The Bad Sister. Kevin O'Brien

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      “I know,” he replied. As he headed toward the trunk, he smiled briefly at Eden. “And you’re Eden, hi.” He started to hoist the suitcases out of the trunk. “Rachel and I stalked you guys online. You’re both even prettier in person. Or is it creepy of me to point that out?”

      “Borderline creepy,” Eden said.

      Hannah laughed. “It’s not creepy at all!”

      “Are these my little sisters?” someone called.

      Hannah turned toward the bungalow and saw Rachel Bonner in the doorway. She held a smoking sage stick over a bowl. “Welcome to bungalow twenty, girls!”

      For a second, Hannah thought, Oh my God, she’s bat-shit crazy.

      She was wearing an outfit right out of the 1960s—Capri pants with a splashy, flowered pattern and an orange sleeveless top. Her brunette hair, which had been shoulder-length and wavy in most of her online photos, had been sheared off. It was cut in a pixie style with short bangs. Rachel ducked back inside with her sage stick and bowl.

      Hannah and Eden each grabbed a suitcase and followed Alden as he carried the two other bags through the doorway. They stepped into a living room, impeccably furnished in mid-century modern style—like something out of a West Elm catalog. There was a huge framed poster from the Audrey Hepburn movie Sabrina practically taking up a whole wall. Frank Sinatra was singing “Let’s Get Away from It All” on the music system.

      The bungalow was like something out of the 1950s. But it was the glamorous 1950s. A big-screen TV in the corner of the room seemed out of place.

      The burning sage, along with the heat, made the place seem stuffy. A window fan stirred the smoke around a little, but didn’t cool down the room much. Chanting quietly, Rachel flitted around and used a feather to distribute the smoke from the sage stick. “Excuse me, roomies, but I can’t stop and break the spell,” she announced. “I’m almost done. Throw your stuff in your room, and get your butts right back here.”

      Her friend, Alden, led the way. “Your bedroom’s over here,” he said, heading for a door across from a kitchenette, where there was a sink, a microwave, a toaster oven, and a mini-fridge.

      Hannah paused and set down the suitcase by a portable bar. It separated the living room from the tiny kitchen area, which had a back door. On top of the bar were four crystal flutes and a silver bucket with champagne chilling. The bar and the matching stools were mid-century modern designs, too. Hannah turned to Alden. “When they said online that our dorm rooms were furnished, I really didn’t expect it to be this nice.”

      Chuckling, he plopped down the bags. “The furniture they give you is crap. All this stuff is Rachel’s. She even had someone repaint the place. She’s going through a retro phase right now—in case you didn’t catch on. Last year, it was bohemian shabby chic shit. I kind of miss the bean bag chairs. By the way, I hope you like Sinatra.”

      “And Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole and Tony Bennett and Julie London,” Rachel said—still fluttering around the living room with her feather and sage stick. “If not, don’t bother unpacking!”

      Alden opened the bedroom door. “Give it a few months,” he whispered. “And she’ll be into new wave or rap or some such shit.”

      Hannah and Eden followed him into the shadowy, hot, claustrophobic bedroom. There was barely space for the three of them and the suitcases. Last week, from Seattle, they’d shipped two big boxes of bedding, posters, books, and things they couldn’t live without. Both parcels were now on the stripped twin beds, which seemed crammed into the tiny room—along with two desks that had built-in bookcases and a dresser that, obviously, they were supposed to share. All the furnishings were old, ugly, and slightly battered—not in the same league as the sleek, beautiful pieces in the living room. The one window was open and had bars on the outside. The view was of the garden next door. Hannah wondered how she and Eden would manage to cohabit in this tiny space without killing each other. Already, she found it hard to breathe. The room was like an oven and still smoky from the burnt sage.

      Alden set the suitcases on the bed. There wasn’t any space for them on the floor. “The boxes arrived yesterday,” he said. “I dumped them in here. Hope that’s okay.”

      “Do you live here, too?” Eden asked.

      “No, I’m at O’Leary Hall, the boys’ dorm,” he explained. He stepped over Hannah’s suitcase and pushed open the window more. “The smoke should dissipate soon. Not that I totally buy into this smudging shit, but if any spot in this dump needed it, this bedroom’s the place. The previous occupant, Rachel’s roommate last year, turned out to be a total pain in the ass, lots of personal problems. No one could stand her.”

      “Why?” Hannah asked.

      “Let’s not be unkind, Alden,” Rachel said, stopping by the doorway again. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a good fit!” She headed into the living room with her sage stick again.

      He rolled his eyes. “For one, she was a lazy slob, a total pig,” he whispered. “Rachel got sick of cleaning up after her all the time. Didn’t even flush the toilet. She was one of those ‘if it’s yellow, it’s mellow’ people. Anyway, Rachel’s right. I shouldn’t be mean. Let’s just say we were in here a while trying to smoke out her essence.”

      “Well, then I guess we should thank you,” Hannah said.

      “It wasn’t just the ex-roommate we were trying to smudge out.” He nodded toward the window—and the flower patch beyond the bars. “You’re next door to some heavy, bad vibes. There used to be a bungalow where that funky-looking garden is now. It was bungalow eighteen, but they tore it down and retired the number. No one wanted to live there. Hell, they couldn’t pay anyone to live there . . .”

      Hannah’s eyes widened. “Why? What happened?”

      “Somehow, I figured you might have known about it,” Alden said. “Back in 1970, they had a serial killer on the loose. He murdered a bunch of girls here on campus.”

      Hannah was dumbfounded.

      “No shit?” Eden murmured.

      “I shit you not,” Alden said. He glanced toward the window again. “The guy broke into bungalow eighteen, and he tied up the three girls who lived there. I really don’t know how he managed to do it. Maybe he made them tie up each other. Anyway, he had them all in the upstairs bedroom. He dragged one into the bathroom and killed her. Then while he took the second girl out and murdered her, the third girl managed to untie herself and escape. They called the guy the Immaculate Conception Killer. The girls he murdered that night were like his fifth and sixth victims. The police caught him a couple of days later . . .”

      “Afterward, no one wanted anything to do with the place,” Rachel said, stopping in the doorway again. She stubbed out the smoldering sage stick in a bowl. “So they tore it down and put in the flower garden and the statue of Saint Ursula. She’s another virgin martyr. I think they shot her with an arrow or beheaded her or something. You can’t throw a rock on campus without hitting a statue of a virgin martyr.”

      Frowning, she shook her head at her friend. “Alden, you stinker, I can’t believe you told them about the murders next door. You could have at least waited until they’d settled in a little. Now they’re going to have nightmares tonight, and it’ll be entirely СКАЧАТЬ