My name is Sadie
Molcum. How I tremble to tell you this, my very name. In times past, I was
proud and successful. Now, I become alarmed at innocent shadows and terrors
plague me every night. For who has endured what I have, and lived to tell of
it? Certainly none under the same duress as I experienced. I can testify to
that.
The year was 1872. I had just won my
finest goal of gaining a position at the prestigious North School, and my
spirits were high. They had thrown a welcome party for me �" all of the resident
teachers and students. Champagne was in abundance, and uncountable confections
were devoured. Cheeks were red with cheer and the broad hall shone with the
candlelight of a thousand braziers. Even the Matron herself attended. Oh, she
treated me sweetly, recounting the history of North School, telling me that
everything I hoped for was within reach. She had been Matron for uncounted
years, and yet still wore her dark hair piled high on her unblemished head. Of
age there was not a trace. I attributed this oddness to having lived a
fulfilling life. For who grows old when they are enriching the lives of others?
The children were my passion.
I was to teach Politics and Language
Skills. The first few weeks were pure bliss. Despite the playfulness of normal
children, they were well-behaved and bright �" the crème de la crème. Parents
sent their children from towns throughout the country to this distinguished
academy, renowned for its long-standing history and strong educational program.
The school itself was housed in one
of the oldest, grandest buildings of the city. Towering high over the street in
its stony splendor, it had the look of an ancient chapel. Gargoyles studded the
entrance and guarded the roof. Slender spires pierced the sky, and numerous
windows opened to the front courtyard, which was protected by a sturdy,
wrought-iron gate at the end of the red brick walk. Oh, it was splendid. And I
was the luckiest woman in the world to have this opportunity to showcase my
abilities here. I was the only female teacher, in fact, aside from the great
Matron herself.
But the old saying is true. “Things
that appear too good to be true usually are.” I soon found this out, and now,
as my hair is gone gray and my skin turned to parchment, the memories still
reduce me to tears, to uncontrollable trembling and renewed nightmares. It is
as if I am living it again.
The weeks passed swiftly, and in the
rigors of my teaching, I rarely saw the Matron. The times I did, she never once
turned my way or recognized me with her voice, though she studied me with her
eyes. Deep, dark grey eyes, she has. I found myself disturbed by their
brilliance. She had a habit of sweeping through the halls, her long dresses and
cloaks billowing out behind her. She was a grand lady, proud and tall and
beautiful. But one afternoon, after my students had left, I was wiping the
blackboard, my back to the door. The Matron swept into my room. I could sense
her presence without turning �" she had that effect. She drifted through the
room, picking up little artifacts that I had brought in for my students, and
replacing them again. She spoke kindly and asked how the job was treating me. I
had feared she had forgotten me, and the assurance that she had not was like
balm to my soul. She invited me to stroll with her through the halls of the
school. I accepted.
We walked together for many minutes.
She was strangely quiet, and I tried to fill in the silence with comments about
the building's workmanship.
“Was this place built to be a
school, or was it originally meant for another purpose?” I asked.
She said nothing, gazing toward the
end of the hallway as if she could see something I could not. I glanced at her
again. Then she turned her face, disinterested.
“The building has been around many,
many years. It is beyond my scope to imagine what its first purpose was.”
I decided to keep my mouth shut, and
continued to walk with her. We reached an elevator. Wrought iron bars curled
around the outside, lending it the appearance of a beautiful cage. We stepped
inside, and she pulled a tasseled rope in the corner. We descended. Still she
said nothing, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Soon our descent stopped and the
doors clanged open. We stepped out. I stared in surprise. We faced a vast
hallway in ruins. It was nearly as wide as a subway tunnel. Broken furniture
littered the floor, pieces scattered in silent confusion. Dust and cobwebs hung
thick on all surfaces. Thinking back, I should have fled. Even though I lose
myself in that maze of web and unknown rooms, still better it would have been.
