The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall

 

“I did it myself!” she burst out. “I did it; I put the straps on my own legs and said it was you because I was trying to get you in trouble … I was such a bad person.”

 

She was talking about the day I died—when she’d been strapped into the bed. I tried to recall the details of the incident. She’d been asleep, and some evil spirit from the house had trapped her in the bed.

 

“I did it.” She was wretched, her voice empty. “I did my ankles and then I slipped my hands through the wrist ones and … and then I blamed you. That’s why they locked the door to your room. Then you died.”

 

This logic probably made sense to her fifteen-year-old brain. Probably when one pulls a stupid prank, and gets one’s sister in trouble for it, and something tragic happens to one’s sister, it’s natural for one to blame oneself. I could understand how, to a living human, with—no offense—a somewhat limited perspective on reality and existence, this might make sense.

 

But to me, it was utter nonsense.

 

“That’s not why I died,” I said. “Are you kidding me? This house was never going to let me leave.”

 

She hunched over, sobbing. “I’m sorry, Delia. I’m sorry.”

 

My impatience was close to bubbling over, and in the mash-up of emotions, some distant big-sister part of my brain took over.

 

I grabbed her by the shoulders, and she gasped.

 

“Now, listen up,” I said. “I wasn’t the best big sister. I didn’t look out for you the way I should have. But if you think I’m going to let you sit here and throw yourself a pity party while an evil force tries to murder you, you’re deluded. You weren’t a bad person. You were a twerp. There is a world of difference.”

 

Her eyes bored straight into mine. “Delia?” she whispered.

 

“Now, I’m really sorry about this, because you’re going to have to get a tetanus shot,” I said. Then I dragged her toward the incinerator, grabbed her hand, wrestled one of her fingers away from the others, and scraped it on a sharp piece of metal sticking out from the door.

 

“Ouch!” she squealed. But she didn’t try to get away.

 

Apparently, all those times I wrestled her into submission were in preparation for this, the day she would need to recognize my particular headlock style and not struggle out of it.

 

“Okay,” she said, grabbing her arm away and swatting at me. “Fine.”

 

A spot of blood was beginning to pool on the tip of her wounded finger.

 

“I need to just drop it in there, right?” She reached her hand just inside the incinerator, pressed her thumb against the cut finger, and squeezed.

 

As the drop of blood began to fall, time slowed down.

 

The blood hovered in the air, and my sister’s face was an unmoving mask of determination.

 

Shivers traveled over me like a cloak, and I knew we were no longer alone.

 

I turned around.

 

The basement behind me was filled with smoke, swirling and churning at a barely perceptible speed.

 

And out of the smoke came a voice: “Delia …”

 

I moved myself to block my sister—as if anything I did could prevent the fog from invading her body and soul.

 

I expected a shadow creature to leap out at me like a monstrous predator, ready to tear me to pieces.

 

But instead of a vicious attack, what came next was the slow, simple sound of footsteps.

 

A silver-haired man walked out of the mist, wearing a plain black suit with a crisp white collar and a red silk necktie. He was clean-shaven, and something about his easy confidence made me think of an old-fashioned movie star. On his hands were white gloves. With one hand he easily removed the rounded black hat from his head, and a moment later it disappeared into thin air.

 

Then he gave me a little bow and a polite smile.

 

“Delia,” he said warmly. “What a pleasure to meet you at last, my dear.”

 

And there it was. The voice I’d been hearing since the day I died.

 

I tensed as he came closer. Noticing this, he stopped and held his hands up as if to show me he was unarmed.

 

“I am your great-great-great-great—oh, I don’t know. Let’s just say grandfather. I’m your grandfather, Maxwell Piven.” His voice was deep and welcoming. Trustworthy. A home-for-the-holidays kind of voice. It was hard to believe he was the father of Penitence, whose gritty plainness was the stark opposite of this effortless self-assurance.

 

He appeared to be charming and courteous. His eyes showed no hint of the psychotic control freak I would have expected, and he (unlike me) didn’t seem poised to strike at any moment.

 

“May we have a little talk?” he asked.