The Bad Sister

From the backseat of the air-conditioned Uber car, Hannah had gotten a good look at the town of Delmar and Our Lady of the Cove’s campus. The sleepy little town wasn’t as awful as her first impression of it. Delmar had a supermarket, a movie theater, and some decent-looking restaurants, but it wasn’t Seattle. The campus was actually kind of pretty with its trees and gardens, and a view of the lake.

She and Eden asked the Uber driver to wait while they reported to the administration building, Emery Hall, where they were given freshman orientation packets and keys to their quarters: bungalow twenty, St. Agnes Village. Hannah suspected the squat, elderly woman at the reception desk in Emery Hall’s lobby was a nun. She wore a white blouse, a brown skirt, and what looked like orthopedic shoes. A crucifix dangled from a chain around her turkey neck. She cheerlessly informed them that the dorm cafeterias weren’t open yet, but the student union served food until nine, and the Grub Hub market attached to the student union carried some prepared meals to go. It was open until midnight.

Back in the Uber vehicle, they continued down the campus’s main drag. Hannah noticed a turnoff ahead marked by a tall marble post at the edge of a garden. The words ST. AGNES VILLAGE were carved into the post, which looked like a tombstone. On top of the marker was a four-foot statue of a haloed girl, holding a lamb and a palm leaf. She was looking up at the heavens with a forlorn, pious expression on her face.

Eden was checking her phone. “Says here that Saint Agnes was a virgin martyr, thirteen years old,” she announced. “She refused to give up her chastity, and so the Romans executed her by stabbing her in the throat.”

“Swell,” Hannah sighed. “I’m just going to love it here, I can tell already.”

“Didn’t you say something back at the train station about wanting to slit your throat?” Eden asked. “Well, you and Saint Agnes are like peas in a pod. And you’re both vir—”

“Oh, shut up,” Hannah muttered.

The Uber driver turned down the winding road, where a series of old, two-story, white stucco cottages were lined up close together on both sides of the street. Above every front door was a wooden crucifix—along with the bungalow number.

Hannah hadn’t noticed many other students milling around the campus. But then, freshman orientation didn’t officially begin until tomorrow afternoon, and most of the regional and local freshmen probably wouldn’t be arriving until then. She doubted the tiny school attracted many students from either coast.

“It’s bungalow twenty,” Hannah reminded the driver. She noticed the ground-floor windows on the sides of the cottages all had bars on them. The lawns in front were tiny and well-maintained. Hannah saw the even-numbered cabins on her right. They were approaching bungalow sixteen. “We’re coming up to it,” she said.

But just after number sixteen, there was a slightly overgrown garden with a couple of Japanese maples, a bird bath, and another saintly statue. Hannah noticed the next bungalow down was number twenty. “Um, here we are,” she said. “This is us.”

“What happened to eighteen?” Eden asked.

Hannah was wondering the same thing.

As the driver pulled up in front of the bungalow, Hannah saw the front door was open already—and so were the front windows. “That’s weird,” she murmured.

“No shit,” Eden whispered.

The driver popped the trunk. But Hannah didn’t want to get out of the car until she knew what was going on inside the bungalow. Eden didn’t move either.

A young man stepped out of the cottage. He wore a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts. Hannah guessed he was no taller than her, but he had a lean, athletic build and a healthy tan. His dark brown hair was combed to the side and fell over his forehead. As he approached the car, he broke into a smile—and all at once, Hannah forgot about Riley. This guy was so damn cute. “Eden? Hannah?” he called.

She could hear him on the other side of the Uber car’s closed window.

He opened the car door, and the hot air rolled in. “I’m Rachel’s friend, Alden, at your service. I’ll get your bags. Go on in. You’re just in time for the smudging ceremony . . .”

“Hi, I’m Hannah,” she said, stepping out of the car.

“I know,” he replied. As he headed toward the trunk, he smiled briefly at Eden. “And you’re Eden, hi.” He started to hoist the suitcases out of the trunk. “Rachel and I stalked you guys online. You’re both even prettier in person. Or is it creepy of me to point that out?”

