Page 24 of Coram House

I grip either side and start up. At the top, a trapdoor is pinned open to the wall with a metal hook. My head surfaces into an enormous open room.

“Don’t go too far,” Bill calls up. “I’m not sure about the floor at the far end.”

I imagine punching through a rotten board, falling through empty space. Still, I shuffle a few feet farther, sending up swirls of dust. Outside I can hear the wind, but in here it’s barely more than a cold breath on my neck. It smells of dust and resin.

Light filters through windows at either end, but it’s still dark. Not that there’s much to see. A stack of wooden boards fuzzed with dust. A pile of old rags. What had I been expecting? Those ghostly statues of the saints or the wardrobe that loomed in Sarah Dale’s dreams, all here almost fifty years later? Maybe I need to see it, to touch the wooden boards, and remind myself that it’s no dark version of Narnia. There’s nothing special about the evil in this place. It’s just people doing terrible things—same as everywhere.

I cough. All the dust is making my chest feel tight. A soft click echoes in the empty space. It takes me a moment to recognize the sound of a door latching. I walk back to the stairs. The trapdoor is still open, but the bottom of the stairs is dark. “Mr. Campbell?” I call.

No answer.

I climb back down, slowly, in the dark. At the bottom, I feel for the handle, but it’s just smooth wood.There was this old wardrobe. She made you get inside and then locked the door.I knock, feeling a little ridiculous at how my heart is pounding.

“Hello,” I call.

Again, nothing. I knock harder. “Bill!” My voice sounds panicked.

The door flies open, and I stumble out, blinking in the light like a mole.

“Sorry,” Bill says. “I just stepped out for a minute—a phone call. The wind must have slammed it shut.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t go too far,” I say, trying for lightness.

“Ready to go? Sorry to rush you, but I really should get back.”

“Yes,” I say, brushing the dust off my jacket. My heart is still beating too quickly. “Of course.”

Bill leads the way at a fast clip, like he can’t wait to get out of here. Or maybe just get rid of me. But I don’t entirely trust my legs to hold me. I can still feel the smooth wood of the door with no handle. The darkness that tasted of dust. The wind, Bill had said. I think of my grandparents’ drafty old house. Every time you left a window open, the wind would suck the door across the hall shut with a slam as loud as a firework going off. The sound in the attic hadn’t been a door slamming. It had been a soft click. Like someone on quiet feet who didn’t want to be heard gently pressing the door shut.

7

The days aftermy visit to Coram House pass in a blur of frustration. I search everywhere for Tommy, but he won’t be found. First, I drive to the state archives in Montpelier only to encounter the furrowed brow of the archivist who suggests I try ancestry.com if it’s family records I’m looking for.

“I tried that already,” I tell her.

“Did you check online for death certificates?” she asks.

I nod. I had found 420 Toms, Thomases, or Tommies who died in Vermont between 1965 and 1970. Of those, around a hundred had an unexpected death with a certificate filed by the medical examiner. Ten of those were children. But none matched the Tommy from Sarah Dale’s testimony. They were either the wrong age or the cause of death was wrong. Nothing led back to Coram House.

“And you have the birth certificate?” she asks.

“I don’t have a last name.”

The archivist peers up at me through her purple-framed reading glasses. “No birth or death certificate. What makes you so sure this person exists?” she asks.

My patience hangs by a mostly frayed thread. A soft pattering makes me look up. Hail bounces off the skylight.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” she says. “You could try hospitals. Some of them have digitized their records.”

I thank her and leave. A fuzz of snow coats the sidewalk. My steps leave hollows that follow me back to the car.

I drive home defeated, her words ringing in my ears. After all,what do I have, really? A few mentions of a boy named Tommy scattered across the depositions. Sarah Dale recalling a traumatic incident from twenty years earlier. Or a woman with a drinking problem and a grudge, if you believe Bill Campbell. Either way, not the most reliable witness.

When I get back to my apartment, I pour a glass of wine, even though it’s only four. Then I get out the list I made of people who gave depositions back in the eighties. At first, I don’t have much luck. Karl Smith died of a heart attack. Christopher Cooper hangs up on me. I can’t find a number for Michael Leblanc—he’s either dead or off-grid somewhere. But then I get to Karen Lafayette. Not only is her number listed, but it’s a local area code.

I dial. Anxiety pulses in my chest with every ring. A woman’s voice answers. But it’s just her voicemail. I leave a message asking her to call me back, trying to strike the right balance between mysterious and desperate.

Next, I work my way through the Sisters of Mercy, though I don’t expect much. Most of the nuns had died years ago. Though I do leave a message at what turns out to be the Alzheimer’s floor of a long-term care facility. There’s no record of Sister Cecile, which is odd. But she’d originally been from Quebec, so maybe she went back there.

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