The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall
By: Katie Alender
She wasn’t even wearing makeup. Her only ornamentation was ash-blond hair that flowed in graceful waves almost to her waist. Her brown eyes glittered, framed by thick, dark lashes. Her smile was sympathetic, her lips a perfect cupid’s bow. The dress she wore was pale blue cotton, floor length, with a high neck and a white ribbon tied around her slender waist. There was nothing especially fancy about it, but its simple loveliness made me feel like a toad.
And she smelled overwhelmingly of buttercups.
She was a ghost, of course. Another ghost. They were everywhere. I was surrounded by them. I’d been surrounded by them from the moment I stepped inside the stupid building.
“I mean, I suppose you could do it that way,” the ghost said to me. “Well, I could, you couldn’t, not yet—but it’s not worth the trouble.” She had a Southern accent, with soft, rolled Rs and drawn-out vowels.
I stared at the doorknob.
“Shall I show you how?” she asked in her sweetest charm-school voice. “Oh, and how rude of me to not introduce myself. I’m Florence Beauregard.” She pronounced it bo-re-gahhhd, with an airy manner that suggested a refined upbringing.
Florence watched me expectantly, clearly willing to help. But I wanted nothing to do with any ghosts at all, and prettiness and polite manners weren’t enough to change that.
I ignored her and plunged straight ahead, planning to walk right through the door. But instead I ran right into it. My head radiated pain as if it were a real head that had just made contact with a real door. I reached up and tried to rub the ache away.
Florence stood to the side, looking slightly amused, her eyebrows raised. “I told you, that’s not going to work. Let me—”
She came closer, and I jerked away.
“No,” I said. “Just go away. Leave me alone.”
She cocked her head to the side, and her smile evaporated. “All right, sugar. Enjoy yourself.”
She disappeared through the wardress door as if it weren’t even there.
I turned around. The activity level in the lobby had gradually descended from a buzz to a low murmur. While the police officers held little meetings among themselves, my parents now sat on the sofa with Janie, who was asleep with her head in Mom’s lap.
Dad and Mom didn’t look like they were going to be able to sleep. Maybe ever again.
I sat on the floor at their feet. I wanted to lean against Mom’s knees, but I went right through them, which gave me a sick, spinning sensation. So I leaned against the sofa instead.
I didn’t think about being dead, in the larger sense. There was time for that later. For now, I just needed to feel like a member of the family. Oh, the irony—what I wanted most in the whole world was to stay right there with my parents. Safe. Loved. Overprotected. One of the group. Suddenly, nothing else seemed important at all. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why I’d ever been so eager to distance myself from them.
My mother shifted. Her eyes slowly came into focus, and then they trained on the double doors that led out to the front yard. “She’ll walk in,” she said faintly, dazed. “Any minute.”
Dad, who had been zoned out, snapped to attention.
Mom’s free hand drifted over and grabbed his wrist. He tensed and almost pulled away, then sat deathly still, like he was within striking distance of a rattlesnake.
“This isn’t real,” Mom said, her gaze never wavering, her voice growing eerily clear. “This isn’t happening. Watch—I’m going to say her name, and she’s going to walk through those doors.”
“Lisa—”
“Don’t say a word,” Mom said, her voice thick with despair. “We just need to wait a minute. We just need to sit here. And then she’ll come back. I’ll say her name, and she’ll come back.”
Dad closed his eyes. “She won’t come back. She can’t.”
“Yes, she will. She has to. She’s my baby, and she has to come back.”
My father glanced over at Mom, dread on his face. He was about to speak when she cried out in a horrid, jagged voice.
“Delia!” she yelled. “Delia!”
Janie snapped awake and sat up, her eyes wild with fear.
“Stop it!” Dad hissed. “You’re scaring Janie.”
“Why are you saying her name?” my sister asked, struggling to get to her feet. “Is Delia alive? Was this a joke? I knew it was a joke!”
“Delia!” Mom said again. She leapt to her feet and ran to the front door, pulling it open and shouting hoarsely into the morning air. “Delia! Delia! Come back!”
Janie stared at my father, her mouth open. “Daddy? Is Delia really alive?”
“Oh God. Oh God, no.” My father’s face suddenly seemed to crack into a thousand pieces, and Janie collapsed against him. They were both sobbing. I’d never seen my father cry before. Never in my whole life, I realized. My whole life. Which was now over.
The room was in sudden, bewildering chaos. Despite the paramedics who hurried over to try to calm her down, Mom went on calling my name.
“Delia!” My mother’s voice broke. And something inside me broke, too.
“Mom, I’m here!” I yelled, running toward her. “Mom! I’m right here! I can see you! I can hear you!”
She paused.
“I’m here!” I wailed. I couldn’t stop myself. “Look at me, Mom. Just turn and look at me!”