Bad, Bad Girl

An atheist public health inspector at an allegedly haunted Catholic boarding school sounds like the start of a joke, but for the next week or so, it’s my life. 

I grab my dictation machine and hit record. “Patient’s name is Maria Williams. Female, age 14. Patient is presenting with acute sporadic paralysis of both legs, complaining of shooting pains from the hips down to the knees. Patient also is experiencing apparent psychosis. She claims to see visions of a woman in white bleeding from the mouth, haunting her at night.” I pause and sigh, not knowing how to even describe what I’m meant to investigate. “Patient claims that the boarding school is haunted. My preliminary clinical diagnosis is some sort of mental breakdown.”

I click stop, and the tape reel slows to a halt. Even in the age of smartphones, there’s something about the tactile experience of analog recording that I enjoy. A sliver of moonlight falls through the tiny window in the corner of the sparse room that Mother Superior gave me, casting an angelic glow on the crucifix hanging on the wall above my desk. There are no other decorations here, only a twin bed with a lumpy mattress and a coarse blanket. The Sisters in charge of Saint Mary’s maintain that austerity is a necessity of their mission. The girls oughtn’t be distracted by sinful posters of pop stars or radio waves carrying in hit tunes. Obviously.

It’s close to midnight, the hour at which Maria claims that the lady in white visits her dormitory. I shake my head and massage my temple, wondering how on earth I got assigned to this investigation. Actually, I know exactly how I got assigned here: My boss, Garrett, is still pissed at me for taking part in a whistleblower operation that exposed corruption in the Massachusetts Department of Public Health. Being the mature adult that he is, Garrett has decided to stick me with a stupid ghost hunt disguised as a public health investigation. Psychosis is very real, but ghosts are not, and Garrett damn well knows that. 

It’s only my first day here at Saint Mary's, but already I can see how depressing a place like this must be for teenage girls. Hell, I’d probably make up ghost stories too if my family shipped me off to a Catholic boarding school for wayward girls. Snuggling as tightly as I can under the scratchy blanket they provided, I shiver and wait for sleep to take me, woman in white be damned. 

The next morning at breakfast, many of the girls stare at me, gawking at the outsider who has come to heal their ailments. I sit at the table with the sisters, unsure of what kind of small talk is appropriate when you’re an atheist public health investigator at a parochial boarding school. After the dishes are cleared away — I hardly touched my toast — Mother Superior fixes me with a stern gaze and wiggles her finger, beckoning me. 

“Ms. Bergen, I do hope that you will determine what is wrong with so many of our girls, and in short order.”

I squirm under her gaze, even though I am old enough to be some of these kids’ mom. “I’ll do my best to make the investigation as quick and painless as possible. But I have to be thorough.”

“Understood.” The austere nun turns to go, then quickly pivots back. “Oh, and Ms. Bergen? Don’t let any of the girls intimidate you. I would hate to see you … suffer.”

I gulp, determined to be undeterred by Mother Superior’s cryptic warning. She must know I’m a non-believer. It was probably written all over my face when, during our initial meeting yesterday morning, she explained to me that the school had already called in a priest to perform an exorcism. Shockingly, it was to no avail. Yeah, well, an exorcism isn’t going to do jack shit for a psychosomatic illness, I wanted to say. 

Today I have a full schedule of interviews to conduct. Ever since the first girl at the boarding school fell ill last fall, more and more students have become afflicted. The complaints are the same for all of them: paralysis of the legs, shooting pains from the hips, and night visions of a woman in white with blood dripping from her mouth. I surmise that the haunted visions are nothing more than collective ghost stories circulating around the stark halls of a boarding school devoid of fun. But the physical symptoms, those are what I’m most interested in. 

First up is an 11-year-old named Sophie. One of the youngest residents at Saint Mary's, I figure her interview will be the easiest. She’s basically still a child, after all. 

“Hi Sophie, my name is Anna.” I smile and reach out my right hand, but Sophie just looks down at her standard-issue navy blue skirt, silent.

“Can you tell me a little bit about yourself, Sophie?” I try again. “What sort of things do you like to do? Do you have a favorite animal?”

Sophie snaps her head up sharply, fixing me with a feral look. “I like to stay calm and pray.”

Flustered, I fiddle with my pen and notepad. “Stay calm and pray? What does that mean, exactly?”

“The Sisters tell us to stay calm and pray. Stay calm and pray. Stay calm and pray.” Sophie’s gaze never strays from my eyes.

I decide to try a different approach. “Do your legs hurt, Sophie? Are you praying for your legs to stop hurting?”

The girl finally averts her intense stare, much to my relief. A small nod. Tiny, but recognizable. 

“When did your legs first start hurting?”

“She put a curse on us.” Sophie’s voice is small. 

“Who put a curse on you? Who is us?” I match the softness of her voice.

“She found this thing called a ouija board, on a field trip one time. She said it was just a game. We would sneak up to the roof at night, play the game under the stars. She said we could talk to our grandmas and stuff. She said it was just a game.”

Sophie has averted my question, but at least I’ve gotten her to talk. “What happened then?”

