The Girl from the Well

“Well, it’s not like a teacher’s assistant is such a glamorous, well-paying job. Felicia Donahue’s coming back in two weeks, anyway, so you won’t have anything pressing to do. Think about going to France with me, instead. Just imagine—reclining with cups of café noisette at a gorgeous little café, you being serenaded by a group of cute French boys while I’m waited on hand and foot by a charming waiter who looks suspiciously like Jean Reno…”

“Okay, okay, I’ll at least think about it. Now stop daydreaming about inappropriately aged men and get out of here! Don’t keep Sean waiting.” The girl shoos away her friend, who walks on after one last wave. Only when she is finally out of sight does the teacher’s assistant sigh, her face troubled.

It is then that she notices Sandra by the swings, singing softly to herself.

? ? ?

“And what makes you think she won’t believe you?”

The boy snorts. “Some days I wish I didn’t believe me, either.”

“Would you like to tell me all about it?” the psychotherapist asks. The boy glares at her with a suspicious eye. One hundred and twelve, one hundred and thirteen.

“And what’s going to stop you from putting me in the crazy bin if I do?” he accuses.

“I’ll believe that it’s something you believe,” the woman says, and believes her own lie. “And if you’re worried about me telling anyone else, I won’t. Everything you say in this room will be strictly confidential. Not even your father has to know. The only reason for me to divulge information to anyone is if I have reason to believe that you are a danger to yourself or to the community, and I believe you are not a threat.”

The boy considers this for a few minutes, then laughs. It is not a humorous sound.

“Sometimes when I look in mirrors, I see a strange lady.”

To her credit, the woman does not blink.

“She’s in a black dress, and she wears a mask. All she does is watch me, and not with that I’ve-got-a-crush-on-you kind of stare. Less infatuated, more homicidal. I always get this feeling like she’s waiting for something, but I don’t know what that is. She pops up in places I don’t expect—mirrors, usually. She’s fond of mirrors, unfortunately. If that makes me crazy, then you better have a straitjacket ready, because that’s the truth.”

“I see.” The woman’s voice does not change. She picks up her cup again. “How long have you been seeing this lady?”

“I don’t know. For as long as I can remember, I guess. Maybe since I was five, six years old. Sometimes I don’t see her for months at a time, but now I see her almost every day, especially after moving here. It’s—have you ever had the sensation of feeling eyes looking at you, except you know they’re not really eyes?”

Even the woman’s detachedness hesitates at such a description. “And you’ve never told anyone about this?”

“Dad’s got some fuzzy notion about what’s been getting my goat, but he doesn’t believe me. He never does. He thinks I’m imagining things. It’s hard to talk to him about anything, really.” The boy’s tone is surly. One hundred and twenty-eight, one hundred and twenty-nine.

“Has anyone else ever seen her?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“What about Callie?”

“Sometimes Callie looks at me funny, like she knows there’s something wrong. But she’s never said anything. And I don’t want her knowing, anyway. Whatever this is, I want her out of it.”

? ? ?

“Hello, Sandra,” the teacher’s assistant says.

The girl smiles back at her but says nothing. The young woman takes the swing beside hers.

“I was wondering about this woman you told me about. The woman standing behind Tarquin.”

“Oh, that woman,” the girl says. She stops swinging. “The lady with the funny mask.”

“A mask?”

“I thought it was a face at first, but it’s not. It has holes instead of eyes.”

“Why don’t you like her?”

“Because she’s in prison. And she’s been trying to get out.”

This does not make much sense to the young teacher, so she tries again. “When did you first see this woman?”

“When Mister Tarquin came to class. He doesn’t like her, either.”

“Why don’t you like her?”