Final Girl Read online

  THIS ONE’S FOR THE GHOSTS OF YOUR PAST—MS

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Penguin Young Readers Group

  An Imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  Text copyright © 2017 by Michelle Schusterman. Cover illustration copyright © 2017 by Stephanie Olesh. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  Ebook ISBN 9781524785666

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE: THE HAUNTED HOUSE

  CHAPTER TWO: WE’RE ALL MADDER HERE

  CHAPTER THREE: THE HORRORWOOD REPORTER

  CHAPTER FOUR: NIGHTMARE ON CLOWN STREET

  CHAPTER FIVE: ALL WORK AND NO PLAY

  CHAPTER SIX: THE THING ON THE BRIDGE

  CHAPTER SEVEN: KATYA THE NOT-SO-FRIENDLY GHOST

  CHAPTER EIGHT: STAY TUNED FOR DOOM

  CHAPTER NINE: THE GIRL WHO CRIED DOPPELGANGER

  CHAPTER TEN: PSYCHO(LOGY)

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: MOTHER DEAREST

  CHAPTER TWELVE: SO YOU THINK YOU CAN BLOG

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE ZOMBIE AWAKENS

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE TRUTH ISN’T OUT THERE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: FOR THE LOVE OF BODY DOUBLES

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: KNOCK, KNOCK

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: DOCTOR PAIN WILL SEE YOU NOW

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: HELLO FROM THE OTHER SIDE

  CHAPTER TWENTY: MOVING ON

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE HAUNTED HOUSE

  Fright TV: Your Home for Horror

  Press Release: January 9

  SCREAM QUEEN EDIE MILLS’S DOCUMENTARY SERIES COMING THIS SUMMER

  Former teenage Scream Queen Edie Mills will be producing and narrating MAGIC HOUR, a 13-episode documentary series that details her rise to horror movie stardom from 1972 to 1985.

  The series will include exclusive behind-the-scenes footage from Mills’s most popular films, including VAMPIRES OF NEW JERSEY and INVASION OF THE FLESH-EATING RODENTS, as well as RETURN TO THE ASYLUM and its controversial prequel. Fans will enjoy never-before-seen interviews with cast and crew, as well as stories from Mills herself about her infamous disagreements with studio heads and her experience with a stalker, the details of which she kept out of the press at the time.

  MY reflection glared at me, fists clenched as if she wanted to punch through the mirror and wrap her hands around my neck. I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to relax, letting my fingers uncurl one by one. Brush your teeth, I told myself. Fix your hair. Then get out.

  I grabbed the tube of toothpaste next to the sink and rolled it up to squeeze the last bit onto my toothbrush. A lot of girls probably looked at themselves critically in the mirror, especially before a date. But I’d bet none of them had a ritual like I had. Every morning for the last three weeks I’d had to force myself to face off with my reflection. Because I hated her. Because I was afraid of her. Because honestly, I’d be happy if I never had to look at her again . . . but obviously that wasn’t an option.

  After tying back my hair and sliding in a few bobby pins, I switched off the bathroom light and headed over to the giant, open box near the front closet. The sticker with our hotel’s address in New York was peeling off in places, but I could still read the return address:

  Edie Mills

  3852 Sparrow Street

  Chelsea, OH 43209

  My chest tightened a bit as I knelt next to the box. The smell of my house, the one I’d grown up in, filled my head as I inhaled deeply. It smelled like Grandma’s perfume and apple spice air freshener and Pledge furniture cleaner.

  I missed that house. Kind of.

  Grandma had packed the box neatly and carefully, but after a few weeks of Dad and me rummaging around inside without ever actually unpacking, it was kind of a mess. Winter clothes and boots were jumbled up with folders from Dad’s home office and boring-looking mail about tax returns. There’d been a package of snickerdoodle cookies from Cinnabeth, my favorite bakery in Chelsea, but those were long gone.

  There had also been a formal invitation to my mother’s wedding in May. I’d mailed the RSVP back to her that day without giving myself time to think too hard about checking Yes. Then I’d taken a short, frigid walk to Central Park and thrown the invitation into a frost-covered trash can.

  Now, I unearthed my favorite hoodie—black with dark red claw marks across the chest—and slipped it over my head. “How’s the research coming?” I asked, looking around for my snow boots. Oscar was sitting at the desk in front of my dad’s laptop, head in his hands like he was reading intently. His aunt Lidia, Passport to Paranormal’s producer, was working in their room, and Oscar had been desperate for some Internet time. When he didn’t answer, I grabbed my boots and sat on the edge of my bed directly behind him.

  “Hello?” I nudged his back with my toe. He jumped out of his chair and spun around, eyes wild and unfocused. I tried not to laugh. “Did you actually fall asleep in the three minutes I was in the bathroom?”

  Oscar blinked, and his gaze sharpened. “No. Well . . . just for a few seconds.”

  I double-wrapped the laces around my boot before knotting them. “Still not sleeping well?”