“Borderline creepy,” Eden said.

Hannah laughed. “It’s not creepy at all!”

“Are these my little sisters?” someone called.

Hannah turned toward the bungalow and saw Rachel Bonner in the doorway. She held a smoking sage stick over a bowl. “Welcome to bungalow twenty, girls!”

For a second, Hannah thought, Oh my God, she’s bat-shit crazy.

She was wearing an outfit right out of the 1960s—Capri pants with a splashy, flowered pattern and an orange sleeveless top. Her brunette hair, which had been shoulder-length and wavy in most of her online photos, had been sheared off. It was cut in a pixie style with short bangs. Rachel ducked back inside with her sage stick and bowl.

Hannah and Eden each grabbed a suitcase and followed Alden as he carried the two other bags through the doorway. They stepped into a living room, impeccably furnished in mid-century modern style—like something out of a West Elm catalog. There was a huge framed poster from the Audrey Hepburn movie Sabrina practically taking up a whole wall. Frank Sinatra was singing “Let’s Get Away from It All” on the music system.

The bungalow was like something out of the 1950s. But it was the glamorous 1950s. A big-screen TV in the corner of the room seemed out of place.

The burning sage, along with the heat, made the place seem stuffy. A window fan stirred the smoke around a little, but didn’t cool down the room much. Chanting quietly, Rachel flitted around and used a feather to distribute the smoke from the sage stick. “Excuse me, roomies, but I can’t stop and break the spell,” she announced. “I’m almost done. Throw your stuff in your room, and get your butts right back here.”

Her friend, Alden, led the way. “Your bedroom’s over here,” he said, heading for a door across from a kitchenette, where there was a sink, a microwave, a toaster oven, and a mini-fridge.

Hannah paused and set down the suitcase by a portable bar. It separated the living room from the tiny kitchen area, which had a back door. On top of the bar were four crystal flutes and a silver bucket with champagne chilling. The bar and the matching stools were mid-century modern designs, too. Hannah turned to Alden. “When they said online that our dorm rooms were furnished, I really didn’t expect it to be this nice.”

Chuckling, he plopped down the bags. “The furniture they give you is crap. All this stuff is Rachel’s. She even had someone repaint the place. She’s going through a retro phase right now—in case you didn’t catch on. Last year, it was bohemian shabby chic shit. I kind of miss the bean bag chairs. By the way, I hope you like Sinatra.”

“And Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole and Tony Bennett and Julie London,” Rachel said—still fluttering around the living room with her feather and sage stick. “If not, don’t bother unpacking!”

Alden opened the bedroom door. “Give it a few months,” he whispered. “And she’ll be into new wave or rap or some such shit.”

Hannah and Eden followed him into the shadowy, hot, claustrophobic bedroom. There was barely space for the three of them and the suitcases. Last week, from Seattle, they’d shipped two big boxes of bedding, posters, books, and things they couldn’t live without. Both parcels were now on the stripped twin beds, which seemed crammed into the tiny room—along with two desks that had built-in bookcases and a dresser that, obviously, they were supposed to share. All the furnishings were old, ugly, and slightly battered—not in the same league as the sleek, beautiful pieces in the living room. The one window was open and had bars on the outside. The view was of the garden next door. Hannah wondered how she and Eden would manage to cohabit in this tiny space without killing each other. Already, she found it hard to breathe. The room was like an oven and still smoky from the burnt sage.

Alden set the suitcases on the bed. There wasn’t any space for them on the floor. “The boxes arrived yesterday,” he said. “I dumped them in here. Hope that’s okay.”

“Do you live here, too?” Eden asked.

“No, I’m at O’Leary Hall, the boys’ dorm,” he explained. He stepped over Hannah’s suitcase and pushed open the window more. “The smoke should dissipate soon. Not that I totally buy into this smudging shit, but if any spot in this dump needed it, this bedroom’s the place. The previous occupant, Rachel’s roommate last year, turned out to be a total pain in the ass, lots of personal problems. No one could stand her.”

“Why?” Hannah asked.

