Haunted House

  There was only one consolation prize to come out of this stupid move: Hatherford Academy.

  My enrollment there was the only thing that got me out of bed that morning. Well, that and the fact that the mouse was back. I could hear the floorboard squeaking as it scuttled around, and I laid there in the dark, wishing the sun would just come up already.

  As soon as the first sickly streaks of yellow sunlight came in through the window, I flung myself out of the bed and rushed to get ready, grabbing my uniform and rushing into the bathroom down the hall. It had a big clawfoot tub in it, and a mirror that looked like it should have been hanging in some stuffy over-the-top hotel out in New York City.

  I kicked the door shut, locked it, and changed swiftly. The uniform was a knee-length black and red plaid skirt—that clashed horrifically with my purple hair—with a black polo shirt. The “H” emblem of the academy was just beneath the left fold of the collar. A pair of itchy wool socks and black Mary Jane’s completed the ensemble.

  Breakfast was just as bad as dinner had been the night before; runny, undercooked eggs, toast that barely had any crisp to it, and butter that for some reason was left sitting out on the counter literally all the time. Ugh. I hoped that the food at the academy was at least slightly better.

  By the time I’d made it to the art academy, I was ready to lose myself in a picture or two, or three, or five.

  “Whoa.” I stopped in front of the building. If my grandparents’ place looked like it had come out of a history book, Hatherford Academy looked like it had come out of a sci-fi magazine about future architecture. It was all sleek, smooth curves, silver and white with flashes of electric blue.

  The uniforms were majorly outdated compared to the building itself.

  Other kids were starting to make their way in through the big double front doors. I followed them, relishing in the blast of cool AC that hit me in the face. Even early in the morning, the Texas heat was borderline unbearable.

  The front entrance of the building was a large rectangle. There were no corners in the rooms, instead ending in small little rounded-off points. Behind the front desk sat an older woman with gray streaking through her pulled-back black hair, and so much purple eyeshadow streaked from her lashes to her eyebrows, it looked almost like a stain.

  I approached her awkwardly. “Uh, hi. I just transferred in. I was trying to get—”

  “Quinn Hoggwaller,” said the woman. She clucked her tongue and tapped on the keyboard. “Yes, yes, we heard all about you in the meeting.”

  “There was… a meeting about me?”

  “Mhm, yes. There most certainly was. Here. We have a map for you. And your first class, it’s marked.” A piece of paper slides over to me beneath her Barbie-pink clawlike press-on fingernails. Then a second one. “This is your schedule. We were going to have Mary Ellis show you where everything was, but the poor dear is out sick. Strep. You’ll have to find it on your own.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I looked at the map. “So, just straight down the hallway?”

  “Mhm, that’s right, straight down the hallway.” The woman went right back to tip-tapping on her computer. She clearly wasn’t going to give me any more assistance, so I took the map and went off in search of my first room.

  As I walked down the hall, it felt like every student was staring at me. Of course, I knew that was impossible—I wasn’t the only new kid in school—but still, all eyes seemed to be glued on me as I passed by each doorway. It made my skin crawl.

  Finally, after what felt like forever, I found the room I was looking for. A small crowd had gathered around the door— labeled A-12.

  I made eye contact with the boy closest to me and asked, “Is something going on?” But I guess he didn’t hear me.

  Instead, a tall, skinny blonde looked at me from over the rim of her heart-shaped sunglasses. “Mr. Carp is late. Again.”

  A stout, black-haired boy added, “He’s always late.” The boys’ uniform was about the same as the girls’, only instead of a skirt they were wearing black and red plaid trousers. “I’ve literally never seen him get here on time.”

  Before I could respond, the blonde asked, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Quinn. I just moved here.”

  “Quinn?” She thought about it for a moment, then announced, “Strange name. I’m Alice.”

  My lips pursed. My name wasn’t strange. Hers was just boring.

  The boy didn’t say anything until Alice knocked him with her elbow. Then he rubbed his arm, scowled, and grumbled, “David.”

