Love is Hell Read online

  Love is Hell

  A collection of stories by

  Justine Larbalestier, Melissa Marr, Laurie Faria Stolarz, Scott Westerfeld and Gabrielle Zevin

  Sleeping with the Spirit

  laurie faria stolarz

  I wake up in a cold sweat—a sharp, biting sensation stretches down the length of my spine and makes my fingers jitter. I pull the covers around my shoulders, feeling my heart beat fast.

  And noticing the ache in my wrist.

  I click the reading lamp on and look down at the spot. Another soon-to-be bruise—a giant red welt that covers the front of my wrist and wraps around to the underside. So I grab the pen on my bedside table and add another point to the tally I’ve been keeping for the past two weeks since we moved here—to mark the sixth time this has happened. Six times.

  Six times that I’ve woken up with a sore spot on my body.

  Six times that I’ve found myself lying awake in my bed, too terrified to fall back asleep. Because of the voice that haunts my dreams.

  Ever since we moved here, I’ve been having these weird nightmares. In them, I hear a male voice. I never see his face. It’s just his voice, whispering things that I don’t want to hear—that ghosts exist, that I need to listen to him, that he won’t let me rest until I do. Luckily, I’m able to force myself awake. But that’s when he grips me—so hard that it leaves a mark.

  I know it sounds completely crazy and at first I tried to find some logical explanation—

  maybe I had twisted my arm the wrong way during the night; maybe I had banged my leg on the corner of my bed or rolled over into an awkward position. I tried to tell myself that the dreams were the result of stress—of having to move halfway across the country; of changing high schools and leaving all my friends behind. I mean, there’s bound to be a period of adjustment, right?

  But now I know that it’s more than stress. Because, between the bruising and the aching, and the growing sacks underneath my eyes from lack of sleep, I feel like things are getting worse.

  “Brenda?” my mother asks, standing by my bedroom door. “What are you doing up?”

  I bury my wrist in the mound of covers, noticing how sleeping with the spirit the smell of him—like spiced apple—still lingers in my sheets.

  “You were moaning in your sleep,” she continues.

  I glance at the fire-red numbers glowing on my digital clock. It’s 4:05 a.m. “A bad dream, I guess,” I say, trying to shrug it off.

  She nods and plays with the belt on her robe, just lingering there in the doorway, until she finally ventures the question: “You’re not hearing voices again, are you?”

  I study her face, wondering if she can handle the answer, but decide that she can’t. So I shake my head, watching her expression shift from anxiety to relief. She lets out a breath and forces a smile, still fidgeting with her robe, probably wondering about my sanity. But that’s okay.

  Because I wonder about it, too.

  This isn’t the first time my parents have found me awake in the wee hours of the morning. This isn’t the first time they’ve complained about the moaning, or given me that frightened look—the one that says I’m going crazy.

  Or noticed all my bruises.

  The first time I got one it was around my ankle—a large purple splotch, lined with a handful of scratches.

  The night it happened, I went to their room, asking if they could hear the voice, too, wondering if maybe someone had broken into our house—if maybe the voice wasn’t part of a dream at all.

  But my parents said no, they hadn’t heard anything.

  They looked particularly concerned after my father had checked things out, upon my insistence, like they were far more scared for me than with me.

  “Do you want me to fix you some warm milk?” my mother asks now.

  “No thanks,” I say, still able to hear the voice from my dream. It plays in my mind’s ear—a slow and rhythmic breath that pushes out the two syllables of my name over and over and over again: Bren-da, Bren-da, Bren-da.

  “I just want to get back to sleep,” I lie, catching a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. My normally bright green eyes are troubled with veins of red. And my hair is a mess—an unruly tangle of auburn curls swooped high atop my head in a sloppy ponytail, because I can’t deal with actually having to style the high-maintenance mane. Because I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep since we moved here.

  “Good night, Mom,” I whisper, and lie back on my pillow to appease her, so she’ll go back to bed. I pull the covers up over my ears and silently hum a little tune inside my head, in hopes that it will calm me down.

