Haunted

  “I’m fine. I’ve been staying with a friend in Malibu. I guess I just needed some time to cool down, y’know?”

  “I figured,” he said softly, staring at his shoes. “And I understand.”

  “Look, Dad,” I began falteringly. “There’s something I want to say to you.”

  He lifted his head and I caught a flash of hope in his eyes. Maybe Zac’s analysis had been spot-on after all. Maybe I’d been too harsh on my father. Even though Mom had barely been gone six months, everybody grieved differently, right? Maybe he was just trying to comfort himself in his own strange way.

  “I’m sorry I took off like that. I wasn’t thinking clearly and I didn’t mean to stress you out.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “You were right — I should have been spending more time at home. You guys are my number one priority. I hope you know that.”

  I touched him lightly on the arm. “You deserve to be happy. And don’t worry about me because … I get it now.”

  I promised Rory and Dad I’d meet them at the theatre later, then hurried back to my car where Alex was still waiting.

  “That was fast,” he said.

  “It looks like we’re going back to school,” I told him, jumping behind the wheel. “Macbeth opens tonight and the staff usually attend, so maybe Doctor Ritter will be there.”

  “And if he is?”

  I turned the key in the ignition and paused. “Okay, I haven’t thought that far ahead. But we have to check it out, maybe confront him. I’d better text Zac and tell him to get down there.”

  “If you think he will be of use.”

  “Don’t be like that. We need all hands on deck here.”

  As I turned to fish my phone from the back seat where I’d tossed it, every muscle in my body stiffened. Isobel stood boldly in the middle of the road, illuminated by a streetlamp. She was barefoot, with black hair falling all the way down to her waist. Her nightgown was in tatters and her skin was as colourless as ice against the night.

  There was something different about her. At first I struggled to put my finger on it, then it dawned on me. Isobel looked strangely solid standing there. Every other time I’d been unlucky enough to see her, she’d been a diaphanous form, faded at the edges or flickering unnaturally, a shadow or a phantom in the mirror. But tonight her every limb looked as sturdy as marble. Could this mean the necromancer had succeeded? Was Isobel now flesh and blood, like Alex?

  Our eyes met and she smiled her demented smile. She seemed to be issuing me a challenge: Which of us will get there first? I knew then beyond a shadow of doubt that Sycamore High and its entire community were under direct threat. There was no need to puzzle over what had been brewing this last week because we were about to find out.

  A sleek black limo with tinted windows purred up beside her and the passenger door flew open. Isobel disappeared inside and the vehicle sped off into the night.

  Alex’s expression was grim. “I do not like this.”

  “Me neither. They’re up to something.”

  “Chloe, we need to follow them.”

  My shock transformed into action and I reversed wildly out of the driveway. By the time I reached the road, the car and its freakish passengers were no longer in sight, but I knew where they were headed. I slammed my foot on the gas and gave chase.

  I didn’t know exactly what Isobel’s intentions were, but it didn’t matter. I knew she was a collector of lives, tallying them up like notches on her belt. Whatever her plan, I would do everything in my power to thwart her. No one else was going to get hurt. Not if I could help it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When we reached the theatre, parents were milling around in the foyer, talking about local events and school news. I could tell whenever anyone mentioned Hart Anderson by the way their faces changed. His death had hit everyone hard.

  Isobel’s appearance had distracted me from calling Zac so I dialled his number now. There was no answer and I wondered if he might already be on his way. But how would he have known to come? I fired off a text: Emergency. We need you. Come to school play.

  I quickly got some tickets and Alex and I walked inside the auditorium. There was nothing unusual going on in there, no impending threat of danger. Rather, there was an air of excitement as people chatted quietly, munched on boxed candy or studied the program, waiting for the lights to dim.

  I didn’t much like the idea of being trapped in the theatre should anything happen, so Alex and I didn’t take our seats but hovered at the back, eyes peeled.