  “My boyfriend,” said Alice, preening.

  “Right.” I didn’t think that David was much to preen about.

  Alice continued, “Where did you move in from?”

  “Maryland,” I answered. “I’m staying at the house on Peach Lane. It’s big, kind of hard to miss.”

  And old. And creaky. And…now everyone was staring at me with wide eyes. Even David’s focus had snapped toward me.

  Feeling self-conscious, I asked, “What?”

  David asked, “Like, the haunted house?”

  “Haunted?” I frowned, brows pinching down to keep me from rolling my eyes.

  Alice gave a short nod. “Oh yeah, the Peach Lane Manor is totally haunted. A girl died there, you know?”

  A shiver ran down my spine. “No one died in my grandparents’ house.”

  “Uh-huh.” Alice used one finger to push her sunglasses slightly down the bridge of her nose. “She died in the basement. Legend says that she still haunts the place to this very day.”

  David announced animatedly, “Everyone in the school knows it. Right, Harriet?”

  A curly-haired girl behind him nodded her head. “My sister—she’s in a grade higher than us—she and her friends…they tried to break in there last Halloween.”

  My mouth dropped open. Teenagers try to break in to my grandparents’ home!?

  Harriet continued, “They wanted to get in and see the girl. She’s supposed to show up at like, midnight or something?” Harriet shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “My grandparents live there.” I was appalled that they would try and break in. Sure, Gramps and Grandma gave off kind of weird vibes, but they were still just some old folks trying to live out their golden years in peace.

  Harriet just shrugged a second time. “If you live with ghosts, people are going to try and break in to see the ghosts. Haven’t you ever watched Scream Hunt?”

  “Scream Hunt; the world’s most fakey ghost-hunting program ever,” said another boy. He rolled his eyes. “Maybe you guys shouldn’t talk about breaking into someone’s house when they actively live there.”

  “No one asked your opinion, Trevor,” said Alice. She pushed her sunglasses back up. “What are you even doing out there, huh? Did the old people kick the bucket?”

  “Don’t be a jerk, Alice,” Trevor told her. “She literally already said that they were her grandparents.”

  Stroke of luck—before I had to get into the fact that my dad had died, a man that could only be Mr. Carp came hurrying toward the door.

  He was broad in the shoulders with a strong jaw and thinning dark hair. His black eyes glittered with mirth as he held up the key to the classroom. “Your revered Illustration professor has arrived!”

  “Good morning, Mr. Carp,” chorused the students.

  “Good morning—late morning,” he said back, unlocking the door and swinging it open so the kids could all rush inside. “Take your seats, get out your books, and sharpen your pencils. No pens this morning. We’re doing a rough-draft project.”

  I followed the crowd of students into the room. New problem: I had no idea where to sit.

  Mr. Carp put a hand on my back between my shoulders and nudged me toward a table at the front of the class, next to the big window. “Why don’t you sit there, Quinn?”

  Oh, right. The meeting. No need to tell any of the teachers who I was, since they had already talked about me.

  I sat at the empty desk and pulled my sketchbook out, thumbing through it to a new page. Trevor sat down next to me.

  He gave me a smile.

  Hesitantly, I smiled back at him. He at least seemed to be less of a total trash-heap than Alice and her boyfriend. At least he wasn’t talking about breaking into my grandparents’ house. Which was totally not haunted. Because ghosts weren’t real. Right?

  Right.

  Those creaks I heard last night?

  They were totally just a mouse.

  Mr. Carp waited until everyone took their seats, and then he clapped his hands together to get their attention. “Alright, everyone. We’re going to start things off with a bit of a bang. A self-portrait.”

  The students groaned. I agreed with them. I had done so many self-portraits over the years, it was absurd. I could practically draw myself with my eyes closed now.

  Mr. Carp continued as though he hadn’t heard anyone’s complaints, “We’re going to use it as the basis of our main project this semester, our capstone. Today, the draft. Tomorrow, the inking. And then, we’re going to use this portrait to create a series of illustrations that tell a story with you as the villain.”

