“It was an F.”

  Silence.

  Gramps said nothing the rest of the drive.

  We snail crawled into town in silence.

  We passed by Angelo’s Ice Cream Shoppe without stopping. It had a big ice cream cone with arms and legs and a goofy smile out front. I really, really wanted ice cream.

  He took me straight to the hardware store instead.

  “Well,” he said, when we got there. “Well.”

  I stayed quiet.

  “Paint,” said Gramps, getting out of the car. “Let’s go and get it.”

  “Okay.” I followed him inside. The hardware store was just as old as Gramps was. It smelled like grease and oil; like someone’s work shed.

  A young man sat on a stool behind the front counter, probably the same age as my dad had been when he was in here with Gramps last.

  An old man, Gramps' age, was bustling about putting items up on the shelf.

  “Willy,” said Gramps, waving him over. “Come meet my granddaughter.”

  Wilson came ambling over. He was spry for someone that had to have been in their early eighties, and wore a big green apron on the front of his chest that covered up his grease-stained work clothes.

  He shoved his hand at me and I took it, letting the old man jack knife my arm a few times.

  “She’s a treat,” said Wilson, although he eyed my colored hair unceremoniously.

  “She’s a treat,” Gramps agreed with a turkey-bobble of his head. He blinked his eyes. The smell in the room made them water even more. “We’re getting paint for her bedroom today.”

  “I think we have a few colors that you’ll like,” said Wilson. “Right this way, little lady.”

  He led us over to the section of the store that was filled with painting supplies; rollers, trays, tarps for the floor, and, of course, big tins of paint.

  Gramps gave me a little nudge. “Go on, Quinn. Any color you like.”

  The we’ll talk about your grades later was heavily implied.

  I shuffled over to the tins and started to look them over.

  White. Ivory. Eggshell. Cream. Swiss-coffee white. Chantilly lace white. Army green. Khaki green. Navy blue. Gray. Steel gray. Mountain gray. Brick red. Firetruck red. The colors went on and on, all of them bland, old, and boring.

  Whatever, forever, right?

  I ended up grabbing the cream, because at least it wouldn’t make my bedroom look like it was part of an army course, and carried it back up. Gramps had already gotten together the rollers and the tins and everything else we would need.

  Whatever he had been saying to Wilson, it shut up real fast when I got close.

  Awkward.

  Gramps looked a bit guilty. I bet he was talking about me, and the fact that I had just failed a test. Great, so now this old guy who had never even met me before thought I was some sort of a bumbling purple-haired idiot.

  That flash of anger got hotter in my chest. I stalked past them and over to the counter, slamming the paint down. The man behind it, Wilson’s son, rang me up. Gramps paid for it, said goodbye to his friend, and we loaded back up into the truck.

  “Quinn,” said Gramps, as we pulled out of the sad excuse for a metro center—the hardware store, the ice-cream shop, the local market with all of its overpriced food, a single salon, and a dried-up spit of a park—and back toward home. “I think that it’s about time you and I had a talk.”

  “Can we not? Look, I know I messed up with my grade. It’s not my fault though, Gramps. Mrs. Harringbone hates me!”

  Gramps shook his head. “I know Eleanor, Quinn.”

  “Eleanor?”

  “Eleanor Harringbone. Why, her family has lived here just as long as the Hoggwallers! And she’s not the sort to go failing students just because of a personal gripe,” said Gramps matter-of-factly. “She’s a grown woman, aside from that. She’s not going to get all tangled up in high school drama.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to her? She’s changed. She hates me. That whole school thinks that I’m a freak,” I told him, huffily. Crossing my arms over my chest, I slouched further down in my seat.

  The tires caught on a pothole and it shook the truck so hard that the AC shut off. Gramps had to beat on the front dash with his bony fist a few times before it came back on.

  “This is your time to prove them wrong.”

  I snapped, “I shouldn’t have to prove them wrong!”

  “You shouldn’t, but you do. Life isn’t fair, Quinn Hoggwaller.” He sounded like he thought this was the most life-changing, sage advice he could ever pass on to someone. “But sometimes, when life’s not fair, you just have to push your way through until it is fair.”

  I glowered at the front dash. The AC was running, but it was barely even chilly. Sweat was starting to bead up along the back of my neck. I could see the tippy top of the Hoggwaller Manor poking over the wiry oak trees in the distance.

  Gramps continued, “Right now, I need you to make me a promise.”

  “I don’t make promises,” I grumbled at him, refusing to even glance his way.

  I could practically hear how wet his blinking was. Gramps said, firmly, “You’re going to make this one, young miss, and you’re going to honor it.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m not going to tell Annie about this bad grade of yours. But I’m only going to help you sweep the busted vase into the closet once, do you hear me? We’re going to march in there, tell her how delicious that ice cream was, and then you’re going straight upstairs to study.”

  My head snapped toward him. How often did these people lie to each other?

  Gramps slowed down even more as we pulled onto the long winding driveway that led up toward the manor house. He continued, as though this was a great deal and also a totally normal one to be making with his granddaughter. “And when you’re done studying, you’re going to tell me. Eleanor and I, we’ve known each other a long time. A long, long time.”

