Chapter 8
Grace
Iwake to my alarm clock beeping horrendously.
I lift my hand out from under the covers, tapping randomly along the surface to stop the torturous sound.
I groan when it finally stops and rub my hands over my eyes.
Slowly peeking through my fingers, I glance around in hopes of seeing Milly lounging about, but there is no sign of her vibrant curls.
I roll over and drop my hands at my sides, staring at the ceiling.
I have no idea what she’s been through, and I can imagine she’s choosing to avoid me for the simple fact that she’s a ghost. But she’s the first person I’ve been drawn to in years.
Someone I finally want to continue to get to know, regardless of the forbidden nature of our situation.
I sigh, climbing out of my bed. I’ve only just met her, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Unfortunately, thoughts of her fester in my mind as I get ready for the day until I can’t take it any longer.
It’s the weekend, so all the buildings are vacant.
The impulse to explore the hidden history of the campus is strong.
If I couldn’t physically see Milly, maybe I could find out why she was still here.
I threw on some old clothes and grabbed socks from the drawer.
The goal was simple—find potential clues between the spines of some old books.
I step into the common bathroom and hear Jocelyn’s, my roommate, music softly echoing out of her room.
I consider establishing some sort of relationship with her, but I hesitate, feeling entirely unsure and anxious to do so.
I exhale and rub my hands through my hair.
I’ve found that hiding myself completely around others is the safest route in religious environments.
I brush my long black hair up into a messy bun and pull some strands down to dangle around my eyes.
I tousle my bangs for a few minutes and huff out a breath, deciding not to care about the slight curl to them today.
I draw long, full wings on the corners of my eyes and load mascara onto my lashes.
I smear concealer underneath my eyes. I chew on my lip, unsatisfied as usual, as the darkness really never disappears.
At least the liner will be somewhat distracting.
I grab my circle wire-framed glasses and turn quickly, avoiding staring at my reflection longer than necessary.
Heading back into my room, I shut the door softly not to entice my roommate to become curious and say hello.
Maybe in my explorations, I’ll find Milly.
I smile at the thought, and suddenly the idea of her seeing me in such drab clothes seems entirely unappealing.
I ditch the old sweats and toss on a pair of black and grey plaid high-waisted pants, then buckle a leather belt around my waist. I tuck in my black turtleneck, avoiding the already messy bun as best as I can, and pull my rose necklace out to hang over the collar.
Satisfied, I grab my bag and head toward the door.
I sneak out of my room, snagging my Doc Martens by the door, and step outside. I exhale a breath as I slide my feet into the boots and tie them up. I toss on headphones and click on my favorite playlist as I walk toward the library.
I glance up at the sky, grateful that the weather is holding itself together and remaining a cloudy day without rain. I scroll through my phone searching for anything I can about my mystery ghost. I type in Mildred Jones, nothing. Milly Jones? Nope. Hollowbrook mystery? Finally, I have a result.
I slow my pace and click on what appears to be a blog post. The blog appears to be lacking reputable sourcing, but the name Warren Brown catches my eye.
For a campus that prides itself on its devotion to Catholicism, the history of the prestigious college is jarring and shocking. The age-old tales of the Hollowbrook campus are the ones that will leave chills lingering under your skin.
The founder, Warren Brown, allegedly has been creating a cult within the campus walls. It is said that he would gather students and faculty members for private sermons, encouraging the supposed, unavoidable rapture that is spoken about in Revelation.
Priest Brown also described himself as a New Testament disciple. Every 6 years on October 6th, he would find an individual, usually a student, and sacrifice them for the “greater good of the community” and to “establish holiness,” an anonymous source reported.
I suddenly slam into a body, dropping my phone in the process. I glance up to lock eyes with Priest Brown. My heart races to my throat as I rush to bend over and lock my phone. I hide it behind my back before he sees what I was just reading.
“Priest Brown, I–I apologize. I was caught up reading the New Testament. Gospel of Matthew and all.” I bullshit with greater ease than the last time.
He stares at me for another moment before offering a chilling smile. “No inconvenience at all, Grace. I am pleased to see that you are taking your studies seriously. But please be careful. It would be a shame if you got hurt.”
He steps aside and walks past me. What the fuck? I pick up my pace in the opposite direction, racing toward the library as goosebumps shiver across my skin.
I rub my hands up and down my arms as I climb up the steps to the doors. I can’t help but wonder if the uneasiness around the priest is my own inner turmoil, or intuition that maybe something doesn’t add up about him, especially after reading something as eerie as that.
I pull open the big, heavy doors and head toward the cafe outside the library.
It’s louder than it typically is during the week, and I wonder if the social hour happens here on Saturdays.
The whispers aren’t as hushed as I hear some girl’s squeal and giggle as a guy grabs her purse and jogs across the room.
I lift a brow as I watch them flirt and chuckle to myself.
I order a large cold brew and take my first sip.
The caffeine is like lightning to my veins.
I hum. Making my way back towards the library, I head to the corner that I have come to frequent.
I kick my boots up against the other chair and lean back against the wall.
I pull my phone out to resume reading the blog.
There has never been direct proof that Warren Brown brutally murdered countless students and members of society.
The rumors across campus lend credence to the idea that spirits haunt the campus, waiting for their moment to exact their vengeance and release their trapped souls.
Even though the reign of Warren Brown has passed, the title of Priest has been maintained in his direct bloodline, with his ancestors taking on the role of maintaining the college in both its academic and religious core values.
While the board of Hollowbrook consistently denies any truth to this ‘theory’, multiple students have left the elite college abruptly due to abnormal happenings, many of whom have never been seen again.
This continues to lead the public outside the campus to speculate if the college is withholding further history besides the haunting lore.
And perhaps other information about what truly happens behind those golden gates.
I place my phone down gently on the table and close my slightly dropped jaw.
The chills I’ve felt with every encounter with Priest Brown bring an even heavier, uneasy sensation in my gut.
How can you continue to preach to a massive college without acknowledging the whispering amongst the peers?
Surely, I’m not the only one who has witnessed the strangeness of the campus, and it’s only been a handful of days.
I pick up my phone again and scroll, looking for pictures, when I come across one of Warren Brown. He looks nearly identical to the present-day priest. In fact, it looks as though it could be his identical twin. But how can that even be?
I leave my bag hanging over the chair as I climb the steps to the second level that holds history books. I wander through until I find the section on local histories. I snag a few books when I stumble upon the yearbook section.
I quickly place the books down on the ground as I trace my finger along the spines.
My heart races as I look for the year that was written on the photograph of Milly and pull 1921 on top of the pile.
I decided to snag some years prior and after, just in case, before making my way back down to my corner.
I distribute the books across the table and immediately open up the 1921 yearbook.
The date on the back of the photograph seemed like a good place to start.
I flip through, seeing that the style of the yearbook was more of a scrapbook with protective film around each page.
I glance over all the faces, finding Warren Brown on at least every other page with an eerily identical smile to the priest I know today.
His eyes hold a darkness in each photo, something I can’t put my finger on.
I rub my temple before eagerly looking through the remaining pages, when I quickly come across a photo of a girl with a rolling pin, laughing.
She has an apron around her dress and flour on her hands and face.
The long curls cascade down her sides and back as her button nose scrunches up in a laugh.
My finger traces over the freckles, momentarily dreaming of connecting the constellations on her skin with my tongue.
“Milly,” I whisper softly. I read the words written below the photo:
Mildred Jones: Class of ‘21 Bake Off
I smile to myself, imagining that melodic laugh as she bakes her favorite cinnamon confection.