I looked at her still face. She must
have sensed the question on my lips, for she answered. “No one comes down here
these days. This once was the school.”
The piles of furniture sat dead and
unmoving. I shuddered. The Matron turned to look at me. “Come further,” she
commanded. So I did.
This time in the elevator, the
Matron seemed to change. She stood taller and prouder, her shoulders flung back
and chin raised. “I will show you my domain,” she said. My spirit shrank from
her. But what could I do? The elevator still sung.
Down and down we went, further into
the bowels of North School, until I imagined that the building had roots all
the way to the center of the earth. Still the elevator sung. I may have dozed
off for a few seconds. Then we hit the bottom with an unsteady bang. The doors
swung open. Was it my imagination, or had the iron on the door really been that
old and corroded when we had started out?
The hall was bare. Cobwebs hung from
the ceiling, but there was no sign of life. A fine dust lay on the floor, which
creaked beneath my feet. The lady beside me was striding now, and despite my
sense of impending danger, I scurried behind, eager to catch up. Stopping
before a gray slab of a door, she turned to look at me, her eyes deep and black
within the paleness of her cheek. She took my arm in her strong, long-fingered
grasp and announced my doom.
“You have served me well, Sadie. But
I have a different use for you.” She laid one hand on the door. It swung slowly
inward, creaking like the lid to a weathered coffin.
Her body blocked my view. Perhaps
that is why I did not struggle. Perhaps it was the magnetism of her voice, of
her persona. “You will stay here with me,” she announced. “You will learn to
serve my pleasure.” She moved to the side and wrenched me forward until I
stumbled and nearly fell. She jerked my face to hers with one strong motion.
“You will never escape.”
I knew not what she was saying. Her
black eyes glittered and a lock of dark hair fell into her face, giving the
appearance of something other than school matron. Then did I struggle, though
in vain. One flick of her wrist and I fell backward into the unknown. My scream
echoed eerily until the hard ground came up to silence it.
I expected it to be dark when I
woke. But the light filtering through my closed eyes was a dull white. The air
was deep with the musky scent of fine dust all around. I dared not open my
eyes. I knew I was not dreaming. An indeterminable amount of time passed before
I at last gained the courage to look around. I did so with my fingers first,
unwilling to view where I lay lest the horror stay with me forever. Oh, that I
had never opened my eyes. Better to be blinded, to have them gouged out of my
face with red-hot pincers than to see what I saw. Better to have died right
then and there.
But after my fingers had determined
that I was lying on hard concrete covered in thick layers of dust, there was
nothing for it but to look. It was light, but light of a kind that I had never
seen before. The origin of that light is still a mystery to me. It was a dull
white, nearly grey light that sank into every surface. The room was large,
larger than my ample bedroom in the North School. There were only four walls
made of stained cement. But that was not what I saw.
Tall piles of decaying bones stood
at random throughout the room. Piled higher than my head, they were menacing
threats of what was to come. The dust came from them. I stood in horror, my
shoe heel catching on the end of my skirt. I turned. The room was full of these
piles. There were no windows, no doors �" nothing save the piles of dusty bone.
I dared not move for the scattered limbs near me. Where I had landed after my
fall from the entrance was simply a pile of dust. I tried to calm myself to no
avail. Sinking down again, I sat clenching and unclenching my fingers, twisting
the hem of my jacket. I frantically scanned every surface of the wall, of the
floor, of the ceiling, looking for escape. There was none. The door I had
entered through was gone, no cracks to show where it had been. I lowered my
head to my knees and rocked. This had to be a dream.
After several hours of despair, I
tried calling for help. My voice was timid at first, then stronger and more
desperate. I screamed for what seemed like days, until my voice gave out and my
throat burned with each breath. Still only echoes. I remembered the empty
hallways above, how the matron had taken care to show how isolated I was to be.
I shivered in anger. The light burned on. There was no counting of hours, no
counting of days. How can there be days when there are no nights?
I was becoming unbearably thirsty.