  I raised my hand. “What if we do digital art?”

  “That’s fine for the main project, but the self-portrait—it’s our base. So we’re going to do this one traditional, and go from there.”

  Trevor leaned over and said, “He’s kind of easy to impress. This shouldn’t be hard, even if paper’s not your usual medium.”

  I nodded. “I just… I don’t know. Was hoping to do something more fun for the first project.”

  “Yeah, but it should pick up.” Trevor grabbed his pencil and angled the mirror sitting on his desk so that it reflected his face back at him. “I mean, we get to be bad guys. That’s kinda cool.”

  I angled my own mirror too, taking in the soft of my cheeks and sweeping my hair behind my ears. “I guess.” I pursed my lips together. “What really makes someone a bad guy though?”

  “Angry eyes,” said Trevor, with a laugh. “You gotta get the soul right!”

  From his other side, a girl with red-dyed tips in her hair said, “I don’t know. I think Mikey had pretty soft eyes, and look how he ended up.”

  Trevor laughed. “God, yeah. You’re right. That kid had puppy-dog eyes.”

  “And then they put him in juvy.”

  “I mean, dogs can be mean.”

  “He looked like a Hush Puppy had turned into a human,” the girl continued.

  I had no idea what they were talking about and, after waiting a few minutes to see if they would explain, turned back to my own work, mood growing more sullen with each bit of local gossip I didn’t understand.

  It was reflected in my work. My self-portrait had sad eyes. Dog eyes, according to Trevor. Hush Puppy eyes.

  It didn’t look any better when we inked it the next day, and I was more than thrilled that by the third day, I was allowed to pull open my laptop, get out my tablet, and start working on things that way.

  The first thing I drew was a mock cover for the story; a manor that looked as close to my grandparents place as I could make it, bonus a few withered rose bushes for aesthetic boosts.

  If people wanted to think the place was haunted, I figured I might as well roll with the idea. Maybe I could get extra points for letting ‘local legend’ influence my story?

  The second thing was a character sheet for myself. I had to be the villain of the story, so I made myself a ghost. My hair was more unkempt, and my dress was ratty and worn and old. I used one of the dolls sitting on a shelf as inspiration for the dress. I tried my best to make the fabric shiny, like satin.

  On my cheek, I placed a blue star tattoo. I decided my character gave herself a star tattoo for everyone she killed.

  The next character sheet I made up was for the two adults that had just moved into the house. They were dowdy, middle-aged, and had the kindest eyes I could give a picture. The father had the same bushy mustache as the guy that drove my taxi.

  That was all I got done before our end-of-the-week check-in. Mr. Carp had explained that every Friday, he would be looking at our progress to see how things were going. As the clock ticked closer to the end of the day, he rushed from table to table, getting everyone’s story.

  He stopped at Trevor’s table and asked, “What makes you a villain?”

  Trevor said, “I’m a vampire. I prey on the people who work late-shifts at fast-food joints.”

  He pointed out a few of the vampiric traits and took a moment to explain his story. When he was done, Mr. Carp said, “The hero’s design could use some work. What makes her flashy? What draws the gaze?” Then he turned to me and he asked, “What makes you a villain?”

  “I’m a ghost—in a haunted house—and I kill people.” I used the tip of my pen to point at the star on my cheek. “After I died, I got really lonely. I started killing the people that would come into the house and trapping them in dolls, so I would have friends. I get a new star tattoo somewhere on my body for every kill I make. See? It looks almost like a mole right now, or a freckle.”

  “Your technique is amazing.” Mr. Carp’s eyebrows lifted as he admired my work. “But the subject matter is a little strange.”

  I grimaced. Typical reaction. No one ever understood my art.

  As the teacher continued on, Trevor tried to lean over the gap between our desks to look, but I slammed my laptop shut. “I have to get to my next class.”

  All but jumping to my feet, I surged out of the room. But Trevor was right behind me. He had seriously long legs and easily caught up with me in the hallway. “Come on, don’t be like that. I want to see your sketch.”

