The Evil Within

  “Someone should just shoot that guy,” he said.

  “Miles?”

  Troy didn’t reply. But his hand around mine became too tight, and my finger bones rubbed painfully together.

  “Ow,” I protested.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. “Sorry, Lindsay.” He kissed me again. “I’ll miss you.”

  “Same here.”

  “But we’ll have a great time.” In my head I heard Celia’s words again: Don’t trust Troy.

  In the shadows, he left me, brushing another kiss across my mouth. I walked back to Grose alone, turning my head automatically toward Jessel.

  Mandy’s mannequin was dressed in a camouflage jacket and a pair of jeans. It was hanging out of her window, its bare feet nearly brushing the top of a thorny bush in the yard.

  And there was an expertly tied hangman’s noose around its neck.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  February 8

  I didn’t know if I was glad that Dr. Melton had to cancel our next appointment. As I started reading Shayna’s library books, I began to obsess over alternate ways to get rid of Belle and Celia. Some of the rituals seemed so silly—pouring salt across your threshold—but others held what felt like a germ of truth—smashing all the mirrors in your house. Some said that restless spirits took control of the “sinful minded”—that would be Mandy—or those whose will had been weakened in some way. I thought of my bid for popularity and how I had bowed my will to Jane. I watched Mandy as she continued to pull pranks on my fellow Marlwood girls, forcing them to humiliate themselves to prove their desire to be one of her followers. Breakdowns in the making. Like mine.

  And Shayna’s.

  Knowing now that someone—Shayna—had watched me from afar and figured me out, I shut down a little more each day. Celia was wild inside me; I could feel her impatience—and sense Mandy’s eagerness for . . . what? For something to happen to me?

  I felt like I was going crazy, or crazier . . . sweaty and panicky, unsure of what was really happening . . .

  . . . except for the occasional landline calls I got from my “little brother Sam,” and the friendship of my sweet Julie, who, I could see, was getting more and more worried about me.

  And my nightmares . . . they were real.

  THEY TIE US DOWN to the table. They press cloths soaked in chloroform over the faces of the lucky ones; but those who have been especially bad, those girls get no help at all.

  He picks out the victims, Edwin Marlwood does, and he gives us numbers, like cows to the slaughterhouse. He gives the list to David Abernathy, who does the dirty work for him. Belle is Number One, and I am Seven; and between us are the girls who love Belle and hate me. The girls who have nearly drowned me, for her sake, to force me to deny my love for David.

  What do I care of them? Marlwood and his henchmen have moved us into the cells inside the operating theater, Numbers One through Seven. The others have come back slack-faced and empty of all care and all passion. They’re like dead things. That’s how he wants us, Edwin Marlwood. That’s how David leaves them, on his orders.

  Belle has been flirting with Mr. Truscott, the young orderly. She’s after a way to escape; and if that is the case, I say, God send His angels to her aid, and release us all from this pit of vipers. But I fear that I will not benefit from her acts of cunning; I will be left behind, to suffer the wrath of Marlwood. Unless, of course, David can manage to free me. My hated father sends money to ensure my continued imprisonment. If Dr. Marlwood were forced to tell him that I have escaped, surely my father would exact his revenge. I believe that it is only fear of scandal that keeps me alive, as it is.

  I hear the clank of the keys, the thud of men’s footfalls; and distantly, I hear Lydia’s screams. Oh God, they’re coming for us! That’s why we’ve been moved. They’re going to strap us down and wheel us into the operating theater.

  The stench of smoke slides down my throat like sorghum molasses. The fire is the whirlwind of hell. Now Pearl is shrieking. And Martha. Anna, and Henrietta. But I hear laughter, and singing. My love is like a red, red rose. Am I fleeing, or am I dancing, in his arms?

  Am I . . . am I really dying? Or is the hot wind carrying me up to the stars, the cold, unfeeling heavens, where I am saved? I feel so cold. I am so icy, in the hellstorm.

  She is pushing me under. Belle is pushing me under . . . in the tub? Or below the depths of the lake, where phantoms swim, and grab at me? And kill me?

