The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall

 

“Where’d she go?” Nic asked, looking around the room. “The girl with the dark hair … did you see her?”

 

“No, I didn’t see anybody,” Landon said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

They reached the door, and Landon pushed it open with his foot.

 

Just before they stepped outside, Nic made one last visual sweep of the room.

 

And she called out, “Delia? Are you here, too?”

 

Then the door closed.

 

I stayed in the corner, where I’d been since Eliza ordered me there. Through the frosty windows, I watched Landon load Nic into the passenger seat and then run around to the driver’s side. The car bumped away from the house and disappeared around the corner.

 

Eliza sighed and sat back. She looked drained.

 

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for saving her life.”

 

“Well, it wouldn’t have been necessary if—” Her harsh words cut off suddenly. I saw deep sadness in her eyes, and I saw them grow even sadder as she stared into mine. Slowly, she got to her feet. “Delia, you need to be more careful. You can’t go on this way.”

 

“I know,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

 

She nodded, and I could tell her thoughts had strayed to something heavy and painful, from some distant time.

 

“Why did you ask me about the smoke?” I asked. “Did something happen to you when you were here?”

 

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said. “The past is in the past. And if you’re wise, you’ll learn to accept your place and stop trying to change the way the world works.”

 

“But why?” I asked.

 

“Because,” she said. “You’re still just a child, aren’t you? And there’s no limit to the destruction that a child can cause.”

 

Her words went through me like a knife. For once I saw my actions from someone else’s point of view. Saw the stupidity of my recklessness.

 

“If the past is kind enough to disappear into oblivion, we should be grateful,” Eliza said, staring at the floor. “We should take it for the gift that it is. Trust me … I know.”

 

Then she walked away and disappeared through the wall, leaving me alone in the wrecked and bloodied room.

 

 

 

 

 

I stood in that spot until the shadows grew blue and long. Until the sky began to turn purple and orange and the night mist crept up from the horizon and enveloped the world in an eerie glow.

 

I don’t know how long I would have stayed there if I hadn’t heard the voice:

 

“Delia …”

 

It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. I may have been in a daze, but I was aware enough to be frightened. The problem is, when you don’t know where something is, it’s impossible to run away from it.

 

“Delia …”

 

“Hello?” I said.

 

I dashed through the wall, into the dark hallway, and continued through to the kitchen. There, I found myself looking at a ghostly woman dressed in a crisp white-aproned nurse’s uniform. Her name tag read NURSE CARLSON and she carried a metal tray—judging by the distinctive rust spot on one side, it was the exact same metal tray that I’d seen in the superintendent’s apartment and in the nurses’ office.

 

This lady really got around.

 

Her eyes were encircled with bluish-black bruises. Had she been the one saying my name?

 

She scowled at me. “You’d better get back to the ward before Dr. Normington sees you—whoever you are!” she snapped.

 

I stared at her without answering. She definitely hadn’t spoken my name before. She didn’t even know my name.

 

“Go!” Her voice rose to a shrill howl. She dropped the tray to the floor with a deafening clank. “Go! You’re bad, just like the rest of them! You’re all bad! You deserve what you get here! Bad, crazy girls! Look what you did to me! Just look at me!”

 

I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t want to do anything but turn and run the other way. So that’s what I did—out of the kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs to the second floor.

 

“Delia …”

 

The voice was like the breath of a stranger on the back of my neck. It made me feel like I was being smothered by something I couldn’t even see.

 

There was nowhere left to run.

 

Except up. To the third floor.

 

*

 

On the third-floor landing, I paused outside a door painted in layers of peeling paint. The metal sign, which had nearly crusted over with damp-looking blue corrosion, proclaimed LONG-TERM CARE.

 

I pushed it open and found myself in a large room. With the exception of a few wood benches bolted into place under the windows, which were covered in a thick mesh of chicken wire, the space was bare—there was nothing here except the stained tile floor and sickly green walls. There wasn’t a single picture, no chairs. No fireplace, rug, piano, tables, or lamps. Nothing to suggest comfort or a sense of home. This was the day room for the lifers.