  I pursed my lips. No one ever wanted to see what I drew. When they did, they never liked it. Mr. Carp’s reaction was pretty much par for the course. My technique was good, but the concept was weird, the subject was strange. Did I really want to go through with that again in the same day?

  He pulled open his notebook, showing off the ink work he had done. Traditional-art style. “Look, see? Mr. Carp had way worse to say about my progress than he did about yours.”

  The picture was simple, but you could tell that there was a lot of heart in it. Trevor seemed to be doing the base of his sketches in a messy style, and then going back over them with the fine tip of an ink pen.

  The picture he showed me was of a woman. She was wearing Y2k-style clothes; big baggy parachute pants over top of a pair of platform shoes. Her lips had a definite pout to them, and her hair was worn in a fairly straight crop. She didn’t have any jewelry or tattoos or anything that might have made her super stand out.

  The art was nice, though.

  “I like your hero.” A smile curled over my features. “Not everyone needs to look like a princess.”

  “That’s what I was thinking! So, you gonna let me see yours?” Trevor’s face split up into a grin. “Come on. That’s the only fair way to do it, right?”

  I hesitated for a moment but then pulled my laptop out of the bag at my side, opened it, and showed him my notes. It was enough to get my heart thundering in my chest and my palms turning sweaty. The thought of letting someone aside from the teacher look at my stuff…

  And look at it he did. Trevor looked at it for probably a solid minute, and then nodded. Nodded! “I like it! The stars are cool.”

  For the first time since moving to this stupid town, a smile shot across my face. “You think so?” Relief crashed through me. People never liked my work.

  “Yeah,” said Trevor. “It looks awesome. And the stars are like, the best part of it all. I think it’s cool when the horror changes a character. Like, uh, when zombies start to rot or someone slowly changes into a bug. Metamorphosis, you know?”

  I nodded at him. He actually got me! “If it’s affecting you mentally, it’s going to affect you physically.”

  Plus, I thought they looked cool. I really wasn’t thinking too deeply about metamorphosis or anything like that when I made up the design. My stuff formed on a more random, organic kind of basis.

  I made the design, and then I found the reasons behind it.

  Gave her a star…then I decided it was a mark of her kills.

  But Trevor seemed impressed with the concept, so I let him think that it was a whole deep plan from the start.

  “Hey, we should do lunch!” he blurted.

  Lunch? I glanced at the clock and realized I hadn’t even started to think about what I would be doing once the lunch bell rang.

  “That sounds great,” I agreed, putting the laptop back into my bag.

  We both had classes after that, but a new sense of confidence had settled over me.

  And the day progressed pleasantly after that. During free time, I used the library printer to make some paper copies of my art.

  Maybe I could hang them on my wall and make my room even more “Quinn.”

  The Basement

  Late afternoon sunlight practically baked me alive on the walk home. I was actually excited to see the old manor house come into view at the end of the drive, just because I was so desperate for a cold drink and to get under the overhead fan.

  I jumped over the three creaky front steps in one leap. I still didn’t trust the wood to hold my weight. Then I unclipped my keychain from the side of my purse. Technically, it wasn’t mine. It was my dad’s.

  The blue vinyl boxing glove swung at the end of a glossy silver chain, and the ancient-looking front-door key completed the eyesore.

  Click. The door swung open. The creepy cat paintings met me. A doll had been set on the table between the paintings. It had weirdly long legs and silver-blonde hair pulled back with a black ribbon.

  “Hello to you too,” I muttered, heading for the dining room. I was just going to step into the kitchen after that and get a snack, but a bright burst of purple light caught my attention. It was coming from the basement door, which was sitting slightly ajar.

  I stared at it, confused and a little creeped out.

  The light was streaming out, bright and glittering. I glanced around for my grandparents. They didn’t seem to be around anywhere. Curiosity grabbed me tight. I stepped slowly over to the doorway, reaching out and tapping it further open with a few fingers.