Ghost Girl: The true story of a child in desperate peril – and a teacher who saved her - Torey Hayden

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to do his folder. Sometimes, I said, when people are afraid of being wrong, they get so worried about doing the work that they can’t do it at all. Sometimes what comes out is anger, because it’s frustrating, because something’s got to come out, and because feeling angry isn’t as scary as feeling afraid.

      Studying the images of Jeremiah and myself, listening to myself as I posed these comments, I cringed. This was probably an appropriate place to make the connection between Jeremiah’s constant anger and the fear I suspected it was covering, but the way I said it … It made me sound as if I knew, when there was no way of knowing such things.

      Then came the sound of the lunch bell ringing and Jeremiah shot off-screen. Then came the view of me rising to turn off the machine. The screen went blank.

      I stood up to go turn the lights back on, but before I could move more than a pace or two from my chair, a picture came back on the screen. I halted midstep.

      The picture was of very poor quality, gray and grainy from too little light. Studying the screen, I assumed it must simply have been something previously recorded on the tape. Wondering if it was done at the clinic, I tried to make out the features of the room. Then I startled. This was our room, at a slightly different angle. The camera must have been bumped. The machine must have been running when the overhead lights were off. But how? When? I distinctly remembered turning it off before going to lunch. In fact, my looming form approaching the camera was recorded.

      “OOOOOOoooooooooooo,” came a small, disembodied voice off-screen. Other noises—the shuffling of feet, the movement of chairs—accompanied it.

      Confused and eerily discomforted, I sat back down in the chair and tried to make sense of it all.

      “OOOOooooooooo-oo-oooooooo.” Jadie materialized only inches from the camera. “OOoooooooo,” she continued to croon in a small, high-pitched voice. Weaving back and forth, first so close to the camera that only her mouth was visible and then swinging so far back as to almost disappear into the gray gloom, she kept at the noise for two or three minutes.

      Jadie paused and for a second or two simply faced the camera. Then, turning, she took two pencils off an adjacent table. Pressing one lengthways against her upper lip and the other in the same fashion against the lower, she turned her lips outward to create a grotesquely exaggerated mouth. She was breathing out a sound toward the camera as she did so, sort of an “ucka ucka ucka” noise.

      The weirdness of it overwhelmed me, pinning me to my seat. She was only barely visible, her voice almost disembodied. As she backed away from the camera, her mass of dark hair eventually merged into the gloom around her, leaving only her face palely discernible. She halted there and was momentarily silent. Then the image began to approach the camera again. A whispering started up and at first I couldn’t make out the words. She was too far away from the microphone and speaking too softly. Then she came nearer.

      “Help me,” she was saying, almost sighing. “Help me, help me, help me, help me, help me …” Coming nearer and nearer until all that was visible on the screen was a mouth forming the same words over and over again. “Help me, help me, help me, help me, help me …” Then the monitor went blank.

      Only then, when the screen turned to snow, and white noise buzzed in my ears, did I realize that throughout the whole eerie episode, Jadie had been standing upright.

       Chapter Five

      I must have watched that short segment of videotape a dozen times while trying to puzzle out its meaning. It was now obvious to me that Jadie must have slipped back into the classroom after I’d gone down for lunch with the others, and that was why the lights were not on; also why, when I’d returned from lunch, I’d found insufficient tape to record during the afternoon, although at the time I had never put two and two together.

      But what was the point of it all? Had she wanted me to see this? Was it a direct message to me? Or had she simply been playing around with the recorder with no thoughts as to whether someone might view it? And what about her posture? There was no mistaking the fact that on the tape she was standing normally. Had she intended me to know she could stand upright, or had I fortuitously dropped onto secret information?

      Unsure of these matters, I chose the patient approach. I didn’t mention the tape, not the next day nor any of the days following, although we continued to use the recorder, and, as I had promised, I taped the children performing a little play from one of their reading books, which we all viewed “on TV.” My hope was that if it had been a deliberate message, my silence would smoke her out. She’d either hint at it or else leave me another message. Neither happened.

      As often does happen in this kind of environment, a more pressing crisis came along to scupper the subtle moment, however thought provoking. In this instance, Philip suffered a grand mal seizure in class. It was the first seizure he’d had in several years, but the whole following week was frantic, as one seizure followed another, until at last he was admitted to the hospital in Falls River. The experience proved deeply disturbing to the other children, particularly Jeremiah, who was convinced Philip would die with each seizure and often stirred the others into panic with his terror. All my time and energy was taken up trying to keep us on an even keel.

      More than two weeks later, I was sitting alone after school at the table in the classroom, finishing my plans for the next day, when I was overcome with the sensation of being watched. I looked up, around, but saw nothing. Back I went to my work, but the sensation, powerful and unshakable, persisted. I glanced up at the clock. It was 4:15, so all the children were long gone and most of the other teachers would be down in the teachers’ lounge. At last, I rose and went to the door to look out in the hallway.

      There stood Jadie.

      “Hello,” I said.

      She gazed up at me.

      “This isn’t really the right time for being inside. It’s okay to come over and play on the swings after school, but I’m not at all sure Mr. Tinbergen would want children walking around inside the building. He might get cross.”

      She continued to gaze up.

      “Do you need something?”

      No response.

      I glanced down the corridor. It was no joke about Mr. Tinbergen. I knew he didn’t like children in the building outside school hours.

      “This is my time to work on plans,” I said. “I’m quite busy. If you need something, I’ll try to help, but otherwise, I think you should go back outside.”

      Not a word out of her.

      I regarded her. “Do you want to come in? Is that it?”

      Still she gazed at me, her head cocked to overcome her hunched-over position.

      “I am working hard,” I murmured. “If you come in, you’ll need to play very quietly.”

      Without so much as a nod, she slipped around me and into the classroom.

      Scuttling over to the cabinet containing jigsaw puzzles, Jadie took one out and hobbled back across the room with it. Putting it down opposite me at the table, she slumped into a chair, then dumped the puzzle out and began assembling it. Furtively, I watched her. She’d changed from school and was now wearing a ratty-looking pink sweatshirt and a worn pair of corduroy pants. Her long dark hair tumbled over her shoulders. Studying her hair, I wondered if it was possible to get a brush through it. Probably not.

      Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed in complete silence while I finished my plans. Jadie worked diligently on the jigsaw. She was good at them and had done this one several times before, but it was a large one with nearly a hundred pieces, so it kept her busy. I found myself watching her more and more. Try as I did, I couldn’t keep my mind on my work. What kept intruding were thoughts of that video.

      “Sit up more, would you?” I murmured, my voice barely audible.

      Jadie

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