  In hopes that it will drown out his voice. he following day at school, Monsieur DuBois, my French teacher, pairs us all up to do a roleplaying exercise. I’ve dubbed myself Isabelle, while Raina, my partner, is Marie-Claire. We begin by chatting about our hobbies and school schedules and then, when Monsieur seems far too preoccupied as he hangs pictures on the wall of various types of French cheese— and Raina and I have reached the limits of our French vocabulary—she tells me (in English) that last year, midDecember, right before the sophomore semiformal, she was the new kid, too.

  “It seriously sucks having to leave your whole life behind,” she says, weaving her espresso-dark hair into a long, thick braid at the side of her head. I nod, thinking about my friends back home, wondering what they’re doing right now. And if they’re missing me, too.

  “So, I notice you haven’t really been hanging with anyone,” Raina continues. “I saw you sitting by yourself in the cafeteria the other day. That’s social suicide, you know. If left untreated, it can lead to social roadkill.”

  “Roadkill?”

  She nods, still braiding her hair, trying to get all the layers woven in, despite the plethora of barrettes she’s got adorning the top of her head. “It’s a killer for the social life—sets you up for the rest of your high school career, especially being midyear, you know. Everybody’s already cliqued-off.”

  “Cliqued-off?”

  “Yeah,” she says, her brown eyes bulging slightly like it comes as a big, fat shock that I don’t quite get her lingo—especially since we’re both supposedly speaking in our native tongue now. “Everybody’s already settled into their cliques,” she explains. “People will see you as a loner. I mean, unless you want to be alone. . . .”

  “I hadn’t exactly given it much thought.”

  “Well, you should,” she says. “Because there isn’t much time.”

  I feel my face scrunch, as clueless to her philosophy as I am to her vocabulary.

  “Want my opinion?” she asks.

  I open my mouth to switch the subject, to ask about the next homework assignment, but then Raina gives me her opinion anyway: “Why sulk about a bad move to East Bum Suck, Massachusetts, a whole hour and twelve minutes’ drive from Boston . . . ? On a good day, that is. Bottom line: You should totally hang out with Craig and me.”

  At the same moment, a boy with brown spiky hair and a freckly face, who I presume to be Craig, swivels around in his seat. “Did somebody call?”

  “Craig, Brenda; Brenda, Craig,” she says to introduce us.

  “Enchanté,” Craig says, faking a French accent. “But the name’s Jean-Claude until the bell rings.”

  Raina rolls her eyes and then gives Craig the lowdown on my “situation,” turning my new-kid status into a sociological diagnosis. According to her, I’ve only got another week, tops, to bounce back from my loner status before I’m permanently branded a dweeb.

  “Don’t mind Raina,” Craig says, clearly sensing my discomfort. “She tends to get a little carried away by social politics.”

  “Whatever . . .” Raina says, wrapping a rubber band around the end of her braid, hav
ing finally gotten it just so. “You know I’m totally right.”

  Craig shrugs and focuses back on me. “So, what do you say? Table for trois, starting tomorrow?”

  “You’re such a cheese-ass,” Raina says, undoubtedly referring to his French.

  “Sounds good.” I smile, confident that this is the first time I’ve felt somewhat normal since I moved here.

  .

  I’m in my room when the clock downstairs bongs

  11:00 p.m., but I don’t want to go to sleep. I run my fingers over my wrist, noticing how the red mark has morphed into a deep shade of purple, and how the knot in my stomach gets bigger with each chime.

  I’ve done all my homework, taken my shower, and alphabetized all the books on my shelf, trying my hardest to stay awake, but after an infomercial on butt-lifting pantyhose, a mini-marathon of Cops, and more than an hour of QVC jewelry, I feel myself start to doze.

  Until I hear a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I call, assuming it’s my mother. She often likes to check in on me at night. But the door doesn’t open.

