Page 69 of Switching Graves
But the Landry family died in May 1877 in a house fire. It’s plastered across every plaque around campus and on every informational pamphlet about the school. They’ve even got the dining area of the home where they all died roped off in a back corner of the main building. I’ve heard rumors of a festival that is held in their honor in Nocturne Valley each December. It devastated the town for years before they decided to turn the old castle into a university in their honor.
So, it has to be fake, right?
I need to read more. And not just to feed my own curiosity. There’s something about these journals that feels too familiar to ignore, and digging deeper into the story is the only way I can scratch the itch they’ve created the moment I laid eyes on them.
Shaking my head at the silly urge, I swipe up all three books and slide them into my backpack, promising myself I’ll put them back as soon as I’m done. Hopefully, Dr. Whitlock won’t notice they’re gone before I have a chance to read through them.
It takes me another hour to finish up the list he left for me and slip back out the door. It’s nearly eleven at night when I pass the clock tower, and the campus is completely empty.
“You’re just now getting back?” That spine-chilling, deep voice sounds from somewhere in the shadows of the trees.
The sound of it still makes my heart sputter as if it’s coming from a stranger, and every internal warning sign goes off, like my body refuses to acknowledge him as anything but a threat.
“It took you a while to reply,” I say in a sharp tone.
I’m too irritated with him for startling me to filter my responses right now. Still, I turn to face the direction his voice came from to block his view of my backpack. It’s silly. I know the journals are safely tucked between my other books, but I’m terrified of being caught. I’ve never been very good at breaking rules.
“It all appeared self-explanatory,” he mumbles, finally stepping out of the shadows to reveal his face, glistening with sweat from another late-night run. “I’ll have to remember you need more instruction than most.”
Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms over my chest as he approaches. “It would be helpful, considering I’m jumping into this role halfway through the semester.”
Whitlock doesn’t appear to be offended by my snarky responses, the way I would have expected a man with his size ego would be. In my experience, most people detest being challenged. Not him. In fact, I could swear I see a ghost of a smile on his face as he stops beside me, nodding his head toward our buildings.
“I’ll walk with you the rest of the way.”
Stepping back, I shake my head. The last thing I want is to spend more time with him when I’ve just committed larceny against him. “That’s not necessary. I’m going straight to my building, nowhere else.”
“As am I,” he coos. “I could walk behind you, if you wish. I only thought this would be more comfortable for you.”
Frowning, I shake my head. There isn’t much of an option besides walking together, regardless of how uncomfortable that may be.
We fall into step together and I become hyper aware of every micro-movement he makes beside me. From the way he plucks his headphones from his ears and slips them into their case to the even, slightly elevated rhythm of his breaths from his run. I want to say something, but I’m not sure what’s appropriate anymore. He’s seen me naked, but is it okay for me to ask about his personal life?
“Surely, I’m not as scary as you’re pretending to find me right now,” he berates, raising a brow at me.
“I’m very confused about where we stand anymore,” I admit, my voice lowered.
He smirks, as if he’s satisfied with that response. He likes keeping me confused.
“I suppose you’ll figure it out, eventually. For now, try to abide by the curfew. It appears to be another area you feel superior to your peers.”
My head swings over to face him, my mouth hanging open. “I do not?—”
“Save it, Little Nightmare. Channel that anger into your next paper. I’ve got to get some sleep. Goodnight.” I realize then that we’re somehow standing before Devlin.
Which makes absolutely no sense, considering we're still at least one hundred feet away a second ago. Whitlock takes advantage of my momentary confusion, jogging off ahead of me to get to his own building. I call out for him to wait, which he responds by throwing his hand up in a dismissive wave.
When he reaches his door, he looks back at me, and I swear I see him wink before disappearing behind the door.
38
Sonny
I’m growing wearier with each passing hour. I fear I’ll never escape this nightmare.
My days are spent hiding in the trees, jumping at the slightest crunch of leaves or cracking twigs. I think it’s been at least a month since the attack, though I’ve lost track of the exact amount of days.
I found some unused journals in my father’s study this morning and decided to write. To whom? I’ve no clue. Someone needs to know the story, though. I doubt the truth will ever be revealed otherwise.