Frost

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 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.

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 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.

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.

“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.