The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall

 

In the day room, I found Penitence wringing her hands in a panic. “She was here! She never comes to the second floor. But she came, and she attacked them, and she …”

 

I didn’t need to ask who. I pushed past her. “Where?”

 

“In Room 2,” Penitence said. “But—”

 

“Are they okay?” I asked.

 

Penitence stared at me without answering.

 

I raced through the day room, trying to assure myself that everything would be fine. If Florence had kept her secret this long, she was probably waiting for some big moment to reveal herself, right?

 

I swung into the ward hall and froze. All was quiet.

 

They’re fine, I told myself. Everything is fine.

 

Then I heard a whimper from my sister’s room.

 

I ran in. The first thing I saw was my mother, stretched out on the bed, half-asleep.

 

But no Janie.

 

A faint ringing sound broke the silence—followed by a voice so wretched and weak that I hardly recognized it. “Delia?”

 

I rushed to the other side of the bed, where Eliza lay on the floor. Her left arm rested limply on her side, hideously bruised and broken looking. Both of her legs looked similarly abused, and her hair seemed to be coming out in large clumps.

 

“Florence did this,” Eliza whispered. She shivered violently. “When I tried to leave, she attacked me. Then she came up here. She was going to hurt your mother, but Janie and I stopped her just in time.”

 

“Where is she now?” I asked. “My sister, where is she?”

 

Eliza lifted her head, and when I saw her face, I nearly recoiled. A blistered, blackened line stretched diagonally from her hairline, across a ruined eye and nose, through the corner of her discolored lips, and ended in a gaping, dark wound at the tip of her chin.

 

“The smoke,” she said. “The smoke took over your sister, and mesmerized her. They left together.”

 

I went limp. Janie could be dead by now.

 

“I think your sister is alive,” Eliza said. “Florence is probably using her … as bait. To catch you.”

 

That gave me a hint of hope. “I have to go,” I said. “I have to find Janie. But I’ll be back.”

 

“Go,” Eliza urged. “But be careful.”

 

“Penitence!” I called, running out. “I’m going downstairs. Keep Eliza and my mother safe.”

 

“What are you going to do?” she asked, following me to the door. “You can’t fight her! You have no idea how strong she is. She’s tapped into some kind of dangerous power.”

 

“Yeah, well, too bad,” I said, shoving the door open and starting down the stairs. “So have I.”

 

Florence was evil. She wasn’t the evil force in the house, but she was tapped into it—maybe obsessed with it, or she wouldn’t have sent Maria to bring her the black fire.

 

She only likes good girls.

 

She bullied and assaulted the ghosts who tested the limits or failed to abide by her standards. How long had she been watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake so she could punish me?

 

And now she had my sister.

 

I stopped in the kitchen, grabbed a container of salt from the pantry, and pushed open the door to the lobby.

 

Florence was posed on the couch, as lovely as a painting, wearing her brightest, most glittering smile.

 

“Well, hello there, sugar,” she said. “Lookin’ for me?”

 

 

 

 

 

I started to take a step toward her, but she held up a hand.

 

“Halt,” she said. “Just wait right there, if you please. There’s another guest coming to this party, and I’d hate for you to miss her.”

 

The door opened behind me. “Delia … ?”

 

I spun around and found myself looking into my sister’s eyes. I’d tried to brace myself, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight.

 

They were wide, amazed.

 

Don’t fall for it, I told myself. It’s a trick.

 

But there wasn’t a glimmer of evil in Janie’s expression.

 

“Delia, is it really you? Can you hear me?”

 

I tried to block out the sound of her voice saying my name—it cut too deeply, right to my core, and brought back too many memories, too much pain.

 

“I can’t believe it,” Janie said. “You’re here. There’s so much I need to tell you.”

 

I took a step back. “No,” I said. “You’re not my sister.”

 

“But, Deedee, you know I am. Of course I am.”

 

She spoke like my sister. She reasoned like my sister. I began to feel that I’d be willing to let the house do whatever it wanted, if only I could see and talk to my sister. Maybe there was some kind of deal we could strike.

 

No. No. That was exactly what the house was trying to do to me—use my sister to break down my defenses.

 

“What did Mom used to say to us?” I felt like I was going to choke on my own sadness. “Every night before bed, when we were young?”

 

She smiled tenderly. “You tell me.”

 

“Just say it, Janie,” I said. “And then I’ll know it’s you.”

 

Her smile faltered.

 

“You don’t know,” I whispered. “Because you’re not her. You’re just a monster.”