The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall

 

I blinked as my brain tried to catch up to my eyes. I almost freaked out, but managed to hold it together long enough to kneel and look under the table. Sure enough, my gray cardigan lay in a crumpled heap. I grabbed it and shook out the dust bunnies.

 

That was when I noticed what was strange about the table where I’d set it—

 

The polished wood tabletop gleamed in the low light, bare and lustrous.

 

Unlike every other surface in the entire building, there wasn’t so much as a single speck of dust on it.

 

*

 

My footsteps echoed off the narrow stairway walls as if someone else was right behind me.

 

Once I was in the hall, I went through the door I assumed would lead me back to the nurses’ office, from which I’d find my way out to the lobby and then back to my parents. But by the time I’d stepped inside, reached for the light switch, and realized there was no light switch, the door had closed behind me—and locked.

 

I had the key ring in my pocket, but in the pitch-dark there was no way to know which key was the correct one. I fumbled for my phone, turned on the flashlight, and surveyed my surroundings. Shadows of the ornate hanging lamps leapt erratically in the motion of my flashlight. This wasn’t the nurses’ office. I’d found a shortcut back to the main hall.

 

The door to the superintendent’s apartment was the farthest one to my right, and I had no trouble finding it. But the knob wouldn’t turn—it was locked. I knocked a couple of times and then hung back, waiting for someone to come let me in.

 

Out of nowhere came the sound of bells ringing loudly, not two feet away from me.

 

I swung around, looking for its source.

 

Don’t jump to crazy conclusions, I told myself. Maybe Aunt Cordelia had a cat. That was possible, right? If she’d had a cat, and the cat had been alone since April, it would probably be eager to find someone new to feed it. It could be following me around—

 

Jingle jingle jingle.

 

Before I knew it, I was up against the wall, the line of the wood molding pressing into my lower back.

 

Jingle jingle.

 

There was no cat. There was no one but me.

 

In some of Aunt Cordelia’s letters, she’d said that even though she lived alone, she never felt truly alone. At the time I thought that was because she maybe had a lot of nice friends who came visiting.

 

Now I was starting to think she’d meant something else entirely.

 

Why were my parents not opening the door?

 

My hands shaking, I raised the key chain to my face and squinted at each key, scanning the peeling labels frantically. Finally, I found one that read SUPE-APT and stuck it in the keyhole.

 

Before I could turn it, though, the bells turned shrill—an unpleasant jangle rather than a gentle ringing. And still, no one—nothing—was there.

 

Then I heard a sound to my right—the sound of something being dragged.

 

I couldn’t even will myself to turn my body, so instead I just turned my head and my flashlight, fully prepared for the sight of some ancient, forgotten old mental patient who’d been hiding in the shadows, surviving all these years by eating rats.

 

I didn’t see an emaciated old woman.

 

But someone had been in the hall with me. The rug had been rolled back on itself, revealing a six-inch-tall letter scratched into the hardwood floor beneath it. More of Aunt Cordelia’s dementia-induced vandalism.

 

It was an E.

 

Driven by curiosity, I went to the far end of the rug and pulled the whole thing out of the way.

 

In the narrow spill of light from my phone, I read the first letter: a deeply gouged D.

 

I walked down the hall, piecing the words together as I saw each new letter.

 

O … N … T …

 

SELL THE HOUSE.

 

Then I noticed smaller letters, under the E in HOUSE. One last word. I held my phone closer.

 

DELIA.

 

The message was for me.

 

My dead great-aunt had gouged messages into the floor for me.

 

The light on my phone blinked out.

 

Adrenaline propelling me forward, I rushed back to the door, forcing the key to turn in the lock. I followed the sounds of my parents’ voices back to the dimly lit bedroom, where three silhouettes stood in the corner over a pile of luggage.

 

One of the silhouettes turned around.

 

“Honey?” Mom said.

 

I was too out of breath for a lengthy explanation. The words came out of my mouth in a puff.

 

“I can’t stay here,” I said. “I’m leaving. Tonight.”

 

 

 

 

 

As my eyes adjusted to the light, the first things I could make out were Dad’s raised eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

 

“I’m not staying here,” I said, gulping in another breath. “I can’t. I refuse.”

 

Mom’s face wrinkled in concern. “Delia, what happened? You look pale.”