Teaser Tuesday--Prologue continued

I realized that a line got dropped in last week's teaser, so I'm backing up a bit and then finishing out the prologue this week. You can see the first part of the prologue here



I froze in place, holding my breath and straining to pick up the slightest noise. Suddenly, there was a flurry of whispers around me, dry and fluttery as the cries of moths. The voices of three girls, overlapping and swirling together, so agitated that I could only pick out a few words.

"You shouldn't be here—"

"Get out—"

"There is still time—"

My mouth was dry; it took me a few tries to ask, "What happened here?"

"We'll show you—" they said together.

Since I ordinarily could hear spirits but not see them, their cascade of images caught me unawares. I struggled to make sense of the pictures: this room filled with moonlight and candlelight, three girls weeping over a bloodied woman lying still on the carpet. And the figure looming over them, coming out of the shadows with axe raised and ready to strike.

I must have fainted; I came to on the floor, the scent of dust and old blood filling my nostrils. As I tried to re-orient myself, the whispers started again.

"You see? He's too strong."

"We tried to tell you—"

And then, "He's coming," and I felt I was alone again.

But I was not alone for long, as I saw the dust motes by the window begin to swirl and coalesce. The very air boiled, blood-red and seething as it took on the outline of a human form. I didn't wait to see more, stumbling in terror as I ran to the door.

I pressed my lips to a crack. "Miss Bonney, Miss Bonney! Please, you have to let me out!"

The steps on the other side were muffled, and far too slow. "Hurry!" I called. I spared a glance over my shoulder; the figure was becoming solid, I could see the man's wild hair and demented grin. This spirit looked substantial enough to do me real harm, and I scrabbled at the door in panic.

The key scraped into the lock, but Miss Bonney asked, "Are you ready to admit you were lying?"

"Yes, yes, I was lying," I cried. "Let me out!"

"I want to hear you say, 'There are no such thing as ghosts and I cannot communicate with the dead.'"

I heard a dragging step behind me as I repeated, "There are no such thing as ghosts and I cannot communicate with the dead."

The key rasped in the lock and the door opened in front of me, spilling me into the corridor. I rolled to my feet and ran down the gallery, hardly registering the sound of the door closing to muffle the frustrated roar beyond it.

I ran until my shaking legs would no longer support me, and one of the other teachers found me and took me to the infirmary. I lay in bed, raving, for four days, crying over and over, "There are no such thing as ghosts and I cannot communicate with the dead."

And with time—and much practice—the latter became true for me.