Fear Hall: The Beginning (6 page)

“We … heard voices,” Melanie said. “We wondered …”

“I'm sorry. Did I have the radio on too loud?” I asked, thinking quickly.

Melanie's eyes lowered to the boom box on the windowsill. “But the radio isn't on,” she said, eyeing me suspiciously.

“I—uh—turned it off when you knocked,” I told her. “I'm really sorry if it was too loud. I—”

“Mary and I have just been so freaked,” Melanie said, tugging at her single, dangling earring. “I mean—since Brendan was murdered.”

“We jump at every sound,” Mary added. “None of us can sleep. Margie thinks she flunked her French test yesterday. We're all totally freaked.”

“We are too,” I told her.

Both girls narrowed their eyes at me. Studying me. They exchanged glances.

Did I say something wrong? I wondered.

Why are they
looking
at me like that?

“It's so frightening,” Melanie said finally. “We can't relax in our own dorm room.”

“We were trying to study,” Mary added. “But we thought we heard a boy's voice. From your room. So …” Her voice trailed off.

“A boy? Up here?” I cried. I shook my head. “I don't think so.”

I glanced at the bathroom door. I had a strong urge to tell Melanie and Mary, “Look in the bathroom. You'll find a boy in there. You'll find a
murderer
in there!”

But I bit my bottom lip and remained silent.

“It must have been the radio,” Melanie said quietly. “Sorry.”

They started back to their room. But at the door, Mary turned back to me. “We're trying to organize a meeting,” she told me.

“A meeting?”

“Some kind of safety meeting,” Mary said. “You know. To talk about how we can protect ourselves. And maybe force the college to get more security for the dorm. Some more guards.”

“Ollie is a sweet old guy. But he isn't much of a guard. He's usually asleep at his desk,” Melanie complained. “Anyone can walk right by him.”

I nodded. “That's true.”

Mary chuckled. “Someone told me a story about Ollie. They said he died thirty years ago. But his ghost refused to leave Fear Hall. He takes his guard post every night, even though he's dead.”

I forced a laugh. “It's probably true. He
looks
dead.”

“It isn't funny,” Melanie said sharply. “People think Fear Hall is a joke. A place for ghost stories. But the truth is, a boy we all knew died right outside the
front door. And the college hasn't done anything at all to make sure the rest of us are safe.”

“So you'll come to the meeting?” Mary asked.

“Sure,” I told her, glancing again at the bathroom door. “We'll all come.”

Once again, their expressions changed. They stared at me as if I'd said something wrong.

What is their
problem?
I wondered.

“You sure you're okay?” Melanie asked.

“Sure,” I told her. I yawned. “Just a little sleepy. See you guys tomorrow.”

They said good night and made their way across the hall to 13-A. I closed my door and leaned against it. I took a deep breath. “Strange,” I muttered to myself. “Very strange.”

The next day was even stranger.

T
he next morning, I ran into Dave on my way to history class. He flashed me that cute smile of his. It was a cold, blustery day. But his smile made me feel warm all over.

Despite the sharp winds that blew across The Triangle, he had his leather jacket open, revealing a red-and-green flannel shirt underneath.

He looked so warm and cuddly. I had a sudden impulse to wrap my arms around him.

“How's it going, Eden?” he asked. “You recovered from all those Diet Cokes last night?”

We both laughed.

“I'm late for history class,” I told him, gazing up at the gray, stone Fine Arts building across The Triangle.

“How about a cup of coffee after your class?” he asked. The wind whipped his red hair.

“Okay. I'll meet you here,” I replied. I shifted my backpack on my shoulders, turned, and hurried to class.

Mr. Cumberland, the professor, gazed up from his papers as I slid into my seat. He's a balding, middle-aged man who wears a gray sweater every day over baggy chinos.

He has tiny, frameless reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He's always peering over the glasses to talk to us. It makes him look like a nearsighted owl.

I'm very interested in the course, Nineteenth-Century History. I think life was so interesting a hundred years ago.

