The Archived by Victoria Schwab

was…sweet of you,” she says, looking wounded because I’d rather have tea
     with a stranger than talk to her.
    “I should have kept better track of time”—and then, feeling guiltier—“I’m sorry.”
     I rub my eyes and begin to lean toward the bedroom. “I’m going to go unpack a little.”
    “This will be good for us,” she promises. “This will be an adventure.” But while it
     sounded cheerful coming from Dad, it leaves her lips like a breath being knocked out
     of her. Desperate. “I promise, Mac. An adventure.”
    “I believe you,” I say. And because I can tell she wants more, I manage a smile and
     add, “I love you.”
    The words taste strange, and as I make my way to my room and then to my waiting bed,
     I can’t figure out why. When I pull the sheet over my head, it hits me.
    It’s the only thing I said that wasn’t a lie.
I’m twelve, six months shy of becoming a Keeper, and Mom is mad at you because you’re
     bleeding. She accuses you of fighting, of drinking, of refusing to age gracefully.
     You light a cigarette and run your fingers through your shock of peppered hair and
     let her believe it was a bar fight, let her believe you were looking for trouble.
    “Is it hard?” I ask when she storms out of the room. “Lying so much?”
    You take a long drag and flick ash into the sink, where you know she’ll see it. You’re
     not supposed to smoke anymore.
    “Not hard, no. Lying is easy. But it’s lonely.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “When you lie to everyone about everything, what’s left? What’s true?”
    “Nothing,” I say.
    “Exactly.”
    The phone wakes me.
    “Hey, hey,” says Lyndsey. “Daily check-in!”
    “Hey, Lynds.” I yawn.
    “Were you sleeping?”
    “I’m trying to fulfill your mother’s image of me.”
    “Don’t mind her. So, hotel update? Found me any ghosts yet?”
    I sit up, swing my legs off the bed. I’ve got the bloodstained boy in my walls, but
     I don’t think that’s really shareable. “No ghosts yet, but I’ll keep looking.”
    “Look harder! A place like that? It’s got to be full of creepy things. It’s been around
     for, like, a hundred years.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “I looked it up! You don’t think I’d let you move into some haunted mansion without
     scoping out the history.”
    “And what did you find?”
    “Weirdly, nothing. Like, suspiciously nothing. It was a hotel, and the hotel was converted into apartments after World
     War Two, a big boom time moneywise. The conversion was in a ton of newspapers, but
     then a few years later the place just falls off the map…no articles, nothing.”
    I frown, getting up from the bed. Ms. Angelli admitted that this place was full of
     history. So where is it? Assuming she can’t read walls, how did she learn the Coronado’s secrets? And why was she so defensive
     about sharing them?
    “I bet it’s like a government conspiracy,” Lynds is saying. “Or a witness protection
     program. Or one of those horror reality films. Have you checked for cameras?”
    I laugh, but silently wonder—glancing at the blood-spotted floor—if the truth is worse.
    “Have you at least got tenants who look like they belong in a Hitchcock film?”
    “Well, so far I’ve met a morbidly obese antiques hoarder, and a boy who wears eyeliner.”
    “They call that guyliner,” she says.
    “Yes. Well.” I stretch and head for the bedroom door. “I’d call it stupid, but he’s
     rather nice to look at. I can’t tell if the eyeliner makes him attractive, or if he’s
     good-looking in spite of it.”
    “At least you’ve got nice things to look at.”
    I step around the ghostly drops on the floor and venture out into the apartment. It’s
     dusk, and none of the lights are on.
    “How are you doing?” I ask. Lyndsey possesses the gift of normalcy. I bathe in it. “Summer courses?
     College prep? Learning new languages? New instruments? Single-handedly saving countries?”
    Lyndsey laughs.