When Liz had told me to come talk to her at breakfast, I hadn't had any expectations. I'd assumed we'd be sitting around in the stuffy dinner hall, munching on low-quality crackers, and she'd tell me she didn't actually know what to do. She'd wear a confused look and would announce she'd thought about action plans all night, but concluded she couldn't help me. And who could blame her if that happened? I'd asked her to help me hunt down a bathroom ghost I'd never even seen. A herculean task, too much to put on someone else's plate.
I'd severely underestimated how capable a person Liz Phillips was. How smart and how terrifying. That girl knew things nobody in Lonewood could have known. Should have known. She wasn't strong or abrasive enough to hold her own in a fistfight, but I didn't ever want to be her opponent in a battle of wits.
Not that I didn't already have enough to be terrified about. The sight of my cell's walls covered in blood had seared itself into my brain, my own screaming still resounded in my mind. And Doctor Frankenclaus' ghost girl, silently assaulting the walls of his office with her head, still sent cold shivers down my spine whenever my eyes found her spectral body.
I despised lookout duty more than anything.
"Still can't believe he doesn't lock his door," I muttered. "Doesn't that kind of go against all prison safety rules and regulations ever?"
Liz looked up from the doctor's computer, shifting in the padded desk chair that didn't belong to her, almost drowning in its black cushions. "The man's a boxing champion," she stated, as if she couldn't believe I'd ever considered the words intelligent enough to voice. "He probably keeps his door unlocked because he wants people to know he's always available to help, and if that's what he wants to do, who can stop him? Have you seen those muscles? No one's going to argue with those."
I recalled Doctor Jones' huge form, his hands large enough to crush my head and his glasses too tiny for his face. Though his voice and words had been gentle and softer than expected, I had no trouble believing it could be hard to go against his will. And what kind of idiot inmates would stupidly risk breaking into his office and facing punishment that could be avoided?
I see you looking there. Not one fucking word.
"Doctor Henry's a sweetheart," Liz continued, her eyes drifting to the big screen of the doctor's computer again. "But you do have a point. He really should lock his door. And that security camera, well... he might want to get that looked at, too."
In the dusty upper corner near the door to the doctor's office hung an old white camera, its lens cracked and broken, sticky cobwebs connecting it to the ceiling. If I hadn't known Lonewood existed long before security cameras were even invented, I would've assumed the damaged thing was as old as the prison itself.
Liz knew about the unlocked door and the broken camera. Liz knew about every broken camera. Have you ever taken a good look at this place? she'd asked me during breakfast, tone hushed and conspiratory. It's overcrowded, she'd said, and underfunded and understaffed and stuck in a past century. Lonewood Medium Security Juvenile wasn't much more than a corrupted shithole, as broken as its cameras.
As cherry on top, Liz knew what Doctor Jones did every Thursday after lunch: he went to help the prison's counselors as they worked to provide specialized courses and seminars on drug addiction, anger management, ethics or fucking yoga or whatever other kind of useless thing they wanted us to learn.
And when Jones left, he didn't lock his door.
Naive buffoon.
What Liz didn't know was when Jones would return, which left me stuck on lookout duty while she tried to uncover the bathroom ghost's identity on his computer. While I couldn't tell what exactly she was doing, I did hear her hum every now and then, eyes narrowing when she leaned further towards the screen, as if getting closer to the information somehow let her process it faster.
At least she had something to do. All I was good for was standing still, keeping an eye on our surroundings while nerves ate me alive. Every little noise I heard was enough to make my eyes widen in shock, afraid Jones or someone else would come and catch us red-handed.
"How much more time do you need, Liz? I keep thinking someone's gonna come in and see us."
Liz flicked her hand dismissively, the gesture cutting right through her little brother's spectral body. "We're not in a hurry. It's nice and warm today and there are a few sports games being played outside. The majority of the officers will be out supervising them."
Now, that was one thing I did know. Eager to impress Liz with my own knowledge instead of it being the other way around for once, I said: "I know. Dane plays basketball."
"Your cellmate? Daniela?"
"Yeah. What about her?"
My partner in crime pulled a face, her typing never ceasing. "Guerrero couldn't even tell the difference between a cat and a dog if a scholar explained it to her."
It was my turn to frown. "You're selling her short," I said, growing annoyed at her haughty, turning-up-my-nose attitude. "We can't all be computer geniuses."
Liz didn't reply, simply continued typing. I knew that if I wanted to keep my mind occupied and my anxiety at bay, I had to keep talking.
"How'd you end up in prison, anyway?"
Liz's fingers stilled on the keyboard, the sound of typing fading. Her face was a stone mask: lips pressed tightly together, cold, emotionless eyes.
"It was about money. I wanted to... The cop who shot my brother pretty much got away with it. I wanted to hire the best lawyer I could find to make a proper case against him, and... and help my parents pay for the therapy they needed after Michael's death." She averted her gaze, turned back to her beloved screen. "I am good with computers. I set up a site on the dark web. Stole identities and sold them there."
