The auditorium’s cupola—a cap of bronze that cuts through the dreary sky like a ghostly crown—descends to a gabled roof where a winged horse stands guard beside Apollo. The god lifts his lyre, as if it were a bow and arrow. In the Phantom book, a similar roof played a pivotal and romantic role in the story line. It’s where Christine met with Raoul and they claimed their undying love. They were spied upon by the Phantom, who then unleashed a series of events to punish them and make Christine his forever. But the school brochure claims this roof’s stairway was sealed off along with the top three floors after the fire.
The driver turns the car onto the long, gravel drive leading up to the opera house. Glistening trees bend over us like sequined actors taking their final bow. As we plunge out from the overhanging limbs, I begin to understand the uniforms. It’s as if we’ve crossed into an alternate time.
Ivy and lichen cling to the huge edifice. The wet fa?ade reflects our headlights so it appears an ethereal white, but as we get closer, the stone’s true color comes into view. Time has eroded it to a scaly turquoise green, like a mermaid’s tail. Antique street lamps—the kind you would expect to see on a Victorian greeting card—dot the front terrace and cast an eerie yellow glow in the grayish haze. So engrossed in the scenery, I barely hear the bags rattle as Mom puts away the stamps and address book.
The boarding school is flanked on one side by an overgrown garden. The early autumn blooms follow their own call; silvery-green leaves, crimson roses, and frothy white flowers tumble like waves across a wrought-iron fence that at one time held them contained.
Behind the garden, off in the distance, sits a graveyard and a chapel. The abandoned stone building stands tall and proud, despite that it’s every bit as old and decrepit as the headstones and statues surrounding it. Busted stained-glass windows glisten like the talons of some violent rainbow creature slashing through the fog. Yet even in its sinister beauty, it seems to cower in fear from the encroaching forest’s shadow creeping closer with evening’s arrival.
Our limo cruises around to the other side of the academy. Pebbles grind beneath the tires on our coast into a gravel parking area across from the garden. Mom starts digging in her purse, mumbling about lipstick. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch someone half covered by a rosebush that hangs over an iron spike. I angle myself to see him better, nose pressed against the chilled glass.
His tall body turns and watches us, broad shoulders tensed. He grips a cluster of deep red roses—so velvety they’re almost black on the edges—and holds a pair of pruning shears in his other hand. The tails of his cape swirl on the wind, stabbing at the fog around his muddy boots. The vintage clothing seems out of place in our century, yet right at home in this setting.
He appears close to my age. The left half of his face stands out beneath the hood: one side of plump lips, one squared angle of a chin. Two coppery-colored eyes look back at me—bright and metallic. The sight makes me do a double take. As far as he is from the car, I shouldn’t be able to make out the color, yet they glimmer in the shadow of his cape, like pennies catching a flashlight’s glare in a deep well.
I’ve seen those eyes before—countless times—since the age of seven. But I can’t even consider why I recognize them. I can’t think beyond what they’re broadcasting, loud and clear: He’s warning us not to approach him—a part of the sprawling wilderness, neglected yet beautiful and thriving in his solitude.
Transfixed, I don’t stop staring until Mom opens the glass panel to speak to the driver. A hot blush creeps up my neck and I glance at my worn Timberland boots, all too aware of the patchwork embroidered vest beneath my jacket and the faded and ripped boot-cut jeans hugging my legs. For the first time since I started sewing and designing, I’m uncomfortable in my bohemian style, even if it is a tribute to Dad’s heritage. Here at this castle, faced with the stranger’s somber formality, I feel too casual . . . wayward and misplaced.
I’m almost aching to put on that outdated school uniform.
When the limo stops, I brave a glance again, in search of the caped figure and those shimmery eyes. The gardening shears lie abandoned on the ground, and the cluster of red roses he held are now withered, leaving behind a whirl of petals—coal black and crinkled—aflutter on the wind.
An icy sense of foreboding prickles the nerves between my shoulder blades. The gardener’s gone without a trace, as if he were never there at all.
3
GHOST WALKER
“The ghosts . . . try to remember the sunlight. Light has died out of their skies.”
Robinson Jeffers, “Apology for Bad Dreams”
He flung off his cape’s hood as he glided underground, breathing in the scent of mildew and solitude. Dripping water echoed in the hollowed-out tunnel. The shadows embraced him—a welcoming comfort.
He’d walked as a ghost in the gloomy bowels of this opera house for so long, darkness had become his brother; which was fitting, since his father was the night, and sunlight their forgotten friend.