  Silence descended as Principal Kaplan came onto the stage. I guessed by her expression what she was about to say before she even began. “The tragic loss of Hart Anderson has rocked our community to the core.” A wave of disbelief went through the audience. I’d never known our principal to show even the slightest sign of emotion, but now her voice quavered. “Our hearts go out to his family and friends at this difficult time. Hart was one of Sycamore’s best and he will live on in our hearts. When I think about Hart, there are two things that stand out in my mind: the first is how much he supported his fellow students, whatever their passion; and the second is that he was no quitter. It’s for this reason that I’ve decided to allow tonight’s show to go on. It’s what Hart would have wanted. And so we dedicate this opening performance to him and the contribution he made to this school.”

  Mr Helton was next to walk onstage. By the look in his eyes I could see he lived for these moments. He began by giving an overview of the play, but went on so long about the elements of Elizabethan revenge tragedy that people started shifting restlessly. He then moved on to describe the drama club’s talent and ongoing commitment since the start of the school year, and finally spoke the words everyone had been waiting for: “And now to Elsinore Castle …”

  My heart rate increased as soon as the lights dimmed and the audience’s voices died down. Alex and I sat in the aisle, which we figured gave us the best vantage point, and tried to look inconspicuous. I knew Isobel and her accomplice were here somewhere, but Alex and I had searched all the faces in the audience without success. That wasn’t surprising; of course, they were too calculating to put themselves in full view.

  The curtain lifted to reveal the three witches. The stage had been transformed to look like a barren heath, and a crack of lightning flashed across the theatre.

  “When shall we three meet again?” the first witch cried out. “In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

  A shiver travelled up my spine and my hand sought Alex’s. The words of the play were strangely foreboding. It felt as if we were walking a tightrope over a ravine, waiting for the shove that would send us plummeting to the rocks below. Every one of my muscles was wound to a coil and adrenaline pumped through me, swinging between a flight or fight response. But I refused to give up hope. Just have a bit of courage, Chloe, I told myself.

  Alex squeezed my hand as if he could read my thoughts. The small gesture gave me all the courage I needed. I swore I could feel his energy flowing into me.

  We didn’t have to wait long for trouble to start. The second scene began and we heard soldiers fighting offstage. But before the kid playing Malcolm could finish his lines, a fog curled around his feet and moved upward like a snake. I wondered for a moment whether the stagehand was going overboard with the fog machine, until I saw it. It began as little blue and green flashes, almost too fast to detect, but quickly morphed into the figure of a child — a little boy wearing old-fashioned breeches with a button-up jacket and holding a cap in his hand. I knew immediately that he was one of the children from the orphanage.

  His appearance was so unexpected that the audience gasped and whispers began to fly. “I didn’t know this was a modern take on Macbeth,” I heard one of the parents say.

  But you only had to look at the actors to know this wasn’t part of the play. They’d gone dead silent, faces drained of colour, and looked around nervously as if waiting for someone to jump out and say, Gotcha! But nobody did, and
the silence was almost deafening.

  “Come on.” Alex tugged me gently by the hand. “We need to go backstage.”

  Once we reached the foyer, we broke into a run. I led the way around the building to the back entrance the stagehands used. In the wings we found Mr Helton reeling about like a spinning top, throwing commands to no one in particular. I could imagine his devastation. On opening night, his play had been brought to an abrupt halt before the end of the first act by the appearance of a ghost child with an unclear motive. The rest of the cast and crew watched open-mouthed, unwilling to intervene in what was happening onstage but unable to tear their eyes away.

  Mr Helton flapped his hands, trying to get the attention of the actors onstage. “Do something! Improvise!” he called. Then his gaze fell on me. “I remember you! Do you know anything about this?”

  “No, sir,” I replied. “But you have to get those kids offstage.”

  “Why? What’s going on?” he cried. “Where did that kid come from? Who’s trying to sabotage my play?”

  “There is no time to explain,” Alex told him. “You must evacuate the theatre at once.”

