Page 64 of They're Watching You

I ease through the bars first, followed by Remington. But as soon as we’re in the dank corridor, he rushes for the lantern, tugging on the end of the red ribbon until it unravels. He stuffs it in the pocket of his pants as I stop to stare in awestruck horror. Then he starts to run, motioning for me to hurry like it never happened.

And I have to pretend like it didn’t, because our friends’ lives depend on what I do now. I follow him at a sprint toward the only certain exit—beneath the old cathedral.

Once we’re out of earshot of the camera, I yell back to him, “When we get out, we have to call the cops. We have the video of Polly and Jane. They’ll have to take us seriously.”

“If we tell, Annabelle will kill them.” Remington’s voice bounces off the dank tunnel walls. “We should go after Annabelle ourselves. Tie her up and force her to tell us where the girls are.”

It’s a thought. Speaking to the police would be a huge risk.

But I have to believe that there’s a way to save the girls and Gavin—one that doesn’t involve becoming Annabelle. “We need some insurance,” I say, almost believing it as we pass the gallery where we found the camcorder. “When we get to the old cathedral, we’ll copy the video. That way if everything goes wrong, we can threaten to send it to the cops—hell, to the media even—if she lays a hand on anyone.”

I don’t remember the rat tunnel until I’ve nearly crashed into it, but this time with adrenaline so high, I fly through it like my limbs have evolved into a sewer creature’s. Out in the corridors, my body hums with a heightened sense of direction. I don’t even need the map as I lead us through each bend, never stopping to contemplate until we’ve reached the antechamber.

Remington passes me his torch and bulls up the stepladder, barreling through the trapdoor. Once the door is secured above, he hurries back down to help me snuff the torches.

Abandoning both the torch and lantern below, I click my phone light on to navigate the rest of the way up and through the old cathedral. Remington reaches the exit through the secret door, and I grab him by the coat. “Wait,” I whisper, already sliding my backpack off. “The recording.” I fall to my knees, rummaging through the pack until I find the camera. My phone blinks its near-death warning, but I check that we finally have reception and ready it to record. With a shaky finger, I play the video of Polly and Jane, my stomach souring at what’s to come.

When it ends, I email the video to myself, Remington, Gavin, and Polly. I can’t afford to let it spread any wider until I’m certain the girls are safe. “Okay,” I say, tucking the camera back inside the pack. I glance down at my phone, ready to dial 911, but the screen goes black.

“Damnit,” I growl, shaking it. “Where’s your phone?”

Remington searches through his pocket and pulls his out. He stares up at me.

“What is it?”

“It’s dead.”

My stomach drops. We can’t call the cops. Even if we scaled the school gate, we wouldn’t be able to call an Uber to take us to the station. “Then what do we do?”

“We could find a security guard.”

I shake my head. “Night after night, the society members sneak out, and no one is ever caught. I don’t trust security.”

“We’ll have to try the headmistress. She can call.”

I start to nod, but the memory of my bizarre experience in Dr. Yamashiro’s classroom slithers into my head. The linchpin cufflink. “What if she’s in on it?”

He considers this, his dark eyes shifting to graze the ancient stonework beneath us. “When Annabelle first showed me evidence that Jane was being held in the catacombs, she warned me not to go to the headmistress.”

“She gave me the same warning.”

“Once we tell Headmistress Koehler about the video stream and how many people are already watching it, she’ll have to help us.”

“But who’s watching it, Remington? Not Gavin. Not Polly.”

“The headmistress doesn’t have to know that.”

Out in the windy night air, the hazy light of the lampposts guides us past the Lowell Math and Science Building, standing dark and beastly over the grounds. Soon, the sweet scent of apple blooms fills the air as we weave through the branches, the moon our only source of light. Ahead lies faculty housing, a series of cottages scattered around the orchards and streams. We keep going. Headmistress Koehler doesn’t board near the other staff; she has her own cottage on the far side of Woodbriar Pond.

She lives alone, other than the wild geese that flock to her yard in search of food. At this time of night, though, the coast is clear as we slink through her pristinely maintained garden and up the path to her unlit porch.

Remington pounds on the door, which might not be the best strategy. “She’s going to call security,” I hiss.

“What else can we do?” He knocks again, just as hard, and I cover my eyes like this is all a scary scene from a movie. “Headmistress Koehler?” he calls, still thumping on the door.

A white flash races through my periphery. The curtains. Inside the cottage, a light flicks on.

“Headmistress Koehler?” I try this time, hopefully less suspiciously than Remington.

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