Page 46 of The Blood we Crave

The force of her fall required maintenance to replace the entire fractured slab of cobblestone, and some say they heard the thud all over campus. There are a few who claim she was under brutal pressure from her parents, which caused her to take her own life.

If that were the case, I suppose she must have felt free standing at the open arch, looking down at the ground, seeking liberation from unruly expectations.

But the most common version, the one I believe, is she was pushed. They could never figure out who it might have been, but it was speculated to be her best friend—the one who conveniently took her valedictorian position.

Denise Bohart still lives in Ponderosa Springs to this day, married to Tabitha’s ex-boyfriend and spending her days as a retired housewife. People whisper when they see her around, and she still has yet to speak about what happened.

Students for years have claimed to hear her footsteps up here when they are beneath the level or see her spirit floating through the rows of volumes. Every fallen book, misplaced item, or bump in the night is blamed on the ghost of the Caldwell tower.

Miss Tabitha Flëur.

I know there is a lot of treachery that surrounds this place, and the overall energy of Hollow Heights is eerie. I still can’t help but find it beautiful. All the crafted gothic architecture, stone gargoyles, marble fountains, and open space make for a breathtaking campus.

Maybe it’s because I know what it’s like for people to perceive me as creepy. And maybe because I’m waiting for the day people see me as beautiful instead of this twisted, spooky bug girl.

Buzz.Buzz.

I pull my phone from my pocket, staring down at the text message from Sage that lets me know she and Briar are on their way. I send a quick reply before sliding it into my back pocket and depositing my books onto the desk.

If Tabitha’s ghost is indeed haunting the tower, she’s never bothered me before. Maybe because she realizes she’s in good company with someone like her. Although I’m living, I’m a ghost too, a person who appreciates the macabre spaces for what they are.

There is something incredibly alluring about forsaken spaces.

Cemeteries, the abandoned mausoleum behind the Rothchild District, and this dusty tower, they all play host to scary myths and misplaced fear, but underneath it all, they are all the same.

A home for the forgotten ones.

Those who have blended into oblivion and whose memory no longer exists unless to frighten people. They all feel like home to me rather than a place of mourning or sadness.

Because I’m one of the forgotten too.

A rustle of material tickles my ears, and when I turn around, I see one of the white sheets that had been draped over one of the stray pieces of furniture is now occupying the floor.

My eyebrows furrow, my brain already telling me it was simply the wind and nothing else. A loud groan trembles through the floors, the vibration of heavy footsteps coming from somewhere close by.

A lick of fear pools in my stomach, the subconscious part of me telling me it’s something other than the age of the building and the powerful gusts of wind from outside.

I glance around the room, making sure I’m still the only person inside the tower. When I find it completely empty, I once again tell myself what every other person does.Your mind is playing silly tricks on you, Lyra. You’re just giving in to the stories, too many scary movies before bed.

Another groan creaks into the space, but this time, it’s much closer. I glance at the shut metal door across from me, staring at it until the noise returns. It’s the sound of someone’s feet, taking their time as they work their way up ancient steps.

Every step is matched with an achy cry of aged material, sending echoes into the tower I’m currently standing in. The movies always tell you to avoid walking towards dreadful commotions, but human curiosity is a damned thing.

I walk towards the ominous metal door, the dark coloring patched with rust spots from age, and bolts decorate the edges. It’s not exactly the kind of door that welcomes you to open it.

My body leans forward, palms lying flat against the cool steel. It’s so cold I nearly hiss in shock. The icy feeling burns my skin. But I don’t pull away; instead, I lean in farther.

Silence thrums in the air, so quiet it’s almost loud. I can hear every single breath that pushes past my lips and feel the redundant beat of my heart. I press my ear to the door, listening for those heavy footsteps, but I hear nothing.

There is a thunderous crash behind me, making me retract from the door a little quicker than my legs expected. I feel myself slipping backwards, quickly trying to place my hands below me to break my fall.

When my butt slams into the floor, I cry out in pain. The soreness immediately throbs in my backside as I turn my head to look where the commotion came from. A sturdy breeze had knocked another one of the boarded panels loose, sending the sheet of wood onto the floor.

The wind howls and whips through the open cracks, whistling inside the small space I’d always found quite charming up to this point. A burning sensation tingles my body, and I glance down at my palms.

They had indeed saved me from breaking my tailbone but had suffered collateral damage in return. Nasty, jagged streaks slash across the soft flesh of my open hands.

I bite the inside of my cheek as I look at the pulled-back layers of skin—nothing too bad that I’ll need medical attention, but I’m definitely going to need a buttload of Neosporin and some bandages.

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