“Mother Superior found the game. It was during our weekly room inspections.” Sophie looks as though she may cry, but her voice grows strong. “Mother Superior was very angry.”

I stay silent, wanting Sophie to lead the conversation. 

“Mother Superior asked the rest of us if we knew about the game. We said no. We lied. She got mad, said we were dirty liars, said we all played the game together on the roof at night. But she’s the one who got caught with the game underneath her mattress. Mother Superior made her leave, said she was a bad, bad girl.”

I pause to take in Sophie’s words. If it’s true that a group of girls lied to protect themselves, they could be experiencing intense guilt that could be causing their so-called haunted visions. But that still doesn’t explain the leg paralysis. 

“Sophie,” I ask again, “when did your legs start hurting?”

“When she left. I remember that night I couldn’t sleep. My hips hurt so bad. The next morning, my legs started locking up. That was the first night she came to me.”

“The first night who came to you?” I probe.

“The lady in white. The one with the blood in her mouth.” Sophie frowns. “She looks so sad.”

I pause to look at the notes that came over in the initial report before I arrived. “And your legs — they keep locking up, right? You can use them occasionally, but you fall easily. Is that right?”

“Yes.” It’s barely a whisper, but I hear it. “You won’t tell Mother Superior that we played the game too, right?”

“No, I promise I won’t,” I assure the poor scared girl.

“Pinky promise?”

I reach out my hand, and Sophie’s tiny pinky finger loops with mine. “Pinky promise.”

Sophie reaches for her crutches and makes to leave. She turns back in the doorway and fixes her gaze on me. A chill runs down my spine. “She was a bad, bad girl.”

“Garrett, look, I get that you’re still pissed at me, but why’d you have to send me to a freaking boarding school run by evil nuns?”

“Well, hello to you too,” Garrett says down the line, a soft chuckle in his voice. “I take it you’re not fond of the clergy?”

I wave my hand dismissively, even though he can’t see me pacing my tiny quarters. “I don’t give a shit about the clergy. What I care about is figuring out why the hell all these girls can’t use their legs anymore. That, and getting the hell out of here. Nuns creep me out.” I wrap my free arm around myself and shiver.

“Are you getting anywhere with your investigation?”

“Hardly,” I mutter. “I’ve interviewed five girls now, and the story is the same for all of them. There was some kid here a while back who snuck in a contraband ouija board and then got kicked out when the Mother Superior found it. This kid — and no one will tell me her name, by the way — allegedly put some curse on the girls who let her take the fall for the ouija board, and now they’re all having problems with their legs and claiming to be haunted by a ghost at night.”

“Sounds like a horror flick.” Garrett is munching on potato chips, and I hold the phone away from my ear in disgust. “You ever thought about a career in screenwriting? Seems like public health investigations don’t suit you too good.”

I ignore the dig. “Public health investigations suit me perfectly well,” I correct him. “Look, I gotta go. I’m technically not supposed to use my cell phone inside my room. Mother Superior says I should go to my car to use it, but it’s pissing rain.”

Garrett chortles, and I can just see his belly shake. “Sounds like old Mother Superior has you under her thumb. Did they issue you one of those schoolgirl outfits too? The kind with the short skirt?”

“Ugh, gross.” I make a mental note to have a word with HR when I get back to Boston. “Look, just send out a search party if I don’t make contact after a few days. I’m calling it now: Mother Superior is a psychopath and is behind all of this. Probably some massive-scale Münchausen’s.” 

“What in the hell drug could she be slipping them that would cause sporadic leg paralysis but no other physical symptoms?” Garrett’s voice is skeptical, and rightfully so. He’s right, and we both know it. 

The rain pelts against my tiny window that night, punctuated by the occasional tree limb slapped by the wind. With each rumble of thunder, I curl into myself more tightly. My eyes are raw and dry in that way that only happens when you are desperately tired but can’t sleep. I flip over to my other side, facing the bland beige wall. A sudden jolt of pain in my lower back causes me to curse out loud. I massage the area, the random pain subsiding. 

Another rumble of thunder, another stabbing pain. This time, it shoots all the way down my legs. I flip onto my back and stretch out my legs, pointing my toes. These are just leg cramps. That’s all.

A flash of lightning illuminates the room. In that moment, in the corner, I see a face. A very sad face. Bloody mouth. White gown. Then darkness. 

I should get up and stretch my legs, get rid of these cramps. Turn on the lights, maybe listen to a podcast. Maybe I’ll even go make myself a cup of tea. 

Groaning as I sit up, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet like lead. I push to stand, but my knees buckle beneath me. Breaths quicken. Lightning flashes. A bloody smile. Darkness. Can’t stand. Heart pounds.

I drag myself across the small room to my desk, with upper arm strength I didn’t know I had. My hand shakes as I reach up to the desk, grasping for my tape recorder. My voice is dry and sticky when I speak.

I hit record. “Patient’s name is Anna Bergen. Female, age 38. Patient is presenting with paralysis of both legs, and,” I draw a sharp breath, “shooting pains from the hips down to the knees. Patient also is experiencing apparent psychosis. She claims to see visions of a woman in white bleeding from the mouth, haunting her at night.”