It was futile to ask if her endeavour had been succesful; if that had been the case, she wouldn't have been here with me, trapped within Lonewood's cold walls. She wouldn't have been listening to me raving about murderous ghosts, wouldn't have been sifting through confidential files on Dr. Jones' computer. There'd been no therapy, no justice for Michael.
Money was my reason for being here, too. I'd wanted it for a new laptop. A fucking laptop.
I didn't think I'd ever felt as ashamed of myself as I did then.
"Come here for a second," Liz ordered after a silence that seemed to have stretched on for hours. "I think I may have found something."
My heart leapt at those words. I hadn't realized my fingers had been trembling, but the trembling stopped. I'd feared the ghost's identity couldn't be found in one of the files in the prison network. There was always the chance the spirit was as old as Lonewood itself and information often got lost while the years passed.
But Liz had found something and I was more than happy to be relieved of lookout duty, finally able to leave my uncomfortable spot next to the ghost girl and her obsessive, self-destructive movements. Fuelled by a desperation to see what Liz had dug up, I rushed to join her by the doctor's desk, feet slamming against the linoleum floor. I made sure not to run through Michael's ghost as I came to a halt next to him.
"I've got a feeling this could very well be our guy," Liz said in the fashion of a crime show detective. My eyes followed her index finger, with which she pointed at a picture displayed on the computer screen. "Counselor Matthew Taylor. He lost his life two years ago, when a conflict between two gangs escalated and resulted in a riot."
The man in the picture could have been my father. He seemed to be in his late fourties to early fifties, had short, grey hair and wore a dorky pair of glasses. He seemed the sort of guy who prided himself on his ability to prepare chicken wings, who dutifully took his pretty wife and two angelic children to church on Sundays. In the photograph, he smiled slightly, bleached teeth bared in a mouth surrounded by laugh lines.
The only uncanny thing about him was his left eye.
While the dead counselor's right eye was a warm brown colour, his left eye burrowed into my soul and attempted to steal my deepest secrets. Its lens was clouded, grey like a storm, cold as frost in December. A gaping void of nothing, ready to swallow me. A cataract.
"The file says his body was found on the floor near B-block's bathroom. He was stabbed to death. The culprit got away in the chaos of the riot and when they found Taylor, it was too late to save him."
I couldn't look away from the cursed cataract. I remembered standing in front of a mirror in a haunted bathroom, sulphur filling my nostrils while nausea welled up in my stomach. I remembered my nerves going crazy, running water cooling my hands and my head pounding.
That day, the mirror had shown me nothing but my own pale face. And still, I remembered. I'd caught glimpses before, of spectral limbs, sharp teeth... and eyes.
"I think that's him," I confirmed, biting back bile as nausea hit me once more. Whatever doubts I'd had melted away like snow in the sun; the icky blood in front of the haunted bathroom had been Taylor's.
"Really?" Liz cleared her throat. "I mean, of course that's him. I know what I'm doing–"
I stopped listening to her because a stinging cold shot through me, making me flinch where I stood. Gritting my teeth, I looked down to see Michael had extended his little arm, silently sticking it right through my bandaged right hand. He was trying to get my attention.
"Liz," I mumbled, my eyes never leaving Michael's arm. "Your brother, he's signing something. Holding out his right arm, touching his wrist with his left hand. I don't remember what that sign means."
Liz shot out of the huge chair she'd been sitting in so fast she almost elbowed me in the face, muttering curses under her breath. "It means doctor."
We'd forgotten about fucking lookout duty. Doctor Frankenclaus was coming back to his office. There wasn't any time left for us to escape. It became hard to breathe and my mouth turned dry, my heart trying to break out of my ribcage. I looked at Liz and she looked at me, and our unspoken, shared thought hung heavy between us.
We're fucked.
A crazy plan hit me like a good punch to the face. When I spoke, my voice was barely louder than a whisper, but Liz understood.
"Desk."
I won't lie to you. It was, objectively speaking, a pretty solid plan. Unpleasant, but solid. We just had to swallow our pride and make sure the doctor couldn't find us and bash our disobedient little heads in with his beloved boxing trophies. Liz and I dropped to the floor at lightning speed.
A huge man like Doctor Jones needed an equally huge desk. The doctor's desk could have belonged to the Big Friendly Giant himself, which was perfect for us; neither I nor Liz was particularly tall and we could squeeze ourselves into the desk's ample leg space without too much trouble. We vanished into the dark space, pressing our bodies back against the wood uncomfortably.
"Off my foot, Church."
"Get those goddamn curls out of my nose and there's a chance I'll consider it."
I heard the door to the office swing open and the noise of heavy footsteps filled the room, instantly shutting down our bickering. While I couldn't see, I could picture what was happening behind me. The doctor, that big wall of imposing muscle, had barged in. We didn't make a sound, but an uneasy fear still coiled itself around me, a horrid snake constricting around my throat; I was scared to death the doctor might hear my rapid heartbeat or smell the salty, anxious drops of sweat forming on my forehead.
"But, you know, I promised her," the doctor told an invisible companion. "I promised my wife I'd be careful. Strange things are happening here, don't you think? Bloody messages on the walls in your workplace, how would you explain that at home?"
