Change Of Season (33 page)

Autumn yawned and stretched, quietly observing the festivities.  She’d slid past giddy drunk into bedtime napping drunk, and she longed for the night to end.  Crossing the quad alone in this state seemed an unwise option though, especially in heels.  Her eyes met Evan’s and he nodded slightly, affirming he was on the same page. 

“Hey!  Guys!” his voice boomed.  “Security’s gonna sweep this place in twenty.  Sadly, we must call it a wrap.”

Whining and chants of resistance began, but they were all show: none of them dared risk the wrath of Logan after their performance.  Veronica hummed to herself as she gathered her heels in her hands, insisting she would go barefoot. Autumn immediately kicked off her own shoes, admiring her friend’s genius.  Besides, heels would make far too much noise on the stairs of Ashbury.

Their group fractured outside, hugs and goodbyes quietly exchanged beneath the moon.  Evan, ever the gentleman, escorted Autumn and Veronica to Ashbury, whisking them quickly to the infamous side door that was conveniently propped open on the regular. 

“Where’s her room?” he whispered.

“Second floor, opposite end,” Autumn murmured. 

“Shit.”  He gestured to Veronica, who was falling asleep upright.  “I’ll get busted carrying her there.”

“My room,” Autumn replied. “This side, third floor.”

Hoisting Veronica over his shoulder, he slipped inside, Autumn holding doors as they crept upstairs.  Each step seemed a mountain, vertigo threatening at every turn, but she somehow prevailed, fumbling her key into the lock and ushering Evan inside. 

“That one,” she whispered, gesturing to the spare bed.

She watched as he yanked the covers side, tucking Veronica gently beneath them.  She murmured sleepily and nuzzled the pillow with a smile as he pushed her hair back from her face.

“Night, V.” A light kiss to the cheek, and he rose, arms outstretched. “Hug?”

Autumn smiled, accepting readily.  Evan was fast becoming a campus big brother.  They often sat together in Creative Writing now, sharing their works in progress during free writing sessions.  They also shared a love of Nutella that meant frequent battles over his stash featuring clanging spoons and Veronica as referee.

“Don’t be too hard on her,” he said.  “She wants you to be happy.”

Ah.  Big brother Evan had noticed the Andrew situation. 

“She owes me big time,” she grumbled.

“She’ll pay up.  Thanks for letting her crash.  I better jet.  Night, Autumn.”

“Night.”

She locked the door behind him as quietly as she could manage, too weary to bother changing clothes. 
Besides
, she thought sleepily,
Veronica owes me.  She can dry clean them
. 

In her restless dreams, Andrew strummed a guitar beneath her window under inky skies, Autumn silently screaming a warning as a familiar figure stalked him.

***

The cruel light of a perfectly sunny morning cut a swath across Autumn’s face, jarring her from hungover slumber by force.  Clutching her head, she pawed the floor for her purse, desperately seeking Advil before the drummers in her skull kicked it up from rehearsal to Neil Peart.  Veronica remained sprawled on the opposing bed, one leg dangling over the side, skirt hiked up to her hips.  She was a fashion ad even when sleeping. 

So unfair
, Autumn thought, swallowing her Advil dry.

Three hours to kill, according to the display on the laptop she now hoisted into her lap.  Showering before pain relief was out of the question and food was a no-go before hydration.  That left one thing she could tackle on today’s to-do list:  further researching Casteel Preparatory Academy’s ghostly history.

Sipping on water she’d stashed in the drawer beneath her bed, Autumn pulled up her bookmarks, returning to the paranormal website that investigated the campus.  The video still spooked her too much to play it, but she did pay more attention this time to the detailed reports.  One piece of the report caught her eye:  a female student, living in Pearson Hall, recalled a story of the school once being an asylum, and how a young student had been ‘driven insane’ by the ghost of a former patient.  Scrolling upwards, she noted the investigation had been done four years ago – prior to Nikki’s suicide.

Was there another suicide on campus
?