  He mumbled something incoherent under his breath as he sat down and pulled the laptop closer. I eyed the back of his head, wondering if I should press further. The whole P2P crew had spent the last few weeks together in New York after shooting an episode in Buenos Aires. My dad and Oscar’s aunt Lidia, as host and producer of the show, had been busy meeting with Fright TV executives about our next few episodes, which would be the last of the second season. So I wasn’t sure if they’d noticed the change in Oscar: constant yawning, dark circles under his eyes, easily distracted. When I finally asked him about it on New Year’s Eve, he told me he’d been having weird dreams and waking up a lot. He didn’t offer any more details, and I didn’t ask. I knew Oscar pretty well by now. It always took him a while to open up about stuff.

  Sometimes, though, he needed a little push.

  “Nightmares?” I asked lightly, pulling on my other boot.

  Oscar shrugged without looking at me. “They’re not nightmares.”

  “You said weird dreams,” I said. “I assumed you meant bad weird. So . . . nightmares.”

  “No, I meant they’re . . .” Oscar broke off, yawning widely. He turned around when I stood up, and stared at my boots in surprise. “Where are you going?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “To that paranormal museum? To check out the thoughtography exhibit? Remember, we talked about it last night . . .”

  His expression cleared. “Oh, right.”

  “Seriously, what’s going on with you?” I asked. “Did you get some bad news or something?”

  “No, it’s . . .” Oscar stopped and shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. Later, okay? You’re gonna be late.”

  I glanced at the tim
e on the laptop screen. “Yeah, all right.”

  My gaze fell on a stack of papers between the laptop and the mirror. Fright TV had renewed Passport to Paranormal for a third season after our Buenos Aires episode’s great ratings. The contract they’d given my dad had been sitting on our desk for almost two weeks now. Oscar and I shared a glance before I slid it toward me and flipped to the last page. At the sight of the still-blank line, I sighed.

  “He still hasn’t signed?” Oscar said, brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Eh, he’s probably just waiting for his agent to approve it.” I ignored the twinge in my stomach and pushed the contract back to where Dad had left it. “Maybe they have to negotiate some stuff.”

  “Maybe,” Oscar replied. “But I’m pretty sure Roland and Sam turned theirs in a week ago.”

  “Huh.” I grabbed my puffy gray winter coat off the armchair. “I’m sure Dad’ll turn it in soon.”

  “Hope so.”

  I swallowed hard as I zipped up my coat. I’d been trying not to stress about that unsigned contract, but every morning that I woke up to find it still on our desk made it more difficult. And it bothered me that Roland Yeske and Sam Sumners, P2P’s parapsychologist and medium, had already turned in their contracts. Dad loved hosting P2P. He loved his job. So why hadn’t he committed to another season yet? He couldn’t possibly want to move back to Ohio . . . could he?

  I could just ask him. I should. But I was too afraid of what his answer might be.

  “Did he decide what to do about your house yet?” Oscar asked suddenly. I cringed, glancing over at the box from Grandma. The day it arrived Dad and I called to thank her, and it turned out she had some news. Good news. A documentary series about her horror movie star days. Moving to L.A. to “get back into the business.” Great news.

  Selling the house we rented from her. Not-so-great news.

  She wanted to give Dad a chance to buy it before putting it on the market. I could tell Dad had been just as floored as I was. He asked if he could have time to think about it, and she said there was no rush. Afterward, Dad and I just stared at each other.

  “Well,” I’d said. “It’s not like we really live there anymore.”

  “But we still need a home,” Dad had responded. “A home base. Between seasons.”

  Between seasons. He’d said that, but he still hadn’t actually agreed to host season three. On the other hand, he hadn’t given Grandma an answer about the house yet, either.

  “No,” I told Oscar. “But I mean, even if he buys it, that doesn’t mean he’s not coming back to the show. We need a place to live when we’re not traveling, obviously.”

  “Yeah.” Oscar looked like he wanted to say more, but just turned back to the laptop. “Anyway. Have fun at the museum.”

  “Thanks.”

  His voice turned a little sly. “Tell Jamie I said hi.”

  I shot him a look, willing myself not to blush. “I will. Hey, where’s my camera? It was right here by the TV.”

  Oscar frowned. “I didn’t touch it.”

  I turned slowly, my eyes darting from the TV to the desk to the little table by the window. Then I spotted a flash of silver on the armchair, just behind the cushion. “Aha.” I tucked the Elapse into my pocket, ignoring a familiar sense of unease. This had been happening a lot over the last few weeks—my camera, my homework, all kinds of items turning up in the wrong place. I kept trying to convince myself I was just being forgetful, but it was getting to the point where that was almost as unsettling as the other option: Someone, or something, was moving them.

  After double-checking my coat pockets for my gloves, I headed down the hall to the elevator. I could worry about Dad and the house and why he hadn’t signed that contract later.

  But right now, it was time for my second date with Jamie Cooper.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WE’RE ALL MADDER HERE

  P2P FAN FORUMS

  Season 3 Finale Gossip!

  Maytrix [admin]

  Word on the street is Fright TV’s booked a guest star for the finale of P2P next month. Anyone have any thoughts on who it might be?

