The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall
By: Katie Alender
In spite of my sister’s many (many, many) shortcomings, she had perfect pitch and a natural talent for singing. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to the day she realized just how good she was. With my luck, she’d win one of those TV talent shows and end up a millionaire, and I’d be the talentless reject sister, forgotten in the shadows. Sometimes I felt like our whole family was waiting for that to happen.
Her voice, clear and lovely, drifted down the hall while I waited on the bed with my packed bag, watching the minutes tick by on my phone. I’d changed from my jeans and T-shirt into an old baggy burgundy sweater of Dad’s and gray leggings dotted with white hearts. On my feet were a pair of knockoff Ugg boots, and my hair was pulled up into a messy bun. It was basically a half step up from pajamas, but I figured that if I was going to spend the night in a bus station (or juvie lockup), I might as well be comfortable.
My feet rested on the little round stool I’d pulled away from the vanity, rocking it back and forth on its uneven legs in time with my sister’s song. Her flawless rhythm and the gentle knock of the wood against the floor lulled me into a bit of a trance. I found myself following the words of her song. It was one I’d never heard before, and it was old-fashioned—a complete departure from her usual repertoire of pop songs about breakups.
“Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me … Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee …”
Her voice drifted off, like she’d fallen asleep. Excellent. This would be my best chance to sneak out. I got up off the bed, accidentally knocking over the little wooden footstool with a clatter. I hurriedly set it upright. But as soon as my fingers let go of the smooth, round edge, it knocked itself over again …
And rolled toward me.
I watched in silence, unable to believe my eyes.
Then it bumped up against my foot.
My heart racing, I scrambled backward, running into the bed and knocking something loose behind me. I turned around to see that I had dislodged a leather strap, complete with buckles, bolted to the bed frame. Lifting the bedspread, I found more straps—one for each wrist and ankle, and a big one that would fit perfectly across a torso.
Don’t freak out, I told myself. Just go. Get your things and go.
I grabbed my messenger bag and purse, double-checked to make sure I had my phone and charger, and started into the hall. The bathroom door gaped open, and I caught a flash of lightning through the window.
A high-pitched scream filled the air.
It was the kind of sound that overloads your brain, leaving you blank except for the sudden, all-consuming awareness of a person in horrible distress.
Janie!
I dropped my stuff and ran back to her room, gasping at the sight that greeted me— My sister was strapped into the bed, her thin wrists and ankles caught fast in the leather buckles. The big one was cinched tightly around her chest, although she was doing an admirable job of fighting against it, writhing and struggling like a fish in a net.
“Janie!” I said, racing to the bed. “Are you okay?”
“Delia!!!” she shrieked. “Get me out, get me out, get me out!”
“I’m trying!” I said, fumbling with the buckle on her right ankle.
“No, my hands,” she panted, wild-eyed. “Please. Do my hands first.”
My parents’ footsteps thundered down the hall. They rushed in just as I was starting to undo my sister’s right hand.
“What on earth?” Mom cried.
Without waiting for an explanation, my parents each grabbed a strap and went to work. The leather was so dried with age that it cracked wherever it was bent, leaving a pattern of fine lines in the dull brown surface.
“What happened here?” Mom asked. “What were you girls doing?”
“Now hold on,” I said, so surprised that I let go of my sister’s wrist. “We girls weren’t doing anything. She, Janie somehow got herself strapped down.”
“I did not!” Janie snapped, shaking her bound wrist at me. Mom reached across to finish what I’d started.
The thing was, I actually believed my sister. How would she have gotten herself strapped in? Even if she’d been able to buckle her own ankles and torso, how could she do both of her hands?
“You have to be more careful,” Mom said. “What if we hadn’t been around?”
My sister’s jaw set. “I didn’t do it. I was asleep.”
Fear started to rise inside me like an approaching tsunami. The house was closing in on us.
Mom gave Janie a dubious look. “Sweetheart, how else would you have gotten stuck in the restraints?”
“Janie,” Dad said, “you need to tell us the truth. How did this happen?”
Janie’s eyes narrowed. Her mouth began to open.
The air in my lungs turned dry and heavy and hot.
I knew what she was going to say before she said it. The impact of her words was as inevitable as two cars skidding toward each other across an icy intersection.
“Delia did it.”
OBSERVATIONS MADE AFTER THE FACT
Despite this incident, and despite everything she went on to tell herself in the coming years, what happened to me that night was not my sister’s fault.
She’s lying,” I said.