“Let’s not be unkind, Alden,” Rachel said, stopping by the doorway again. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a good fit!” She headed into the living room with her sage stick again.

He rolled his eyes. “For one, she was a lazy slob, a total pig,” he whispered. “Rachel got sick of cleaning up after her all the time. Didn’t even flush the toilet. She was one of those ‘if it’s yellow, it’s mellow’ people. Anyway, Rachel’s right. I shouldn’t be mean. Let’s just say we were in here a while trying to smoke out her essence.”

“Well, then I guess we should thank you,” Hannah said.

“It wasn’t just the ex-roommate we were trying to smudge out.” He nodded toward the window—and the flower patch beyond the bars. “You’re next door to some heavy, bad vibes. There used to be a bungalow where that funky-looking garden is now. It was bungalow eighteen, but they tore it down and retired the number. No one wanted to live there. Hell, they couldn’t pay anyone to live there . . .”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “Why? What happened?”

“Somehow, I figured you might have known about it,” Alden said. “Back in 1970, they had a serial killer on the loose. He murdered a bunch of girls here on campus.”

Hannah was dumbfounded.

“No shit?” Eden murmured.

“I shit you not,” Alden said. He glanced toward the window again. “The guy broke into bungalow eighteen, and he tied up the three girls who lived there. I really don’t know how he managed to do it. Maybe he made them tie up each other. Anyway, he had them all in the upstairs bedroom. He dragged one into the bathroom and killed her. Then while he took the second girl out and murdered her, the third girl managed to untie herself and escape. They called the guy the Immaculate Conception Killer. The girls he murdered that night were like his fifth and sixth victims. The police caught him a couple of days later . . .”

“Afterward, no one wanted anything to do with the place,” Rachel said, stopping in the doorway again. She stubbed out the smoldering sage stick in a bowl. “So they tore it down and put in the flower garden and the statue of Saint Ursula. She’s another virgin martyr. I think they shot her with an arrow or beheaded her or something. You can’t throw a rock on campus without hitting a statue of a virgin martyr.”

Frowning, she shook her head at her friend. “Alden, you stinker, I can’t believe you told them about the murders next door. You could have at least waited until they’d settled in a little. Now they’re going to have nightmares tonight, and it’ll be entirely your fault. Anyway, it was fifty years ago, and I’ve smudged the hell out of this place. So let’s not be morbid.” She turned and started toward the kitchenette. “A champagne toast is in order! Alden, get your cute butt in here and open the bottle for us!”

He followed her out to the living room.

In a stupor, Hannah just stood there. She’d read up on the university. How come she didn’t know about these murders from fifty years ago? She looked out the window—at the overgrown garden next door.

“Which bed do you want?” Eden asked. “Window or wall side?”

“Wall, I guess,” Hannah said, thinking it might be less drafty in the winter—and a bit farther away from the heavy, bad vibes of bungalow eighteen. She dropped her purse on the wall-side bed and then stepped into the living room, where Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga were singing a duet on Rachel’s music system.

Alden uncorked the champagne. Eden stepped out of the bedroom in time to join them by the bar for a toast. Rachel handed her a full glass.

“Here’s to a marvelous year ahead,” Rachel said, raising her flute. “And here’s to my ‘little sisters’ who have traveled so far to be here. May this be the beginning of a beautiful, magical lifelong sisterhood!”

“Hear! Hear!” Hannah said. She got a special little thrill clinking glasses with Alden. She couldn’t tell yet if he and Rachel were romantically involved. But she hoped they weren’t. With only twenty percent of the school’s student population being male, her chances of meeting another guy as cute as him were very slim.

Eden downed her champagne in a couple of gulps. “Thanks a lot,” she said, setting her empty glass down on the bar. “Listen, I’m going to check out the campus. See you guys later.”

Rachel looked flummoxed. “Have fun!” she called as Eden headed out the door. She waited until the door closed and then sipped her champagne and gave Hannah a baffled smile. “Was it something I said?”

“Or was it me and my big mouth?” Alden asked.

Hannah rolled her eyes. “No, that’s just her.”

