Marianna Baer - Frost

that type of house—I’d seen it right away—the type of house that

welcomes and protects. You could tell just by looking.

That much I was sure of. And while I certainly didn’t think

believing in ghosts meant you were crazy, thinking one was trying

to kill you, well . . . that took it to a whole other level.

I pressed my hand against the wall. I moved it slowly, as if

feeling for a pulse. Or reassuring it. Good house. Good, strong

house.

Celeste didn’t realize it’s what’s inside us that’s most scary.

Nothing in the real world could match what our brains and bodies

come up with. It’s all a matter of degrees, what we create as our

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demons. Some minds create scarier ones. Poor Celeste. And poor

David. That sadness in his voice when he talked about losing his

father. . . . Once I spoke to him, he would know perfectly well that

he was losing his sister, too.

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Chapter 36

I WAS TOO ANXIOUS TO SLEEP WELL, felt every spring of

the bed frame through the mattress. Even the Tylenol PM didn’t

keep me from falling in and out of bad dreams and stretches of

lying awake, obsessing over what I was going to say. And in that

sort of delirious half sleep, a new worry occurred to me. What if

Celeste twisted the story around? What if she told David I was

making it all up, that I was the unstable one? She could use the

pill stash as proof. If she had that missing paper, maybe he would

believe her.

And something else, new and confusing: if Celeste was a

physical danger to herself, was she a danger to me? When she

found out what I’d done, would she . . . hurt me?

At 5:15 a.m. I gave up and turned on the lights. I slipped into

sweats and sneakers, before realizing that I didn’t know what

time it was actually legal to leave your dorm. We had to sign in by

ten, and you couldn’t leave in the middle of the night. But when

was it officially “morning”? The last thing I needed was to be

kicked out of school because of an early morning walk.

Instead of risking the world’s stupidest expulsion, I booted

up my laptop and did research, any topic that related to anything

Celeste had said. I searched for a site on hauntings that struck me

as authoritative and scientific. But all they did was confirm my

opinion. Photos of fuzzy shadows on staircases, presented as

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proof. Please! I also googled the town of Barcroft and hauntings,

to see if there were any accounts of the story Celeste had

mentioned. None, of course.

And students had been living in Frost House for generations.

Wouldn’t there be more stories going around about it, other than

those old, tepid ones of Whip’s?

If there was an infinitesimal part of my brain that wanted an

explanation for all those things that Celeste mentioned—the

vase, the burn, the nests—before closing the door on what I knew

wasn’t true, I got it, moments before I was about to put my

computer to sleep. I stumbled on one last site, after searching a

new combination of terms. Finally, a rational site, that offered

legitimate explanations for what lay behind some “hauntings.”

What I read on it made me feel both a rush of relief and a slow

creep of horror. Because it all fit together. And I was more sure

than ever about what I had to tell David.

By seven a.m., I sat waiting for him on the steps of his dorm.

I tore up dried leaves into little pieces and considered my

approach, as if there was a good way to tell him his sister might

be heading down the same path as his sick father. I’d also decided

I needed to come clean about everything, just to be safe. So

Celeste couldn’t manipulate the situation. I was trying not to be

too nervous, but I still had the jitters. There was no telling how he

would react.

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Guys straggled out of the dorm, in pairs and alone, fuzzy,

not-quite-awake expressions on their faces. I sat off to the side,

inconspicuous. David glided right by me with his hands in his

pockets, a brown-striped scarf around his neck and his black wool

hat on his head. I waited, appreciating this moment in which he

looked like a typical prep-school student, headed off for a normal

day of classes and sports and friends on one of the most beautiful

campuses during New England fall.

“Hey,” I called. “David.”

The bench on the steps of the chapel was bathed in the

slanted rays of morning sunshine. We held steaming cups of

Commons coffee in our hands. I’d delayed as long as I could. My

pulse felt too quick and erratic, despite having taken a small dose

of something to calm me. I remembered how angry he’d been

when he’d found out about my Columbia interview. How was he

going to react now?

“There are a couple of things—hard things—I need to tell

you,” I said.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

A V of geese flapped and honked overhead in the pale blue

sky.

“First,” I said, “is about me.”

I kept my eyes on the birds as they receded into the distance.

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“Ever since my parents split up, I’ve been on meds. You

know, psychotropic.”

I paused, took a sip of coffee. The steam fogged up my

glasses.

“It started as a regular prescription thing. But then my doctor

said it was time for me to stop. So, I got in the habit of finding

other ways to get pills. From my parents, other people. I don’t use

them every day. Just when I’m stressed, or anxious. I know it’s not

ideal, but I’m really careful. And . . . I know it’s wrong, how I get

them. I do feel bad about that.”

I rolled the warmth of my cup between my hands.

“I didn’t want you to find out,” I continued, “because I know

you don’t like meds, and I thought you might think it’s a problem

for me. But it’s really not. I’m not addicted or anything. Not at all.

They just, they just make things easier. Like, emotional aspirin.” I

bit the inside of my lip. “I know you might not think of me this

way, but I can be really . . . unproductively emotional. Like, when

my parents split. And other times . . . It scares me.”

Silence. Heart hammering, I forced myself to meet his eyes

but couldn’t read their expression.

“Is this what that chart you made is about?” he said.

“You saw it?” I said, surprised.

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“I found it on the floor of your room, when you were sick.

With so much else going on, I haven’t asked you about it.”

David had the paper this whole time? I couldn’t believe it. “I

know you probably think it’s really irresponsible,” I said. “But I

always do research. About dosages, drug interactions. That’s what

the chart is for.”

His gaze moved to his coffee cup. “The thing that makes me

sad,” he said, “is that you feel you need to do it.” He paused.

