Queen of the Dead

from another perspective.”

“The living perspective,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah.” His gaze pleaded with me to understand.

Outside, I heard the distinctive rumble-thump of a garbage truck making its rounds in the neighborhood. It was trash day in Groundsboro. If my mother had been motivated enough to drag all those bags down from my room to the curb, my whole life was about to disappear into a landfill forever.

“I just need time to think about all of this,” he said.

I nodded fiercely. “I guarantee you’re going to have a lot of time to think and a lot more stuff to think about.” In less than a day, I’d been crapped on by just about everyone who’d ever claimed to care about me. So, it was going to take a lot more than a heartfelt plea for understanding to change things now, and I wasn’t about to wait for whatever that might be. No, I was done with waiting. My afterlife was in my hands now.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, looking alarmed.

He knew me too well. Good.

“It means that since I’m pretty sure I don’t meet your definition of ‘important,’ as in ‘living,’ it’s none of your damn business.” Then I turned and walked through the wall.

If nothing else, you have to love being dead for the dramatic exits.

There’s always that one thing, right? A particular action thatis your own personal line in the sand. The nuclear threat youkeep in your back pocket, never even mentioning it because itwill escalate any conflict beyond the chance of reconciliation.

And yet, here I was, declaring war, turning that line in the sand into a mere dot in the distance behind me.

The lobby of St. Catherine’s Hospital was full of people during this time of day. Some of them were waiting for appointments with one doctor or another. Others were holding vigils for loved ones on the floors above. My father had walked through this very space on a Monday morning, not all that long ago, demanding information about his daughter and a bus accident.

For not the first time, I wished for a cosmic do-over, a chance to relive that day again. When my dad called that morning, I would have told him to get over it and deal with my mom himself. Then I would have refused to speak to either one until they got their act together. Immature? Possibly, but it would have solved the problem of me being their go-between, which was what caused all of this in the first place.

Well, not this specifically. This — me being here in St. Catherine’s, preparing to take last-resort measures — that was all on Will.

He left you no choice, I reminded myself. Even still, I knew he’d never forgive me after this. Whatever “more than friends” vibe had been between us would be gone, dead beyond resuscitation. But my message would be delivered, and he’d know that I didn’t need him to do it. That was the important part.

I headed toward the elevators and stood next to a woman with a giant bundle of GET WELL SOON balloons and a huge teddy bear that had one furry arm in a sling. She looked like she would be going to the right place. Now that I’d made up my mind to do this, I didn’t want to waste time riding up and down to all the wrong floors.

My hands were sweating. I’d only done this once before and in desperation. What if it didn’t work?

I shook my head. No, it had to work.

Though, honestly, the thought of what it would take to succeed almost scared me more than the possibility of failing. Almost.

The elevator signaled its arrival, and I followed the woman and her balloons inside. As I’d hoped, she pushed the button for the fifth floor. Pediatrics.

When the doors opened, revealing the same obnoxious smiley faces and rainbows that I remembered from my first trip, the woman headed off with her bear and balloons to the right. I took a left, past the nurses’ desk, acting on the memory of an afternoon I would really have preferred to forget.

As I walked, I counted the doors lining the corridor and stopped when I reached a partially closed one about halfway down the hall. This one seemed right, from what I could recall.

I peeked inside. The room was dim with the blinds mostly drawn and television off, but I could still see well enough to know I was in the right place.

Lily Turner looked much the same as when I’d first seen her a couple of months ago. Not all that surprising, given her permanent comatose state. She lay half elevated in the bed, her shiny light brown hair spread over the pillow behind her. This time, though, at least her eyes were closed. Seeing her staring off at nothing had been creepy as hell.

I stepped inside, passing partially through the door, and couldn’t help but notice that while Lily had stayed the same, her room had changed dramatically.

A couple of months ago, she’d had just a few framed photographs here and there. It was like her family had been expecting her to go home…or pass on any second.

Now, though, it was like her bedroom at home had been painstakingly brought over piece by piece and reassembled around her hospital bed.

A bedsheet with castles, fairies, and horse-drawn carriages was tacked to one wall, covering up the cinder blocks. Clearly, Lily had not redecorated at home since she was about six.

Books and photo albums were piled up in a sloppy stack on her bedside table. Stuffed animals, well-worn and missing various appendages, guarded the windowsill. Next to them, a ballerina lamp, her pink tutu the shade, gave the room a pale rosy glow.

And then there were the Ouija boards. They were everywhere. It was worse than I’d ever imagined. Will had told me it was bad, but I’d never thought it would be like this. In addition to the old-fashioned wooden board in the bed with Lily, her limp fingers resting on the planchette, a dozen varieties and multiples of each lay scattered around the room. Made of wood, plastic, in bright pink (something wrong with that, for sure) and standard tan and black, old, new, big, small (travel-size Ouija boards?), even a couple that appeared to be made of that weird see- through yellowish material that would probably glow in the dark.

Some were stacked on the floor; others were haphazardly placed around the room, on the nightstand, on the empty bed that would have belonged to her roommate, on the table with wheels they would have used to serve her meals if she could eat that way. Packaging for at least two new boards stuck out of the garbage can, and a stack of unopened Ouija board game boxes rested on one of the visitor’s chair.

These boards, I knew, had nothing to do with re-creating Lily’s room at home, and everything to do with Will and me.

Last year, Lily had left a party — a first-tier party, one that I’d attended myself — in tears after a confrontation with her “boyfriend,” Ben Rogers. Ben was a player, especially when it came to underclassmen like Lily. She really should have known better, but then again, she evidently hadn’t had much experience in our social scene. This was all according to Will, who’d been one of Lily’s few friends, before she’d tried to gain a few rungs on the social ladder.

In any case, she’d crashed into a tree on her way home from that party and landed herself in the hospital. She wasn’t dying, exactly, but she wasn’t getting any better either.

Will said her spirit was gone. She’d moved on to the light right away, apparently, but her body had just kept ticking along, at least for the time being.

Then a couple of months ago, Will’s other friend, Joonie, had, in effect, kidnapped Lily’s body and brought it to Will in the hope that he would be able to find her spirit and put it back in place. Joonie had pieced together Will’s secret about being a ghost-talker from his strange behavior and various context clues. She felt Lily’s accident was her fault — they’d had a falling out back when the three of them were friends — and she wanted Will to help her make it right. Actually, she’d been beyond crazed to make it right. Will had told her that putting Lily’s spirit back into her body wasn’t possible, but Joonie didn’t believe him. Then Joonie’s negative energy — fear, frustration, guilt, and regret — in combination with Will’s presence and the Ouija board, had manifested itself as a physical force. In frustration with what she saw as his lack of cooperation, Joonie unwittingly targeted Will with that energy. It choked off his air and his ability to breathe, slowly killing him. Joonie had been too caught up in her own misery to see what was really happening. So, I’d done what I had to do to get her attention.

In the heat of the moment, with Will’s life in danger, it had been easy. Using the physicality that came from Will being nearby, I’d spelled out the message Joonie needed to hear on the Ouija board and then put my hand inside Lily’s to touch Joonie. It had worked. Joonie had stopped; Will had been saved.