  And kill me?

  But I cannot burn . . . I cannot die.

  I burn already . . .

  . . . For David . . .

  “David, help us,” I whispered, as I woke up.

  I was swaying inside the operating theater, in my pajamas and my Doc Martens. Half-frozen, teeth chattering, body quivering with cold, I had no memory of getting out of bed and walking there. None.

  I had nearly died there, two months before. Once a round, two-story structure of wood, slate, and metal, it had collapsed in on itself decades before. The balconies where eager young doctors and ghoulish spectators had watched Marlwood’s brilliant surgeon at work on the helpless inmates were rusted ribbons of iron and straight-backed seats. A basement sprawled, containing the cells where they had imprisoned their victims—Celia and the others—and the burned-away corridor with its missing door, still covered with ashes—the ashes of the dead, unmourned girls.

  My Doc Martens were coated with ash.

  I turned and gagged, and fell to my knees in complete, blind panic, on more ashes. I heard myself wheezing as if someone had drilled holes in my lungs, and I threw up. From the hole in the ceiling above me, the moon glowed down on everything that remained of the fire that Mandy and the other five had set last semester, trying to burn me alive.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I croaked, crawling as fast as I could over scraps of metal, bottles, and memories. “I know we’re in danger, I know, I know . . . ”

  And the word became “No, no, no” echoing and ricocheting off all the walls, girls screaming for their lives; hitting me like solid fists, knocking me over on my side. I smelled the smoke and as I sprawled, dazed, transparent flames shot up from the floor like geysers, flickering at first, then hotter. One licked at my hand and it burned. I smelled singeing hair—mine.

  “Don’t lock it!” I yelled, “Please, don’t!” and then I was racing up the stairs to the second level, as the floor of the theater crackled and girls screeched in agony. I barreled through the passageways, bashing into walls, slamming into rotted posts and tripping over piles of rubble. Heat engulfed me . . .

  . . . And then I flew outside, throwing myself into the snow. For a moment I could only pant; then I flipped over on my back to look at the building. It stood beneath the moon, no smoke, no fire, which is what I had expected.

  “Oh God,” I whispered, pounding my fists into the snow. “Just stop it.”

  Then I got up and ran as fast as I could—which wasn’t very fast, because I was half-frozen—back to Grose. I tore off my pajamas and wadded them in the trash. I cleaned up in the kitchen, and made myself some tea. No way was I going to go to bed.

  I picked up Exorcism Rituals from Around the World.

  And a card fell out. I picked it up. It was a calling card, like some girls used, with SHAYNA MAISEL, her email address, and her phone number.

  Her phone number.

  It was only eleven; I raced back into the kitchen and dialed it, wincing at the sound of each ring, hoping that she, and not her dad or her mom, would answer the phone.

  “Yeah,” she murmured.

  “Shayna, oh my God, Shayna,” I blurted. “It’s me, Lindsay.”

  There was a pause. For a minute I thought she had hung up.

  Then I heard weeping. “Lindsay,” she said. “Lindsay, they think I’m crazy.”

  “You’re not. You’re not,” I promised her, listening to her sad, low keening. I wanted to ask her what had happened to her. I wanted to know if Mandy
and Lara had done anything to make it worse.

  Instead, she said, “Tell me what’s going on.”

  So I did, filling her in on everything, including tonight’s visit to the operating theater. She listened intently; when I was done, she exhaled.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry I’m not there to help you,” she said. “If only you had told me, Lindsay.”

  Please come back, Shayna. I need you to come back.

  “I-I saw a man in the library. A ghost,” Shayna said. “He was sitting down, like at a desk, only no desk was there. And he was crying. It scared me so badly I just lost it. That’s what happened to me, Lindsay. That’s why I left.”

  “Oh,” I said, “Oh, Shayna—”

  “He was young. And he was holding a piece of jewelry.”

  Maybe it was one of those lockets, the ones David Abernathy gave to both of them.

  Shayna was quiet, thinking. “Maybe the ghost wants to say he’s sorry. Maybe he needs to be forgiven, so he can move on.”