“The independent type,” Rachel offered.

“No, just rude,” Hannah admitted. “I’m never sure with her. She’s my half-sister. We’ve been living under the same roof for two years, and I still don’t get her. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Oh please,” Rachel said with a dismissive wave of her hand. She grabbed the champagne bottle and topped off their flutes, then headed toward the sofa. “C’mon, take a load off and tell us all about this half-sister thing. Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“I’ve already fessed-up and told Hannah and Eden that we’ve googled them,” Alden said, sitting in an easy chair.

“Why, yes, you do have a big mouth,” Rachel sighed.

“It’s okay.” Hannah smiled. She sat down on the sofa, making sure not to crowd Rachel. “I checked you out online, too. Your hair was longer in all your photos.”

Rachel pointed to her pixie cut. “This is Jean Seberg damage—from last week. I saw a double feature of her movies Breathless and Bonjour Tristesse. Next thing you know, I was going for the scissors. My stylist cleaned it up the following day.”

“Well, I love it,” Hannah said. She meant it, too. In just a matter of minutes, she’d done a complete about-face on her first perception of Rachel. Her “big sister” wasn’t crazy at all. She was unique, stylish, sophisticated, and fun. Already, Hannah wondered if Rachel might sometime let her borrow that cute top or the Capri pants. She and Rachel looked about the same size.

After only one glass of champagne, Hannah had become quite relaxed and didn’t mind telling them all about the half-sister thing—and how her family was affected by Eden moving in with them. She even explained how the thing that happened had wrecked her friendships at school. After her second glass of champagne, Hannah realized she’d been monopolizing the conversation. “Aren’t you sorry you asked about my sister?” she finally asked. “Listen to me. I didn’t mean to talk your ear off.”

“Are you kidding?” Rachel said. “I read about what happened—with the murders and all. So I was curious. But hearing you tell it, well, suddenly, it’s not just some news story. It’s real. It happened to you and your family.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “God, I didn’t realize how late it is.” She turned to Alden. “If you still want to go to Lake Bluff, we should get cracking.”

Hannah had a bunch of questions she wanted to ask them—mainly if they were dating each other. But suddenly, the two of them got to their feet. Alden collected the empty flute glasses and set them by the kitchen sink. Rachel switched off the music and then took her cell phone out of her purse. “We should let you unpack and get settled,” she said, staring at her phone as she texted someone. “Feel free to turn on the TV or the sound system. Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. You’re probably dying for a shower. The bathroom’s upstairs . . .”

“And remember while you’re in there, if it’s yellow, it’s not mellow!” Alden added as he and Rachel headed toward the door.

“Gross,” Rachel said. She glanced over her shoulder at Hannah. “If you go out, don’t forget to lock up. See you later!” Then she stepped outside and shut the door behind her.

Hannah went to the front window. Rachel and Alden walked to the curb, and a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up. Alden opened the back door for Rachel, and they climbed inside. Obviously, it wasn’t an Uber. The vehicle must have been waiting for them down the block. They’d left in such a hurry that Hannah couldn’t help thinking she’d talked too much. Or maybe they were just late for something.

She watched the Lincoln Town Car head down the street. The living room suddenly seemed hot and stuffy again. And in an instant, she felt hopelessly lonely. Her eyes watered up. Was this how homesickness was going to hit her—in these awful, unpredictable tsunami-like waves?

She wanted to phone home. But she knew she’d start crying as soon as she heard her mother’s voice—her mother, toward whom she’d been so critical and snippy these last few years. Everything her mother did had struck Hannah as stupid and embarrassing. Now, she missed her so much that her stomach ached. Or maybe it was the champagne making her over-emotional. She couldn’t call home now anyway. They’d want to talk to Eden.

Wasn’t that just like her to disappear? Typical.

Hannah went back into the narrow bedroom, opened her suitcase, and unpacked a few items. It was still smoky in there. She moved over to the window.

She gazed out at the slightly unkempt garden next door and shuddered. She couldn’t help thinking about what had happened in the bungalow that had been there fifty years ago.