The dry dust in the air only served to exacerbate this problem. My head
throbbed unmercifully. I had left my hair up in its teacher’s bun, but now
reached up to loosen it. I sighed. Still, I dared not move for the bones. Time
passed.
Behind me, a door opened. I whirled.
An unnoticeable slab in the wall had slid open, and I caught sight of a
gruesome face leering out at me. Glittering eyes peered malevolently as a
malformed hand pushed a clay pot inside. Water sloshed, sounding loud in the
stillness. The hand reappeared a few seconds later and tossed a piece of meat
in. The meat landed on the dusty floor and bounced, leaving a greasy stain
where it had been.
Despite my overwhelming thirst, the
evil in those eyes left me firmly rooted where I stood. For a long time, I kept
my eyes on the spot that had opened. No more movements came from the area.
After it seemed an eternity had passed, I was as alone as I was before. My
throat ached, and the thought of water overcame all else. My foot inched
forward. I winced as it came into contact with what looked like a femur. It
immediately dissolved into dust. My stomach heaved, but the water called
strongly to me. Preservation mattered �" nothing else.
I finally reached the water, and,
lifting the pot, gulped it down. When I was finished, I stared at the empty pot
in remorse. Who knew how long that was to last? Was this my last drink before
death came to turn my body into just another scattering of dry bones and dust?
I did not touch the meat; it was covered the dust of many bones.
Time passed, and my mind began to
wander. I thought of my past, of all my former lovers. I imagined teaching
again in my classroom. Then the door clanged open again, and the evil eyes sent
in water and food. Though I was faint with hunger, I could not bear the thought
of eating meat covered with the dust of dead things. Eventually, I took my
jacket and used it to clear a spot where the meat landed. The next time the
door clanged open, I had my first meal. It was the leg of a bird. When I was
finished, I placed the bone along the wall I had claimed for my own, the place
I had landed. This counted for one day.
One day shortly after the normal
feeding, the door opened again. I looked up in surprise, terror beating at my
heart. It was Her. She stood regal, though she wore a black gown worn through
with many holes. A red, moth-eaten cloak covered her shoulders. Her black hair
lay long and thick down her back, and cruel eyes slid over my wasted frame. How
had I never recognized that cruelness she possessed? I clutched the greasy meat
in my hand and stared back at her. My mind had gone numb. Behind her appeared
the monster who fed me. He was a man, but huge and threatening. His misshapen
grin leered at me. The Matron stepped in, delicate shoes crushing the bones
beneath like so many forgotten flowers. The Monster brought in a chair for her
to sit upon. She said nothing. I stood warily, the piece of meat unheeded as it
dropped to the dusty floor. I was aware of how I looked. She had not taken
cognizance from me yet. My dress was wrinkled and torn, stained with grease and
dust and tears. My hair was loose, straggling around my shoulders. I had lost
the pins one night in a fevered dream. Yet I stood, anger blooming in my chest.
She beckoned. I came.
“How is my little pet?” she crooned.
My unused voice cracked unintelligibly, and I lunged forward, fingers crooked
to tear out her eyes. The monster stepped forward and knocked me away to roll
across the floor, crushing bones as I went. He glanced at the Matron. She
nodded. He exited the room, and came back with a length of chains. I struggled,
but he placed them around my ankles and my wrists. Their heavy edges cut into
my skin, and I staggered to take a single step.
“My pet must be gentle,” came the
sweet voice of the Matron. “Oh, you have nothing to say?” She mused. “Perhaps I
will come down to visit you more often, my pet.” They turned and left.
That night I dreamed that I was
chained in a prison with groans and whimpers sounding all around from the other
prisoners. When I woke, I was chained, but the cries were all mine.