Hope is always teasing me about it. She says, “Eden, you can't go back in time. If you lived a hundred years ago, you'd be dead already!”

Unfortunately, Mr. Cumberland is not a very interesting teacher. Most of the time, he stands behind his desk and reads from his lecture notes. He never lets us ask questions. In fact, he barely speaks to his students at all.

The only time he ever seems to notice us is when he goes over his seating chart. Yes. I know it's strange. But he has a seating chart for us—just like a teacher in an elementary school.

I pulled out my notebook and turned to a clean page. I couldn't find my pen, so I borrowed one from the girl next to me.

When I turned to the front, Mr. Cumberland was moving along the rows of desks. He appeared to be checking off names on his seating chart.

He stopped in front of my desk and peered down at me over those tiny, frameless glasses. Then his eyes moved to the chart in his hand. “You're Hope Mathis?”

“No,” I told him. “I'm Eden Leary.”

He squinted down at his chart. “You're not Hope Mathis?”

I shook my head. “She's my roommate,” I told him.

Everyone was staring at me. I suddenly felt uncomfortable.

Why was Hope's name on his chart?

She didn't take this course. I'd been here since the beginning of the semester.

So why would Hope's name show up on the seating chart?

“Eden Leary …” Mr. Cumberland murmured. Squinting through the little glasses, his eyes swept over the rows of boxes on the chart.

“Have you been sitting in for your roommate?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. I could feel my face grow hot and knew I was blushing. “I don't know how her name got on your chart. She doesn't take this course.

“Let me check my enrollment list,” Mr. Cumberland said, scratching his bald head. He turned and made his way to his desk, taking long strides.

Then he shuffled through a stack of papers. Pulled one out. And studied it.

“Eden Leary …” He repeated my name.

I heard kids whispering. A few were staring at me. Others were skimming through the history text.

“I'm sorry, Miss Leary,” Mr. Cumberland said finally. He frowned at me.

“Sorry?” I repeated.

“You don't seem to be enrolled in my class,” he announced.

“But that's impossible!” I cried. My voice broke. I could feel myself blush again. “I've been here all semester.”

“That may be true,” Mr. Cumberland replied quietly. “But you are not on the enrollment list. And you are not on the seating chart.”

“But—but—” I sputtered. “What does that mean? It's just some kind of a mistake.”

“Yes, I'm sure.” He nodded. “Perhaps you could go straighten it out with the dean.”

I realized my heart was pounding. “You mean—I have to leave?” I cried.

He nodded again. “Please get this matter straightened out. I'm sure it's all a computer mix-up. Whenever anything goes wrong these days, it's a computer mix-up.”

I handed the pen back to the girl next to me. She flashed me a sympathetic smile.

I picked up my backpack and shoved the textbook into it. My hands were trembling. I felt really upset.

“You sure I'm not in this course?” I asked.

“I don't have your name,” Mr. Cumberland replied. “I'm really sorry.”

He turned away from me and picked up his lecture notes. “Today we will begin our study of the early labor movement,” he announced.

I hoisted up my backpack and slunk out of the room. I saw kids watching me. A couple of them shook their heads, as if I had been caught cheating or something. As if I was some kind of criminal.

My head spun as I stepped out of the Fine Arts building, back into the cold. I blinked in the glare of bright sunlight.

I
am
in that course, I told myself.
Aren't
I?

Is it really possible that I shouldn't be there? Is it actually Hope's class?

Then why isn't Hope there? Why have I been there all year?

Have I really been going to the wrong class?

How could I be so confused?

The bright yellow light shimmered in waves over the grass of The Triangle. I suddenly felt dizzy. I shut my eyes, but the light still shimmered against my eyelids.

So much to think about, I told myself. So much to worry about.

It's Darryl's fault.

I'm so frightened of him. I spend so much time thinking about him, how evil he is.

I can't think straight at all.

I've got to do something about Darryl. I've
got
to.