It was a possibility she’d never considered, nor had Veronica ever mentioned any other students meeting an unfortunate end.  Although the asylum history and accompanying haunting of the theatre had spooked her, she’d never drawn a line between the events in her room and the rest of the campus. 

Someone else had definitely considered this possibility, she learned as she scrolled: halfway down the comments on the posting was one from
JustGotWicked
, whose location was IP locked to Toronto:

Casteel is cursed!  There’s a lot more going on than crying and weird orbs in tunnels.  To read my research and theories, visit my blog, especially if you’re a female attending Casteel.  It could save your life
. 

“Gee, that’s not ominous or anything,” she mumbled, clicking the link he’d provided. 

What she found left her reeling.

The blogger gave only his gender and age in his profile, and refused to give names, stating that he didn’t want family members coming after him.  What he did present was a detailed timeline of female students who’d run away from Casteel, never to return and, as confirmed in four cases, never to be seen again.  Old records from the asylum days included several patient deaths, including three suicides in what was now Pearson Hall.  Most disturbing to Autumn, however, was the fact it was a pattern:  every few years, he said, another female student disappeared, always in winter.

He felt that the students were driven away by the actions of restless spirits, who perhaps mistook the students for the staff who’d tormented them so.  Abuse was rampant in asylums, he stated, so it was likely at least one staff member exhibited cruelty.  He also suggested that patients were buried on the grounds somewhere, a prospect Autumn found nauseating and sad all at once.

Minimizing the browser window, she leaned back, closing her eyes to think.  Nikki Lang was definitely in her room, and had taken her life here: these were facts, verified by Veronica and others.  She’d died in February – winter.  While she’d heard sobbing on a regular basis, such incidents went back for years, well before Nikki’s passing.  What if her ghost wasn’t Nikki at all, but a far older spirit? 

What if that same spirit had driven Nikki to suicide?

Swallowing hard, she sat her laptop aside and hugged her pillow to her chest.  Could ghosts be so cruel?  Was Nikki simply not strong enough to just leave, run, go elsewhere?  Her memory shifted to the fragmented postcard she’d found in the tunnels, expressing fear at
something
. 

Was Nikki haunted too?

A grumble and sigh startled her.  She turned towards Veronica, who stretched and yawned loudly.  Her brow furrowed and she glanced over, relaxing as she understood the reason for her apparent confusion: she wasn’t in her own room.

“Morning,” she murmured.  “Why am I here?”

“Because you passed out and Evan didn’t want to risk carrying you across the entire second floor and juggling you to find your keys,” Autumn replied.  “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Why the grouchy?”  Veronica shoved herself to sitting, lolling against the headboard.

“Oh that’s right!  You probably don’t remember calling Andrew ‘the Elton John guy’ and leaving me in an awkward convo with him!” Autumn sighed, kicking her bed.  “Jesus, V!  Not cool.”

“Oh my fuckity-fuck!  I’m so sorry!”  She twisted her blonde hair into a loose knot at her neck.  “Want me to try and fix it?”

“No, I’ll handle it.  But you’re having my blouse and skirt cleaned as penance,” she added, gesturing to her wrinkled garments.

“Done!”  Her mind drifted away, a small smile crossing her lips.  “Evan carried me here?”

Autumn rolled her eyes, smiling.  “Yes, Princess.  Tucked you in and everything.  You two are giving me diabetes.”

“Sorry!  Well no, I’m not sorry because he is so sweet and intelligent!  I’m kicking myself for not dating him sooner.  He’s a good guy, isn’t he?”

Autumn nodded, “Yes, he is.  Rare quality.”

“Oh!  Have I told you that he sings?  Plays guitar?”

Autumn swung herself around, planting her back against the wall beside her bed.  “He does?  How’d you learn this?”

Veronica beamed, folding her legs beneath her as she sat up, matching Autumn’s posture.  “I was telling him about the annual charity concert that we do every December, and he asked why it’s just Drama and Music students that take part.  I told him that it was a gimme, considering our majors, to which he pointed out his talents and asked why writers were not allowed to join the fun.  Which brings me to something I meant to ask you about yesterday, but forgot in the haze of vodka amnesia.”

