Alexandra Sokoloff - The Harrowing

Martin stepped forward. “Whatever it is, there’s one way to find out.” The firelight turned the lenses of his glasses to flame. “Let’s try it again.”

The others looked to him, jolted. The night seemed to darken around them.

Robin was impatient suddenly, tired of Martin’s academic posturing, tired of Cain’s hard-nosed skepticism. There had been a real Zachary, and he had lived in the dorm and died brutally there. None of them had known those things when they contacted him. What more of an explanation did they need? And he had reached out to them—no, not to them, to her —for a reason. Zachary had reached out to her, and she felt a responsibility to help him. Her mind pushed back the terror of Thanksgiving. Instead, she deliberately focused on the softness of the presence she’d felt in the woods.

She looked around at the circle, finding their faces in the dark, appealing. “Maybe Zachary’s been doing these things because he wants something. Maybe he needs our help.”

The others stood in the silent courtyard, silent, considering. Emboldened, Robin ventured, “We could do the séance in the attic, where they all died.”

Four pairs of startled eyes jumped to hers. ‘To ask Zachary…what he wants,” she finished.

She saw Lisa go still, intent. A breeze ruffled her hair and Lisa flinched. Robin caught it again: the strong sense that something was wrong. And then Lisa nodded tightly.

“You’re right. We need to find out what’s going on.”

Patrick backed up, staring around at all of them. “Whoa, hold the phone. Y’all have some short memories. That motherfucker is one pissed-off ghost. We all pretty much lost our shit that second night.”

Patrick’s blue eyes fixed on Robin’s. For a moment, she was back in the terror of the night—the shape rushing forward in the mirror, the paralyzing cold.

And the rapping .

She pushed it all down. “Think of the way he died,” she urged Patrick. “Of course he’s tormented…but maybe we can help—release him or something.” She was aware of Cain shaking his head, disgusted.

Martin was studying Patrick. Now he said almost pleasantly, “Are you afraid? That’s interesting.”

Cornered, Patrick blustered. “Hell no. I’m down. I got two more midterms to take before Christmas break. Bring it on.”

“Friday night,” Martin said. “It has to be all of us. It doesn’t work otherwise.” He looked at Cain pointedly.

Cain smiled without humor. “Oh, I’ll be there. I’m not missing this little show.”

They looked around at one another in the dying firelight, a silent bond of agreement.

“Friday night,” Martin said again, sealing it.

Patrick kicked at the remnants of the small fire, scattering ashes and extinguishing the embers. The others turned to leave the courtyard. Cain remained standing by the wall.

Patrick, Martin, and Lisa kept moving toward the stone stairs, but Robin hesitated, looked back at Cain in the dark.

“So nothing’s happened to you at all?”

He paused a beat too long and she stared at him, realizing.

He shrugged almost angrily. “I’ve been writing songs. A lot of them. They’re good.”

Robin suddenly remembered the searing, unearthly music she’d heard in the hallway outside his door, and the hair on the back of her neck rose. Before she could say anything, he began to rationalize, defensive. “Look, I wrote them. A ghost didn’t. Martin had a point—we freaked ourselves out and jarred something loose—subconsciously. A by-product of O’Connor’s little show.”

As ever protective of Patrick, Robin retorted with some heat. “If you think Patrick did it all, why did you even show up tonight?”

Cain’s grin twisted at her. “You got me.” He shrugged. “I’m hooked. Who what when where how? I mean, what the hell? I need to know.”

They looked at one another in the dark. The wind picked up, whispering along the stones, and Robin shivered.

Cain nodded at the book of newspapers under her arm. “Can I take a look at those?”

Patrick’s voice called behind her. “Robin. You comin’?”

She turned and saw the others waiting for her at the top of the worn stone stairs. She stepped forward and handed the book to Cain. Their eyes held for a moment as he took it.

Robin turned and walked across the dark courtyard for the steps. But before she climbed, she turned and looked back.

He was watching her—as she’d known he would be.

The walk home was cold and largely silent as they made their way through the tall shadows

of trees back to the Hall. It was as if once they’d made their decision, there was nothing more to talk about.

Lisa walked stiffly, sunk into herself, and Robin had to bite her lips not to ask her what was wrong. Whatever it was, Lisa obviously didn’t want to talk in front of the others. Or me, either, I guess .

Once the building was in sight, they separated. Lisa and Patrick hung back to smoke, but there was more to it—a feeling that they shouldn’t be seen together. And why is that? Guilt? Or possessiveness? Do we just not want to let anyone else in on it?

Even Martin paused at the mailboxes, fumbling distractedly with his keys, so Robin could go in ahead, without him.

Her room was empty, thankfully no Waverly to deal with.

Robin stripped off her coat—the wool smelled like cold air and smoke from Patrick’s fire—and threw it on her bed. She stood for a long time in the center of the rug before turning and leaving the room again.

She moved blankly down the hall toward the bathroom, but near the open bathroom door, she slowed, listening, her pulse quickening.

Scrabbling sounds came from within, and a labored breathing.

She froze, then after a moment stepped warily to the doorway and looked in.

In the sickly light of the girls’ bathroom, Lisa was rummaging ferociously through her locker. She grabbed for an orange prescription pill bottle, twisted it open.

Obviously empty. Robin flinched as Lisa hurled the bottle at the wall, slammed her locker closed.

Then Lisa glimpsed Robin in the mirror, a shadow in the doorway behind her. Lisa whirled, freaked.

Robin stepped forward into the light. “It’s me.”

Lisa breathed out silently, then bent over the sink to wash her face, so as not to look Robin in the eyes. The red string was like a slash of blood on her wrist.

Robin moved slightly closer. “Are you okay?”

For a moment, Robin thought Lisa wasn’t going to answer. She buried her face in a towel, and when she looked up again, her eyes were distant, sunk into pale flesh. But abruptly she spoke. “I’m dreaming about him. I mean, I’m dreaming about him fucking me.” She turned and looked Robin in the eyes.

Robin stared at her, jolted, not knowing what to think. She was always wary of Lisa’s grandstanding. But Lisa had been so quiet all evening, not herself at all. And she was pale and jumpy, her usual bravado gone. In fact, she looked sick.

Could it be true? Is she actually being —Robin’s mind skittered away from the word.

Robin’s face must have changed to reflect the sick jolt of horror she felt. Lisa immediately closed off. She tossed her hair, smiled that mocking smile. “Oh, look, he’s good. What can I say? I come.” She threw her towel into her locker and pulled out a hairbrush, attacked her hair viciously.

Robin tensed, wounded by Lisa’s tone and roiling with mixed emotions—distrust, the old paranoia, and something else, too.

Jealousy?

No, of course not. But—but what?

The truth was, she’d thought Zachary was only appearing to her.