Gravity by Abigail Boyd

Author:Abigail Boyd
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Abigail Boyd
Published: 2011-07-14T09:22:43+00:00

Chapter 12

"Who would name a town "Hell" anyway?" asked Alex Perkins, our class clown eight years running, the next day in History. I had no idea how he would ever qualify for an Honors class. He was a year older than the rest of us, supposedly because he skipped Kindergarten but I figured he had been held back. He made the dumbest jokes and was always the loudest one to laugh at them. His parents had money, so he was considered part of the popular crowd.

Ambrose had taken to sulking in the corner by the back window. No one was willing to pay attention to his stories of false bravado and bedding head cheerleader anymore.

Warwick looked excited to have a chance to explain our town's history. He perched on his worn spot on the desk and looked thoughtfully at the floor, as if gathering his words.

"When George Reeves, the man who originally settled here, was asked what to call the town, he said "Call it Hell for all I care." At least, that's the charming anecdote they like to tell at town meetings," he explained.

"So what's the real story?" I heard Henry ask behind me. I listened automatically at the sound of his familiar voice.

"Depends on who you want to trust," Warwick said. His voice had taken on the quality of someone narrating a Discovery Channel special. "There are several theories supporting the idea that Hell was settled on a spot of evil earth."

Several students around me giggled. He looked up at them impatiently until they stopped. I couldn't tell if he took what he said seriously or if it was just an act. A born storyteller, he'd had told me a million wild, embellished tales when I was kid, about far off places and unusual animals, which I now knew were poppycock. I'd believed in jackalopes and unicorns until I was ten. My younger self had always trusted him, even when Jenna protested the things he said.

"We have more than our fair share of haunted houses," he offered as proof.

"Supposedly haunted," supplied Henry. I imagined his eyes darkening. "Just because people say they're haunting doesn't mean they are."

Warwick continued as if he hadn't heard him.

"Houses that are said to still be the home of trapped spirits, spirits that have been seen by plenty of respected citizens." The last sentence was said pointedly. He ticked the locations off on his fingers. "The blue house on Court Street, the old fire house, the orphanage..."

I perked up and raised my hand.

"You have a question, Ariel?" he asked.

"Are you talking about the Dexter Orphanage?"

"I believe that's the only one in town, so yes," he said, smiling.

"Do you know anything about that one in particular?" I asked.

"Nothing nice," he said, grinning wryly and shifting his weight. "It was said to be owned by John Dexter the third, a lifelong bachelor — spare us your commentary, Mr. Perkins —

who decided to take in orphans after World War One."

"The first few years went without remark, although he made the children work in the farm behind the house to help with money.

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