The Patrol recommended that the teachers eliminate the woods from the festivities, but the commotion around town was too intense to ignore. Natives and tourists alike were raving about the “closing act” and how the voices were the greatest illusions they had ever experienced. Skye told Alex that in September and October alone, the insignificant town of Moribund typically brought in more tourism than Redwood National Park did year round, and now the number of guests had risen higher than ever.
Thus, Van Hanlin promised to oversee the woods at all times. Not that Alex could have escaped again if she had wanted to, because her peers were so interested in the banshee encounter. Her reputation had quickly morphed from “bench girl” to “banshee girl.” At least that sounded slightly cooler.
But when spirits asked her about what happened, the topic always seemed to shift to Reuben:
“How could he be so stupid?”
“He’s not too bright, that kid!”
“Why didn’t he try to help you?”
“Who actually hears a banshee and then goes to find it?”
And Reuben hid in the corner of the yard, his mouth downturned and his eyes despondently turned away from his hecklers. Alex attempted to comfort him once, but he stood up without a word and walked away.
At the mere sound of the word banshee, Alex could still hear shrill shrieking, and it felt like shards of glass being plucked from her brain.
Van Hanlin ordered her to stay at the manor and “direct” the chasings outside, which was completely pointless and utterly boring. How much direction was needed to follow sporadic groups exiting one door? The Patrol captured the banshee, and it wasn’t like the monster targeted her specifically. She’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, so she didn’t understand her punishment.
“I don’t think it’s a punishment,” Skye assured her. She’d sought out Alex in order to give her a bouquet of chamomile flowers. Alex didn’t ask why, because she figured she probably wouldn’t understand the explanation anyway. “But people do seem to be a little freaked out by you.”
“Are you?”
“Nah.” Skye flashed a dazzling smile. It nearly glowed in the moonlight. “I don’t scare easily. I do feel badly for you, though, sitting here and twiddling your thumbs. It can’t be stimulating.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Duvall asked me to fetch a dozen buckets and shovels, but I don’t really feel like going all the way to the shed. Are you allowed to do it?”
Alex jumped to her feet. “Probably not, but I’ll do it anyway.”
Skye tilted her head to listen for something. Alex wondered if she could hear the pounding of Alex’s nonexistent heart. She desperately wanted to get back to that clearing.
Thankfully, Joey Rellingsworth poked his head out from the doorway and warned the girls that another group of guests was about to exit the mansion. Skye sighed and tugged her mask from her pocket.
“Take this wave,” Alex suggested, “and I’ll go run and grab the stuff.”
“Are you sure?”
Alex nodded. She couldn’t believe she was doing this alone, but the whispers called to her the moment she stepped away from the mansion. They urged her along through the darkness.
When she reached the field where the chatty box waited, she marched forward and kicked it for causing her so much grief. It slid across the grass like a hockey puck and collided with a tree, spewing its contents onto the ground.
Alex picked up a dilapidated black and white photo of two young boys grinning widely. One was dressed in shabby play clothes. Suspenders held up his loose slacks, overlapping a dirty white smock. The other boy was adorned in wealth. His slicked hair shone brighter than his shoes, and he had removed his suit coat and slung it over the shoulder of his perfectly cuffed dress shirt.
The box brimmed with aged brown envelopes tied together with string. Alex carried it back to the center of the clearing where the glow of the moon could provide a reading light. She extracted a random envelope and slid her fingers underneath the flap, breaking the wax seal etched with a capital E. The brittle paper was decorated in the most artistic handwriting Alex had ever seen.
November 1865
Dear Sephi,
Professor Melbourne is late for the morning session as usual, and I am once again avoiding Paul Bond and his embarrassingly zealous offers to proofread last week’s work. Knowing his family’s defiled history, I’d be likely to fail the assignment if I allow him to touch it. Thus I’m writing you this note to make it seem like I’m immersed enough to disregard him.
I sit here among the mindless prattling, and it’s apparent that plenty of rumors still swirl about your death, even though you’ve been here for several months. The newburies continue to gossip about Ulysses S. Grant, especially the dead soldiers to my left, who claim they knew about your involvement in the war.
The cockroach of a girl who sits in front of me was far too eager to hiss loudly about what had happened to your family. Let me express my condolences. Now I know why you encourage me to conceal my own talents. To think that a person is hunted for having extraordinary gifts! It dishonors your family the way people talk.
Admittedly, I was most annoyed with the uproar of excited hysteria during your arrival. I was insanely jealous that you were stealing all the attention, but that was before I saw you. The moment I caught your gaze, I never wanted to let it go. I felt like I’d known you forever, and you filled a piece of me that I never knew I was missing.
Will you meet me again tonight?
Alex let the paper rest in her lap and it retracted, curling itself back into a protective bud. The recipient of the letter was dead. These were written by a spirit.
Alex snatched the next letter from the stack.
December 1865
Dear Sephi,
It must be difficult to be so well known. Especially as a child. It’s a bit tragic that you can’t simply be left alone. You handle the burden with such humility and patience. It only makes my affection for you stronger.
I’ve put some thought into what you’ve said to me. That you are not encouraged to develop friendships with anyone here. They just want to isolate you; they want your talents for their own. You’ve never been given the chance to make your own decisions. To follow the paths you see before you.
I’ve seen how they try to detach you from the rest of us. Duvall especially. But you also said that despite your efforts to avoid me, you already knew what was going to happen between us. So why do we need to be given the chance to let it develop when it’s already full grown? Let’s skip the beginning.
Here’s to backwards thinking.
Yours,
Eviar
December 1865
Dear Sephi,
I caught her staring again, sneering at me in revulsion like vermin infesting her classroom. I sat oblivious in class, without the faintest notion of why there were shivers creeping down my spine, and then I realized the witch held me in her gaze. Perhaps she sacrificed a goat and drained the blood of a virgin to coax the devil into revealing her foes. Thus I have more respect for the slugs she adds to her potions. The school can label it “alchemy,” but “witchcraft” is more like it. I hate that you allow her to have so much influence over you.
Alex was more than intrigued. Duvall! The Bond family! All from over a century ago. Alex lowered her gaze to another sheet of yellowed paper.