The Devil's Labyrinth

CHAPTER 19

I’M SLEEPING IN a dead guy’s bed!

Ryan knew the sheets were fresh, because he’d put them on himself, and his sore jaw was cradled in the pillow he’d brought from home, but no matter which way he turned, or what else he tried to think about, he couldn’t get past the idea that he was sleeping — or at least trying to sleep — in Kip Adamson’s bed.

Kip Adamson.

The guy who’d gone crazy, slit a woman’s throat, and been shot by cops.

Ryan stared unseeingly at the pattern of shadows cast on the ceiling from the streetlight outside. The day he had thought would never end finally had, and as he tried to go to sleep his mind ached with almost as much exhaustion as his body. His injured jaw still throbbed, and every time he tried to change position in his new bed, his ribs felt like they were puncturing right through his lungs.

He tried to lie still.

And failed.

Clay Matthews snored in the bed on the other side of the small room, but with every breath, the snoring seemed to grow louder. Was this what having a roommate was going to be like? How was he ever supposed to get to sleep? Still, everybody here had a roommate, and Clay couldn’t possibly be the only one who snored, so he’d just have to get used to it.

Like he’d have to get used to everything else.

He turned over again, ignoring the pain from his cracked ribs, and tried to convince himself that being here was the right thing. As the day had gone on, and he’d found out more and more about how St. Isaac’s worked, he’d also felt more and more that he would never fit in, never get used to all the rules and rituals, never get used to wearing the same clothes day after day. And it wasn’t just the rules and the clothes, either. The whole place was old —ancient—and smelled musty and it seemed like there were priests and nuns and monks everywhere.

And the food was even worse than the stuff they’d served at Dickinson, which he hadn’t actually thought was possible.

How was he going to make it through the rest of the week, let alone the rest of the year, and next year, too? But it was too late to change his mind now. He’d agreed to come here, and his mother had jumped through a lot of hoops to get him in, so no matter how he felt right now, he had to at least try.

Nor was he about to let Tom Kelly accuse him of being some kind of whining quitter who couldn’t stand being away from home, even if it might be true.

Wincing at the pain in his ribs, Ryan eased back onto his good side and stared at the ugly white net curtains that seemed almost to glow in the faint light from outside.

A breeze suddenly caught them, and they billowed toward him.

Like shrouds searching for a body to wrap.

Ryan closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be better — he’d start classes, and he already knew a few kids, so he’d have some people to sit with at meal times.

He’d be okay.

But he still couldn’t get Kip Adamson out of his mind.

He punched up his pillow and twisted his head to take the pressure off his sore jaw. A moment later he shifted position yet again, but no matter what he did, the bed just wasn’t right.

And the last person who had slept in it had gone out and killed somebody and then gotten killed himself.

A shiver passed through him, and he pulled the blanket closer around him, closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on thinking about something else.

Anything else.

His father.

He would think about his father.

Except that the only thought that came to his mind was the memory of the night he and his mother heard about what had happened to his father. Unable even to turn off the light in his own room, Ryan had gone into his parents’ room, and lay down next to his sobbing mother. He had put his arms around her, and she had put hers around him, and they had both cried themselves to sleep.

So this really wasn’t the first time he’d slept in a dead guy’s bed.

He tried to force the thought out of his mind, and concentrated instead on the image of his father’s face that was as fresh in his mind as if he’d seen him only yesterday. “Good night, Dad,” he whispered softly into his pillow. From deep in his memory, he could almost hear his father’s voice saying good night back to him.

And then, just as he was finally easing into the beginnings of sleep, he heard something.

A high-pitched keening sound.

At first it seemed to come from somewhere outside the building — maybe the street — but when he got out of bed and moved silently to the window, he knew he was wrong.

It was coming from somewhere inside the building.

Somewhere below him.

The sound came again, strengthening until it was a full-throated scream.

Ryan’s heart began to pound, and the pain in his chest almost made him utter a scream of his own as he shook Clay Matthews awake. “Clay! Wake up! Did you hear that?”

Clay instinctively recoiled from Ryan’s touch, then rolled over and opened his eyes slightly, squinted at Ryan. “Hear what?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

“That scream. Just now.”

Clay looked at him blankly. “I didn’t hear anything.” Ryan’s eyes narrowed. How was it possible? Clay must have heard it. Then Clay propped himself up on one elbow. “It was probably a ghost,” he said, his voice sounding perfectly serious despite the words he was speaking. As if he read Ryan’s mind, Clay shrugged. “Hey, we have ghosts — what can I tell you? Just don’t pay any attention to them.”

Ryan’s eyes rolled. “Ghosts. Yeah, right. How could I have been so stupid?”

Clay dropped back down onto his pillow. “Hey, I don’t care if you believe me or not.” He turned his head and looked at the digital clock on his desk. “Oh man,” he said, “it’s late and there’s a history test in the morning. Good night.”

Ryan eyed Clay suspiciously, trying to decide whether his roommate actually believed the words he’d just spoken, or was just pulling his leg. But Clay had already gone back to sleep, a light snore drifting from his lips. Ryan went back to his own bed, slid stiffly under the covers, and lay perfectly still.

Silence had fallen over the room. But it wasn’t just the room.

There was silence everywhere now. No sounds of traffic from the street outside, no scratching of mice from within the walls themselves.

Nothing.

Ryan pulled the covers up to his chin and tried to relax, but even as his body begged for rest he knew he would get no sleep tonight.

Not in a dead guy’s bed.