The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall

 

I began to investigate, to look for a way to cleanse the house. The older such a force gets, the more powerful it becomes. I considered, at one point, simply burning down the building, but I believe that demolishing the house will not rob it of its power—rather, it would simply cease to confine the spirits that dwell here any longer. The damage a force so wicked could do as a “free agent” is a terrifying thought to me. Not to mention that the unfortunate souls who call this place their home would be displaced and left to wander. A ghost needs a home or it becomes a wraith, a hopeless, pathetic creature living in eternal misery.

 

This is why you must find whatever is the center of the house’s power. And you must destroy it. I have never been able to find it, though I have devoted the past several years of my life to looking. Now, the house is fighting back. It is hoping to catch me off guard. I imagine that one day it will succeed, and that will be the end of me—on this plane, at least.

 

The task I’ve given you is unfair. I understand that. I’m expecting you to succeed where I have failed. But trust me when I say that if I didn’t believe you would be able to do this, I wouldn’t ask you to. We Pivens are made of stern stuff.

 

Our ancestor, by creating such a place, has caused much death and destruction. And so I believe that, as Pivens, it is our duty to clear the evil from the earthly realm.

 

So you see, Little Namesake, this is why I have decided that you must have the house. I rely on you, in the event of my failure, to see this mission through. Once the evil is removed, and the poor spirits who are trapped here have been freed to move on as well, then you may do whatever you like with the property.

 

You can probably sell it for quite a bit of money, enough to make you comfortable and reward you for a noble task well carried out. Your only stipulation in selling it should be that the building will be destroyed. A building with a history such as this one has does not deserve to stand. It has committed its own crimes, and it must pay its own price.

 

I think that before I mail this letter, I will send you a bit of history about the house, which I have yet to write. I am sorry for going out of order, but I feared my bouts of forgetfulness would grow worse before I had a chance to put this down clearly for you.

 

In spite of the years and distance, I remain,

 

Your fond aunt,

 

Cordelia Jane Piven

 

PS—If you ever need assistance, go to the third floor. Bring some nice pictures cut from a magazine. I have a little visitor of whom I am very fond. Be clear in asking her for help and I am confident that she will do her best for you.

 

 

 

 

 

I set the letter down.

 

“Was it a nice letter?” Maria asked.

 

“No,” I said. “But she said something very nice about you.”

 

Her eyes lit up. I was growing used to looking at her. My mind played along, reconstructing how she once might have looked, molding the distortedness of her features into the face of a little girl.

 

“So why did you try to attack me that day?” I asked. “Right after I died?”

 

She blinked and stared up in surprise. “Attack you?”

 

“When you had the sheet on. You were coming closer.”

 

“I only wanted to see you,” she said. “I wanted to meet you.”

 

“You weren’t going to hurt me?”

 

“Oh no.” She shook her head. “I had the sheet on because I didn’t want you to be afraid of me.”

 

Was everything I’d heard about Maria a lie? I recalled what Florence had told me—that the little girl had tried to kill her own father.

 

“Did you ever hurt someone?” I asked. “A man?”

 

Her shoulders slumped and her chin sank to meet her chest.

 

“Maria, it’s okay. You can tell me. I almost killed a person once.”

 

She glanced up at me. “You did? Were you naughty?”

 

“Very.” I nodded. “I lost my temper.”

 

“I was naughty,” she said. Then she raised her head and looked at me, a burning intensity in her gaze and a hint of rebellion in her voice. “I used to imagine hurting him. He wasn’t nice. He was very, very unkind to all the ladies. He told me he would take me away from my mother. And then … one day … he did. Up to the third floor.”

 

“Who was the bad man?” I asked. “Was it Maxwell?”

 

She buried her face in her hands and didn’t answer.

 

“Did you hurt him, Maria?”

 

“No!” She shrank away, as if I might roughly grab her and demand an answer. “It wasn’t me. I’m not the one who hurt him. But I’m glad he got hurt.”

 

“Who did it?” I asked. “Please tell me.”

 

She pressed her lips together. A tear glistened at the corner of her eye.

 

“Okay, it’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me who it was. But do you know what she did to him?”

 

“Of course I do,” she said. “She made a cake. But it wasn’t her fault—the other part.”