I opened my eyes. A cloud rolled over the sun. A shadow swept over the classroom buildings that lined The Triangle. The gusting wind felt even colder.

I'm going to call the police now, I decided.

I'm going to find a phone and call them. And tell them about Darryl. Then I won't have to worry about him anymore.

Then I'll be able to think straight again.

I turned and made my way back into the Fine Arts building. I remembered seeing a row of pay phones in the front lobby.

My shoes clicked on the marble floor. My eyes adjusted slowly to the dimmer light. I spotted the phones at the back wall and trotted over to them.

What shall I say? I wondered. “I'm calling from Ivy State? I know who murdered that boy in front of Fear Hall?”

Yes.

Might as well get right to the point.

I stepped up to the first phone. I took a deep breath and lifted the receiver.

I raised my finger to push 0 for the operator.

But a hand grabbed my hand and tugged it away. Darryl!

N
o. Not Darryl.

Hope.

“Oh—!” I let out a startled cry.

She let go of my hand. “Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, Eden. I thought you saw me.”

“No, I—” I let out a long sigh of relief. I was so glad to see Hope and not Darryl.

Her brown eyes studied me. “I thought you had a class right now.”

“I—I did,” I replied. “But there was some kind of weird mix-up.”

I returned the phone receiver to its hook.

She pulled a brown leaf from her hair and crumpled it in her fingers. “A mix-up?”

“Are you enrolled in a history class this semester?” I asked her.

Hope shook her head. “No. You know my schedule, Eden. You're the history major in the group. Not me.”

“So it
is
a mix-up,” I declared. “The professor had your name instead of mine.”

“Weird,” she replied. “Why would he have my name? They must have made a mistake in the registration office.”

Her eyes moved to the phone booth. “Who were you calling, Eden?”

I hesitated. “Uh … well …”

She waited.

“Can I tell you the truth, Hope?” I asked. I didn't wait for an answer. “I was calling the police. I can't keep the secret about Darryl any longer. I'm sorry. I just can't.”

The words poured out of me like a waterfall. I knew Hope wouldn't be happy about my decision. But I didn't care. I had made up my mind.

The light in her eyes faded, as if a cloud had washed over them. Her chin quivered. “You mean you weren't going to ask me first?”

I stared back at her. “No.”

“You weren't going to tell me? You weren't going to give me any warning?” Her voice grew shrill and angry. “You were just going to make the call?”

“I … have to do it, Hope,” I stammered. “I can't keep the secret. It's making me too crazy. I—I'm frightened all the time.”

“But you know how important Darryl is to me!” Hope cried. She grabbed the sleeves of my jacket and held on as if grasping a life preserver. “Please, Eden …”

“I don't know what to say,” I confessed. “I know you love Darryl. I know what he means to you. But he's no good, Hope. He did a horrible thing. He … he killed another human being. He deserves to pay.”

“How about waiting just a little bit longer?” Hope pleaded, still holding my jacket sleeves. “How about we talk about it tonight? All four of us. We talk about it, and we vote. Is that okay, Eden?”

She didn't give me a chance to reply. “We'll have a fair vote,” she continued frantically. “I'll go along with whatever is decided. I promise. I just don't think it's right for you to decide on your own. I mean, we're all in this together—right?”

I swallowed hard. I still didn't reply.

“Right, Eden?” Hope insisted. “Right? Right?”

Glancing through the glass door, I saw Dave waiting for me out on The Triangle. He had his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He paced back and forth along the narrow walk that cut through the grass.

“Okay,” I told Hope. “I'll wait.”

“Thank you!” she cried. She wrapped me in a tight hug.

“I've got to go,” I said. “Talk to you later.”

“Yes. Later,” she replied.

I hurried to the door. Dave was still pacing in front of the building.

I waved to him. Pushed open the doors. Called to him as I rushed outside. “Dave—hi!”

If only I hadn't listened to Hope. If only I had stayed and made that call …

If only I had turned Darryl in to the police …