Sanctum by Madeleine Roux Page B

well. He can be a little on the mean side when he’s sober, but drunk ? Look, a word from me might not mean much to your friend, but he’d listen to you. It’s nothing serious, I just think it’s best if we all keep a collective eye on them.”
    “Is the drinking unusual?” Dan asked, still not fully following.
    Micah nodded. “Bad drinking, bad grades, bad new crowd. It’s a mite early to say ‘downward spiral,’ but it’s getting there, know what I mean?”
    It was Dan’s turn to nod.
    “You see it lots,” Micah continued, scratching at his goatee. “More than you might think. Lots of pressure here to do well, to perform, sometimes it’s enough to make a person crack. Then his dad . . . It’s been a lot for him to handle. When I saw your friend dancing with him tonight I just thought it might be best to warn you.”
    “So if Cal is on some downward spiral, what is he doing hosting a prospie?”
    Micah laughed, guffawed really, pausing a moment afterward and staring at Dan. “Well, you know how I said his dad was a big-shot alum?”
    “Yeah . . .”
    “His pop was the dean. The whole administration has been on eggshells around Cal since he died. Cal could probably get away with murder if he had a mind to.”
    “Ha.” Dan forced out a nervous laugh. “Well . . . I’ll, um . . . I’ll tell Jordan to be careful.”
    “That’s all I’m asking,” Micah said, clapping Dan on the shoulder. “Thanks, man, I had a feeling you were a stand-up sort, and it’s good to know I was right.”
    That night, after pulling Jordan aside to fill him in about Cal, Dan returned to Micah’s room and fell asleep without even glancing over the new clues they had collected. He collapsed into a heavy but fitful sleep, and even unconscious he knew the dreams would come, could feel them gathering on the fringes of his mind like a bank of growing storm clouds.
    The dream swallowed him up whole.
    He stood in the entryway to a shabby house, stamping the fresh mud off his boots. There was an umbrella in his hand and he shook the rain from it. He checked his pocket watch, a well-polished antique, and felt himself become overwhelmed by the tedium of this visit. There was so much to do. His time was so precious. Why did he waste it on these cretins and fools?
    That was when Harry stumbled into the dining room. Rows and rows of stuffed mailbags filled the room, grayish and fat, like sows turned onto their sides. He went to one and toed it, which made Harry visibly recoil. It didn’t matter. Harry, like all of them, was a tiny man and a tiny thing. But tiny things could be made to grow, and that, he knew, was his calling.
    “Letters, letters, none for me,” Harry was saying, worrying over the mailbags, tending to them like a doting father. “Never any letters for me.”
    “They’re all for you, Harry. You’re the minder of these things. You’re the keeper. That gives you power. You bring the letters where they need to go. For a while, at least, all letters are for you.” That seemed to calm the man; he stopped compulsively tucking his stringy hair behind his ear. “But you’ve been naughty again, haven’t you, Harry? You’ve been snooping, reading what you shouldn’t.”
    “Yes. Naughty. Yes, I shouldn’t. . . .” Harry tucked his hair behind his ear, and again, and again.
    There was nothing to do but sigh and nod. “Who is it this time?”
    “The girls. The girls write to each other, but never to me. Letters, letters, never any for me.”
    “I told you, Harry, they are for you, if only for a time. How does that make you feel?”
    “Good. It makes me feel good.” Harry, gnarled and hunching, straightened up a little.
    “I’m not here to cure you.” He consulted his pocket watch again. Running late. Ah well. He detached the watch and cradled the warm metal heart of it in his hand. “So put yourself at ease. I’m not here to cure you, Harry. . . .” Then he smiled, and beckoned Harry closer.