  “Evacuate?” Mr Helton glared at him. “Are you joking?! The show must go on!”

  “Sir, please,” I began, but broke off when I saw what was happening onstage. Behind the actors, the walls of the set rippled then tilted dangerously forward.

  “Good Lord,” Mr Helton moaned and I saw his eyes were glistening with tears. “This can’t be happening. Get them offstage! Get them off!”

  The stagehands responded, but not fast enough. The painted set fell onto the stage, breaking apart in a cloud of dust. The lights spluttered, then blew out with a shower of sparks. The actors ducked as props rained down around them, and the audience started jumping to their feet to leave.

  As I peered closer, I realised the stage was now covered with figures, only they were hazy, masked by fog. Bit by bit the fog cleared to reveal Isobel surrounded by the twelve children who had perished in the fire. They were like a ghost army and it was unsettling to see such menacing expressions on their young faces.

  At the sight of them, Mr Helton blanched and swayed dangerously as if he might pass out. The children weren’t real; that much was obvious. At least, it was obvious to Alex and me. Their bodies were slightly translucent and the air around them looked like dimpled glass.

  Before Alex could stop me I rushed onto the stage until I was only feet away from the circle of wraiths. “Isobel!” I hissed. “You have to leave.”

  Slowly her head cranked sideways like a mechanical doll until she was looking directly at me. I saw that her eyes were huge and black with murderous intent.

  There was only one thing I could think to say. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll give Alex up … for good this time.”

  I knew how much she hated me for taking Alex away, but the truth was Alex hadn’t been hers for a long time now. She’d lost him decades ago but had never come to terms with it.

  Isobel lifted an eyebrow almost playfully. “Keep him.” Her voice sounded eerie and hollow.

  “What do you want then?” I demanded, desperate to bargain with her and put an end to whatever disaster was about to unfold.

  “Do you really think this is about you or him?” she said scornfully. “I want what you have — to live again!”

  “That’s not how it works! There are supposed to be rules. Please, Isobel, you have to let go.”

  But Isobel was a law unto herself, as she had always been. Her only response was a humourless laugh. “You of all people cannot talk about rules.”

  Before I could answer, Alex grabbed me and pulled me back into the wings. He didn’t attempt to address Isobel. Perhaps he knew better than I did how futile it would be.

  With me out of the way, Isobel was able to refocus her attention to the task at hand. She gave a slight hand signal to which the orphans responded immediately. To my horror, I saw weapons materialise in their hands — a spade, a hammer, a jagged shard of glass. Where had they come from? The little boy who had appeared first raised a pair of sharp scissors to his face, smiling as the metal glinted in the dim light. I could only assume those weapons had been conjured for them. How had Isobel managed to get all these ghosts under her command? What promise had she made them?

  A tense beat of silence followed, then, with a sound like steel scraping across glass, the ghosts rushed forward and flew en masse into the audience. From where I stood they looked like a frenetic cloud. Alex and I moved just a second later, bolting onto the stage toward Isobel. She saw us coming and vanished into the wings on the opposite side.

  Helpless, we looked out at the mayhem in the auditorium. The ghost children were slashing people with their weapons, slipping like vapour through the fingers of anyone who tried to grab hold of them. The weapons were real, as were the injuries they were inflicting, and people screamed as they tried to run or to shield their children. The dim light created the impression of a grotesque Halloween spectacle, but this was only too real.

  Some of the ghosts had drifted toward the exits, barring anyone from leaving. I stared wildly around the theatre, but there was no sign of Dad or Rory. They should have arrived by now, so I had to hope they were somewhere safe, away from this madness.

  I wondered why no one had called the police or an ambulance, but when I pulled out my phone there was no signal so the presence of ghosts must have blocked the reception.

  “We have to do something!” I cried, although I hadn’t the faintest idea what. I looked desperately at Alex, hoping he might have a plan.

