As promised, a week of staying calm and mellow without the need for sedatives was enough for Dr. Phillips to discharge me.
My dislocated shoulder is still sore, tucked in a movement-limiting sling for another few days to ensure I don’t accidentally make it worse. I’m coping, which is the extent of the good news.
The bad news is I have what resembles an abstract painting on my skin. Bruises stretch from the dislocated shoulder to halfway down my back and front. Pollock must’ve flicked purple, green, and yellow paint all over me while I slept.
The older marks from the accident have turned a ghastly yellowy-green that marks my legs, chest, arms, knees, and even the side of my face. The scratches on my neck have scabbed over, flaking away slowly. I’m trying not to peel them off. That’d guarantee scars, and I already cried when Dr. Phillips removed my stitches, revealing bright red, ragged, disgusting scars.
Still, there are worse things than looking like I collided with a battering ram. What I worry about most is the brain swelling. Although mild now, it’s still there, meaning I need to take extra care of my head.
Dad suggested I wear a helmet for a few weeks. He laughed it off as a joke, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.
As if arriving on campus ten days into the semester isn’t bad enough, adding a hard hat would definitely do the trick…
I wasn’t allowed to head home or pack for college before the trip. Both Dad and Dr. Phillips decided to keep me away from my past, so Dad filled three suitcases with my clothes, shoes, and cosmetics.
The nurse brought my belongings back, though nothing but my jewelry survived the crash. The doctors had to cut me out of my clothes, but a silver ring with a blue stone my grandmother gave me before she passed away is intact.
And so is a necklace I don’t recognize. It’s a silver chain with a heart pendant. A broken heart. There are two little loops where the chain threads through and it looks like it could be split down the middle so lovers could each wear one half.
Or maybe friends.
Or mother and daughter.
But when I tried to pull the heart apart it didn’t budge. Still, I spent a long time tracing the delicate floral design and running my nail along the zigzagging ridge in the middle, hoping I’d remember who gave it to me.
I gave up when Dad arrived with two gift boxes, his smile bright as he watched me open a new laptop and cell phone.
“Why can’t I use my old phone?” I asked.
“You can’t face your past head-on until your memories return.”
What he didn’t buy me is a car, which, as we arrive on Lakeside College’s campus, I realize might be problematic.
I’m not sure if I’d have the guts to get behind the wheel, but knowing I’m stuck here doesn’t help my anxiety.
Given I can’t remember the accident, driving shouldn’t pose an issue, but a cold chill snaked my spine when I took the passenger seat as we set off.
Neither Dad nor the college leaflet lied about the tranquil, remote location. The closest town is half an hour away, nothing but a huge, calm lake, and woodland whichever way you turn.
The campus itself, made up of eleven buildings—mostly old, but some new—and housing twelve hundred students, is a recently renovated asylum.
In the early nineteen hundreds, a nationwide scandal forced the place to shut down after it surfaced that the patients were being experimented on. Many died in the confines of the walls I’ll call home for the foreseeable future.
It’s a good thing I don’t believe in ghosts.
Dad parks the car in the parking lot about three hundred yards from the main building, snuggling his Ford into a tight space between two brand-new sports cars. Both cost more than our house in Florida, so maybe the elite tag Dad stuck to this place isn’t as far off the mark as I thought.
An uptight-looking woman dressed in high heels, a gray pencil skirt and a white shirt tucked into the waistband, stands on the edge of a pathway. She doesn’t move, watching us above the rims of her thick glasses, her sleek hair in a bun.
I make out the asylum—correction, college—in the gaps between the tall trees behind her back. It doesn’t look inviting, so I pivot back to the woman. Whoever she is, she’s giving off strong discipline vibes.
It doesn’t require much imagination to picture her working here some twelve decades ago. Impossible, considering she’s about forty, but I bet she’d fit right in. She’d probably have a blast torturing the poor patients.
Sporting what I believe is supposed to be a smile but comes across more like she’s curling her lips around a mouthful of unsweetened lemonade, she moves to the driver’s side window and taps it gently to draws Dad’s attention.