  I sit up in bed and click on the bedside lamp.

  “Mom . . . is that you?”

  No one answers.

  I let out a sigh and get up and move toward the door.

  I try the knob, but it doesn’t budge, like I’ve been locked inside.

  “Mom?” I repeat, still trying to get the knob to turn. I pound on the door, hoping to get my parents’ attention down the hall.

  But no one comes. And the knob won’t turn.

  “Brenda,” a voice whispers from somewhere behind me. His voice—the one from my dreams.

  I turn to look, my heart pumping hard.

  “Are you ready to talk?” his voice continues.

  I glance around the room, but I don’t see him anywhere.

  Meanwhile everything looks different now. My bed is draped in navy blue linens rather than the pinks from just moments ago. And the swimming and field hockey plaques that hung on my walls—the ones I’ve won over the past five years—have been replaced by Bruins memorabilia: flags, hockey sticks, and posters.

  I shake my head, wondering where I am, knowing that this isn’t my room. And that I shouldn’t be here.

  “We need to talk,” his voice whispers. I can feel his breath at the back of my neck. I whirl around and try to swipe him away, but no one’s there. And then the lamp by my bed goes out, leavi13j sleeping with the spirit ing me in complete darkness. A moment later, the moon casts a strip of light through my window, illuminating a corner of the room where a shadow moves along the wall.

  I go for the door again. I pound and kick against it, then yank the knob with all my might. But nothing works.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he says, stepping into the moonlight, and allowing me to see him—his pale blue eyes and the curl of his mouth. He must be my age, maybe seventeen or eighteen at most, with at least five inches of height over me, and hair the color of cashews.

  As he moves closer, a shadow lifts from his brow, revealing a gash in his forehead, like he’s been hit with something. The wound is fresh and deep.

  “My name is Travis,” he says. “And I’ve waited so long for someone like you.”

  Dressed all in black, from the T-shirt that hugs his chest to the rubber-soled boots adorning his feet, he stares at me—hard—his eyes refusing to blink.

  “Someone like me?” I ask.

  He nods and moves a little closer. “Someone who can see and hear me. I’ve been waiting so long to be heard.”

  I try to take another step back, but between him and the door I’m completely trapped.

  “I’m sorry about your wrist.” He reaches out to touch it, but I snatch my hand away before he can. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continues. “I was only trying to hold on to you, so you wouldn’t leave your dream by waking up.” He takes another step, only inches from me now. “It’s rough for us ghosts. We don’t know the power of our own strength, especially when we’re trying to make physical contact with those who aren’t asleep, or, like you, who are on the verge of waking up. It’s all about frequency and energy. Very complicated stuff.” He smiles.

  I shake my head and struggle to wake up. I think he must sense it, because a moment later, he clenches around my forearm.

  “Please,” he urges, his face all serious. “Don’t leave me tonight.”

  “No!” I shout, pulling away.

  He tries to grab my arm back, but my scream wakes me up.

  “Brenda?” my dad asks, throwing open my bedroom door.

  I sit up in bed and try to catch my breath, noting how everything in my room looks normal again—my pink bedcovers and plaques on the wall.

  “Are you okay?” He checks around the room.

  I try my best to nod, even though I feel anything but okay—even though a warm and tingling sensation still lingers in my forearm.

  .

  At lunch the following day, instead of sitting by myself, I’m flagged down by Raina and Craig, which is definitely a blessing. Social roadkill aside, I’m in serious need of a diversion. I just can’t stop thinking about my dream last night. I wish there were someone I could talk to about everything, but it’s sort of like when my sister died. I tried to explain what I felt then, too—what I knew had happened—but no one understood.

  And how could they?

  How can anyone make sense of something so nonsensical: the sight of my sister, Emma, in her Girl Scout uniform—the one she always insisted on wearing to bake sales, cookie sales, troop meetings, or just around the house. She’d been in a coma for six full months. But I still saw her that day. She opened the front door of our house, crossed the living room to kiss me goodbye, and then vanished without a word.