  “Do you think . . . do you think that he’s possessing Troy?” I asked.

  “Possible. Look at him, torn between you and Mandy. Celia and Belle. It’s the same triangle.”

  “I-I really like him.”

  “Then you should finish it. Stay in it, and force it to be over.”

  “But what if—”

  “You have to,” she cut in. “Do it for Kiyoko. And for yourself, and everybody you care about.” She took a deep breath. “And do it for me. Because I can’t sleep. I never sleep anymore.”

  She hung up. I figured one of her parents had walked into the room. I stayed up pacing, counting down the minutes, waiting until it was a decent time to call her back. Shayna was back, and she was going to help me.

  But when I dialed her number again, it had been disconnected.

  VALENTINE’S DAY

  Courage is tiny pieces of fear all glued together.

  —Irisa Hail

  There is only one difference between a madman and me. I am not mad.

  —Salvador Dali

  TWENTY-FIVE

  February 14, my birthday

  possessions: me

  the pieces of the puzzle; i can almost feel them fitting together. but do i have them all?

  am i possessed, or am i obsessed?

  haunted by: too many questions

  listening to: who should i listen to?

  mood: fragmented

  possessions: them

  my answers? all the answers?

  haunted by: dead girls who don’t care if they live or die

  listening to: Mandy. mistake.

  mood: bitchy

  possessions: mandy

  she thinks she owns Troy.

  she knows she owns Miles.

  but she doesn’t own herself. Belle does.

  haunted by: unfinished business

  listening to: lies

  mood: mean, edgy, ready

  possessions: troy

  well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?

  A CANDY-RED LOTUS hummed in front of the admin building, and as I hesitated, the driver’s side opened and Troy stepped out. He was wearing a tux, and it showed off his broad shoulders and nonexistent hips. His dark hair was slicked back, accentuating his eyes and the angles of his face. He looked older and, if humanly possible, hotter than ever.

  I had never been on a date with a guy in a tux before, having not gone to the winter formal with Riley, of course. And I had never even seen a Lotus outside of a movie. I suddenly felt very shy, and weird. All this was way beyond me.

  I hadn’t expected him to get out of the car. I thought I’d sneak in and he’d peel out, as if we had committed a crime. To him, going out with me was sort of a crime, since he still hadn’t officially broken up with Mandy. To me, it was . . . wonderful at one level, highly terrifying at another. I knew now that at least on some level, I really was repeating the past. But this was different because Troy was good. Wasn’t he?

  “Lindsay,” he said, gawking at me.

  “Troy,” I retorted, highly self-conscious in the clothes my dormies had lent me—a red halter top of raw silk that loosely crossed just above my bra line, a little black leather motorcycle jacket, eensy gray jeans which made my legs look really long, and a pair of towering ebony slingbacks that, frankly, were a half size too small. Marica’s. Everything had been “created” by designers with single names. I had on rubies and diamonds, including a few that Marica had glued on my cheeks and left shoulder. Real? Probably. My wild dark mane was pinned partly back to show off the angles of my face, and I wore a faint berry stain on my lips. I had never looked this stunning in my life. Happy Birthday, me.

  In my pocket, I held Celia’s broken locket, as well as the silk crochet necklace with the crescent moon pendant that Troy gave me for Christmas. Knowing nothing of possession, but plenty about the true meaning of Valentine’s Day (the claiming of hearts), my friends had decided that in the case of Mandy, the honor system didn’t apply after all.

  Ever since our confrontation in the snow, Mandy had transformed into a crabby diva and hardly anyone could stand her. Where before she ruled the roost with some style, now she acted like an overtired, indulged two-year-old, sending her minions to fetch more bottled water or to go back to her room to grab her history book, or even to take notes in classes they shared with her because she didn’t feel like it.

  Mandy wasn’t sleeping well either.

  I thought somehow she would remember what had happened—that Belle would let her remember. But Mandy obviously didn’t recall our mutual revelation about David Abernathy, or maybe she didn’t think that had anything to do with her, and me, and Troy. Or maybe she did, and was plotting something way beyond my scope.

