Chapter 11
11
SHILOH
The moment I walk into my classroom on Tuesday morning, the fluorescent lights flicker to life. I try to ignore the creeping unease as I remind myself their erratic stuttering is due to the school’s ancient electric wiring and nothing to do with some ghostly presence.
The incident at Fairchild Manor clings to me like a cobweb, refusing to be brushed aside no matter how many times I tell myself it was just a stupid prank. Not only that, but Dominic’s infuriating disappearance after all his grand promises about funding the Ball nags at me day and night.
Pile all that in with the strange happenings at my house, and I’m just about ready to book myself in for a lobotomy.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of whiteboard markers and adolescent angst. It’s calming, in its own way. I paste on what I hope is a convincing smile and walk to my desk, dropping my bag with a thud that echoes ominously in the empty room.
Get a fucking grip, Shiloh. It’s just another day at work. Nothing creepy here.
Soon after, students begin to arrive in a cacophony of chatter and shuffling feet. I busy myself arranging my notes, pretending I don’t notice the curious glances thrown my way. Do I look as disheveled as I feel? I smooth down my skirt, wishing I’d taken the time to iron it this morning instead of stumbling out the door like a mindless zombie.
I shove the regret aside and clear my throat. “Okay, everyone. Settle down. Books out, please. We’re diving straight back into the Woman in Black this morning.”
There’s a collective groan from my sophomore class, punctuated by the rustle of backpacks and the flipping of book pages. My smile grows a little more genuine, the theatrical displays of displeasure a familiar comfort in this line of work.
“Alright, who can summarize the scene where Arthur Kipps sees the Woman in Black for the first time?” I ask, leaning against my desk as I settle into doing what I do best. “Anyone? Come on, guys, at least one of you must have done the reading. You’re breaking my heart!”
I breathe a sigh of relief as a few hesitant hands are raised. I call on Amanda, a usually quiet girl in the back row who always has her nose buried in a book. No guesses for who she reminds me of.
“Um, so, Arthur is at Alice Drablow’s funeral, and he notices this woman standing apart from everyone else. She looks all sick and like she’s wasting away. Then, when he goes to approach her, she just like, vanishes.”
“Excellent, Amanda, thank you. Now, what I want us to focus on today is how the author makes this scene particularly unsettling. What techniques does she use in the writing?”
The class sits silent yet again, a sea of blank faces staring back at me. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. It’s going to be one of those days.
“Let’s break it down, shall we? Start with the setting. Where is Arthur when this scene takes place?”
“In a church,” someone calls out from the front row.
“Exactly,” I say, turning to write it on the whiteboard. “And what is the weather like that day?”
“Foggy,” another student pipes up. “Cold, I guess.”
I nod encouragingly, adding the answers to my list. “A little bit of pathetic fallacy here, couldn’t we say? What else makes this scene a little creepy?”
Slowly, but surely, more students find the courage to voice their thoughts. We talk through the use of sensory details, the way the author builds tensions through describing the main character’s mounting unease. I’m sure I even see sparks of interest igniting in a few eyes, and it instantly improves my mood. This is why I became a teacher, to pass on my love of literature, to help my students see the magic that words can hold.
As the discussion picks up steam, I feel myself relaxing more than I have in a week. The events that have been plaguing me fade into the recesses of my mind, swept into the background while I’m engrossed in my chosen profession.
“I think the creepiest part,” Jake, one of my more outspoken students, chimes in from his seat in the back row, “is how the Woman in Black just appears out of nowhere. Like, imagine you’re just chilling at some stranger’s funeral, and then boom there’s this ghost lady lurking behind you. That would be freaky as hell.”
A ripple of laughter spreads throughout the room at his apt assessment.
“I know I’d feel more than a little unsettled,” I agree. “Hill does a great job of?—”
“Kinda like that weirdo in the black robes who’s been giving people heart attacks around Fairchild Manor,” Jake cuts in, a mischievous grin curling his lips.
My lecture dies in my throat, the whiteboard marker almost slipping from my suddenly numb fingers. “Uh, sorry, what are you talking about?”
The class erupts in excited chatter, everyone talking over each other in response to my question. I struggle to make any sense of the jumble of voices, not least because my blood is pounding loudly in my ears.
“Sarah Meyers saw them last week.”
“It’s just some loser playing a weird prank.”
“Nah, my mom thinks it might be a real ghost.”
I throw my hands in the air, trying to regain some control of the room. “Hold up, hold up. One at a time, please. Jake, what’s all this about?”
