The Dead Girls of Hysteria Hall (24 page)

But my sister made a move to turn the page. Summoning all my strength, I reached down and pinned the paper in place so she couldn’t do it.

For a confused moment, she tried again. Then she understood.

She leaned over the page and began to silently read. A moment later, she inhaled a little “ah!” sound, and I knew she’d found the poem. After reading it over, she sat up. “I get the dark fire, but the ‘blood of light’? What’s the ‘blood of light’?”

She reread the poem.

“It’s about innocence,” she said out loud. “It’s supposed to be the blood of an innocent person. And you thought I could be the innocent person …”

“Yes, yes, yes,” I said. “Smart girl. So, so smart.”

But Janie slumped over, pressing her hand over her eyes. Then she swallowed hard and looked up.

“I’m sorry, Delia,” she said. “I would do it, but it wouldn’t work. I’m not—innocent.”

If I could have grabbed her by the shoulders and shaken her, I would have. “Stop. Just stop it. You had nothing to do with my death—”

“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.

“Be my guest,” I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest. His easy, casual manner made me uncomfortable and self-conscious. I would have preferred a harsh taskmaster or a vicious bully—someone I could fight. But he didn’t seem interested in fighting.

“Ah, but
you
are
my
guest.” He leaned casually against one of the tall shelves and proceeded to start pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time. “And that is why we need to speak. I confess that I am … troubled. While I do feel quite a bit of admiration for what you’re doing—what you
think
you’re doing—I’m concerned that it may have unintended consequences. And I see that you’re concerned, as well.”

I didn’t understand what he meant, and my expression must have telegraphed my cluelessness. He gestured around the basement.

“
You
control your own sense of time,” he said. “Judging by the fact that you’ve created a distortion in this moment, I can only guess that you were apprehensive about your course of action. It’s understandable that you must be dreading the choice ahead of you.”

“What choice?” I asked.

“You face a terrible decision, Delia,” he said, frowning. “It was very clever, employing the blood of an innocent to quench the dark fire. I’m gratified that you show an appreciation for Lord Lindley, a truly fine man and poet. But the time has come now to choose, dear child … Who will survive?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He sighed, as if he was regretful to have to deliver difficult news. “When Jane’s blood touches the dark fire, it will ignite a fuel that has been accruing for nearly one hundred and fifty years. This old incinerator simply won’t be capable of containing the explosion. Therefore, you have two options, the first being to pull your sister away and seal the hatch closed. It will hold, sending the bulk of the force upward through the chimneys, which as you and I both know are already compromised. These particular chimneys go through the wall bordering the lobby—and unfortunately, their weakest point is located just on the other side of the room in which your dear mother and father are, at this very moment, desperately trying to reach your sister. The faulty chimney will no doubt fail at that exact point, effectively destroying the lobby and everything contained within it, including your parents.” He paused. “Your other choice is simply to leave the hatch open, thereby sacrificing your sister in the resultant blast, but saving your parents.”

There was a long silence during which I tried to figure out whether he was lying and came to the conclusion that he wasn’t.

His voice became gentler. “I don’t mean to offer advice, but in your place, I would save your sister. Your parents would most certainly prefer to perish in order to spare her life.”

“I can just get my sister to safety,” I said. “I’ll take her out of the basement—how hard is that?”

“Ah,” he said softly. “But you see, you are at a crossroads—as you always are when you distort time. One must
choose
at a crossroads; one cannot simply plunge forward, off the path. Simply put, your subconscious would return time to its normal state before you were able to get your sister to safety. Of course, you’re more than welcome to try. But even if you do, I would still close the hatch. As I said, I believe your parents would much rather your sister survive than themselves.”

“Shut up!” I said, gritting my teeth. “You’re evil—of course you’re going to come here and torment me—”

“Torment?” he repeated, a sympathetic lilt in his voice. “Oh no. Delia, I’ve come to help you. I bring an alternative to both of those tragic outcomes.”

The room seemed to be growing warmer, as if the supernatural smoke was already being transformed into blisteringly hot
real
smoke.

