There were 5 of us who started together on that first term.
T had the bed by the cupboards, L was by the window, O was on the bottom bunk, I was on the top and M? M was in the middle bed.
Symes House looked as though it had been built in the mid 1960s (although the main school itself first opened its doors in September 1885 to just 11 boarders and 6 day students). Named after a former headmistress, the boarding house was (and still is although I think it’s got much better recently. They’ve now got carpets!) a small, squat building with big windows and echoing staircases home to 30 girls under the age of 12. The second floor was populated by five dorms and a bathroom. The ground floor had a big common room, two small music rooms, another bathroom and the tuck cupboard.
Two harridans ruled the house with an iron fist. Mrs W, a wrinkly woman of about 90 (probably. She was probably only about 60 but to our young 8 year old eyes, she was ancient) was the house mistress. The position of matron was taken by Miss C. A fresh faced, smooth skinned, 30 year old virgin with a penchant for looking at young girls in the showers (she was fired soon after I left).
After lights out, you could always tell who was lurking by the footsteps. Mrs W shuffled. Her steps sounding like the rustling of leaves. Miss C clomped. Her heavy shoes resonating round the hollows walls.
T, L, O, M and I had been put in “St Michael’s” for our first year.
“You new girls can go together” Miss C simpered “You can all become the best of friends”.
M had an elder sister who was already at the school. This meant she had insider knowledge. She knew which mistresses were mean. She knew which of the masters wouldn’t give you homework. And she knew about Mrs Symes.
At midnight on the cusp of Friday 13th and Saturday 14th, Mrs Symes’ ghost would come and sit on the foot of the middle bed of St Michael’s. She would sit there until dawn. Watching. Waiting for movement. If the unsuspecting child in the middle bed should kick her, they were doomed. Mrs Symes would curse them. Would curse their family. No one would survive.
The night of the 13th drew in. The occupants of St Michael’s were still. Except one. M lay awake, looking at the luminescent digital clock on her bedside table. The numbers flicked by.
At 11:47pm she could no longer stand it. Quietly, quickly, she crept out of bed.
She was found the next morning, asleep in the bathroom.
The curse of Mrs Symes had been averted for another year.
Reminds me a little bit of how we’d all dare each other at school to go into the toilets, turn the lights off and say “candyman” in the mirror three times. No one ever got to the third one without freaking out!
Well… when I was at a girl’s school, at night in the dorm I used to [white noise]