idea that Hell was settled on a spot of evil earth."
Several students around me giggled. He looked up at them impatiently until they stopped. I couldn't tell if he took what he said seriously or if it was just an act. A born storyteller, he'd had told me a million wild, embellished tales when I was kid, about far off places and unusual animals, which I now knew were poppycock. I'd believed in jackalopes and unicorns until I was ten. My younger self had always trusted him, even when Jenna protested the things he said.
"We have more than our fair share of haunted houses," he offered as proof.
"Supposedly haunted," supplied Henry. I imagined his eyes darkening. "Just because people say they're haunting doesn't mean they are."
Warwick continued as if he hadn't heard him.
"Houses that are said to still be the home of trapped spirits, spirits that have been seen by plenty of respected citizens." The last sentence was said pointedly. He ticked the locations off on his fingers. "The blue house on Court Street, the old fire house, the orphanage..."
I perked up and raised my hand.
"You have a question, Ariel?" he asked.
"Are you talking about the Dexter Orphanage?"
"I believe that's the only one in town, so yes," he said, smiling.
"Do you know anything about that one in particular?" I asked.
"Nothing nice," he said, grinning wryly and shifting his weight. "It was said to be owned by John Dexter the third, a lifelong bachelor — spare us your commentary, Mr. Perkins —
who decided to take in orphans after World War One."
"The first few years went without remark, although he made the children work in the farm behind the house to help with money. The kids were seen working from sun up to sun down, no breaks allowed. That wasn't very unusual for the time period, but it was unnecessary since Dexter had inherited his father's fortune when he died. But he apparently believed in instilling a sturdy work ethic in very young people."
He picked up a dry erase marker and started transferring it from hand to hand.
"But then rumors started that horrible things were being done to the orphans in that house. That he was using them for ritualistic sacrifices." It may have been my imagination, but it seemed like the sky had clouded over outside the slender windows. "Feeding their blood into the earth, to rekindle the evil."
I shivered. "But why?"
"Something he read in a book, I believe," Mr. Warwick said, clearing his throat. "That he could gain great power from the rituals, power to rule the entire town."
"And that is why we should never read. Only bad things come from it," Alex joked.
"Hardly," Warwick said sardonically. He turned back to me, his expression curious. "Why the particular interest in the Dexter Orphanage, Ariel?"
I tried to play it off. "I just saw that they were having the haunted house there this year." I didn't know how to explain my dream.
He frowned. "That's a surprise. The house is falling apart. Last I heard, the board was talking about condemnation, but no one could determine who currently held the deed to the property. Rickety floors, ceilings collapsing — it's dangerous. They used to hold those haunted houses years ago to raise money for donations, and there used to be séances there all the time, but..."
"Séances?" I repeated, my breathing shallow.
"Oh, yes," he nodded. "Because of the paranormal nature of the place, people would even go to Dexter to dispel ghosts that were clinging to them, ghosts in their own houses. Which brings me back to my original point..."
"Could it cleanse you if a ghost was attached to you?" I interrupted again, not wanting him to move on.
"That's what many people believed," he replied.
"If ghosts existed, which they don't," I heard Henry mutter from behind me. I blushed, feeling like he was talking to me. Others in the class laughed, whether at the story or my insistence I didn't know, and didn't much care.
"Alright guys, time to get to work," Mr. Warwick said, back in teacher mode as he headed towards the blackboard.
After that, I couldn't get the séance part out of my head. Maybe it was possible to contact whatever was reaching out to me. Whatever clung to me. Maybe on my birthday, when I visited the orphanage, something had attached itself to me. I shuffled through my comprehensive mental catalogue of scary movie plots. I had to find a way to get rid of the spirit, or things would only get