“I don’t believe you,” I said. “Why would you help me?”

“You’re smart,” he said. “And you show initiative, which I appreciate very much. My own daughter never quite did; her passivity gave her a lifetime of unhappiness. Therefore, I’m here to offer a compromise. One I think you’ll agree is exceedingly fair.”

“What?” I asked.

“All you must do is reach over and intercept that drop of blood before it makes contact with the fire,” he said, delicately demonstrating in pantomime. “Catch it in your hand and drop it anywhere
outside
of the incinerator.”

“Why should I do that?” I asked.

“Because if you do, I’ll let your family live. I’ll release them from captivity here … and I’ll release you as well.” He stepped closer, hand pressed to his heart. “I know that your fondest wish is to return to your home and live among them. To belong. To be loved. This way, your wish will be a reality.”

“Like you’d let me go,” I said. “After you
murdered
me to make me stay.”

He laughed then, a genteel little laugh, and touched his lips with the spotless white handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “My dear, you must believe me when I tell you that, had I known the extent of your inquisitive nature, I would have reconsidered that decision. You’re quite a match for me, and I don’t mind admitting it. It does reflect well on the family, after all.”

I felt a creeping sense of disgust, watching him stand there like he was posing for a magazine ad for ascots or whatever, all while he spoke so casually of life and death and destruction.

And yet, his offer—if it was genuine—did seem shockingly fair. All he wanted was me out of his hair. For that, he was willing to let my entire family escape unharmed. Not to mention that Janie knew I existed now. Who was to say she and I wouldn’t find some way to communicate? I could live with her, be her friend. Like some oddball sitcom:
My Sister, the Ghost.

All for the price of … what? Of
not
causing an explosion that would be the death of my sister or parents—or possibly all of them? Because even if I closed the hatch, Janie would still have to find her way out of a giant burning building.

I could take the deal, get my parents and Janie out of the house, and go. Leave with them. Never come back.

It seemed ridiculously clear. What was I going to do, let them die?

Take the deal.

I looked at Maxwell, who didn’t seem overeager to hear my response; he stood with perfect patience, rocking back slightly on his heels.

“Are you
really
Maxwell?” I asked.

The question surprised him, though he tried to hide it. “Who else would I be?”

I shrugged. “You tell me.”

He narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

“Because I don’t think you’re Maxwell,” I said. “You’re too friendly.”

He laughed. “Well … thank you? Though I don’t suppose that’s a compliment.”

“I don’t think Maxwell would have negotiated with me,” I said. “I think he would have tried to move the blood himself. But you can’t do that, can you … ? Because you’re just smoke and mirrors.”

A shock of darkness passed through his eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You’re only pretending to be confident,” I said. “The real Maxwell wouldn’t have been afraid of me.”

He didn’t answer, but his body shimmered helplessly for a split second.

“You’re not even a real ghost,” I said. “You’re only something horrible, pretending to be a ghost. Without your shadows and smoke, you’re weak. You’re not even strong enough to touch me. You can’t stop the blood, and you can’t stop me … no matter what I decide to do.”

The expression on his face shifted, but as it did, his whole face loosened, like melting wax, as if he were unable to control the mask he hid behind. He tried to snap it back, but it was a clumsy effort. The face I was looking at no longer resembled Maxwell’s.

“If you could stop me,” I said, stepping toward him, “you’d grab my arm before I could slap you.”

Then I drew back my hand and smacked him. Part of me had expected a strong grip on my wrist, a brutal counterblow. But my hand went right through the smoke that formed his face and sent little eddies spinning through it.

“See? I’m stronger than you,” I said. “I’m a pretty powerful ghost, actually.”

He didn’t reply—he couldn’t, because his face had lost its form. It was like the signal was scrambled.

That was fine. I didn’t need to talk anymore. I knew what I was going to do.

But it had to be done quickly.

My parents and sister weren’t going to die today. But I also wasn’t going to run away and abandon the other souls who’d been trapped here for a century or more. I wasn’t going to leave this contaminated building standing, hungry, while more innocent victims were delivered to it like a takeout meal.