As I make my way up the winding sidewalk, tall bushes with unruly branches brush against my arms. The building at the top of the hill is isolated and quiet, except for the occasional rustle of leaves. As I approach the front, a small cemetery comes into view, tucked between the tall trees. The gravestones are worn and discolored by time and weather, standing out against the greenery surrounding them.
The college’s first president had grand plans for the small liberal arts school, and many of his dreams eventually came true. However, during his lifetime, his hopes were crushed when his daughter was found murdered in her dorm.
Death and decay are apparently the Cypress U mascots.
The lingering mystery of who strangled her with her own necklace and shoved the pendant through her carotid still haunts the campus, especially for those studying in forensic science or criminal justice programs, not to mention the med school students—because what the fuck?
Even after 320-some-odd years, the unsolved case is a gnawing fixation for many of the students and faculty. It’s been rumored that her death was at the hand of The Assembly; they don’t tend to like it when their members attempt to leave.
When you’re in, you’re in for life—a lesson I can only speculate my father learned the hard way very recently. His arrogant belief that he was untouchable, that the law didn’t apply to him, seems to have extended to the very society that made him feel this way. I can only assume his sense of invincibility finally caught up with him. The protection he thought he had—the favor he believed would keep him safe—ultimately came to an end.
The thought flits into my mind—how easily it could have been me. I guess I’m not the only one who has always been well aware of how little I meant to my father. At least this time that fact did me a favor.
How easily history could have repeated itself…
The weight of Ophelia’s untimely death can be felt all over campus, but it is most palpable at the cemetery where her memorial stands. The stone face bears a somber expression, casting a long shadow over the surrounding graves.
Most everyone avoids taking the route that winds around this particular rise, which is why it’s my favorite path to class and where I walk Kronk every day around noon.
My dog is a big, fuzzy goofball with a sleek black-and-tan coat, though you’d never guess how cute his personality is from the way he carries himself—like he’s always on duty, ears up and eyes sharp, looking like he’s ready to protect me with his life. But really, he’s a softie, always nudging my hand for pets or getting distracted by squirrels.
Kruz says I should make sure he does his business elsewhere before we come here because the last thing I want is for him to shit on someone’s grave and anger the spirits, since Hill Place is rumored to be haunted.
I've never felt the shiver down my spine like everyone else says they feel as they near the gates—or any other part of theschool—and I don't believe in ghosts. It’s just a fat bonus that we rarely run into anyone.
Growing up, the cemetery behind my house was my playground. I spent hours every day weaving through rows of gravestones, tracing my fingers over the weathered dates and whispering to the names engraved on each one. The air was heavy and still just like at Hill Place. To me, it was simply an extension of my backyard, and the one place I could go that seemed to be out of reach of my parents; it was too much of a burden for them to trek outdoors to hunt me down, and my nannies didn’t give a single flying fuck as long as I spent my time unseen and unheard. The constant presence of death did not faze me; I was immune to ghost stories and still am.
Maggie doesn’t seem to mind either.
She’s wrapped snugly against my chest, cozy despite the bite in the air this time of year. The wind tugs at my long dark hair, whipping strands around my face. Kronk pulls at his leash as we make our way down the serpentine path along the edge of the slope.
This is my fourth year at Cypress U, and Maggie is the third baby I’ve been a nanny to during my time here. I try not to grow attached because each stent has been brief, but it’s been extra difficult this time because Maggie is so tiny and so darn cute. She’s got these big, curious eyes that seem to take in everything, and her chubby cheeks make her look like a little doll. Her hair’s just starting to come in, a soft, wispy blonde, and when she attempts a giggle—this high-pitched, squeaky sound—it’s impossible not to smile.
I’ve previously cared for a wild-as-fuck toddler and an 11-month-old who loved nothing more than pulling hair and yanking at my nose ring.
Maggie is hands down my favorite.
Her parents are both professors consumed by their careers. Despite the recommended six weeks of maternity leave, her mama was back at work in what seemed like an instant. Today, she’s four months old. This means I’ve spent almost three months loving her with every fiber of my being, only for her parents to tell me this morning they’re cutting expenses. Grandma is in, and I am out.
Part of me doesn’t buy it. I think when I refused the time off they offered when dear old Dad kicked the bucket, they were probably more worried about my mental stability than anything. It’s not normal to react in the way I have, but I won’t try and fake it or hide how I feel. If they knew what kind of person he’d been, they’d feel the same.
The loss of my job was icing on the cake. I started my day off in a bad mood after having spent most of the night poring over theoretical explanations and offender behavior regarding multiple victim homicides for a case study analysis assignment. I finally submitted my hard work in the wee hours of the morning, only to wake up a few hours later to a super curt email:This is wrong. Fix it.
I thought learning about homicide and serial homicide would befun. Studying the minds of those who dance on the edge of life and death reveals the most profound truths about human nature.
However, in-depth examination of empirical research makes my eyes cross, and my professor seems like a downright ass. I haven’t even met the man yet, but so far, his assignments have been fucking killer—no pun intended—and he hasn’t even deigned to upload the first lecture video, just assigned reading.
Which is fine, just not my preference.
We’re nearing the bottom of the hill when Kronk tugs at his leash again, this time harder, jerking me forward with themomentum. My hand flies to grip Maggie’s back even though I have her wrapped so securely she isn’t going anywhere.
He’s definitely spotted a squirrel darting across the lawn. His leash strains against my grip, digging into my palm with each tug. His sheer strength threatens to pull us both off balance and I prepare to let him go and hope for the best or else he will drag me across campus like the rag doll he thinks I am, which would be per usual and all good and fine except for Maggie.
With one arm wrapped around her, I desperately try to unwind the rope. It’s wound so tightly around my hand to keep him close to me that I’m not sure I can release it before he pulls us over and drags us to whatever he has his sights set on. I attempt to rein him in, tugging him back toward me as he continues to yank me forward.
It digs harder into my palm. “Kronk.Pfui!”
It’s cool to teach your dog commands in Czech until you have to yell at them like a psychopath in public. It garners a lot more attention than one would think.