The doctor's companion mumbled terribly and all I could hear of his reply was a low, unintelligible tone of voice. The sound of pages being turned cut through the air and I got more claustrophobic in our hiding spot with every agonizing second. Can you imagine what it's like? Sitting in the dark, cooped up in a cramped space with no clue what's happening around you and the scent of cheap prison shampoo in your nose because your stupid fellow inmate's hair is in your face?
Go ahead. Laugh at my misery until it hurts.
"Ah, here's the folder!" When the doctor spoke with such glee, I could almost believe he enjoyed doing his job. "Move along, Davies. There's work to be done."
Footsteps receded, a door was closed. Desperate to get Liz out of my face, I traded one type of confinement for a more comfortable kind in which I could at least move freely to some extent.
"Davies," Liz said with a sly grin as she followed me out of our tight spot and moved to turn off the doctor's computer. "I saw some interesting shit about Davies here earlier–"
"No offense," I muttered, "but I really don't care. Only Matthew Taylor concerns me. His ghost."
Liz took the bait almost greedily, sinking her teeth into this new mystery. "He seemed like a nice enough guy. Why does he want to hurt you?"
I supposed even smart people could ask stupid questions. "Ask him, not me. I'd have told you if I could."
"Well, if it was that easy..." Liz fell silent mid-sentence, staring at me with a glassy look and a hazy smile. I had to snap my fingers in front of her face to shake her out of her trance.
"Earth to Liz?"
"It might be that easy." If she'd still been sitting at the doctor's desk, she would've slammed her hand down on the surface for the good measure. "Call bullshit if I'm wrong, but... You implied your ability doesn't let you converse with the dead, but would it be possible to communicate them with a tool for it? Like a Ouija Board?"
I wasn't a big fan of Liz' overall attitude, but I did like her way of thinking. If there was a question, there was an answer. If there was a mystery, it could be solved. Period.
"Maybe? I never tried."
Liz' frown got stuck somewhere between confused and annoyed. "You've been able to see ghosts all your life and you never tried?"
I scratched the back of my neck, returned her frown. "There's more to my life than just ghosts. I had other things to do and I just never bothered. Didn't feel like explaining owning stuff like that to my parents, either."
Liz eyed me skeptically, but the answer seemed enough for her. "Do you think it could work, though?"
Did I? I wasn't sure. I'd heard horror stories surrounding objects like Ouija Boards, of mediums claiming to have seen Hell itself upon using them, of people supposedly violated by ghosts. On the other hand, I'd also read articles online disputing such claims, written by scientists and experts, telling the world they were mere children's toys or deceptive tools used by frauds. With no experience using them of my own, how was I supposed to know what the truth about them was?
But maybe this was worth looking into.
"If you can get us a Ouija Board, we could try talking to Taylor with it. We'd find out if does or doesn't work soon enough." I was starting to get sick and tired of being in this office without permission and I made for the door, feeling like my legs were made of jelly.
"Actually..."
I turned back. Liz lingered behind me with her arms crossed, almost standing inside of the teenage ghost girl.
"I figured out which ghost is haunting you. I did that work for you. Now you can start doing some yourself."
Cursing under my breath, I sent Liz a mild glare. It wasn't proud of it, but I profoundly disliked solving my own problems, ideally getting others to do my work for me. I enjoyed sitting back and doing nothing, ignoring everything I deemed too difficult to deal with. I'd searched for quick laptop money through drugs instead of bothering to save up. If I could've ordered the spirits I saw to do my homework, I would've done so in a heartbeat. Whenever I could, I took the easy way out. I didn't appreciate Liz telling me she wouldn't let me do so.
"Right. Guess I'll just go take a walk to the store and buy a fucking Ouija Board. I'm sure the officers will allow me to leave if I ask them nicely."
Maybe that was a dick move. I don't know. You can be the judge of that.
"Curb your sarcasm," Liz replied, shoving past me rather roughly. "Here's a hint to get you started. Your cellmate's in a gang, isn't she?"
I gave her a pathetic attempt at a weak nod.
"So ask Daniela. I'd be surprised if she doesn't have any useful contacts." Liz smiled, turned around and began to walk away with her head held high, her dead brother trailing after her without a glance in my direction. I opened my mouth to call her back to me as I closed the door to the doctor's office, wanting to protest and tell her she couldn't just walk away, but a part of me already knew it would be a futile effort. Liz had resolved to throw me to the lions and there was nothing I could say that would change her mind.
I left Doctor Jones' office behind me, starting towards my cell at a quick pace. A Ouija Board... The idea itself wasn't half bad. But how could I ever explain to Dane why I needed such a thing? Yes, hello, a ghost wants to kill me. I don't know why, but it's fine, it's cool, we just need to have a chat and hug it out. That wasn't crazy at all.
The image of Counselor Taylor invaded my mind; his friendly smile and eerie cataract grabbed me, never letting me go. The man had died in a riot two years ago, bled out on a cold prison floor with no one to hold him. A tragic fate. But that didn't have anything to do with me, right? I hadn't even been incarcerated when the riot Liz had spoken of took place. What did the ghost hope to gain from my death? Why was he after me?
I abandoned all thoughts of what to tell Dane. Only that one question still bounced around my brain.
Why?