The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall

 

My heart thunked to the bottom of my chest at the sight of my own name, listed by itself farther down the page. But I was also intrigued. I was part of a pattern, an investigation … At least somebody thought there was something odd about my death. I just wished that “somebody” wasn’t my little sister.

 

Mom, still believing my death was a simple suicide, had come here to make the final pre-sale adjustments to the property. But something told me she had no idea that Janie had a completely different goal—to actively seek out the truth about what had happened to me.

 

When I was alive, Janie had been sweet, flighty, and lighthearted. Now there was a spark inside her, some sizzling, simmering tension. I could see it in her eyes as they anxiously skimmed the laptop screen, in the quickness of her fingers as they tapped out words on the keyboard. In her taut, wiry posture. She was after something.

 

And she was determined to find it.

 

There was a sudden, urgent knock on the door. My sister yanked her bag over her computer just as Mom pulled the door open. The sternness of my mother’s expression silenced any protests before Janie could voice them.

 

“I know you don’t like it here,” Mom said, “but that is no reason to deface the property, is that clear?”

 

Janie frowned. “Um … sure?”

 

So Mom had seen the mess Eliza and I made on the ward door … and she thought Janie was responsible.

 

They stared at each other for a long beat, until Mom said, “Okay. I’m going to town to buy some groceries and grab a few things at the hardware store. Want to come?”

 

“No, thanks,” my sister said. “Just bring back some real food. I want Cheetos.”

 

Mom nodded and shut the door.

 

Janie slipped her earbuds in her ears and flopped back on the bed with her eyes closed. But after a couple of minutes, she sat up and switched off the music.

 

Standing in the doorway, listening down the hall for any movement, she called, “Mom? You still here?”

 

No answer.

 

A few minutes later, Janie sat in front of the ward door with a rag and a bottle of cleaning solution, scrubbing with all her strength. When the bold orange marks had been reduced to a few pale streaks, she sat with her back against the wall and let the rag drop to the floor.

 

“I don’t care who you are or what you do to me,” she said aloud. “I’m going to find out what really happened to my sister.”

 

“Yes, that’s very brave,” I said. “But you still need to be careful, you crazy dumbhead.”

 

She obviously had some idea that this place wasn’t all it seemed. She was already wary enough to protect herself using salt. But then I realized, with dread making its way down my spine like some frozen liquid, that salt might not be enough of a defense against a force that could slide through the very walls and seep into your mind.

 

My sister had brought a knife to a ghost fight.

 

And what’s more, she was in terrible danger. Because my sister had become exactly what I had been, back four years earlier when the house had found me irresistible:

 

Janie was a troubled female.

 

 

 

 

 

Operation Just Leave, Already was under way. Eliza had identified a rusted pipe in the bathroom, one that, with a little slamming from a wrench or sledgehammer, might shatter and flood the place.

 

The tools were in the basement, presumably under the watch of another shadow creature. So that’s where I was headed.

 

The kitchen pantry was packed with salt. Standing surrounded by navy-blue cartons of the stuff, my skin thrummed and my nose and mouth filled with acrid, salty fumes. But I was able to pick up one of the cannisters and carry it out to the counter.

 

I needed to transfer it to a container that would make it easy to aim and throw. I found a scratched-up metal measuring cup and filled it with salt, then pushed open the kitchen door with my hip. A thrill of satisfaction went through me at the ease with which I’d been able to do it—as if I had an actual body.

 

I was starting to get my dead groove on. I just hoped I wouldn’t be shredded into spaghetti by a shadow monster before I got to enjoy it.

 

Then I faced the basement door. It was locked, so I set the metal cup down and passed through the solid wood, intending to turn the lock from inside and go back for the salt.

 

I had to hurry—no doubt my ghostly blue glow was enough to grab the attention of any lurking shadow creature.

 

But just as I was struggling to get a grip on the lock, it turned from the other side. I slipped back through the door and found myself face-to-face with Janie, who stood with the keys in her hand and that Nancy Drew look in her eyes.

 

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Don’t go down there! Have you never seen a horror movie?”

 

Suddenly, there was a tremendous thump against the basement door.