Time passed, and the chains became
easier to wear. I fostered anger in my heart as the pile of my collected bones
grew larger. So many days had passed. The Matron came about once every ten
days. She came to taunt, to muse, and sometimes to anger. She would bid me to
kiss her feet, or to stand for hours at her side. Most times, however, she
simply watched and mused. Her manservant would bring a lash, and whenever I
angered her with my silence or actions, she bid him to use it. My clothes
became tatters, and my mind grew ever feebler, though I dared dream of my
escape.
I began to pass time by counting my
day-bones. For such I called those bones that were fed to me in order to count
the days. My pile was large, and growing. One month grew into five, and my hair
was getting longer. My knees became callused from crawling about the floor. One
year, two years of the same unending routine. My back was scarred from hundreds
of lashings, my body wasted from lack of exercise. I tried to keep my mind
strong. Five years, eight years. I counted my bones and retold myself old
stories of the past. Of my happy childhood near the green lakes of France. Of
summer vacations to the beautiful Alps. Once, I caught sight of a new face
through the doorway. It was a man. He disappeared behind the wall.
And still my imprisonment continued.
One day the Matron came to visit.
She was restless, and looked at me as if she had never seen me before. She
instructed her manservant to release my chains. My hopes, so long suppressed,
bloomed. She took my arm and supported my weak frame through the door which I
had entered ten years before. I had a glimpse of the hallway outside of my
room. It looked exactly the same, and yet so different. My eyes welled with
tears. She took me to the old elevator, and we stood inside. The iron cage sang
as it raised us to that first level she had shown me so long before. Furniture
still littered the great hallway, and cobwebs hung from every corner. She
turned my face to hers, eyes shining in the blackness of the hall.
“I am being very generous to you, my
pet.” She paused. “I have caused great pain to you, but it has helped you grow.
Tell me,” she said. “If the tables were turned now, would you be as generous to
me?”
Perhaps it was anger at all my lost
years. Perhaps it was my feeble mind. Perhaps it was because freedom was so
close.
“I would lock you in that dungeon
and chain you there until you rotted and became just another pile of bones,” I
spat.
She looked up and nodded; no emotion
on her face. She pulled the tasseled rope in the corner of the cage. The great
hall, and its promise of freedom disappeared from view as we descended once
again. My keening wail was lost on the Matron. My weak efforts to strangle her,
to mutilate her, all wasted. The manservant said no words, but clapped on the
irons again. This time when I fell backward into that dull white room of bones,
no sound escaped my lips.
The following months I searched for
ways to end my life. The chains were too short to strangle myself. The lash was
not strong enough to induce death. I abandoned all food, but then the
manservant forcibly fed me. I realized that my attempts were futile. The Matron
came to visit just enough to keep my mind from growing completely insane. The
old duties were resumed, of kissing her feet, of standing for hours. My pile of
bones grew twice as large. I gave up counting them and sat listlessly in a
corner, reciting old poems of the forgotten world.
My hair was turning gray, I saw. How
could this be, when I was a mere thirty one at the time of my imprisonment? I
clung to hope that it was the dust making it so. For how I could realize the
years stolen from me?
Time passed amid the steady light of
that room. More bones crumbled beneath my touch than flowers graced the meadows
of my childhood France. I created a daily routine in which I kept my limbs from
withering. Every day I walked around the walls of the room until the door
opened and food was tossed in. Then I ate. Then I walked again. I slept when I
needed to. Years passed. I saw my hands grow gnarled and wrinkled. My eyesight
dimmed. I occasionally caught sight of an unfamiliar face, but these
occurrences were so far apart that they brought no hope.
One day, the Matron brought a cloak
with her on her visit. She bid me don it and even released the chains so that I
could do so. She brought me once again from the room of bones and led me to
another room. She gave me a basin of water and bid me clean my face. I can only
imagine the state I was in. She allowed me to wash my hair, which I gratefully
did, though the water ran away in foul-smelling streams. She told me that she
was taking me back to North School for the evening. She gave no reason why. I
hoped and prayed that she would kill my body there, where she had taken it.
