Page 52 of Good Girls Lie

Oh, sure. Like I’m falling for that. It’s probably drain cleaner or rat poison.

I pick up the glass and smell the contents. The sharp tang of alcohol makes my sinuses burn. Oh. It’s vodka.

Why would Vanessa and Camille kidnap me, lock me in, and tell me to drink a shot of vodka? Is this an Odds and Evens thing?

I dip in a finger and taste, yes, it’s just vodka. I toss it back.

Fuck them. Fuck them and this stupid school and this stupid night.

I don’t fall to the floor in a sputtering mess and die, so I feel my way through the darkness to the other side of the room. The night is black as pitch and there are curtains on the windows, gossamer white billowing in the breeze. The windows are open, that’s why it’s so damn cold in here. And there is another door.

I put my ear to it. I can hear something. Echoes of voices.

I turn the knob slowly, and the voices halt.

Someone is in the stairwell. They’ve heard me.

Logic: it’s Vanessa and Camille, waiting to jump out and scare me. They must have recruited several others to help pull this off.

But something about this room makes me feel like there is something much, much worse behind the door.

Reckless fury forces my hand. I whip open the door, only to see a dim light illuminating a set of winding stairs. Red stairs.

This must be the infamous red staircase.

I try not to focus on the horror story behind the reason the stairs are painted red, but my mind’s eye supplies all the necessary pieces—the rope around the girl’s neck, the blood dripping from her arms, her black hair streaming to her waist, the white gown stained gray with age. It’s like she’s hung here for centuries. The image is so vivid, if I reach out a hand, I can touch the body.

The air squeezes tight around me, and suddenly as it appeared, the apparition is gone. The stairwell is empty.

A door slams, a breeze passes, and the air changes. I am not alone.

Becca Curtis is standing behind me. That is, I think it’s Becca, but something is wrong with her face. It’s like she’s dead, a skeleton, her eyes black holes in pale, pale skin, stretched tight across her skull. She is wearing all black; a hood covers her yellow hair, which makes that deadly pale face stand out in stark relief in the darkness.

She appears so suddenly I jump, stumbling down two stairs before I catch myself on the railing. My God, I could have broken my neck.

I reach out a hand to see if Becca is real, but my arm feels heavy. I can barely lift it.

Not just vodka. Therewassomething else in the drink.

Becca is a statue before me. Her mouth moves, lips twisting in a command that sounds like we’re underwater.

“Walk, Swallow.”

“Swallow?”

“Walk. Down. The stairs. Now.”

I wind my way down the stairs carefully, holding on to the railing for support, Becca following. We go on and on, circling down, down, down. My head is growing fuzzier by the minute.

Finally, we hit another door.

“Open it, Swallow,” Becca says. There is no denying the authority in her tone. I comply. My hands look big against the wood. Clown hands. Carny hands. I giggle, this is freaking hilarious.

The door opens to a dirt hallway, and the smell of ancient things assails me. Suddenly, things don’t seem so funny. My mouth is dry, so dry. I need to sit down. I lean against the wall, start to slide down but Becca hoists me up.

“Walk.”

Becca lets go of my arm and prods me in the back. I walk, feet bare in the dirt. I can feel every pebble, every grain. Cold. There are dead things here, rotting things. Cobwebs spring from the ceiling, brushing against my hair and forehead. I gasp and swipe at them, but Becca just says, “Hurry, for God’s sake,” and I keep going, fighting the urge to sprint, walking on and on for what feels like forever. It is dark, and I’m cold, and the walls are vibrating.