As he climbed off the landing, though, he saw a familiar black ponytail bouncing toward the end of the hall ahead of him. Was that seriously her? She never came up here anymore.

“Maria?” he called. “Maria! Hey, Ree, hang on a sec.”

Maria stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Hey!” Brandon jogged the length of the hall to catch up with her. Why didn’t she look back? She had to know it was him. “Where’ve you been? We were supposed to meet at dinner, remember?”

Maria tilted her head. For a minute Brandon could’ve sworn she didn’t recognize him. She’d been acting so strange lately.

Then Maria’s face broke into her usual smile. “Crap. Hi. I’m sorry. Lily and I spaced out and missed dinner, I guess.”

“Wait, you mean you didn’t eat at all?” That wasn’t like Maria. Not during soccer season. She was the only girl Brandon knew who routinely went back for third helpings of the cafeteria’s eggplant casserole.

Maria didn’t answer. Her smile was still in place, but her eyes darted around the hall.

She was keeping a secret from him.

That wasn’t like her either. Brandon and Maria always told each other everything.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Brandon lowered his voice and stepped closer to Maria. The fourth floor of the dorm was pretty empty—most people were still at dinner, or hanging out on the front steps during these last precious hours before lights-out—but there were a couple of people milling around at the far end of the hallway. “Are you still freaked from the other night? I kind of am. I even had a dream about it. Do you think it meant—”

Maria cut him off. “There’s nothing to be freaked about.”

Brandon didn’t see how that was possible. In his dream, he’d remembered where he’d heard the Latin phrase the board had spelled out, “Memento mori.” He’d learned it in history class sophomore year. It was an old saying that inspired a lot of art back in the days when “art” consisted mainly of paintings featuring dancing skeletons and creepy-looking guys holding their pet skulls.

In English, “Memento mori” meant “Remember you must die.”

Maria was Brandon’s best friend. He knew her better than anyone. And he was positive that for Maria, that night with the Ouija board hadn’t just been about what the planchette spelled out. Maria had seen something in the room with them. Or at least she thought she had.

Brandon had never totally believed all the stories Maria told him about when she was a kid. He’d believed her, of course—she’d never lie to him—but he’d always figured there had to be some sort of rational explanation for the stuff she thought she’d seen.

There hadn’t been anything rational about that chandelier crashing down onto their heads, though.