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After my shift, I follow Rose in my car. I’ve never been to the female dorms on campus. It’s not like I was given the grand tour like you get at most colleges. It’s dark and looks like werewolves and vampires live here rather than college students. The stone facade, weathered and worn like it’s been here for centuries, exudes an aura of solemnity and secrecy.
“Welcome to Drury Hall,” Rose says it like a tour guide, guiding me through the hallway.
Ornate tapestries line the walls, and vintage light bulbs that glow yellow replace the once-candle sconces, spreading over the walls and casting shadows as we pass.
When we reach the second floor, I follow her into her room. Her laptop glows in the dim light, posters of pop culture icons adorn the walls, and the faint aroma of instant Ramen noodles lingers in the air.
“It’s not the best,” she says in a tone hinting at sarcasm.
“You should see where I live,” I say, looking at the ’90s vintage Bush poster. “You like Bush?”
"Are you kidding me? He’s hot, and his songs are a vibe.”
“I agree. I think he was one of the biggest underrated songwriters in the nineties. I love grunge rock.”
She places her phone on the charger and opens the music app to“Glycerin”by Bush. “That makes two of us. I also like metal—the good stuff, you know?”
“So what do you do after school?”
She sighs and lays down on the bed. “Besides arguing with my sister about my choice to accept the offer to attend here, I study. Here or the library.”
I sit on the empty bed against the wall on the other side of the room. I’m surprised she has a room alone but don’t point it out. I’m not sure how many people get a scholarship that includes room and board.
“Why doesn’t she want you to go here? You told me she graduated from here.” I turn on my side with my hands tucked under my cheek. “Didn’t she get a good job after she graduated?”
“That is the million-dollar question she won’t answer.”
“She can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“Isn’t that weird?’
“This place is weird.”
While pushing myself upward, I glance out the window and blink briefly as if an eyelash were lodged in my eye. Tall shadows are moving across the concrete. I turn my head to peer out further. The door to the church opens, and three cloaked figures walk out wearing bird masks. I look back at Rose, but she is busy trying to fix her nails.
I look back toward the church, and they’re gone. I wipe my eyes with my fingers and blink, but there is no one.
Am I seeing shit?
I look left and right, but it’s dark, and the wood door to the church is closed. I lie back on the stripped mattress, looking at the dark wood beams on the ceiling as Bush’s“Glycerin”makes way to“If U Think I’m Pretty”by Artemas.
A distinct knock has me sitting up. Rose glances at me, and from the expression on her face, I know she isn’t expecting anyone.
I open the door, but there is no one. I take a step and stumble over a large leather-bound book on the floor, resting against the chipped paint of the door. It is a worn leather-bound book.
I pick it up. “What is that?” Rose asks curiously.
I turn the thick leather book over. The cover has no title or author's name, simply the faint smell of ancient parchment and the weight of history.
Rose peers one last time out her door and then closes it. “Assholes. Whoever it was left it for us to find.”
“Yeah,” I say, taking a seat next to her on the bed.
My curiosity prompts me to touch the worn edge of the book.
“Open it.”