Dad clicks a button, letting the window roll down. Two tendons pulse in his neck—a clear indication he’s not pleased.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Vaughn, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect,” she says in a tone far from perfect, then purposely lifts her hand, glancing at her watch. “I expected you fifteen minutes ago. I’m afraid we’ll have to move this along. The dean is an extremely busy woman. She only has another fifteen minutes scheduled for you today.”
Dad clamps his jaw, swallows hard, and releases a long breath through his nose: a temper-marshaling technique. God, it feels good that I can still read him. His tics haven’t changed and watching him makes me think not all is lost.
“There was traffic,” he grinds out, grabbing the door handle. “If you could step back—”
“Of course.” She stumbles away, her heels clicking against the tarmac. She casts a quick glance over her shoulder, making a come here gesture with her chin. “Mr. Rourke, our janitor, will take your luggage up to your room, Miss Vaughn.”
I haven’t noticed him before, but a scrawny man with long legs and even longer arms makes his way toward us, his bland clothes blending with the trees behind his back. He’s pushing an airport-style trolley, zero emotions other than carefully maintained disinterest marring his crumpled face.
He must be older than time.
While he rounds the car, heading for the trunk to unload my luggage, the prissy woman introduces herself as Melinda West, the dean’s personal assistant.
She shakes Dad’s hand once we both clamber out of the car, then turns on her pointy heel, expecting us to follow as she stilettoes away, navigating the cobblestone paths. We round the tree line that separates the grounds from the parking lot, and the former asylum comes into full view.
The main building is massive. Sitting in the heart of the campus, it brings to mind a grand, gothic prison, looming over the smaller buildings nearby and desolate wilderness beyond.
Spired towers made of darkened stone soar into the cloudy, gray sky, the façade is a combination of stone carvings and cavernous arched windows gazing onto the lake like glassy eyes. There’s a sinister breath of the olden days. Forgotten and unkempt with dark green poison ivy climbing from the ground across half the front wall.
I really don’t believe in ghosts, but I’d be lying if I said this place doesn’t give me the creeps.
My strong beliefs are tested as we near the entrance and I catch a shiver of movement in a sprawling circular upper window.
A strange chill slithers along my arms and prickles my scalp and I wonder if leaving the hospital was a good idea. Maybe I should’ve stayed longer? My imagination runs wild and the aftereffects of the swelling in my brain make me loopy.
A hundred and twenty years ago, I’d have fit right in.
The air shudders with a memory of something darker as I stare at the window.
Or maybe I need to lie down immediately because in another breath I realize the movement isn’t an afterthought of a life once lived here, but a real, living person.
I only catch a glimpse of dark hair and black clothes before he vanishes, but it’s definitely a person… A tall, broad-chested, ominous person spying on me. My breath falters in my lungs, the shudder in the air shaking me now. Breath catches in my throat, the blur of black movement sending ripples all the way to my toes.
I definitely need to lie down.
Inhaling through my nose, I rationalize: of course I’d see someone in the window. I’m at college… there are people here.
Also, ghosts are white… and they don’t exist.
Following Melinda, we step inside the cold, main building. Another deep shudder shakes me as the echo of the enormous double doors closing resonates through the entrance hall, overpowering the soft chatter of students nearby.
The interior is as I expected: grand, open, musty, old. High ceilings, stone staircases, and polished marble under my sneakers. Modern art pieces dot the walls—a breath of new life.
Melinda’s heels click against the shiny floor as we follow her down a labyrinth of corridors. It’s a maze. Left, right, left, left. Every corridor splits, bends, turns, winds. I hope the dean has a map or I might get lost.
Finally, we reach the office. Melinda knocks three times. After hearing a faint come in, she pushes the door open, stepping aside to let us in.
Wall-to-wall bookshelves jump out at me first. A mid-century wooden desk crowds the center, and a plush, antique rug in rich hues of brown and red covers the parquet that peeks out near the walls. The scent of dusty, old books mingles with the warmth of the burning candles lining the windowsills.
If I spot a Ouija board anywhere, I am out of here.
