Final Girl by Michelle Schusterman (beach books .TXT) 📕

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

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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