The Harrowing

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Back at the Hall, Robin stood in the dim corner of the third floor boys’ wing, knocking hard on

Martin’s door, wishing that she’d thought to bring a camera to the cemetery to document the gravestone. But she had the Star of David (she felt for it in her jeans pocket, reminding herself it was there). And surely Martin would believe her, and think it as strange as she had, the proof Zachary was Jewish.

She stood back, waiting, and focused on the little metal scroll nailed to the door frame, with its Hebrew lettering…remembered Zachary’s raging, the fury not just at Martin but also at the Jewish God.

Zachary was Jewish. Martin was Jewish. Despite his outward denial of his own faith, Martin had spoken in Hebrew to the board. There was a connection here, something she didn’t understand, but somewhere at the heart of it was the answer.

She was absolutely sure that Martin knew more than he was telling.

She reached to knock again.

A hand touched her shoulder from behind and she whirled, gasping.

Cain stood behind her in the dark corner of the hall. He looked down at her pale face, frowned. “What’s wrong?”

Cain’s room was illuminated by two circles of low light cast by a desk lamp and another on the

bed stand. Robin paced the floor through the pools of light while Cain sat on his bed, watching her.

“I found Zachary’s grave.”

She blurted it out, and was gratified at his startled look. “He’s buried in the cemetery just outside of town.” She met his eyes. “In the Jewish section. There’s a Star of David on the headstone. I found this on the grave.”

She fished out the Star of David and handed it to him. Cain examined the tarnished metal piece, then looked up at her in disbelief; she recognized the same jolt of confusion that she had felt in the cemetery, looking down at the grave.

“He was Jewish?” Cain said slowly.

“So he would never have said those things to Martin.” She hesitated, then raced on. “But actually I don’t think he was saying them to Martin. I think it’s really somehow about God—”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Cain held up a hand, frowning. “You said Zachary lived in Mendenhall. But Mendenhall used to be a fraternity. The frats didn’t let Jews in on this campus in 1920. There was a quota system for Jewish admissions, even—the school cut the Jewish students down by half over two years.”

Robin was shocked, though she knew she shouldn’t be. “How horrible.”

Cain gave her a cynical look. “Yeah, well, this school wasn’t the only one.”

Robin’s eyes clouded as she thought it through. “Maybe he was hiding being Jewish, then, so he could get into the college. And putting on the anti-Semitism, to pass as”—she had to search for the word—”Gentile.”

She sat abruptly in the window seat. “What a terrible way to have to live. No wonder he’s so angry.”

Cain leaned forward to speak. Robin was sure he was about to say something scathing about the nonexistent ghost. But he stopped himself and sat for a moment, silent. Finally, he looked across the room at her.

“I know something else about your friend Zachary.” He stood, extending the Star of David. She took it and watched as he moved over to his desk. The volume of bound newspapers she’d given him was on top. Cain opened the old book to a page he’d marked with a concert flyer, glanced back at her.

Robin rose and moved to his side, looked down at a Law Review article. She read the title aloud: “‘IRS vs. the Baltimore Talking Board Company.’” She looked at Cain, confused…but there was a prickling of significance along her neck. “Baltimore Talking Board.”

“Yeah. Same as the one we were using.” He spoke rapidly, running his hand through his hair. “This is a real legal case from 1920.1 looked it up. This Talking Board Company had the patent on alphabet boards and was really churning them out, because of that Spiritualist craze that Martin was talking about. The IRS got a look at the profits and started taxing the boards as games, so the manufacturer took the case to court, trying to get out of the tax by claiming religious exemption. They argued that the Ouija board isn’t a game, but a form of spiritualism, and therefore exempt from federal income tax.” He smiled thinly. “The game company lost, of course.”

Robin looked at him, still not understanding. He nodded to the book.

“Look who wrote the article.”

Robin turned to the author’s name, and caught her breath. “Zachary.”

Cain’s smile twisted. “I figure he decided to do his own research.”

Robin’s eyes were dark as she realized what he meant. “So he tested the board to see if it really worked.” She drew in her breath. “That was his board we were using. Do you think that’s why his ghost is attached to it?”

But she frowned at her own theory, realizing intuitively that there was a logical flaw. In fact, the whole idea of Zachary with the board made her extremely nervous. The burn marks on the board. He was using the board. Did they die using the board?

She lifted uneasy eyes to Cain’s, allowing her secret fear to come to the surface. “Do you think that what we’re talking to might not be Zachary?”

He half-laughed, a harsh sound. “I never thought it was Zachary. This ghost thing is just oh so romantic…” His knowing gaze blistered her, and she looked away, flushed and angry, caught out. “But it’s bullshit. Someone’s playing a game here. And I know O’Connor’s been pissing around—that stuff with the water heater, and that bogus midterm.”

Robin’s hackles rose at the same old attack on Patrick. She took a step back, about to retort; then her gaze fell on the nightstand beside Cain’s bed, and she lost her train of thought.

Next to the base of the gooseneck lamp, there was a torn yellow strip of paper, folded in a square.

Robin’s eyes widened. She recognized the paper: It was one of the strips they had written that first Thanksgiving night, at Martin’s suggestion—and after Cain had left the room. The purple pen identified it as her strip.

Which meant that Cain had gone back down in the night to get it. Which meant…

“You,” she said aloud. “It was you.” She turned on him. “You went back that first night. You moved the furniture.”

Cain stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

She took three quick steps to the bed stand, grabbed the yellow square of paper, held it out accusingly. “How did you get this? What are you doing with it?”

Cain looked trapped, then angry. “What were you doing writing it?” he slammed back at her.

Robin faltered, suddenly remembering what she’d written. Something no one knows about me….

They stared at each other, both flushed. Then Cain’s face closed off.

“Fuck it. Play your games. You’re all crazy. I don’t care.”

Unable to look at him, Robin turned quickly and bolted out the door.

She ran down the hall, startling a couple of students who stood talking beside another door, and ducked into the stairwell.

In the narrow, dark passage, she stopped to catch her breath, and slowly unfolded the paper to stare down at her own purple writing, the words accusing her from another lifetime:

I want to die.