We entered the elevator, she and I
and her manservant. We ascended past the great empty hall, and continued
rising. Then the elevator doors swung open into a cacophony of sound and color.
I was stunned. Not another person
had I seen for thirty-five years during my life of captivity. Not another color
than the red and black of the Matron, the yellowish gray of the bones and
walls. Not the light of candles or of sunlight or the moon. Here there were
dozens of gaily dancing people in plumed hats and fancy clothes. Tall windows
stood from ceiling to floor, flooding the floor with the light of the sun. I
stood in shock. A part of me wanted to flee, to go back to the familiar room
with the dusty bones and hard cement. The other, more alive, part of me, only
wanted to stand right here and soak up the sunlight. I closed my eyes in rapture.
Even the tall presence of the Matron could not take the sunlight from me this
time.
I suppose the Matron thought it safe
to leave me for a while. Her manservant prowled the crowds. I looked around at
the people. There was a man, who looked much like I felt I looked. His eyes
were stunned and wary, his clothes old and shabby. His back was crooked and
body wasted. He stood stock still, taking in the scene. I marked him for a
fellow prisoner and wondered how many there were.
A black-haired woman pushed her way
to my side. She said nothing, but looked at me and made a small gesture with
one hand to a man who was also headed my way. They took positions on either
side of me. Frightened, I glanced at them, but the lady smiled and I felt no
fear. The man was tall and strong, a steadying presence though I did not know
his name. I dared not trust my voice to ask questions.
The dancing people in the hall
continued with their revelry and drinking. I saw the Matron chatting gaily with
several people. The manservant was still prowling on the outskirts of the
crowd. The Matron raised her glass, and there was a loud cheer. I spotted a
young man edging his way toward the balcony. The matron saw him too.
“Stop him!” she cried. The man burst
into a run and, dodging the reaching hands of the manservant, flew over the
railing. I lost sight of him after that.
The man and woman at my sides
grabbed my arms and began dragging me toward the elevator. I struggled. Two
other men threw a large sack over the head of the man I had marked as a fellow
prisoner. They picked him up and carried him toward the elevator where I stood.
An elderly man pulled a young boy onto the elevator behind us. The man at my
side had a pistol in one hand.
The Matron screamed, and her
manservant turned. Seeing us all crowding onto the elevator, he charged across
the hall. Gaily dressed men and women scattered chaotically out of his way. He
drew a handgun as he came close to the elevator.
“Quick, the rope!” the woman next to
me hissed. The two men in the corner turned to grasp it. But the Matron’s
servant was there, muscling his way onto the elevator with us. My heart thudded
wildly. The man at my side grappled with him, eventually blocking him out of
the cage.
The infuriated manservant fired
round after round through the wrought iron into the crowded elevator. I was
crushed between two people into the corner of the cage, so no bullets found me.
But the sack with the man in it sprouted spots of blood in numerous spots. The
man in it writhed in agony, and went still. The young boy screamed, and buried
his head in his grandfather’s waistcoat.
Then the elevator was descending.
The shots ceased, and only the sound of a quiet lullaby and childish hysteria
was heard as the grandfather softly sang to the boy. And still the cage
descended.
“How far down does this go?” I heard
the woman ask.
“Farther down than you could dream �"
it goes down into hell itself,” one of the men darkly replied.
In my confused state of mind, I was
dreading the time when I would be caught. How would I explain to the Matron
that I had not purposely tried to escape, but was carried along with everyone
else? I knew the punishment would be terrible.
The elevator stopped at the great hall
with broken furniture and cobwebs. The man and woman hustled me out, and the
two men carrying the bloody sack with my fellow prisoner, followed. The
grandfather and boy came last, the boy still crying into his grandfather’s
coat.
We all walked down the hallway,
taking care to remain quiet. The men hurried us on. The corridor turned and
twisted for the longest time. A strange smell grew in my nostrils the farther
we walked. My weakened legs grew tired, but fear kept my feet moving.
