Frost - Marianna Baer

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