  I knew it was her ghost that appeared to me. I knew that she had died. When I tried to tell my mother, she buckled to the ground, refusing to believe me, telling me I was cruel and insensitive for making up such horrible lies. But then, not even five minutes later, my father called from the hospital and told us—Emma had passed away. Craig slides a bowl full of crinkle fries and ranch dressing toward me. “How’s it going?”

  he asks.

  Raina frowns at the offering. “You really want to nauseate the girl on her first day of lunching with us?”

  “Actually,” I say, “this looks great.”

  Craig seems to like the answer. His smile grows wide, showing off the tiny—yet adorable—gap between his two front teeth. “I knew this girl had taste.”

  We end up trading lunches like in grammar school—a few of his fries for a couple of my peanut butter–stuffed celery sticks. And then Craig suggests that we all get together this weekend. “Raina and I can give you a tour of the town,” he says.

  “Should take all of five minutes,” Raina jokes, glancing at the bruise on my wrist. I tug my sleeve down to cover it over, and then give them a thumbs-up for the tour. We end up maki17j sleeping with the spirit ing plans for Saturday night—at 7:00 p.m. sharp. Craig offers to come pick me up, and that’s when I tell them my address.

  “Are you kidding?” Raina gasps, nearly snorting out her strawberry milk. “The bloodbath house?”

  “What are you talking about?” I pause mid-chew.

  “No big deal,” Craig says, trying to make light of it.

  “Just your typical friendly neighborhood—”

  “Bloodbath!” Raina bursts out, finishing for him.

  “Didn’t the real estate agent tell you the history of your house?”

  I shake my head as they give me the details: a seventeenyearold boy was murdered there, the police found his body in the bathroom, and it was the mother’s boyfriend who did it.

  “Apparently, a blow to the head,” Craig explains. “The boyfriend hit him with a crowbar and he landed hard against the cast-iron tub.”

  “Hence the bath of blood,” Raina offers.

  “Lovely,” I say, thinking about the boy in my dream— he had a gash in his forehead.
<
br />   “Seriously,” Raina continues, “I don’t even know how you can sleep at night. People say the place is crazyhaunted.”

  “I can’t sleep at night,” I say, feeling my stomach churn. “I mean, not usually.”

  “Well, that would explain it,” she says. “I mean, I hate to be rude, but you’re packin’

  some serious baggage under those peepers, and I’m not exactly talking Louis Vuitton.”

  “Nope, not rude at all.” Craig sighs.

  Raina hands me a stick of cover-up, explaining that it’s “the good stuff,” reserved only for after her late-night study marathons.

  “Which is why it’s never been used,” Craig clarifies.

  While they continue to bicker, I slide back in my chair, fighting the urge to toss up my french fries right on the spot.

  “Are you okay?” Craig asks, probably noticing the sickly look on my face.

  “Yeah,” Raina jokes, “your head isn’t going to do a three-sixty on us, is it? All I need right now is a hunk of spew to land in my duck sauce.”

  “I have to go,” I say, getting up from the table. I grab my books and bolt out of the cafeteria, foregoing Raina’s stick of cover-up, since it’s obviously going to take a whole lot more than makeup to fix what’s going on inside my house. And in my dreams.

  .

  As soon as i get home from school, I dump my books on the floor and make a beeline for my computer. I begin by Googling our home address, which is actually all it takes. An article from the Addison Gazette pops up right away.

  It’s all about our house, about how it finally sold—to my parents—after years of sitting on the market. Apparently we’re not the first family to live here since the infamous bloodbath. Two other families inhabited this place, but it didn’t take them long to bolt—

  six months for the first family, six years for the second. Both claimed that things went bump in the night.

  The article segues into the history of the house, and what happened here twenty years ago. Raina and Craig were right. A seventeen-year-old boy was murdered. His body was found in the bathtub after he’d been hit over the head with a crowbar.