Jake leans back casually in his chair, clearly relishing being the center of attention. “Ah, it’s just some prankster hanging around the Manor and the grounds. Freaking people out, you know? There’s no way it’s a real ghost, who the hell dresses like that? Unless it’s the grim reaper.” He tacks the last part on with a loud cackle, playing up to the class clown bravado.
I grip the edge of my desk where I lean against it, my knuckles turning white with the strain.
“Uh, you okay, Miss Wilson?” a soft voice from the front row spears through the hurricane blaring in my skull.
I blink a few times, realizing I must have been staring into space. The whole class is watching me, some looking concerned, others mockingly amused. I try to force a smile, though it undoubtedly reads more like a reluctant grimace. “I’m fine, thanks. Just…not especially pleased about all this. Does anyone know who’s behind it?”
I wince as the discussion reignites in another frenzy, everyone chucking in their two cents about who they think it might be. It quickly becomes apparent that none of them actually have any idea who the culprit is.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough of that,” I call out, having to raise my voice louder than I would have liked. “While this is no doubt entertaining for all of you, we should get back to discussing literature. Or you’re all going to fail the midterm.”
Though the chatter dies down with another class-wide groan, I can still see a gleam of excitement in their eyes. They’re all practically vibrating with the need to keep gossiping about Avalon’s latest mystery.
“Before we continue,” I say, adopting the no-nonsense teacher voice I don’t often employ, “I should remind you all that trespassing is illegal. And harassing people, even if you’re just playing a prank, can have serious consequences. Am I understood?”
I lock eyes with each of them in turn, praying that my warning dissuades anyone who might be involved. “I don’t want to find out that any of you have been sneaking around Fairchild Manor, or anywhere else you shouldn’t be, for that matter.”
A chorus of mumbled confirmations echoes throughout the room. I give a satisfied nod and turn back to the board. “Alright, let’s take a look at some of the chapter’s gothic elements…”
The rest of the lesson passes without further incident. I go through the motions on autopilot, teaching about foreshadowing and building atmosphere, but my mind is elsewhere. By the time the bell signals the end of the period, I’m almost stunned to find I’m still standing in the same spot.
I sink into my desk chair as the students scuttle out, still whispering excitedly about whoever this costumed phantom might be. Finally, I’m left completely alone with my thoughts. They swirl like fallen leaves caught in a gust of wind, chaotic and impossible to pin down.
It’s a relief to know I didn’t imagine the cloaked figure chasing me through the house on Saturday. But the revelation only brings with it a host of accompanying questions. Who could it be? Will they be caught soon? Do they have anything to do with all the weird stuff going on at my house?
The thought causes me to squirm nervously in my seat. If a student has been breaking into my home, that’s a whole other level of inappropriate. I may have to do more than just locking my door… Maybe self-defense classes? Something.
I’m startled out of my musing by a sudden loud buzz. I fish my phone out of my bag, my already-exhausted heart kicking up a gear when I see Dominic’s name appear on the screen. In all the chaos of discussing this mystery figure, I’d almost forgotten he existed. Almost .
The text is brief with no invitation for debate.
Dominic: We need to get down to planning this costume party. I’ll come by your place after school is out.
I stare at the message, unsure whether to be relieved or irritated. It’s clear he doesn’t intend to abandon us as the sponsor, but who the hell does he think he is dictating to me when and where we’ll meet? Inviting himself into my home, of all places.
My thumbs fly over the screen as I type and delete several increasingly furious responses before I settle with just liking the text. I tell myself I should be pleased he hasn’t disappeared into the ether and taken his money with him. But, of course, I can’t entirely quash the nagging rage that turns my vision red every time I’m reminded of how he’s crashed through my simple life like a damn bulldozer.
And then there’s this other nagging feeling.
A quiet thrill that comes completely out of left field. There’s a part of me that wants to keep my estranged stepbrother close, holding him to me as if we might get a second chance to fix whatever is broken between us and actually mean something to each other.
“You’ve been alone too fucking long, Shiloh,” I mutter to myself, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and finger. “He doesn’t want to be part of your screwed up family.”
I feel like I’m trapped in a haunted house all of my own, one where the ghosts hail from a past I’d rather forget, and the monster dressed in black is only too real. The rest of the school day passes in a blur of grading papers and lecturing to uninterested teenagers, my mind constantly drifting back to Dominic’s text and the looming specter of our meeting.