Hysteria Read Online Free PDF

against my back, mirroring my every movement as I scampered
     down the hall past the vending machines.
    But every time I looked there was nothing, like it was in my blind spot. Just out
     of sight. But there.
    I ran into the laundry room, where everything smelled like dryer sheets and felt like
     excess heat, and that muffled the feeling a little, though it was still there.
    Everything was coin operated. I ran my bills through the coin machine until my bag
     was half full of quarters because I had no idea how much it cost to call New Jersey
     from the middle of nowhere, and the sound of the money sloshing around made me feel
     a little better, for no reason at all, really.
    But not that much better because my hands were still shaking when I inserted half
     the contents of my purse into the pay phone upstairs. And that feeling was practically
     on top of me, like someone was pressed up against my back, eyes on the back of my
     head, arms at my sides, deciding what to do.
    The phone rang three times and Colleen picked up, breathy and quiet. “Hello?” she
     said. And the feeling retreated for the moment.
    “Colleen?”
    “Oh my God, Mallory?”
    “In the flesh. Well, not really.”
    “What the crap? Caller ID said unknown caller, New Hampshire. You’re already there?”
    “Yes. And I’m on a pay phone in my dorm. A pay phone!”
    “They still make those?”
    “Are you ungrounded?”
    “No.” Her voice dropped lower. “The parental unit is in the shower. Was in the shower.”
    “Colleen?” a voice in the background asked.
    “Shit. Okay, give me the number. I’ll call it when I can.”
    I found the numbers on top of the keypad. “603-555 — ”
    “Colleen Elizabeth, hang up this instant.”
    “One sec, Ma. Okay, 603-555 . . . ?”
    “23 — ” And then I heard a dial tone. I listened to the tone for a minute, willing the numbers
     across the connection.
    I went back to the lounge and grabbed my luggage. The feeling was gone. All that was
     left was me and my luggage and the faint hum of electricity. I pulled my bags down
     the hall to room 102 — the corner room, next to a secondary staircase, narrow and dark. I let myself into
     my room and I swear I could smell concrete. Because that’s all there was. White walls,
     two standard-issue twin beds with white linens that blended into the background. White
     on white, just like home. Minus the home part. There were desks in each corner, a
     light oak. But with the poor lighting, they almost looked the same color as the rest
     of the room.
    I opened the closet door and found a low dresser shoved into the bottom. Brown and
     worn. Like the unseemly stuff was hidden from sight here.
    I turned on the overhead light, but it was yellow and dim. So I flung open the shades,
     but the room faced the woods. And all that was out there now were dark shadows against
     a darker sky. So I propped the door to my room open with my bag and let the fluorescent
     light from the hall shine in. And even after I didn’t need the light anymore, I kept
     the door open, waiting for Colleen to call back. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t
     get the number to her. She’d figure it out.
    I knew she’d find me.
    She could always find me.

    She found me that night, when Brian died. When the cops couldn’t find me, when my
     parents couldn’t find me. After I’d run. After.
    I heard her steps splashing toward me, over the sound of the rain falling into the
     ocean, where I sat in a few inches of dark water, seaweed, plastic bottles, and remnants
     of blood.
    “Mallory,” she called before she was really close enough to know it was me.
    But of course it was me. The first time we hid here was in eighth grade, when Colleen’s
     mom wouldn’t let her date a boy in high school. We’d camped out under the boardwalk,
     which was not at all romantic but kind of foul, so we moved back home and Colleen
     learned to sneak out her bedroom window instead.
    “Mallory.” She crouched in