Available for download in PDF. I promise you that I don't have any viruses. I just strongly recommend it seeing as this was written in book format. Visit the Tumblr dedicated to this series, "11785", for details.
Or just read it here (:
NINE
Dwight Hall, Yale
New Haven, Connecticut
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
10:27 PM
Taylor Rosen was tired of everything—from having to go to class to having to listen to Bailey's claims about ghosts killing her friends—and just wanted to shut it all off. She hadn't slept well in over a week, even with Amy staying in her suite to keep her company, and it didn't look as though rest was on the horizon any time soon.
Ever since Celia had died, things had seemed empty and worthless, including attending school. There wasn't a point to waking up in the morning, going to bed at night, or anything that came in between that. Taylor had lost her best friend, and there was a hole that wasn't going to be fixed, no matter how much Amy tried to console her or how hard Bailey tried to make both of them believe that something supernatural was behind the fall from the top-floor window. It was a fruitless effort on both parts, one that was a considerable waste of time for either girl seeing as Taylor wanted nothing more than to sleep for the rest of her life, or until she was able to cope with the idea that Celia was actually gone. If she could choose, she would honestly rather stay in bed than have to deal with anything at all.
However, that's not how things at Yale worked. The education train didn't stop for anyone, regardless of horrible experiences. Right after her friend's body had been carted off to the morgue, Taylor was expected to head to class the next day, acting as though nothing had happened the night before. Ultimately, though, no matter how hard she tried to live up to the expectations imposed on her, she couldn't carry the weight holding her down and shifting her focus. No matter how much she wanted to appear normal, she couldn't do it, with her mind racing a hundred miles an hour, trying to process what she had seen outside of Connecticut Hall last Wednesday. Every time she attempted to zone in on a particular subject—most importantly, English, mainly due to the fact that it was her major—Taylor found herself peering out the window, a series of bloody images crossing her mind as she gazed out at the bright, almost-fall day.
Thankfully, she didn't seem to be alone in feeling that way. With Amy's thousand-yard stare every once in awhile and her somewhat-friend, Tracy Ritter's—who had been at the party with her the night of Rachel's death—eyes glossing over every minute of the past week, Taylor felt assured that she wasn't the only one lagging behind in school. As classes picked up, with professors assigning research papers and group projects, it was as though nothing on campus had happened, with no one pausing a moment to allow the girls affected by their friends' deaths to be brought up to speed. As time went on, Taylor began to appear more and more behind, with her textbooks remaining closed and homework not being turned in on the right date. Though she was sure at least some of her teachers were understanding, there were others who seemed less sympathetic and more apathetic toward her woes.
Now, unfortunately, she had no choice but to catch up to her racing classes. Sitting with her American Literature book in her lap, she underlined phrases, book titles, and everything else that could be used on future tests, making sure to highlight them after she was done with her reading. As she worked, the clock on the coffee table ticked away, as though timing her progress and telling her she was going too slow. While she knew the thing wasn't actually talking or signaling her, she had to agree with its complaint; at the rate she was going, it was likely graduation would have come and gone without her being any the wiser. Ultimately, though, the process wasn't for naught. Making sure to memorize each line to the best of her ability, Taylor waited until she was sure she had it before moving on, hoping to remember the information photographically the longer she stared at it.
After an hour had ticked by of her glaring at the book in front of her, soaking up the words on the page, Taylor finally set it aside to stand up, stretching as she did so. Her back hurt, her knees cracked, and everything felt tense and exhausted. While she knew she hadn't been sitting on the futon for that long, she also knew that she hadn't slept in a fair few days either, knowing that if she did, she would be woken up again by either her alarm or students gathering in the halls on their way to class. Though she knew most people tried their hardest to remain quiet for those with later lessons, or at least they had in her former dorms, she had yet to experience a busy morning in Dwight Hall. Each day, she had been up before everyone else, slipping out the front door and heading down to the dining room to beat the other students to the cereal bar. Picking up one of everything, and charging it on her card, she then snuck up day after day to eat alone in bed, usually finishing before Amy woke up in the next room and never catching her friend acting like a pig with a trough. While she knew it was weird to be so exiled, she also knew that other kids had been shooting her curious glances as she walked past them, all probably gawking now that she had lost two friends in a month and was constantly red from crying.
Letting out a deep breath, Taylor paced the floor of the common room, wondering if Amy was coming back for the night. For the past four days, her friend had stayed in her suite, probably an equal attempt to bail on Bailey just as much as it was to comfort Taylor. However, despite the fact that she enjoyed Amy being there, Taylor wanted her to stay away for the evening to leave her to her thoughts. While her friend wasn't particularly vocal, hardly saying much of anything unless she was being spoken to, and wouldn't be much of a bother, Taylor wanted to spend the night alone. She had studying and focusing to do, as well as a ton of sorting through her mind to work on, and was probably going to sleep tonight as opposed to all the others. If Amy stayed, regardless of how quiet she was, Taylor would hear her get up and head to class in the morning, meaning that she would be without a good night's rest for the surprise test she knew was coming in her physics class tomorrow. Unfortunately, though, that meant preparing for both that and reading the six chapters she had slacked on in American English—which required more concentration than she could give, even while she was alone.
Stopping in mid-step as the sound of "You've got mail!" came from her open bedroom door, Taylor turned and headed for her computer, noticing that the screen had been propped up even though she could have sworn she had left it shut. Clicking open the AOL browser she had used for the past decade, she navigated the mouse toward the mailbox icon, letting a window cascade down to display the subject and sender of the message. Staring at it, she saw nothing but a blank space. A second later, a piece of text appeared, reading simply, "No messages to display". Frowning, Taylor shut off the computer, closing the lid and placing her diary on top of the shut screen.
