Page 4 of Fragile Wicked Things
"Stop that," he said as I finished writing the 'N'.
A sign, 'Lowood Institute for Girls,' came into view, but I was to go to a home, not an institution. The driveway that led to the property was bumpy, and twice the car fell hard into a deep hole, splashing muddy water up against the sides. Mr. Brocklehurst parked, and I stepped onto an unkempt walkway, weeds protruding from the cracks. The large two-story building stood in darkness and was not like a home at all; it looked dreary and ominous, its front door desperately needed paint, the grey brick dirty from years of neglect, and in the attic were three gabled windows. Someone pulled a curtain back, startling me. I sensed their eyes on me and I had listened to enough frightening stories to know ghosts can move inanimate objects. I had yet to set foot inside and, already unnerved, muttered a prayer under my breath.
Mr. Brocklehurst handed me my bag and told me to go in. I tried the door handle.
"It sticks. Give it a good, hard shove."
I tried again, putting more strength into it, and the door gave way, almost throwing me in. The entrance may have been grand and inviting once, but now the staircase banister appeared nicked, and a musty odor lay heavy on me. The silence that filled the home seemed full of despair and heartache.
I followed Mr. Brocklehurst into a small, wood-paneled library off the entrance. Most of the bookshelves lay empty. The roaring fire welcomed me on this cold, wet night. Placing my bag on the floor near me, I held out my chilled fingers to its warmth, staring at them until my eyes tricked me into thinking they had caught fire.
"You can thank Mrs. Temple for that fire. She had it ready for my arrival. Mrs. Temple is the girls' caregiver. In all, we have seventy-four fine young ladies, or at least they will be fine young ladies once we've finished with them. Of course, some do get adopted."
"I won't get adopted."
"Are you that disagreeable, child?"
"My father won't leave me here."
Mr. Brocklehurst ignored my last statement, scratched the inside of his ear, and then thumped his dirty finger on a book sitting on his desk.
"Reverend Reed said you're a bright girl. What have you read?"
"The Secret Garden. Anne of Green Gables."
"And you read these as part of your school curriculum? They seem too advanced."
"No, sir, by myself at home."
He huffed a little at my response that I didn't dare mention I readA Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
"You'll discover soon enough that you must conform to the teachings at Lowood and don't take it upon yourself to look beyond what is acceptable."
I wanted to ask, "Acceptable to whom?" but a knock on the library door interrupted me. A slender woman entered, her hair pulled back in a bun, her clothes a uniform of a brown skirt and white-buttoned shirt. She seemed plainer than I had been, and I felt an immediate affinity for her.
"Ah, there you are, Mrs. Temple. Jane, you will be taken up to your room. Dismissed."
Belongings in hand, I followed Mrs. Temple out the door and up the stairs. Along the staircase were photos of many girls lined up four rows deep with arms limp at their sides, not a smile between them, and eyes devoid of happiness. On either side stood older women, their teachers, some not that much older than the eldest girls themselves. The first photo was taken in 1921, and the number of girls grew with each year.
Mrs. Temple led me down a corridor at the top of the stairs, past several doors until she opened one at the end. About twenty girls, ages seven to seventeen, were snuggled in their beds, their heads following me as I walked past. Four wards housed the building's two upper floors. In the middle of the room stood a table where three older girls were seated, textbooks open in front of them, pencils in hand.
"It's late girls. Put your books away and off to bed," Mrs. Temple said.
A girl with dark, straggly hair slammed her book closed and walked past me, eyeing me as she got into bed. One by one, the bedside lamps were extinguished down the long row of beds, the older girls being the last to turn theirs off.
Mrs. Temple stopped and put her hand to her forehead.
"Silly me. Jane, would you like something to eat?"
"No, thank you. I'm not hungry," I lied.
She guided me to the end of the row, to the bed closest to the window, and then turned the blanket down. As I approached her, she smiled at me.
"From now on, you'll be responsible for making your bed. Tomorrow, I'll have one of the older girls explain what is required of you. For tonight, just get some sleep."
When I retired into the lumpy bed, Mrs. Temple turned off the lamp beside me. I could see her silhouette in the moon's light as she walked down the aisle between the rows of beds and shushed a girl before closing the door behind her. I counted sheep to help me fall asleep. I got to ninety-two.
Odd dreams entered my head, understandable as I had buried my mother earlier that day and then found myself in a new place, sharing a bedroom with strangers. My mind, furious at me for exhausting it, retaliated with unusual, dark dreams, placing me in a library I didn't recognize. I took furtive steps towards a door cracked ajar. A flickering light from a lamp streamed through the opening, and I set my palm on the cold wood. My breath abated, my heart raced, and when I finally pushed aside the door, a demon came at me, fangs clamped on my neck, sinking deeper into my flesh. I awoke in terror, panting and sweating. Someone leaned over one of the girls a few beds over, and I stared, waiting for my eyes to adjust in the darkness. The creature! He had followed me out of my nightmare. I sat up, lifted the blanket and swung my feet over the side of the bed. The creature did not see me as I edged towards it and remained hunched over the blond girl, mouth on her neck. Still, I reached out with my hand to touch it, to see if it was real when suddenly it turned to me. I awoke with a startle. The clanging sound of a morning bell followed.
