Chapter 1 #3
Professor Golden snaps the room to attention as she steps onstage.
One of the youngest faculty members, Ruth Golden is a professor of theater history, Mallory’s advisor, and the head of Shore’s performing arts department.
Her name was cemented in every student’s memory during orientation when she positioned herself as a Final Boss of sorts, the matriarchal overlord of everything that happens inside the Crypt.
Today, she stands before them in a pressed collared blouse and velvet skirt, her rose-tinted skin and copper hair glowing beneath a triangle of light.
“It is my great pleasure to welcome another group of prospective theater majors to these renowned halls,” Golden says.
“Being a Shore alum myself, it’s an honor to see so many new faces on the cusp of your theatrical careers.
As you know, this production will be your official ticket into Shore’s dramatic arts program.
Some might find it sadistic to put you through another test after being admitted, but make no mistake: Beyond these walls, the professional theater world is even more rigorous.
Cutthroat, even. Only the most persistent endure. ”
Mallory fluffs out her dark brown bangs; her hand is still throbbing.
“It’s worth remembering,” Golden continues, “that this campus carries an important history. As you’ve surely heard, some of these buildings were once home to innovative medical facilities in the nineteenth century, watching over those who had fallen ill.
Typhus. Smallpox. Tuberculosis.” She pauses, feet planted in a perfect pool of silver.
“There is a sobering origin to this campus, one that compels us to reflect on the values of life and learning. Today, Shore is a place to think, but decades ago, it was a place to survive.”
Golden smiles in a way that’s too bright for the dark shape of her words.
It reminds Mallory of orientation, when her tour guide dropped macabre pieces of campus lore between tidbits about credit requirements and dining hall hours.
Some people believe Shore is one of the most haunted colleges in the country, he’d said while leading their group of first-years between ivy-soaked buildings.
That the people who died here never left.
If you’re quiet after midnight, you might just see a ghost in the gardens.
It shouldn’t have been a surprising statement—after all, it’s impossible to live in Rhode Island without hearing legends about haunted cliffs in Newport or witchcraft in Narragansett Bay’s remote islands.
But something about the way the guide said it got underneath Mallory’s skin.
Like he wasn’t just reciting a rumor but a fact. You might just see a ghost.
But Mallory learned this truth a long time ago.
“For this group,” Golden adds, reclaiming Mallory’s attention, “Shore is also a place to perform. To find your light.” She gestures with a delicate hand. “Which is why it’s my honor to formally introduce the director of this production, visiting professor and award-winning artist Winston Hendrix.”
Everyone turns to look as a tall man hops onto the stage.
Mallory has seen him only in photographs, but she recognizes his warm-brown skin, his artfully shaved goatee.
When he rattles off his biography, the entire room nods, as though they haven’t been obsessively studying Hendrix’s résumé all summer.
Mallory could recite it word for word—his Juilliard training, his impressive credits: King Lear. Angels in America. Othello. Rent.
“I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone,” Hendrix says.
“While I might reside in New York, Rhode Island is one of my favorite places to visit, and Romeo and Juliet has been my dream show for years. And while I love a good modernization, we’re going the traditional route to pay homage to the poetry and core of this tragedy: a love that’s doomed from the first spoken word.
Tonight’s going to work like this. Monologues.
Cold readings. And then boom. Tomorrow? Cast list. As soon as our student assistant director arrives, we’ll start with your prepared soliloquies.
Do the fourth-years ever show up on time for anything? ”
No one answers, unsure whether to laugh.
As if summoned, the side door flings open, and Winston turns with a relieved smile.
“Ezra Pierce, as I live and breathe! Thought you were standing us up.”
Everyone turns in unison, and Mallory’s eyes widen just in time for Arden to slap a hand on her thigh.
Because they’re staring at the man in the black coat. The one who offered to clean Mallory’s bloodied palm.
The one who tried to tell them, minutes ago, that he’s their assistant director.
Mallory tilts her chin down before their eyes have a chance to meet.
She shouldn’t have stared at him earlier, shouldn’t have let that lilt creep into her voice when she made that comment about blood.
Maybe if she were a normal girl, she could flirt with a handsome stranger, dare to let herself think a shared gaze could be the beginning of something.
A haunted girl should know better.
Mallory raises her scarf-wrapped hand to her nose. And somehow, before she inhales, she knows the scent won’t remind her of the dressing room, won’t conjure memories of crisp linen or fresh cotton.
She knows it will smell like the faintest hint of something burning.