  “There are only two ways I know to repel ghosts,” he answered. “Obsidian and salt. We have neither.”

  “Okay. Well, forget the first thing,” I said, “seeing as I don’t know what it is. But salt should be easy to get.”

  “From where?”

  “The cafeteria will have a supply.” I glanced around. “I don’t want to leave you here alone though.”

  At that moment Mr Helton came rushing over, punching numbers uselessly into his phone with trembling hands. He was shaking so hard he dropped his phone when Alex took him by the shoulders.

  “Your devices are not working,” Alex said. “Would you like to do something that will help?”

  “What? What can I do?” I’d never seen Mr Helton so panicked. “I don’t understand what’s happening!”

  “There is something you can do. But I need you to pull yourself together first,” Alex said. “Can you do that for your students?”

  That struck a chord. Mr Helton swallowed and looked Alex square in the eyes. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Run to the cafeteria and bring all the salt you can find,” I told him.

  He looked at me blankly. “Salt?”

  “I know it sounds ridiculous, but there’s no time to explain.”

  He turned and stumbled toward the exit, calling for two of his older students to go with him. They peeled off their cumbersome costumes and raced after him, eager to help.

  In the auditorium, the wraiths continued to attack and the shrieks from their victims grew more frantic as they scrambled for cover or tried to fend off their assailants.

  I heard crazed laughter behind me and knew who it was before I turned to look. Isobel was larger than life now, her ivory nightgown flowing around her, the stiff lace of its collar circling her throat like barbed wire. She made me think of Bertha Mason, Mr Rochester’s insane and violent wife locked in the attic of Thornfield Hall. Her arms were raised and her head was thrown back and her mad laughter bounced off the walls and ceiling. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her. There was nothing human left in her now and I wondered why she was clinging to the idea of being reborn. Hadn’t she made a royal mess of her life the first time around?

  Alex appeared at my side and, finally, spoke her name. “What has happened to you?” he asked.

  She turned to him, her laughter fading, and I saw that whatever tenderness she had felt for him in the past was well a
nd truly gone. I didn’t think he had any influence left to wield over her.

  She took a step forward, speaking in a strange, almost flirtatious way. “Alexander, my dear, do I repulse you? I remember a time when you could not get enough of me.”

  “I did not know you then.”

  “Hush, my sweet, I am as I have always been. Perhaps it was you who was blind.”

  “I was a fool.” He looked around the auditorium at the devastation the ghost children were wreaking, then back at her. “Why are you doing this, Isobel? Have you no pity left? Has every last shred of humanity abandoned you?”

  “Tell me, why should I relinquish life when you are still here?”

  Alex’s eyes narrowed. “You and I are not the same,” he said in a steely voice. “I am no murderer.”

  “Perhaps not yet,” she purred, and I felt Alex go rigid at my side. “But what if you were forced to choose between the life of an innocent and that of your precious adolescent admirer?”

  It took me a second to realise she was referring to me.

  “You shall not touch her,” Alex spat. “If you try, I will —”

  “You will what?” Isobel sniggered. “You cannot harm me and you cannot control me, Alexander. You are at my mercy now and I do not even have to get my hands dirty.”

  She looked past us and beckoned with a long, bloodless finger. Almost immediately a child manifested by her side. I recognised her as the little girl with the shaved head who had appeared to me in the bathroom — Amelia. In her tiny hand she clutched a shard of glass now smeared with blood. At first she looked disoriented, until Isobel placed a maternal hand on her shoulder and knelt to whisper something in her ear. I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw the little girl’s face change as if under a spell. Her eyes locked on me, blazing with malicious intent. She moved closer, close enough for me to hear her ragged breathing. Very deliberately she raised her arm.

  Alex stepped in front of me, but the child was undeterred.

  Looking into her eyes, I saw the flicker of flames and remembered. Her fear in the bathroom came back to me: That wicked Mrs Marsh! she’d said. Don’t let her catch me again!