“And, I guess, it makes me wonder if I know the real Leena.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “I only take really low doses. Just

to even out. It’s not like I walk around in a haze. And I only use

them when I need to, like I said.” My chest was beginning to hurt.

“You do know me, David. You do.”

Sun brought out the reddish strands in his dark hair. He was

quiet. I hated that I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“Are you mad?” I finally said.

“Mad? Of course not. I think you should stop. I think maybe

you have some stuff you need to work out. But I’m not mad.” He

reached over and stroked my cheek with the back of his hand.

Then he smiled. “Let me be your antidepressant, baby. How’s that

for a song lyric?”

“Incredibly cheesy.” I leaned forward to kiss him on his

cheek, overwhelmed by how well he’d taken it. I’d

underestimated him.

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“Was there something else?” he said. “’Cause we’ve got class

in about ten minutes.”

Something else. Right. I took a sip of coffee as a momentary

delay. Then began.

“This is the much, much more serious thing,” I said. “It’s

Celeste. She wasn’t upset about your father yesterday.”

“Did she give you a hard time about being there?” he said. “I

thought she was being more mature about—”

“No. David, I . . .” It was difficult to talk past the brick in my

throat. “I’m really worried about her. More than just worried.”

“Worried?”

“You know how she’s always acted weird about the dorm?

And how she switched rooms. And now she won’t use the

bathtub either.”

“I know,” he said. “She told me that tub is dangerous, with

her cast.”

“That’s what she told me, too, at first. But that’s not it.” I

reached over and took one of his bare hands between my

mittened ones. “Okay. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just

going to say it. She thinks . . . she thinks the dorm is haunted.”

David’s mouth curled into a questioning smile. “What?”

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“She thinks it’s haunted, and that there’s some sort of evil

spirit trying to hurt—trying to kill her.”

“Wait.” David pulled back his hand into his lap, tilted his chin

down, and looked up at me, eyebrows raised. “What? ”

I went on and told David the whole story—everything she

blamed on the ghost, from the ripped skirt to the bruises.

“I did a little research, and it’s possible most of the things

were caused by her,” I said. “I mean, not on purpose.

Subconsciously. These poltergeist-type things tend to happen in

houses with intense girls living there. So she really doesn’t realize

that it’s in her head, because it’s actually happening. But it’s being

caused by her in some way. I don’t know how this all would tie

into delusions and hallucinations. I actually don’t think she has

hallucinations, unless the feeling that she’s being physically hurt

or whatever, unless that’s some sort of physical hallucination. But

the bruises could definitely be self-inflicted. There’s a correlation

between . . . between mental illness and self-harm.”

David’s left cheek twitched as I spoke. Maybe I should have

printed out some of the articles I read. It’s what had affected me

most—the idea that Celeste could have unknowingly done these

things herself. It’s what had filled me with that strange

combination of relief and terror.

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“I know this is a lot to hear,” I said. “I felt sick all night,

knowing I had to tell you. Well, that and worrying about her.” I

reached for my coffee cup, but the heat had drained away.

“Why didn’t she tell me herself?” he said. “Why did she tell

you?”

“I think . . . well, she knows how much you worry about her.

That scares her. She assumed you’d think she was . . . you know.

Sick. She thought I might believe her.”

David shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’d know if she was

sick.” He rubbed his palms back and forth on his knees.

I took a minute to consider his choice of words. “What do

you mean?”

“I’d know if she was sick,” he said. “I’d be able to tell.”

“Oh-kaay,” I said. “But you haven’t talked to her about this

stuff. You haven’t heard the way she talks about it.”

“No. But still.”

“So, then . . . what’s the alternative?” I said. “If she’s not

imagining stuff?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there really is something . . . weird in

there.”

“Like, something evil?” I said. “Something trying to hurt

Celeste? Is that what you mean?” He couldn’t.

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“I don’t know. Do you really think we can understand

everything about this stuff?”

“No, I guess not. But—”

“There are plenty of documented stories of hauntings.”

“David. Are you serious?” I studied his face. His stubble-

covered jaw was set.

“Well, there are,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said to avoid arguing over that side issue. “But

you have a history of psychosis in the family. And Celeste has the

paranoid impression that someone—something—is trying to kill

her. I mean, statistically—”

“I’d know if she was sick, Leena.”

I pushed my glasses up my nose. He was a mathematician;

how could he be so illogical?

“Are you really saying it’s more likely that the dorm is

haunted than that she’s had a psychotic break, something she’s

genetically predisposed to have?” Now I couldn’t take my eyes off

his profile, waiting for some sign that I wasn’t hearing what I

thought I was.

“You make it sound as if having a father like ours means it

will happen,” he said. “It’s a pretty low percentage, you know.”

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“But, David. Are you seriously listening to yourself? Haunted.

You believe the dorm is haunted.”

“I don’t know. But I’m not going to assume that she’s lost it.

She would tell me if she felt not right, mentally. We have a pact.”

“People don’t know!” I was having trouble keeping the

frustration out of my voice. I needed to remember how hard all of

this would be for him to hear. It shouldn’t have surprised me that

his first response would be denial. “Don’t you see? It all seems

real to her because her brain is perceiving it as being real. People

don’t know when they’re delusional. I live there, David. That

house is not . . . haunted. If such a thing even existed.”

“Since you don’t believe it can be, maybe you’re just not

open to seeing it.”

“David!” I said too loudly. “I’d know if there was something

wrong in the house. I’d certainly know if something was trying to

kill me. And nothing bad has happened to any of my stuff, you

know. Nothing.” I paused. “We have to tell the dean about this.

Or maybe not the dean first. Maybe your mom. Would that be

better? It should be your decision.”

He finally turned to face me. The blue of his eyes glowed

radioactive in the strong sun. “And then what? They send her to

some horrible place and shove her full of meds?”