Blood and Madness

Chapter 2 The Clock at 3:13

My breath came in gasping fits as I realized where I was; in the back seat of the car, my hand clasped tight over the edge of the seat and my fingers stinging from the force of their grip. The driver gave me a concerned look. "Is something the matter? A rough ride does that to me sometimes."

"No," I whispered, unable to find words that conveyed my distress.

My shirt was clinging to me and my heart hammered erratically against my ribs. In the background, or perhaps it was simply a remnant from the dream, I could still smell iron, cold stone and a sweetness in the air that turned my stomach over. It was growing dusk by the time they dropped me at the gate. The woods, crowded on either side of the road, were a mass of black trunks and interlacing branches, a macabre gothic crown above the trees and the autumn leaves were already beginning to decay; rust, red and yellow littered the forest floor beneath them and seemed to cling to the undergrowth in tattered patches. The woods reeked of decaying vegetation, mushrooms and soil that seemed to have never even been touched by the sun; I had never smelled anything like it before. The buildings were stone and brick, their lines heavy and rounded as if the foundations had been built long before they were even required. Ivy climbed the walls in thick, disciplined ropes. A bell tower stood at the center of the campus, its clock hands frozen at 3:13. I stared longer than I meant to.

“The clock’s been like that for years,” said the driver, who had already taken my bag from the trunk. I turned. He was a broad man with wind-reddened cheeks and the blunt expression of someone who had seen enough of the world to dislike most of it. “No one fixes it?” I asked. He gave a small shrug. “Wouldn’t matter.”

Then he set my suitcase on the pavement and drove away before I could decide whether he meant the clock, the school, or me. I stood at the gate with my bag in one hand and felt the strange sensation that I had already stepped into a place that was waiting for me. The campus was not empty. Students crossed the quad in small clusters, their coats dark against the stone, their voices low and intermittent. Whitford Hall, my dormitory, stood on the west side of campus, another severe old building with narrow windows and a stairwell that smelled faintly of dust and medicine. My room number was 317. I climbed the stairs with my suitcase thudding against each step and found the door already open. My roommate was kneeing on the floor in the middle of the room, surrounded by books, clothes and other debris of chaotic unpacking; with an expression of either pure confidence, or sheer lunacy. He looked up as I entered. “You must be Arthur.”

“Yes,” I said cautiously, surprised by the cheerfulness with which he spoke.

He stood and grinned. “Noah Whitaker. Thank God. I was afraid I’d been assigned someone horrifying.” I shook his hand. Noah's face was plain, the sort of face that would win people's trust before they understood how or why it worked: dark hair, tired eyes, and a wide mouth made for laughter, even before it was opened to speak. He wore a university sweatshirt, low-slung jeans, and the bewildered look of someone who hadn't yet learned to be wary of other people's motivations.

"Is that a problem here?" I asked.

"No," he said, throwing a T-shirt onto his bed. "Most of the time it's just one of three things: awkward, haunted, or intolerable. Sometimes all at once."

"I will endeavor to exceed expectations," I replied.

"That sounds encouraging." For the first time all evening, I felt something relaxed in my chest. Noah showed me the room, the wardrobe, the radiator that tick-tocked at a pace so erratic that it clearly wasn't mechanical, and the bathroom down the hall, which he claimed "is usually fine as long as you don't look too closely." He then paused, his face perfectly straight, before informing me that the east corridor on the fourth floor had been sealed after "an incident".

"What incident?" I asked.

He paused for only a fraction longer than he should have: "The type school likes to cover up."

"That's not an answer."

"That's Morrowe." He laughed, though his eyes remained serious. The dining hall was a cathedral of wood and shadow: vaulted ceilings, stained-glass windows, and long tables lit by light-fixtures styled like burning candles. Students moved through it with an undercurrent of nervous conversation, kept low and careful. I sat with Noah and listened to his descriptions of certain professors, school rumors, and which buildings to completely avoid after 12 AM.

Then a voice called from behind me, "You're Arthur Volkov." I turned around. She held her tray in both hands and her presence seemed to, just briefly, bend the surrounding room. Red hair tied carelessly at the nape of her neck, sharp, intelligent eyes behind a pale face, and a look that said nothing could ever surprise her.

"I am," I said. She beamed with quick, open interest. "I knew it. I'm Isabelle Hawthorne."

Noah groaned softly. "Oh, great."

Isabelle didn't even acknowledge him. "History and Culture Third year. Professional liar, expert gossip, and likely your only hope for learning a useful fact at this school before the semester ends."

"That's generous of you," I replied.

"It isn't." Without asking, she slid onto the bench opposite Noah and me. Her way of looking at people made her always seem a step ahead. "You're in Professor Hawthorne's class tomorrow."

"Is that your mother?" I inquired.

"Sadly," she replied.

"I looked at the department list."

"Then you're brighter than most first years," she said. "Certainly less dead-eyed."

"No," she mused, tilting her head to examine me as one might a bug under a microscope. "You look like you were raised in a locked box and released into society by mistake." Noah let out a snort, which I ought to have found offensive. Instead, I was oddly relieved by her directness.

"Will I survive Morrowe?" I asked. Isabelle considered the question carefully. "Most likely. Unless you try to visit where you absolutely should not."

"Where shouldn't I visit?" She looked toward the far windows, where the trees outside had turned black against the glass. "That entirely depends on how curious you are. This school rewards curiosity the way fire rewards hands."

With that, she stood and walked away with her tray, leaving the words hanging in the air like a polite threat. Back in Whitford Hall, the corridor was empty but for the click of the radiator and the settling groans of the building's old structure. Noah wasn't back yet. I knew he must be out enjoying some form of social interaction I was not suited to. I unpacked methodically. Books on the desk. Shirts folded. Shoes at attention. My life had always been structured. My cell phone lit up on the desk at 3:13 AM. I stared at it for a long moment before putting it back down. From outside, from somewhere out in the dark woods beyond the dorm room windows, a single bell rang once. Then silence. Then, from the hall just outside my door, I heard footsteps stop. Not continuing, but stopping, as if they had been listening. I didn't open the door. Not yet.