L’École Du Braceis had been something of a curiosity ever since it took up residence in the old Weatherfield mansion a year ago.
Every soul in Claymount had a theory about what went on inside that mysterious boarding school for girls. I had my own of course. But, unlike the denizens of our little town, I didn’t feel entitled to their private affairs just because I’d been there longer. Which was why I could hardly believe my good fortune when Madame Du Braceis, the institution’s matron and namesake, had granted me an exclusive interview.
I was about to learn she was full of many other surprises.
Night had fallen by the time I’d arrived at the historic manor. A small waif, about eight years old, answered the door. She stood at the threshold sporting knee-high stockings and a short dress, blue and white, with a decorative blue silk belt riding low on her hips. She welcomed me with a “bonjour” and a ladylike curtsy.
I stepped into the cavernous foyer, glimpsing a gaggle of young schoolmates spying on me from round the corner of the side room. Peering down from the hallway railing on the second floor, straight ahead, were three older students in their early to mid-teens. They wore the same vintage-style uniform and sickly pallor as my precocious greeter.
It was obvious that outdoor play in the sunshine was not part of the school’s curriculum.
A torrent of whispers and giggles followed as I turned into the opposite side room. There, my escort deposited me with assurances that “Madame” would soon be arriving. I scanned the room, admiring the ornate woodwork and furnishings. My survey was cut short by the creaking of pinewood floorboards. I spun around.
There she was, standing in the door frame, appraising me—the redoubtable Madame Du Braceis. Her hands were clasped in front of a skirt that fell just above her ankles and high-curved heels. Her dark hair was upswept and pinned in a tall, rounded coiffure crowned with a bun. She had me by a good 10 to 15 years but wasn’t nearly as old as I’d imagined. Her face, like that of her students, was pale, but not nearly so. Perhaps her cheeks had been tinted by age. Either that or she had just applied a touch of rouge. Regardless, she was delightful to look upon.
Her uncanny appearance, the Edwardian décor, the students’ uniforms, made me think I had stepped back nearly a century.
“You must be Mister Johns from the newspaper. Welcome to L’École Du Braceis,” she said in a lilting French accent.
I answered by thanking Madame Du Braceis for her invitation. She directed me toward a high wing-backed chair. I settled myself, a little nervous. She sat across from me, her poise erect, flawless. I pulled out a notepad and pen.
“You want to know why we’re never seen in the daytime, don’t you?” She beat me to my first question.
“Well . . . yes. It is the talk of the town.” She laughed at that, which put me more at ease.
“Let me guess. We’re a bunch of foreign recluses—worse.” Her dry wit made me grin. “Mister Johns, the girls suffer from a rare but serious disease, acute porphyria, which makes them dangerously susceptible to the sun’s ultraviolet rays. For this reason we hold classes indoors and conduct outdoor activities at night. That is why they are rarely seen.”
“This is why your book fair will take place in the evening?”
“Precisely. As a child who suffered under the stigma of ‘vampire disease,’ I’ve committed my life to providing a sanctuary where these special young ladies can focus on their education in a safe, nonjudgmental manner, free from harassment.”
“That’s fascinating. I would’ve never guessed. So, why the abrupt departure from Claymount?”
“Each year I take the girls to a different country to immerse them in diverse cultures, languages, and literature. Before we leave this one, I want to show the community our appreciation by offering a variety of written works authored by my students—they are quite good. More important, the proceeds and all donations will help fund blood transfusions so critical to restoring the girls’ hemoglobin levels. Over time, their bodies should grow stronger, as mine did.”
“I hope you’ll have enough seats; the town is abuzz about the chance to finally meet you and your students.”
“Let’s hope so. It is very important for everyone to know that if they wish to claim their door prizes, keepsakes from France, they must be present at midnight when the names are drawn. Additionally, a special surprise—pardonnez moi—prize, awaits all who remain till the end.”
