Fractured Shadows (Hollowbrook)

Chapter 1

Grace

My finger rubs on the edge of the textbook paper as I get lost in thought.

I glance down at the chapter header and sigh, looking back out the window of the cafeteria to watch the rain.

I’ve always had a soft spot for music. On a good or bad day, you could always find a song that could resonate with you from the lyrics, the harmonies, or even the timbre.

But, being at this school? I can feel the passion leaving my spirit with each passing day. Being here just feels wrong.

It’s only a few days into the fall semester, and everything is in full swing. The adjustment is brutal, the campus lore is creepy, the workload is heavy, and my father’s text remains left on read.

Father:

“Stop by my office one day this week, Gracey. I know transferring wasn’t part of your four-year plan, but your degree here holds more value. I just want the best for you. I love you.”

My shoulders instinctively rise and tense up as I think about my father’s betrayal.

I scoff. During the second semester of my sophomore year, he started the process of my transfer to Hollowbrook Catholic without consulting me.

I’d like to say that I’m surprised, but I should have seen this coming. He would stoop this low.

When I initially found out, he wrote it off as trying to ‘take the workload off of me’ by taking matters into his own hands.

He can use that as an excuse all he wants, but he knows the truth behind why he did it.

I didn’t choose another school for my previous semesters because I was denied entry to Hollowbrook.

No, it simply was because I had no interest in attending this school at all.

He was desperate to puppet my life now that I was an adult.

Especially because the path I was walking was one he thoroughly believed was tainted by sin.

I was established at a community college on the West Coast, far the fuck away from New England. Far away from him. Clearly, that irked him. He thought he knew what was best for me, even without asking. He has always had this warped image of who his daughter is, or should be.

Unfortunately for me, and fortunately for him, when I realized what had happened, it was too late.

I had to start the transfer process again, except from the school I originally had been attending on the West Coast, which brings us here.

Smack dab in the middle of New England on this macabre, religious campus.

I crack my knuckles, fidgeting as I glance back down at my textbook.

I inhale slowly and exhale the bullshit thoughts.

One semester here is all I have to push through.

I smile softly at the thought. I’ll be far away from the man who claims to be a father to me again soon.

I mindlessly flip through the pages as the people in the cafeteria file out, feeling restless and uninspired. I glance at my phone, the clock showing 1:03 pm, when a thought floats through my head. I have almost an hour until my next class.

“Bingo.” I grin as I toss my belongings into my backpack and step out of the cafeteria.

I briefly halt my steps, looking back and forth in the hallway.

I rock on my Doc Martens as a teacher walks by and smiles at me.

I nod and grin back, fidgeting with the rings on my fingers.

When they pass by, I rush toward the staircase on my right and quickly sneak into the corner.

I hold my breath, waiting to see if anyone saw me.

This area is restricted to all students and personnel on campus.

Supposedly, it is due to ‘safety concerns’.

But within a few days on this campus, I’ve heard enough ghost stories to fuel a night of fear at a campfire.

In the mid-1900s, the campus was purchased to become a Catholic college by what is now known as Hollowbrook Catholic.

It had a simple layout prior, a few small buildings scattered across the large land.

Hollowbrook invested in the school immediately, building larger buildings, dormitories, and tunnels.

The tunnels were said to have been built for the female students.

It allowed them to travel underground to all buildings, avoiding the harsh weather in their dress code skirts and dresses.

Thankfully, that dress code no longer exists.

There are six tunnels exactly underneath the campus.

Each tunnel leads to individual buildings and only one of the dormitories, but they all coalesce to this primary building, which they named Baker.

Baker doesn’t just hold the cafeteria, no.

It holds the location where these ghosts interact the most, “supposedly.” I have nothing better to do, and if getting expelled in the meantime is the repercussion for trespassing as I look for ghosts, even better.

I slowly creep along the wall as I make my way down the dimly lit staircase.

I hold my breath and glance up as I pass the second floor, not seeing anyone above me.

I tiptoe down the steps as I approach the basement level, trying my best to prevent the occasional squeak from my boots.

I halt one last time and turn my ear upward to listen if anyone is following me.

It’s silent beside the soft hum of the heaters radiating through the old building.

I take a deep breath and slip past the caution tape and wooden chairs blocking individuals from entering the hallway. Not much of a deterrent if you ask me.

I feel a tingle across my face, and I wipe rapidly, ridding it of dust or a potential cobweb, as I continue to make my way down the hallway. I pass by empty rooms, stealing glances inside. I see places for storage, old offices, and some classrooms. But, nothing exciting or out of place.

I pull my cellphone out and turn the flashlight on as I continue to look around.

The floor down here is stone and brick. I crinkle my nose at the smell of mildew and old, forgotten books.

Milk crates of old files are littered along the hallway alongside randomly placed desk chairs.

It looks as though someone brought items down here for storage, or one day, everyone just decided they were no longer going to use this level. Weird.

I lift my flashlight up the walls and glance at the photos of the clergy and graduates from prior years. One specifically catches my eye, “1922 Graduates…” I whisper to nothing. “Shit, this place is old.”

I hear a sudden patter and swing around, holding my breath.

“Hello?” I swing the light around, seeing nothing.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a minute and take a deep breath as the feeling of cold air rushes over my skin.

The slight draft prickles my skin as I breathe into the peculiar yet intriguing sensation.

I know that there are “supposed” ghosts here, but could they be something so tangible if they exist?

The ghosts are said to move things around, but can they make noise of their own?

Do they only appear as an apparition, or can they touch me?

No, that’s foolish. They can’t touch me. Right?

I open my eyes once again as I shine the light around the next classroom, observing more cobwebs, random notebooks on the desks, and papers scattered—stained with age and rat feces.

Ew. I turn back out into the hallway, instantly faltering a step.

I slam my hand over my mouth when I see a rat carrying a piece of fabric around the corner, where the tunnel entrance supposedly is.

“Great,” I mumble as I relax my posture.

“Just a rat.” I take soft steps towards the rat’s direction, avoiding puddles of questionable substances.

I hold back a gag, dodging one that smells particularly rank.

As I approach the boarded-up tunnel entrance, I notice there is less clutter.

I lean toward the boards and suddenly stop.

The sensation of someone’s eyes on my back makes me shiver.

I swing my head over my shoulder and catch a glimmer of red.

“Fuck.” I swing the light behind me. “Who's there?” I whisper. I clear my throat, frustrated with my trembling tone. I try to stand tall as my knees shake subtly. It’s probably another rat or maybe the light’s reflection off the stained glass.

This was an old Catholic college after all.

I should’ve had someone tag along with me. Girl, what friends? I bite my cheek.

“Hello?” I speak with a more assertive tone.

I mentally scold myself for speaking louder, knowing this area is forbidden.

I could have potentially just alerted staff that I’m down here.

I hold out for a reply, but after waiting a few moments, not seeing or hearing anything, I turn back toward the boarded tunnel.

On the corner of one of the pieces of wood are little teeth marks made by the rats, and I groan.

It appears to be big enough to fit an arm.

Maybe not. I sigh. “This is going to be gross,” I grumble.

Slowly, I kneel against the dirty stones that thankfully appear dry and slide backwards to lie on my stomach.

I prop myself at eye level with the hole in the board, attempting to see through it, but it's too dark.