The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall
By: Katie Alender
Then I noticed a new sensation—a weird, almost dragging pressure against my legs. When I looked down, a dirty fog seemed to hover off the ground. I could feel it like sandpaper, going through my body.
No, the fog wasn’t just hovering; there was a kind of slow movement within it. I saw a larger particle on a downward course and knelt to study it. Up close, I realized that it wasn’t fog at all. The large particles were gravel from the driveway, and the grit against my skin was dust and dirt kicked up in the car’s wake. Speaking of the car, when I turned back to it, I found that it had moved away from me—not very far, maybe a foot—but definitely out of my reach, where before it had been an easy arm’s length.
For a second, I was totally flummoxed by the fact that the car and gravel both seemed to be moving in ultraslow motion. Then I sort of understood.
Now that I was dead, time was unpredictable. Sometimes it would slide ahead and leave me stuck in a distant moment—like when I had completely missed my family coming back into the house to get their things. And sometimes it would skid to a halt and send me pitching forward in fast motion when the rest of the world was practically at a standstill. Like now.
I glanced back at the house, cursing myself for rejecting Eliza’s offer to teach me more about interacting with the world. Should I risk going back to find her and begging for help? What if time sped up again and I came back outside to find the dust settled, the driveway empty, and my family gone?
I couldn’t chance it. I walked back to the car, tried to step inside, and walked right through the metal frame. Then I stepped out and tried again.
But over and over, I got the same results. Finally, I walked back to stand in the shade of a leafy tree and watched the car. They’d gone about fifty feet in what felt to me like an hour. At this rate, they wouldn’t reach the end of the driveway for at least another day, so it seemed safe to take a little break.
And then a guy materialized beside me.
I was so shocked I almost screamed—and he didn’t look any less surprised to see me.
He backed a few feet away, his posture formal. He must have been near my age—probably a year or two older—and his skin was dark brown, his hair neatly cut close to his head. His eyes had the golden-flecked luster of rain on a bed of fallen autumn leaves.
He was obviously a ghost.
“Who are you?” I demanded, too flustered to attempt a polite introduction.
“Theo Hawkins,” the boy said, watching me warily. “Who are you?”
Theo was tall and thin, wearing a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and an untied bow tie that hung loose from his collar. His pants were dark gray trousers, held up by a pair of suspenders attached to their high waist, and on his feet he wore polished black boots with leather laces.
In spite of everything, I still had enough mental real estate to feel a little embarrassed about the comparative shabbiness of my appearance. If I’d known I was going to be stuck for all eternity with a bunch of ghosts off the best-dressed list, I would have opted for a pair of ballet flats and maybe done something else with my hair.
“I’m Delia Piven,” I said.
His eyebrows went up. “You’re not the Cordelia Piven who lives here.”
“Well, technically,” I said, “I am now. I’m her great-great-niece. I was named after her, but I just go by Delia.”
Theo frowned down at me. “And … how did you end up here?”
I didn’t know whether he meant “here at the house” or “here among the dearly departed,” so I started at the beginning. “Aunt Cordelia died and left this place to me. My family came for the summer to fix it up. We didn’t know what it was until we got here.”
“It’s not a good place.” Theo gazed back at the house, looking concerned, and then turned back to me. “But how did you get out here?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my patience wearing thin. “First I died, then I walked out the door.”
He stared at me.
“Why is that a problem?”
“It’s not a problem,” he said. “But you’re the only one who’s ever come outside.”
I stared at the looming stone facade of the institute, trying to figure out what he meant. “I don’t understand.”
“There are others,” he said. “Many others. But they can’t come outside.”
“They can’t?” I thought of Eliza and Florence. “What about you?”
“I died out here. I’m free to roam.” He glanced down at his shoes. “I worked for the government. Surveying the land. Ever heard of the Strategic Minerals Act?”
I shook my head.
He didn’t seem surprised. “We were scouting for land that might be worth mining. I was here, working, and I had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” I asked, though I suspected I already knew the answer. “Unless that’s too personal.”