Love is Hell. Melissa Marr

.nbsp;.nbsp; 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 And the swimming and field hockey plaques that hung on my walls—the ones I’ve won over the past five years—have been replaced by Bruins memorabilia: flags, hockey sticks, and posters.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, leaving 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.

       Four

      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 making 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 seventeen-year-old 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.

      “Seriously,” Raina continues, “I don’t even know how you can sleep at night. People say the place is crazy-haunted.”

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