The Burning Girl by Lisa Unger

There was a small, angry girl sitting on Eloise Montgomery’s couch. The girl had a wild mop of tangled hair, was thin as a wisp. She had about her the look of neglect—dirt under her nails, the hem falling on her dress. She smelled of smoke—not cigarette smoke, but of things destroyed by fire. Eloise ignored her, because there was something different about this one. Maybe it was the rage—which was electric. Eloise could feel it as she pushed the vacuum around the living room, looking at the girl out of the corner of her eye.
    “Try to stay away from the angry ones,” Agatha had warned her. “And those seeking revenge. They’ll shred you.”
    Eloise often found Agatha’s advice difficult to follow. Maybe Agatha was tougher than Eloise, more in control of her abilities. Because Eloise hadn’t been able to turn away anyone yet, not in ten going on eleven years of Listening, as she’d come to think of it. Though it was more than that, of course. More than Listening.
    “The dead have no regard for us at all.” More words of wisdom from Agatha Cross—psychic medium, mentor, friend. Agatha was a little bitter about the whole psychic thing and didn’t mind admitting it to Eloise. “We must protect ourselves from them . Or they’ll use us right up.”
    Eloise got what Agatha was saying, but it didn’t ring quite true to her experience. There was more to it than that, wasn’t there? She didn’t know what exactly, but it was more than them showing up with their demands. There was another layer.
    Eloise moved from vacuuming to dusting. From the end table, she picked up a picture of her daughter Amanda and her grandchildren, Alfie and Finley, who were living in Seattle.
    Just looking at the photo made her heart clench. Eloise loved her daughter, and she knew that Amanda loved her, too. They weren’t estranged, exactly. It was just that Amanda wanted to be as far away from Eloise and her “abilities” as she could possibly get. And she didn’t want her children to be exposed to it at all. Eloise could understand all that. But still, it was an ache in her chest. One of many. Eloise could help her visitors with their problems. But she couldn’t help herself, it seemed.
    The girl was smoldering.
    “What’s your name?” Eloise asked. Most of them didn’t talk to her. But she had a sense that this one wanted to be known. She had a flare for the dramatic.
    You can call her The Burning Girl , the voice said. That voice in her head that wasn’t a voice. She’ll be around for a while.
    The girl’s hair had turned to flames, and her skin glowed as if there were embers burning inside her. Eloise tried to look away, but the girl’s fury was magnetic, her mouth opened in a silent scream.
    Eloise put the photo down and backed away, trying to keep herself from disappearing down the black maw of the girl’s throat.
    Agatha had instructed Eloiseto make her mind hard like a concrete wall when she didn’t want to get pulled into someone’s thrall. But Eloise hadn’t mastered that trick yet. And then Eloise was gone, sucked away like water down a drain.
    • • •
    The room Eloise found herself in was dark, lit only by the moonlight washing in through the pane glass window. The girl wasn’t burning now. She was small and sweet like any child. There was another bed beside hers, where a younger child slept peacefully, breathing even, mouth agape.
    The Burning Girl lay awake, waiting. Eloise felt how her throat was dry, how her heart was pumping with fear; she could feel the girl’s tension. She held her body in a tight ball, all the muscles clenched. She was listening for footsteps in the hall. The girl knew he would come for her and that there was nothing she could do but lie silently until it was over. Eloise sensed all of this, though she was powerless to do anything but bear witness.
    Except for a baby sister, The Burning Girl was alone in this world. Her father had died, and her mother was a shell of a person,