The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall
By: Katie Alender
I stood in awe for a moment. Judging by their sheer number, I guessed that these were the records from the entire history of the institute. Every girl who came in was probably notated in here—her treatments, symptoms, illnesses … maybe even her death.
Janie went straight for one in the middle and pulled it open, revealing olive-green file folders. She thumbed through the yellowed tabs, and, not finding what she wanted, closed that drawer and went farther left. More file folders. Still the wrong ones.
She went all the way to the leftmost cabinet and opened it.
Instead of folders, this one held large, leather-bound books whose covers were coming off in chunks and strips. Janie pulled out the top one and shone her light on it. In faded gold leaf, the cover read PIVEN INSTITUTE, 1866–1873. These were the very earliest patient records, before they moved to a more organized alphabetized system.
Flipping page after page, Janie examined the entries, each of which bore the name of a different patient, her age, and a note about her life pre-institute—Hilda Hargreave, 29, mother of 4, housewife. Catherine Scales, 67, dressmaker, spinster. They were handwritten logs with messily scribbled notations.
Most of them had a large note scrawled across the top: DISCHARGED, and a date. But a few of them didn’t—the ones that were labeled DECEASED.
About a third of the way through the book, Janie stopped and leaned to get a closer look at the text, her interest caught.
I looked over her shoulder at the name that had grabbed her attention:
Penitence Piven, 36, mother of 1, widow, former wardress of the Piven Institute.
Piven? Push-everything-off-the-table Penitence was a Piven? She and I were related?
I thought of Aunt Cordelia’s unsent letter, where she mentioned that the institute had been founded by a man so cruel and controlling that he’d locked up his own daughter, just because he could.
Janie was making her way down the notes on Penitence’s page of records. The first five, all made in different handwriting, were the same:
Remains uncooperative. Insists on seeing child.
But the sixth was different.
TREATMENT: Water therapy. 1st sign of acquiescence.
The next note made Janie draw in an indignant breath.
DIAGNOSIS: Female hysteria.
“Of course it was,” Janie muttered. She turned the page again and came to the end of the notes about Penitence. The very last one read simply, in very clear handwriting, Died, natural causes. There wasn’t even a year listed.
My sister suddenly raised her nose and sniffed the air. The putrid scent of the dead shadow had crossed over to her plane of existence and was filling the room.
That motivated her to wrap things up. She replaced the book in the cabinet, then brushed her hands on her jeans and walked back to the stairs.
I watched her climb safely back to the first floor, but I stayed downstairs. I needed to find a wrench. And since I figured I should wait a couple of minutes before trying to sneak it upstairs, I decided to do a little research of my own.
I went to the files and flipped through the Bs until I found Beauregard, Florence. But her file, and those around it, were so damaged by age and dampness that the ink was illegible. All I could make out was the typewritten DECEASED at the top.
Next, I looked through the D drawers until I came to Duncombe, Eliza. I pulled the file and began to read.
*
“How did it go?” Eliza asked eagerly, appearing in the hall. “Did you find a wrench to hit the pipe with? What about the shadow?”
“Killed it,” I said, walking past her.
She began to follow me. “Wow. Great. Impressive. Next, we need to—”
“We,” I said, turning on her, “are not going to do anything. You are going to stay away from me and my family. Understand?”
Eliza’s face fell.
My initial plan had been to storm away, full of righteousness and cold fury, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to express my anger. “You’ve lied to me the entire time I’ve known you,” I said. “This whole time, you’ve pretended to be some innocent victim.”
Eliza seemed practically frozen. Her voice was a whisper. “What did you find down there?”
“Everything,” I said. “Your patient records, the news articles …”
She turned paler—her whole body became more transparent. “But … but those are kept in the attic. At least, they used to be.”
“Well, now they’re in the basement,” I said. I started to walk away, then stopped to stash the wrench on an open shelf near the stairwell entrance.
She followed, hot on my heels. “Don’t you dare judge me, Delia! You’ve no idea what really happened—”
“No idea?” I said. “Pardon me—did you or did you not kill your own brother and sister?”
She didn’t answer. A shudder passed through her entire body.