  AntiSimon [member]

  Bernice!! I hope, anyway. Jack’s a great host but I really miss her. And the crew’s in NYC right now—she works at the natural history museum there.

  spicychai [member]

  if it’s a former host, my bet’s on emily

  AntiSimon [member]

  Uh, pretty sure she’s locked up. Also pretty sure you’re joking, because why would they bring back someone who LITERALLY ATTACKED THEM.

  YourCohortInCrime [member]

  Ratings.

  presidentskroob [member]

  sorry Simon, I know for a fact it’s not Bernice. (and YCIC, there is no way they’d bring that loony bird back, give me a break)

  AntiSimon [member]

  How do you know it’s not Bernice? And hey, where’s beautifulgollum? Her predictions are usually right on track. Haven’t seen her post in a while.

  skEllen [member]

  OMG THEY WOULD NEVER LET EMILY NEAR MY PRECIOUS SAM AGAIN!!!1!!!

  WHEN it snowed a few days after we got to New York, it was kind of magical. Like being in one of those miniature Christmas villages set up in the department store windows, surrounded by cotton ball fluff. But a few weeks later . . . well, it was kind of gross. Along the curbs and sidewalks, the shoveled snow had hardened into dirty gray slush. It was frozen solid, and I could see piles of trash bags trapped inside like flies in amber.

  Not so magical.

  I pulled my hood over my head and quickened my pace as I turned onto West 96th Street. The bitter wind cut right through my gloves, and shoving my hands in my coat pockets only helped a little. Not for the first time, I wished the crew had just decided to stay in Argentina over the holidays.

  Except not really, because Jamie wasn’t in Argentina.

  I was walking so fast, I almost missed the sign for Madder’s Museum of the Paranormal. It was hanging over an otherwise nondescript glass door sandwiched between a gelato shop and a really expensive-looking boutique that apparently sold only the kinds of caps worn by old men and newspaper boys in movies set in the 1930s. Slipping a little on the icy sidewalk, I pulled open the door and hurried inside.

  For a second, I thought I’d accidentally walked into someone’s home. All the museums I’d ever been to were spacious, usually with a giant foyer that split off into several halls. This looked more like an apartment—and a pretty small one, too. Except instead of sofas and chairs, it was filled with shelves and glass cabinets holding all sorts of creepy stuff: old dolls with cracked porcelain faces; jars filled with murky liquid; skulls and bones that might’ve been fake, but it was hard to tell. I spotted a stained wooden Ouija board and made a mental note to tell Mi Jin to check out this place before we left New York.

  “Kat!” Jamie waved from the back of the room. Next to him, a petite middle-aged woman with bright blue hair and a Ghostbusters T-shirt beamed at me.

  “Kat Sinclair!” she called, skirting around a cabinet and hurrying toward me. “Oh wow, it’s so cool to meet you!”

  I blinked in surprise as she grabbed my gloved hand and shook. “Um, hi!”

  “Carrie Madder. My mom owns this place, but she’s retiring next month so I’m basically running it now. I’ve been reading your blog since the beginning,” she rambled, helping me out of my coat and hanging it on a rack by the door. “I’m on the P2P forums all the time, too. We miss having you on there, by the way!”

  I smiled, trying not to cringe. I’d stopped hanging out on the fan forums last month when this troll kept posting horrible things about me. Horrible things that I knew weren’t true, but that I still thought about every day.

  “That’s so cool!” I said, hoping my face wasn’t red. “I’ve never met someone from the forums
in real life before. What’s your username?”

  “Presidentskroob,” Carrie replied. “Man, you and Oscar are so great. I’ve always loved this show, but it’s even better with you guys on it.”

  Now I was definitely blushing. “Thanks!”

  Jamie joined us. “Carrie was just telling me there’s supposedly going to be a guest star for the finale,” he told me eagerly. As usual, his smile set off a ridiculous amount of fluttering in my stomach. “Have you heard anything?”

  “No, nothing.” I smiled back at him, resisting the urge to press my frozen hands to my flaming-hot cheeks. We’d spent a lot of time together the last few weeks, but always with his sister, Hailey, and Oscar. This was the first time it was just the two of us since our first date to a graveyard in Buenos Aires. Well, just the two of us and a really chatty museum curator. Part of me wished Carrie wasn’t around, but another part of me was relieved. I loved hanging out with Jamie, but calling this a date made it different. Exciting and a little bit nerve-racking.

  “Well, if the host’s daughter and the network VP’s son don’t know anything, maybe it’s really just a rumor,” Carrie was saying. “That’s a bummer.”

  “Not necessarily,” Jamie said. “My dad pretty much never tells us anything about the show.”

  “But Kat’s a cast member,” Carrie said, grinning at me. “They wouldn’t keep her in the dark, right?”

  I pictured my dad’s unsigned contract and shrugged. “I don’t know. They might, to be honest.”

  “Well, if there is a guest, I know for sure it’s not Bernice Boyd.” Carrie lowered her voice, despite the fact that we were the only ones in the museum. “I saw her last time I went to the natural history museum and asked.” She snorted. “A few fans think it’s Emily Rosinski. As if they’d ever do that, no matter how wild the ratings would be.”

  At the mention of Emily’s name, goose bumps broke out on my arms. “She’s in a psychiatric hospital,” I said, keeping my voice even. “There’s no way.”