Then we reached the end of the
hallway. It opened up in an archway to the outside.
It was raining. I thought I would
die of pleasure from the sweet smell and feel of water. The men carrying the
wounded man hurried ahead and, turning into the street, disappeared from view.
Throngs of people crowded the road
ahead, and we reached the outside in a matter of minutes.
The grandfather and child scurried
off to one side, losing themselves in the crowd. I was left alone with the
strong man and the black-haired woman. They ushered me into the midst of the
crowd, protecting me from jostling elbows and bodies. The very sight of so many
people, the fresh air, and the unfamiliar sounds all worked to render me
senseless. I walked along in a daze, propelled only by the arms of my two
companions.
I realized that we were headed
toward a subway. Suddenly, the man stopped, looking ahead.
“I think the bar will be best,” he
said. I followed his eyes. The Matron’s manservant stood at the entrance to the
subway, scanning everyone in the crowd. I quickly ducked from view. My two
companions turned me about and we hurriedly set off in the other direction. The
lady spoke quietly to me.
“Walk with us and do not say a
single word. Don’t even say ‘sshh’. They can find and indentify your voice.” I
was too terrified to say anything at all.
We reached the edge of the crowd and
walked down a deserted street. The man suddenly turned and took the steps to an
abandoned building. It was small, with a glass front guarded with iron bars.
The man produced a key, unlocked the door, and we crowded inside. It was dark
and quiet.
The woman held my arm comfortingly
as the man rummaged in the back of the room. There was a short countertop,
which the lady led me behind, out of sight of the windows. There was a
cushioned chair which the lady gently pushed me into. I was aware of how I must
smell.
My knees were shaking, my teeth
chattering, and I was waiting for the Matron to show up and take me away again,
back down to the dusty dungeon with the lashes and chains.
The lady sought to comfort me. She
had soft black hair around her face.
“See?” she said. “Look. The windows
are shaded. The door is locked. We are safe here.” Her words calmed me a
little.
We sat behind the counter silently.
The strong man kept watch from a doorway behind us. After a time, he whispered,
“The guard just walked past. He did not see us. We will have to watch out for
him.”
I wondered who these two were �"
these two rescuers of mine. In time, they explained.
After I had disappeared, the
families of several of my students had petitioned the government to make an
inquiry into my disappearance. Apparently, I was not the only person gone
missing from the school. In fact, looking back into history, a great many
people had mysteriously vanished from the place. The parents formed a coalition
and hired a private investigator firm to infiltrate the school. That was the
job of my two protectors. It had taken them eight years to infiltrate properly
and remain out of suspicion. It took fifteen more years before one of them was
able to catch a glimpse of me and know that I was still alive. It had been
thirty-five years since my capture. Thirty-five years in chains amid bones and
lashes. I could feel the years in my body. I wondered how it was that the
Matron had not changed.
I still wonder how it is, but now I
suspect I know the truth. It is too terrible for me to utter. It is too
frightening for words, and thought of as fantasy in this world. Let me tell you
that fantasy is real. And though I now have been free for nearly ten years, I
am not too ashamed to admit my terror at the memories of my imprisonment, and
of the ageless Matron who even now searches for me.
I have my own tiny home now, and a
man at my side whenever I venture out. That isn’t often, for sometimes I catch
glimpses of a tall, black-haired woman, or of a man who resembles her servant.
At those times it is all I can do to keep from crying out and attracting
attention. So I sit inside. I sit near a window cracked open at all times so
that I can smell the sweet scents of the seasons, to breathe the fresh air, so
that I can keep watch on the streets. My hair is now washed and my body clean.
It took two days, but a more blissful two days I have not experienced. I have a
cat, a comforting presence of softness and life.
Yesterday I saw the familiar face of
my fellow prisoner. Bullet wound scars ravaged his body. He walked with a limp
down the concrete pathway strewn with autumn leaves, but he was alive. That is
all anyone can say. I am alive.
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