  A wistful look crossed his face.

  “I think I can get her to let you retake the test.” He smacked his lips together. It was just as wet sounding as his blinking. “But I’m not going to do that if you aren’t going to bring home a pretty blue A. You do that, Quinn, and we’ll have apple steaks for dinner.”

  “What on earth is an apple steak?” I demanded, aghast.

  “Delicious.” He leaned closer to the steering wheel. “And a treat. And the promise that you’re going to make me. Come on, Quinn, let’s hear it.”

  We stopped in front of the house.

  “Fine,” I groused. “I promise.”

  As soon as the truck stopped moving, I grabbed my patchwork school bag—since my backpack was still stuck in the dream world—threw open the door, and jumped out of the junkyard truck. I stormed up to the house without waiting for him to come in.

  Over my shoulder I shouted, “The ice cream was great, Grandma,” and kept going. I slammed the bedroom door shut and threw myself down on the mattress, fury guiding me as I whipped out my laptop and set up my tablet.

  I couldn’t stand it.

  Everyone wanted me to be perfect, and they wanted me to be their version of perfect! The joke was on them, because I had developed my own perfection. The nib of my pen flew over the glossy black surface of the tablet, scratching out the rough outline of a person.

  Lines and circles quickly formed a person, a man, out in the backyard. He was leaning against a truck. I started to scratch in the details but—right before I started in on the face, I stopped.

  What was I doing?

  Did I really want to put my grandfather into that creepy doll world? Did I really want to have to kill him?

  The next full moon was coming up. Outside, the sky was turning dark. A bright white orb, almost totally round, hung beyond the glass. It was barely missing a sliver. One more night, maybe two of them, and then it would be a perfect circle.

  What if the dream wasn’t fake?

  Guilt rose up inside of me.

  It would be meaningless. I tried to convince myself of that. None of the people I killed had actually turned up dead in the waking world. But still, my hand was stayed. I erased the man from the picture, leaving just the truck.

  Stay Out of the Basement

  I stayed out late on purpose the night of the full moon, so that I had an excuse to miss dinner. It was just like before. The house was still and quiet. Purple light shone up out of the basement. The old rickety-looking stairs creaked beneath my weight as I made my way down them.

  Grandma’s number one house rule: stay out of the basement.

  This would be the third time that I had broken it. I just had to know if it was real or not.

  The strong scent of must filled the air. The basement was exactly the way I remembered it being last month. A metal storage shelf held a large assortment of dolls and a few waterlogged cardboard boxes of holiday supplies.

  There was an old rusted bicycle leaning against one wall, which was new, and the ceiling light was turned off. The purple aura seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. It swam through the air around me, an almost physical sheen.

  Aunt Molly’s white cradle sat in the middle of the room. The doll that looked just like her, in Grandma’s own words, lay within. She had porcelain features and thick eyelashes, fabric, above her pretty brown eyes.

  Today, she was wearing a bright yellow tutu over top of a white-glitter bodice. She was smiling. Molly was in the same pose as when I first met her; tucked in beneath a handmade blanket that was almost identical to my own patchwork quilt, with her arms beneath the blanket, her head on a small, handmade satin pillow.

  I reached out for her. The tips of my fingers barely brushed over her cheek before a strange pressure change washed over me. Just like before, my legs crumpled beneath me and I passed out, crumpling to the ground like a cloth doll.

  When I woke back up, I was in my room—except that it wasn’t really my room.

  A pounding headache had me wincing. My mouth was dry as cotton, lips sticking to my teeth. I shifted a little, and took in the world around me.

  This room was made of the same illustrated style that I used when I drew on my tablet. Bright splashes of color spilled out into the world around me; the watercolor technique that I had been digitally implementing easy to see as it washed out from beyond the lines.

  Even my own hands had a strange, thick line to them, and little curves over the creases of my knuckles. My hair was thicker and just slightly longer, and the sheet was bright blue and covered in white stars. I flung myself out of the bed, not nearly as confused as I had been the last time I woke up here.

  Did this mean it wasn’t a dream at all?

  “Molly!” I called out, heading toward the door. I pushed it open, stepping out into what looked to be an endless hallway. “Molly, are you here?”

  “I’m right here,” said a voice from behind me.

  I squeaked with surprise and spun around, coming face to face with the real-life ballerina doll. She was sitting on the edge of the bed smiling at me, her head cocked slightly to the side. “I’m glad you came back, Quinn. But… Why did you bring so many people with you?”

  “So many people?” I echoed. “Are my grandparents here?”

  Molly shook her head, gracefully standing up from the bed. “No, not them. The other people. They’re all over the house, Quinn. You know we can’t leave them all over the house.”

  Oh.

  The people that I had been drawing.

  My mouth started to water, but not with nausea and fear. It was like having a great big chocolate cake get set down in front of me. “They’re all here? Everyone I drew?”

  I tried to count how many people that was.

  Mr. Germander. Isla and Jessica. Mrs. Kapow. A couple of kids that had laughed at me outside of the bus. That was at least seven of them that I could remember.