“Lemme guess: you need to pick a song for this too?”

Veronica shook her head.  “Already have one or two in mind.  I was thinking about what Evan said, and decided it would be fun to open the playing field and perhaps encourage a little friendly rivalry between majors.  Perhaps get a local store to donate a trophy?  The audience could vote on their favourite act!  How does that sound?”

“Pretty awesome, actually.  Are you able to accept defeat at Evan’s hands, though?” she teased.

“Please! Drama for the win, baby. 
But
… I want you to participate too.”

Autumn felt herself blanch.  “Um, what?  I don’t sing!  Are you still drunk?”

“Hmm, nope.  Feel fine.  And don’t you feed me that crap, Autumn Brody: not only do I recall your mom mentioning years of choir and glowing solos-”

“She’s a mom, she exaggerates!”

“Whatever!  I also heard you singing last night sometime before I took a turn into Drunkville and you were amazing!  C’mon, Autumn, you could do something with Evan.”

“Why do you hate me?” Autumn whined.

“It’s for charity!  We usually raise a few grand every year for a different cause.  Half the people go up as a lark, and no one will expect Creative Writing majors to sound like trained vocalists.  Please?”

The puppy eyes were in full force and Autumn’s head was still throbbing.  Temptation rose in her to throw something hard and painful at her friend’s head, but she struggled to resist. 
No freaking way.  Wallflowers don’t perform on stages
.

Actually, Charlie does join the
Rocky Horror
cast in that book-

Fuck off!  Don’t help her!

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, V.”

“You’ll change your mind!” Veronica chirped, swinging her legs out of bed.  “I have class soon.  Better head downstairs and shower.  Are you going to class?”

“Yeah, I have Creative Writing at one-thirty.  We’re discussing ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’, which I have read a dozen times before so I can bullshit all day about it.  You?”

“Drama, same time.  Missed Vocals this morning but oh well!  Wanna grab lunch?”

Autumn nodded.  “Meet you in like forty-five?”

“Done!”

Veronica leaned forward, scooping up her heels near the foot of the bed and slipping them on.  With a yawn, she rose and stumbled lazily towards the door, crying out as she suddenly lost her footing and nearly fell face-first onto the wood floor.  Autumn immediately launched herself from her bed, offering a hand to her friend.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, nothing hurts.  Just feel really, really stupid…”  Her voice trailed off as her palm pressed to the ground.  “No wonder I fell.  This floorboard’s loose.”

“Really?”  Autumn kneeled beside her, fingers sweeping the floor.  “Yeah, it is.  Funny, I’ve never tripped on it before and I’m probably the biggest klutz alive.”

The small plank was slightly ajar, just enough to require a lift and slide-shove to knock it back into place.  The lift was all Autumn managed, her eyes fixating beneath it. 

“Is that-”

“Yeah.  Grab it, V?”

Her friend’s small hand slipped into the gap, fingers scissoring the thick white edge of the Polaroid picture.  As she flipped it over, Veronica gasped and dropped it, kicking it away with her shoe.

“Ugh!  What the hell?”

What the hell, indeed
.  Autumn’s eyes widened as she examined the battered photograph, immediately drawn to the rusty splash across the lower corner of the memento. 
Blood
, she knew instinctively. 
But whose
?  This was the part that chilled her flesh as she memorized the demure smile and bright auburn waves of the young woman pictured, dressed in a lacy blue dress that looked just a little… old.

“Who is that?” Veronica asked softly.

“Not Nikki,” Autumn said, shaking her head in disbelief. 
But she could be her sister.  Our sister. 

Another doppelganger.  A bloody still-frame, hidden beneath her feet.

Veronica’s hand came to rest on her arm, squeezing it gently as they both continued to stare at the frozen girl, as if she might explain herself if they only waited long enough.  But it was Veronica who spoke at last, her voice trembling.