, Olivia walked a few steps into the room and out of our sight. After all the commotion, the near silence was suffocating. There was a pause, followed by an audible intake of breath. Swallowing my fear, I walked through the doorway to join her.

The chapel was freezing cold—so cold I could see my breath billowing in the lamplight. Holding the lamp high, I looked about the room. It was an absolute wreck. Pictures had fallen off the walls, and nearly every piece of furniture lay on its side. Every window was wide open. And at the center, in a shivering heap, lay Lucy Sharp, her right leg pinned under an overturned desk.