  “Quinn, you know what gets put down comes to pass,” said Molly. “You know that you have to see the story through to the end.”

  “I just—I didn’t think any of this was real,” I told her. That seemed like the best way to handle the accusing stare that Molly fixed on me. It was way better than trying to tell her that I thought it was fun when I killed them.

  “It’s real,” said Molly. “You have to do better, okay?” And then, her mood flipping like a switch had been clicked. “Let’s go find one of the adults, okay? I think they might be married. Maybe we can catch them both at once!”

  She all but skipped past me, into the hallway. Molly grabbed me by the wrist as she went past, and I hurried along after her, knowing full well that it was ridiculously easy to get lost in this house. The walls and halls and rooms, they changed around rapidly. It never looked the same.

  “How have you been?” I asked her.

  “Lonely.” He voice was quiet.

  “Even with the strangers around?”

  “They aren’t friends, Quinn. And we’re not supposed to talk to them, either.”

  “Have you seen much of Harry and Tabitha?”

  “Harry’s sulking,” said Molly. “You never drew him the circus.”

  I winced. We hit the stairs. They just looked like normal stairs, though a bright red carpet ran down them.

  “I’m working on it,” I lied. Though I had put that in my notes on Monday, it had pretty much instantly been forgotten. I had been way too caught up drawing all of the people and their various deaths. “I just—they’re hard to draw. And there’s a lot going on in them!”

  Molly didn’t look convinced.

  Quickly, I asked her, “What about Tabitha?”

  “I haven’t seen very much of her,” said Molly softly. “You scared her a lot.” A pause, and then, voice forcefully bright, “But that’s fine! You’re here now, after all!”

  We hit the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Kapow was standing right there in front of the doors. She was opening them and closing them, over and over again. Open, shut. Open, shut. She looked just like I had drawn her, when I turned her into the noisy neighbor next door, complete with her big bag of con-artist makeup supplies she was apparently selling.

  She didn’t turn to look at me.

  Molly reached out and handed me a knife.

  It was the same knife that I had used last time, during my very first kill. She was smiling and her eyes were so bright—but a cold sort of bright, like stars, like space.

  I took the knife, turned toward my first victim, and lunged. It was so much easier this time around. The knife cut through her skin like butter. I slashed and stabbed and the blood ran all over the floor. She hit the ground, and I went down with her.

  The knife made a wet schlick sound each time that it shoved through her skin. I was breathing hard by the time I stopped, and had just as much red on my tattered dress—the Ghost Girl’s dress—as there was on the floor.

  Panting, I slid off of her. Blood soaked into the butt of my dress. I laid there and watched as the woman transformed, shifting into a doll. She was made of plastic but she had ball joints, and she was sitting there on a stool, almost like the sort that artists used when they needed to make something into a specific pose.

  I picked her up, and sat her on the table in the foyer.

  The creepy cat paintings that normally hung on either side of the little side table in the foyer were now replaced with equally creepy dog paintings. They made me about four times more uneasy than killing Mrs. Kapow had.

  For one, the blood had already vanished from my skin and the dress. Also, she was going to be just fine when I woke up later.

  But these paintings? Yeah, they didn’t change, no matter how much I looked at them.

  One of them showed a black hound dog, laying in front of a black doorway. It was hard to tell if the dog was dead or not. There were eyes in the doorway. They were not dog eyes. I reached up and pulled it off of the wall.

  “What are you doing?” Molly looked offended.

  “I hate these stupid paintings.” Then I shoved my knee straight through the back of it. The oil-covered paper ripped! I threw the ruined painting onto the floor.

  Molly watched me, with that perfectly serene smile of hers plastered into place. Her eyes were bright, but she did not seem happy.

  The other picture had three identical fuzzy white dogs sitting in a row, out in a field. The town behind them was on fire, with thick plumes of smoke spilling up into the sky. For some reason, this did not detract from how absolutely adorable the dogs themselves were.

  That made me just as creeped out. I snatched it off of the wall.

  Molly warned, “You know, Tabitha painted those.”

  I froze. “What?”

  “She painted those,” said Molly.

  “How was I supposed to know that?” I demanded. And then, “Why didn’t you tell me before I broke the first one?”

  “Well why did you break something that wasn’t yours?”

  “Are you being serious right now? You sound like—geez, my grandfather and everyone else, with the manner lessons.” I threw the painting down onto the ground and stalked down the hallway that should have led to the dining room.

  It didn’t.

  It led to the living room, only this living room had a bright pink couch with a heart-shaped back, and a massive wide screen TV that was surrounded by flowers. The flowers didn’t have pollen in the center, but eyes. They blinked at me wetly.

  I shuddered.

  They were definitely my grandfather’s eyes.

  Molly followed me. “There are a lot of people that need to be found. We should hurry, Quinn. We only have the same amount of time as before. Once the moon is full…”

  I would be stuck here, unless I had killed everyone.

  And this time, I knew it was real.

  “Alright, where’s the other adult? Mr. Germander,” I asked.

  It didn’t happen much differently from before. Molly led me through the house, and I killed everyone we came across. I killed them the same way I’d drawn their deaths.