We sat in silence, holding each other’s gaze. My eyes broke contact, sweeping over her high collar, white blouse, puff sleeves. Though outmoded, her ensemble exuded class and complimented her figure.
She caught my admiring glance. “You are curious about our dress, no?” My face reddened; hers brightened.
“Our school has been around for a very long time. One day, during the Great War, stray bombs and poison gas fell onto the school grounds, being so near the front, maiming and killing several students along with their matron, my grandmother. We wear same type of uniforms they wore in their memory.”
“You must be very proud of your students, as well as your school’s rich heritage.”
“I am, Mister Johns, and I’d do anything to protect them.” Her expression turned dark, for a moment. Then, the points of her mouth lifted. “My hope is that your article will do them great honor.”
“The greatest—you have my solemn promise.”
We rose at the same time; she took my hand in hers. “Do I also have your ‘solemn promise’ that you’ll come to our book fair?”
“I will. After all, my article wouldn’t be complete without pictures of the winners along with your charming students. Though, I’m afraid I won’t be able to show up until the very end.”
“Tres bon! Oh, and do stand at the back of the room, by the exit, when the prizes are announced.” My eyes narrowed. “That will be the best vantage from which to take your photos,” she explained.
“I’ll be sure to do that, thank you.” I started to pull away.
“And, Mister Johns.” I wheeled back round. “I’ll see you again, immediately following the presentation, at midnight?”
A warm thrill surged through me. I told her she would.
As I’d guessed, the place was packed wall to wall. Mayor Fink stood next to Madame Du Braceis by the podium (she the taller of the two) talking her ear off. His face, rotund and red, glistened under the lights.
A hush fell over the room when she asked everyone to be seated. She graciously thanked everyone for attending, and then gave an abridged version of the girls’ medical condition. All heads in the audience nodded, faces beamed (especially the mayor’s) when she announced that the town’s generous contributions would be dedicated to their recovery. Whatever suspicions the good citizens may have harbored over the past year were forgotten.
It was five minutes till midnight when the mayor approached the lectern. There was no way he was going to miss out on yet another opportunity to hear himself speak. He began by thanking Madame Du Braceis and her students for gracing “his” town, bidding them adieu on their next, undisclosed destination.
Fifteen minutes had passed, and he didn’t show any sign of slowing. The audience was becoming restless, eager to get on with the drawing. The girls, first the young ones then the teens, began to fidget, growing increasingly agitated, until they were unable to hold themselves still any longer. A willowy teenager, one of five students sitting behind the podium, shot Madame Du Braceis a look. When the matron nodded, the young lady rose from her seat and approached the mayor from behind—probably to politely whisper in his ear that it was way past time for the drawing.
Then it happened. I didn’t even have time to draw my next breath.
The girl’s mouth opened, unnaturally wide, unhinging. She resembled a python about to devour its oversized prey. Fangs and all. They sank deep into Mayor Fink’s fleshy neck. He shrieked. The audience screamed. I looked at Madame Du Braceis in shock. She smiled at me, her own canines bared. From across the room, a pair of invisible hands on my chest—hers?—shoved me back, out the door, into the chill night. I lost my balance and fell backwards on my rump. Hard. As I propped myself up on my elbows, I recalled her last words to me:
“I’ll see you again . . . at midnight?”
Squealing patrons tripped over each other, racing for the exit en masse, toward me, their faces ablaze with horror. The girls fell upon the slowest ones first—the feeble, the elderly. Each demonic, snarling rictus latched upon its host’s neck, sucking with slavering zest.
The double doors slammed in my face. I grabbed the handles and pulled. They were locked solid. Fists desperately beat upon the other side with dull, hollow thuds. Fingernails clawed at wood. Men, women, children begged for mercy, as they converged in a deadly melee at the door and flanking shuttered windows.
The last thing I heard, through the oaken doors, before everything went black, was the wanton laughter of ravenous schoolgirls closing in behind them.