Page 4 of She Haunts Me Still

What, exactly, killed her?

Instead of saying any of that, though, Mallory forces her mouth into another smile.

“I’m a big girl,” she says, looking right at him. “I can handle a little blood.”

Inside the theater, Mallory shakily fills out her audition form with her left hand, trying to ignore the whispers around her.Do you know when the cast list is going up?I can’t believe Winston fucking Hendrix is directing this….

Somewhere along the line, students nicknamed Shore’s theater “the Crypt,” an apt moniker for a space perpetually bathed in darkness. Endless tiers of metallic scaffolding loom like a space station, while red velvet curtains form the gaping mouth of a cave. Rows of cushioned scarlet chairs flank the stage on three sides, each seat bearing a plaque in memory of a deceased professor or alum.

Mallory doesn’t have to look to know that the third seat in the thirteenth row holds a constant reminder of the way her past and present are all tangled up.

In memory of Jasmine Webb, Class of 1977

She’d first spotted her mother’s plaque during orientation and assumed Aunt Penelope was behind it. Mallory has called Penelope “aunt” her entire life, even though she’s not a relative by blood—just a close family friend, and Mallory’s legal guardian since her mother’s passing. Penelope has always been a human vault, containing countless stories about Mallory’s mother yet keeping most of them locked up. When Mallory asked about the plaque, Penelope denied responsibility.It must’ve been an anonymous donor,she reasoned.Your mother had many friends at school.

Mallory traces the edges of her locket now. The brass and ruby butterfly is the only item she has left of her mother, and touching it usually comforts her.

But tonight, there’s only a vague sense of dread, coupled with a question that’s been emerging since that rotten smell permeated her nostrils in the dressing room.

If something happened to my mother at this school, could it happen to me, too?

“Good evening, everyone!”

Professor Golden snaps the room to attention as she steps onstage. One of the youngest faculty members, Ruth Golden is a professor of theater history, Mallory’s advisor, and the head of Shore’s performing arts department. Her name was cemented in every student’s memory during orientation when she positioned herself as a Final Boss of sorts, the matriarchaloverlord of everything that happens inside the Crypt. Today, she stands before them in a pressed collared blouse and velvet skirt, her rose-tinted skin and copper hair glowing beneath a triangle of light.

“It is my great pleasure to welcome another group of prospective theater majors to these renowned halls,” Golden says. “Being a Shore alum myself, it’s an honor to see so many new faces on the cusp of your theatrical careers. As you know, this production will be your official ticket into Shore’s dramatic arts program. Some might find it sadistic to put you through another test after being admitted, but make no mistake: Beyond these walls, the professional theater world is even more rigorous. Cutthroat, even. Only the most persistent endure.”

Mallory fluffs out her dark brown bangs; her hand is still throbbing.

“It’s worth remembering,” Golden continues, “that this campus carries an important history. As you’ve surely heard, some of these buildings were once home to innovative medical facilities in the nineteenth century, watching over those who had fallen ill. Typhus. Smallpox. Tuberculosis.” She pauses, feet planted in a perfect pool of silver. “There is a sobering origin to this campus, one that compels us to reflect on the values of life and learning. Today, Shore is a place to think, but decades ago, it was a place to survive.”

Golden smiles in a way that’s too bright for the dark shape of her words. It reminds Mallory of orientation, when her tour guide dropped macabre pieces of campus lore between tidbits about credit requirements and dining hall hours.Some people believe Shore is one of the most haunted colleges in the country,he’d said while leading their group of first-years betweenivy-soaked buildings.That the people who died here never left. If you’re quiet after midnight, you might just see a ghost in the gardens.

It shouldn’t have been a surprising statement—after all, it’s impossible to live in Rhode Island without hearing legends about haunted cliffs in Newport or witchcraft in Narragansett Bay’s remote islands. But something about the way the guide said it got underneath Mallory’s skin. Like he wasn’t just reciting a rumor but a fact.You might just see a ghost.

But Mallory learned this truth a long time ago.

“For this group,” Golden adds, reclaiming Mallory’s attention, “Shore is also a place to perform. To find your light.” She gestures with a delicate hand. “Which is why it’s my honor to formally introduce the director of this production, visiting professor and award-winning artist Winston Hendrix.”

Everyone turns to look as a tall man hops onto the stage. Mallory has seen him only in photographs, but she recognizes his warm-brown skin, his artfully shaved goatee. When he rattles off his biography, the entire room nods, as though they haven’t been obsessively studying Hendrix’s résumé all summer. Mallory could recite it word for word—his Juilliard training, his impressive credits:King Lear.Angels in America.Othello.Rent.

“I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone,” Hendrix says. “While I might reside in New York, Rhode Island is one of my favorite places to visit, andRomeo and Juliethas been my dream show for years. And while I love a good modernization, we’re going the traditional route to pay homage to the poetry and core of this tragedy: a love that’s doomed from the first spoken word. Tonight’s going to work like this. Monologues. Cold readings. And thenboom.Tomorrow? Cast list. As soon as our student assistant director arrives, we’ll start with your prepared soliloquies. Do the fourth-years ever show up on time for anything?”

No one answers, unsure whether to laugh.

As if summoned, the side door flings open, and Winston turns with a relieved smile.

“Ezra Pierce, as I live and breathe! Thought you were standing us up.”

Everyone turns in unison, and Mallory’s eyes widen just in time for Arden to slap a hand on her thigh.

Because they’re staring at the man in the black coat. The one who offered to clean Mallory’s bloodied palm.

The one who tried to tell them, minutes ago, that he’s their assistant director.

Mallory tilts her chin down before their eyes have a chance to meet. She shouldn’t have stared at him earlier, shouldn’t have let that lilt creep into her voice when she made that comment about blood. Maybe if she were a normal girl, she could flirt with a handsome stranger, dare to let herself think a shared gaze could be the beginning of something.

A haunted girl should know better.