The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall

 

I grabbed the little table by one leg and tossed it onto its side. It landed on the floor with a tremendous clatter. Then I stormed over to the dining table, grabbed the closest chair, and hurled it across the floor.

 

“What’s going on?” Nic wailed. She retreated until her back was pressed against the narrow strip of wall between two large windows, while Landon stood a few feet away, looking around helplessly.

 

Pathetic.

 

I swept a decorative bowl off the dinner table and hurled two more chairs in their direction.

 

Nic’s thin scream of terror echoed through the room. Her fear filled my head … and fed my fury. My anger and the power it gave me were like a drug.

 

I stalked over to where she stood, made a fist, and propelled it through the panes of the window to her right—

 

One, two, three, they shattered. Glass showered the floor around her.

 

“Oh my God!” she cried. “Landon, what’s happening?”

 

“What’s happening,” I said, “is that you stole my boyfriend!”

 

Landon was rather un-heroically frozen in place. “Nic, get away from the window!”

 

She ducked her head and started to run forward, her hands covering her face, but I pushed her back. She hit the wall with a frightened yelp and then tried to escape a second time. Again, I simply reached out and pressed on her shoulders. She couldn’t see me, so she couldn’t dodge or duck away from my touch.

 

She slammed back into the wall, then gave up and helplessly sank to the floor.

 

Finally, Landon leapt into action. He raced toward her—but all I had to do was shove his chest to send him flying backward, tripping over the scattered chairs and landing in a heap.

 

I turned my attention to the second window, the one on the other side of Nic, and one, two, three! punched through the glass. Then, because releasing the energy felt so incredibly satisfying, I kept going—four, five, six, seven!—until I’d rammed my fist through every single pane.

 

I was beyond hearing Nic’s terrified weeping, or Landon’s dismayed moans. All I could hear was the voice in my head—a monstrous voice fanning the flames of my wrath.

 

Traitors, it said. Filthy, disgusting, bottom-feeding traitors. They deserve this. They deserve the pain, the fear …

 

They deserve to die.

 

Then they’ll know how it feels.

 

Finally, I caught myself and staggered back, surveying the scene.

 

Landon sat on the floor, cradling his left arm close to his chest. Nic was bent into a quivering little ball on the ground.

 

Eliza hurried by, elbowing me out of her way. Her voice was icy and filled with righteous judgment. “What have you done?”

 

I didn’t answer. I stared at my best friend, who hadn’t even raised her head to look up.

 

“Nic,” Landon grunted. “I think my wrist is broken.”

 

There was no answer.

 

“Nicola?”

 

Still, she didn’t answer. Eliza knelt by her side.

 

“Nic?” I asked, stepping toward her.

 

“Delia,” Eliza whispered, her voice chilled. “Get the boy’s attention.”

 

I stared. “Why?”

 

“Get the boy’s attention!” she snapped. “Now!”

 

“How?” I asked. I reached for a stack of magazines on the little table behind the couch, but my hand whooshed right through them.

 

“It hurts,” Landon muttered to himself.

 

“Oh, for the love of—” Eliza said. “I’ll do it.”

 

She stood up, reached through the broken window, and sent a small shower of glass tinkling to the floor.

 

“Nicola?” Landon asked, looking up and then hesitantly coming closer. “What’s—”

 

Suddenly, Nic raised her head and looked at him. Her skin was dull gray but her eyes were bright and surprised looking. Her left hand held tightly to her right wrist.

 

Only then did I see the puddle of red spreading on the floor by her—blood. Blood that came pulsing out of a gaping wound on her forearm.

 

Landon gasped.

 

“You think it’s an artery?” Nic asked faintly. “It’s … kind of a lot of blood, isn’t it?”

 

“Nicola, oh my God. Oh my God. Here—” Landon ripped off his shirt and ran to her side. “Raise it above your heart. Can you raise it? Let me …”

 

He tore the sleeve off the shirt and wrapped it around the wound. Immediately, it was soaked through with dark, brilliant red.

 

“Hold that,” he said. “Hold it tightly. I’m going to call an ambulance—”

 

“No cell service,” she whispered.

 

“Okay, okay.” He was panting, on the verge of panic, trying to make a plan. “Then we’ll have to drive, but the car’s parked out front. Can you walk that far?”

 

“I’ll wait for you,” she said.

 

“I can carry you—”

 

“No, I’ll wait here,” she said softly. “Go get the car.”

 

He looked at her helplessly, then ran out the door, shouting over his shoulder: “Keep the pressure on it!”