  Whatever the case, I was the one my dormies cared about, not Mandy; and I wasn’t acting like a bitch. So all gloves were off in the Troy sweepstakes; they styled me into the hottie I never was and served me up on stilettos.

  “You look amazing,” he said. “Not that you don’t in real life.”

  The “real life” comment reminded me that he was my snarkmate; while he was flushed and happy to be all dressed up and driving a Lotus, he acknowledged that there was an unreal aspect to it. Maybe even for him.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I ordered him. “This is just for . . . because.” That made no sense, but he grinned and swept a bow. I almost curtseyed before I thought just how wonky that would look. I felt wonky, and unsure. I had only gone out with one other guy in a boy-girl way—Riley, and that hadn’t turned out very well in the end.

  Riley could have turned out well after all. He was checking you out in the theater, I reminded myself. Before you started channeling Celia.

  Well, I was channeling her now, so there was no telling what would happen tonight. The thought made me itch, badly. Or else I was allergic to the glue Marica had used to apply the jewels.

  I had finished all of Shayna’s books. There were a lot of exorcism rituals in the world, and a lot of them required special equipment—rattles, bones, talismans, holy water, and crucifixes. I had even learned how to say the Ninety-First Psalm and the Ten Commandments in phonetic Hebrew, although I had no idea which word was which. Just in case.

  Troy walked me to my side of the car and opened the door. The seats were real leather.

  “Sweet,” I said.

  He smiled. “Borrowed from the same guy who told me about the restaurant.”

  “Your other car was really nice.”

  “T-bird, Lotus. No comparison.”

  I was flattered—and awestruck—by his rich-guy logic. He was actually trying to impress me. Me, the girl who had been stupid enough to believe that Riley the quarterback really liked her best. And the small-minded section of my heart—located in the same quadrant as all the scar tissue—wished that Jane and Riley could see me now.

  Or Mem, I thought, and choked back a wistful sigh.

  “Thank you, same guy,” I said. My big ruby earrings tickled my neck.
I was tingling from head to toe, feeling gorgeous, edgy, guarded, giddy, and close to overwhelmed with how simply happy I was to be with him. Fragmented. Amazed I could feel so many different ways, all at once.

  The Lotus didn’t so much roll as glide; the motor purred. I thought of Miles’s Jag and pushed that comparison firmly aside.

  Diamond stars, pearl moon. Troy was breathtaking behind the wheel, moving one hand behind my neck and playing with tendrils of my hair. His smile was positively radiant. I had never seen a guy so uninhibited about expressing his delight, unless it had been on the football field. I was making him smile like that. Me. Fartgirl.

  We went down the bypass famed for the appearance of the burning ghost. One of the seven who had died in the fire? I almost wanted to see her.

  Almost.

  A few minutes later, we pulled up a circular drive starring floodlights on pine trees, a towering rock waterfall, and an enormous bronze statue of an eagle scooping up a fish.

  “Jeez,” I said. “Cheery. It’s just like Marlwood.”

  Troy chuckled and drove up to an alpine-style hut. A guard inside was dressed in a navy blue suit. Troy gave him his name and a white barrier lifted.

  That waterfall was only a prelude to a far more amazing waterfall at least two stories tall, in front of what looked like an infinity pool. Beyond that, a beautiful multi-storied stone lodge snuggled against the incline of the hill, like a couple sleeping like spoons.

  A guy—a valet—took the keys from Troy and another guy helped me out of the car while Troy came around. I stared down at the gravel walkway and then at Marica’s beautiful shoes. I could never hope to replace them if I scuffed them up—and they were probably one of a kind. Make that two.

  Troy looked from me to the gravel, to my shoes, and grinned. Then he bent down and scooped me up in his arms, one arm under my knees and one around my back. Troy was muscly and he smelled like cotton and soap, with maybe a dash of tuxedo. Clean and sexy. He smiled at me happily, and I took that moment and held it closely—no matter what else was going on, right then, right there, a handsome, rich guy in a tux was carrying me like a hero in a fairytale.