“Ah, Hailey Vaughn, correct?” The dean—Dr. F. Harrison according to the plaque decorating her desk—rises to her feet, her white dress suit standing out against the dark background. “I’m so glad you made it. People get lost on the way in at least once a week. Don’t ask how many times I’ve driven out to rescue stranded delivery drivers.” She moves her dark eyes to Dad, her hand extended. “And you must be Charlie, Hailey’s father.” A firm handshake later, she beams, pointing out two leather chairs before her desk. “Please, take a seat.”
With a polite nod we sink into them as Dr. F. settles behind her desk, hands clasped on the polished surface. She’s not as uptight as Melinda, but still not friendly.
“Your arrival at Lakeside College is quite unorthodox,” she begins, her casual tone carrying a hint of an edge. “And I’m not only talking about being late for the start of the semester. Your accident…” Her eyes flick to Dad before she holds my gaze, waiting. I don’t know what to say so I keep quiet. “We’ve never had a student with amnesia attend here, but we’re ready to accommodate your recovery.”
I blink at her, trying to gauge what she wants. An apology for the inconvenience? Maybe a thank you for her concern? I decide on another simple nod, hoping that’s enough.
“Well,” she continues, “I trust you’re feeling fit enough to start your classes right away?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, forcing a smile.
“That’s excellent. We’re excited to have you. I trust you’ll find the community supportive and accommodating. If you need anything, I’m usually here from early morning until late afternoon.”
She pushes a small handbook my way, the bold title not what I expected: Lakeside College—Rules of Conduct.
While Dad jumps in with questions about security on campus, I open the handbook, flipping to page three where the rules are listed. The dean reassures my father, cutting the interrogation short as she pivots back to me.
“As you’re aware, Hailey, Lakeside College has a reputation to uphold. This reputation hinges upon our students’ conduct. We have a set of stringent rules and regulations by which our students are expected to abide.” She casts another quick glance at my father, either looking for reassurance or ensuring he’s listening. “You’ll find them all in the handbook, but I’d like to reiterate the main ones right now.”
I nod, my throat dry. Dad didn’t mention any rules when I filled in the admission documents the other day.
“This is a closed campus and we take safety very seriously,” Dr. Harrison begins, her gaze idling between the two of us. “Some of our students have famous parents, some have received threats, some are here under witness protection programs, therefore you’re only allowed to leave the grounds during the weekends and only after obtaining a signed permission slip.”
She pins me with a pointed stare as if expecting me to protest, but I simply nod again. It’s not like I have a choice. Where will I go without a car?
I don’t exactly plan on wandering the sprawling forest.
“Academic excellence is not just expected but mandatory,” she says, eyeing the papers littering her desk. “I see you’re taking on Acting, that’s great. Our program is demanding and your performance will be closely monitored. Any significant dip in grades will require counseling or additional tutoring. Lastly, we have a strict policy against drugs and underage drinking. Any student caught in possession of drugs and any student under the age of twenty-one found under the influence will face immediate expulsion.”
I glance at Dad, but he’s not fazed. Of course he’s not. He’s a cop. He’s probably loving the rules. I find that I don’t mind, either. With a little luck, I won’t be here long.
The conversation moves forward smoothly after that. We discuss class schedules, assignments, and—yay—I get a map.
Dr. Harrison wraps up, covering everything else I need to know in a few minutes, and Melinda comes back, watching my dad hug me goodbye outside the main building.
“Call me every evening,” he tells me, breaking away to take a better look at me. “And call me if anything happens or you start remembering. And call me if you want to talk, okay?”
“Relax,” I mutter, even though I’m far from relaxed.
He doesn’t need to know I hate this idea. It makes sense from a medical standing, but it doesn’t mean I enjoy the premise. I’m merely acting reasonable even though my insides have been coiled around my spine since I agreed to come here.
“I’ll be fine. I promise I’ll call often.”
“Good.” He drops a kiss on top of my head and off he goes, leaving me with Melinda who marches me across more cobblestone paths toward the dorm building a few hundred yards away.
