The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall

 

Then there appeared a woman who looked to be in her early forties. Her gray-streaked black hair rested in a large topknot at the crown of her head. Her dress was dull blue, floor length, and partly covered by a dingy white apron with threadbare edges. A pair of wire-frame reading glasses rested on her nose. She was one of those people who could have been pretty, if there had been any spark of light or joy in her eyes. But instead, there was an aggressive kind of bitterness, and it made her look plain and tired.

 

She glared at me, then went back to her work, moving her hands in intricate motions, making delicate adjustments and small, pulling gestures. It was some kind of knitting … only without any actual needles or yarn. Her movements were hypnotic, and I lost myself in watching her fingers deftly maneuver their invisible tasks.

 

She studiously ignored me.

 

My sister carefully placed one letter back on the table.

 

The woman glanced at the offending envelope, then swiped at it with a swiftness approaching violence. It tumbled off the side.

 

Janie let out a nervous, disbelieving laugh, then seemed to remember how utterly freaky this was and took a few steps back.

 

After a minute, she leaned forward and delicately set one of her (many) skull rings about an inch away from the edge of the table.

 

For nearly a minute, nothing happened. Janie visibly relaxed. But then the woman reached out and knocked the ring to the floor, where it bounced and skittered before coming to a stop just past my sister.

 

Janie gasped.

 

“What are you doing?” I said to her. “Why are you just standing there? Go! Go down and see Mom! Tell her about this! Tell her you want to leave!”

 

Except … my sister didn’t want to leave. She scooped her ring off the floor and came right back. This time she set the ring dead center on the tabletop. The old woman shoved it off with so much force that it shot up and hit Janie squarely in the side of the jaw.

 

Enough.

 

“Hey, lady!” I snapped, anger rising inside me. “That’s my little sister!”

 

The woman finally looked up. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

 

“Don’t you ever try to hurt her again,” I said, standing right above her. “Do you understand?”

 

She scowled.

 

“That scarf you’re knitting?” I said, feeling the power of my anger growing like a flame inside me. “I’ll—I’ll tear it to shreds. I’ll set it on fire.”

 

The woman’s snarl turned to a confused, frightened expression, and she cradled her imaginary knitting close to her body. “It’s not a scarf. It’s a blanket. For my little girl.” She bundled it up and clutched it to her cheek. “She needs it. She’s so cold without it.”

 

Her tone was so woeful that the heat of my anger cooled. “I won’t touch it,” I said. “But you need to be nice. Don’t try to hurt my sister.”

 

The woman looked down at the blanket.

 

“Okay?” I said. “Say okay.”

 

“Okay,” she said, pursing her lips. “But I don’t see why you have to threaten me.”

 

“Sorry,” I said. “You were acting pretty crazy.”

 

She cracked a small smile and looked at me through eyes that looked less insane than just plain exhausted. “We’re all crazy here,” she said.

 

“Yeah, well,” I said. “Maybe not all of us.”

 

She inclined her head toward Janie. “You’d better keep an eye on her,” she said.

 

“Trust me, I know,” I said. “So what’s your name?”

 

“It certainly isn’t Hey, lady.” She gave me a rueful smile. “I’m Penitence.”

 

“Delia,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

 

Penitence nodded and turned her attention back to the invisible blanket, an impossible hint of a smile on her thin gray lips.

 

Janie, done playing with the forces at work near the table, stepped toward the wall and rested her palm on it. All the stubborn resoluteness went out of her. She looked like a rag doll, her eyes overflowing with tears. Her head dropped forward, and her fingers curled into a trembling fist.

 

“I’m sorry, Delia,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for everything. It’s my fault.”

 

“No, Janie,” I pleaded. “Don’t say that. It had nothing to do with you.”

 

She rushed into the ward hall. I had to run to keep up with her. She went straight into the bathroom, splashed water on her face, and gulped in deep gasps of air.

 

Then, as she stared at herself in the mirror, something in her face changed. Her jaw clenched. Her eyebrows pressed into straight lines. Like she was loading up on strength.

 

What struck me the most was how practiced the gesture was. As if she’d been breaking down and then shoring herself up this way for years.

 

For four years.

 

From the bathroom, she went back to the day room and stood at the piano, turning the letters over in her hands. Finally, she grabbed her phone and loaded the hand-drawn map again.

 

Then I got it.

 

She was trying to figure out which room had been Aunt Cordelia’s.

 

I watched as my sister went out into the stairwell … and started to climb to the third floor.