Making a beeline for the common area once again, Taylor slumped back into her spot on the couch, grabbing the materials she had abandoned and grasping them in her hands. Flipping the textbook open and pushing the lead out of her mechanical pencil, she resumed her work, underlining nearly every other word as she progressed through the information. After a long minute of concentration, another noise sounded, this one of something heavy hitting the ground of her bedroom. Biting her lip, Taylor got to her feet, letting the pencil roll from the couch onto the floor as she freed her hands. Heading for the room she had just left, she scanned the area, finding her journal resting on the hardwood while her computer screen sat open, a new "compose message" window sitting in the center of the monitor. Nearing it, Taylor narrowed her eyes to read the text displayed beside a blinking cursor, only to realize that it was jumbled:
WEALTHILY OR GENUINE DO-GOODER
Frowning, Taylor stared at the screen, attempting to figure out what the words meant. In all honesty, it looked like a jumbled non-sequitur, but the words meant nothing in comparison to wondering how they had gotten there. The computer had been closed and off, with a book, now on the floor, sitting on top. Bending down to pick up the diary, Taylor flipped it open absently, keeping her eyes on the screen as though expecting it to begin typing on its own. However, all the machine seemed to do was sit there, the cursor blinking at her in time with the ticking of the clock in the other room.
Suddenly, a loud crash came from the common area, echoing throughout the suite and causing Taylor to jump. Dropping the journal back where it had been lying on the floor, she rushed out of her bedroom, skidding to a stop beside the futon. On the ground next to the end table sat a jumble of wood, glass, and metal pieces, most of the metallic bits strewn across the floor as they rolled away. Taking a short breath in surprise, Taylor neared what used to be her mini grandfather clock, the one she had listened to for years when things were silent. It had been a monotonous sound that had kept her sane. Now, however, with the clock sitting in a broken heap on the floor, everything felt too quite—as well as frightening. Someone, or something, was in here, messing with her; first with the computer and then with the object Taylor had used to calm herself. It was as if someone were trying to drive her mad.
All of a sudden, Taylor couldn't control her emotions, instead becoming overwhelmed with the idea of someone intentionally ruining everything she loved. Her friends had died, her schoolwork was suffering, and now the clock she had gotten for a birthday long ago, that was in no way reparable or replicable, was a shattered mess. That, in combination with no sleep, caused Taylor to begin to cry, exhaustion and confusion waving over her all at once. Unfortunately, before she could do anything more than shed a few tears, something more disturbing came forth. From the opposite side of the room, books began to fly off the shelves, pelting her one after another as she tried to cover her face with her arms. Heading for the door, Taylor wrenched it open and slammed it behind her as she started for Swing Hall, wondering if maybe there was some sort of truth to Bailey's claims.
Across campus, Amy Winchester stared at the ancient, cracked book sitting in her lap, wondering what the hell she was reading. Bailey had given it to her, telling Amy that it accounted for her reasoning behind the ghost phenomenon, but all she saw was a bunch of scribbles about nothing. According to the thing, which seemed to be a diary of some kind, Jack Richardé had jumped from his room on the top floor of Connecticut Hall in 1906 a week after Whitney Ellsworth had done the same thing. Also according to the diary, that had been the same day that Mary Collins had stolen the author of the book's, who seemed to be named Mary as well, potential husband by being a "hussy". While the thing was an interesting read—some of the time, anyway—it didn't explain anything related to what was going on now. Something similar happening a hundred years apart was nothing more than coincidence, if that.
However, with all of her homework done and her discussion with Sarah over abandoning their dorm through, Amy had nothing else to do rather than read the thing Bailey had given her. Ultimately, though, all she could see were squabbles over boyfriends and the frustration at not being allowed to study medicine like the men on campus were able to. Thankfully, every now and again, she would catch snippets about the Pig War in Serbia and its effects on America at the time. Despite that, while it was possible Amy wasn't far enough in, she had yet to see anything about what Bailey had indicated. It seemed not even the author was particularly interested in what had happened on campus back then, not knowing anyone who had died or caring enough to construct a conspiracy theory.
Unfortunately, Amy was curious enough to keep looking. As she read through pages detailing the author's ideals for graduating with a music degree to go on to play at Carnegie Hall, Amy tapped her fingers of her free hand against her knees, every once in awhile reaching up to grab the chain of the necklace she forgot was no longer there. Fortunately, before she could divulge herself into a story about Mary Collins and her unbelievable lack of tact, a forceful knocking echoed throughout the suite, causing Amy to drop her book and Sarah to abandon her room to find out what was happening. Heading for the archway, Amy reached for the knob, twisting it open to reveal Taylor standing in the threshold, looking as pale as Amy had ever seen.
Rushing inside, Taylor waited for Amy to shut the door behind her, turning to look at both girls as she paced in front of them. Shooting Amy a confused frown, Sarah furrowed her brows before turning to stare back at Taylor, a manic expression on her face that was similar to the one Bailey had been wearing for the past week.
"I saw it," Taylor muttered suddenly, stopping in mid-stride.
Swallowing hard, Amy bunched her jaw, wondering if the reason Taylor looked so upset was because someone else had fallen from a window. If that were true, Amy was undoubtedly going to wonder if there was something to the spirit theory. As she was about to ask what Taylor had seen, Sarah cut her off, looking huffy.
"What are you talking about?"
Eyes flickering between the blonde and brunette in front of her, Taylor's brown stare went back and forth quickly, looking as though she were watching a tennis match. Abruptly, the flittering stopped, settling on Amy as Taylor spoke in a grave voice.
"I saw a ghost."