For as little as I know about this creature I call a Taker, I believe it knows even less. I think that it only has one intent—to find its other half. Whenever it senses pain in someone, I believe it sees its other half because that’s the last thing it remembers feeling before it died. This is the only way I can understand Dr. Keller’s success in provoking it. Who better to know how to make you suffer than the person who knows the source of all your misery?
Why do I call this being a Taker? Because that is what it does. It TAKES, or at least it tries.
I believe a Taker tries to possess the body of whoever it thinks is holding its other half. And when it tries to usurp this body, it fails, killing the body it wants to inhabit.
I know this because I’ve seen it.
It takes something else, too. Some sort of object. Almost like an artifact—a possession in place of a body.
And so the people who can see this happen—the people who hear the murmurings, who catch the flicker of movement in the corner of their eye and dismiss it as imagination—I call them Seers. That name sounds more hopeful than their fate, but I can’t think of what else to call them other than the word that defines their burden. Because as far as I know, there’s no way to rid oneself of this awful gift. It’s a curse you’re born with.
And Dr. Keller will stop at nothing to understand this strange phenomenon.
I made the mistake of thinking I could escape the Takers, and I was wrong. I wish to God I’d been the one to suffer the consequence of that error. But it was someone else who suffered instead.
There are no more entries to read, so I reread each post three more times. I read until my eyes sting from the harsh computer-screen light. I read until my stomach tumbles with guilt and fear and confusion. I read until Adam’s experience has superimposed itself over my own life and I know just what Adam went through for all those years. I feel as if I’m the one who was raised by Dr. Keller and his false fatherly concern. I feel like I know Adam and his rage at learning about his new reality. I imagine how that anger looked to Nell, if she ever saw it. I pretend that I’m not afraid of him, of Dr. Keller, of Oakside.
I crawl into bed at 3:00 a.m. and drift into another restless sleep. I’ve already made the decision to skip school tomorrow and to go see Dr. Keller.
10
* * *
A DIFFERENT ORDERLY OPENS THE sliding glass door when I arrive at Oakside. She wears a different expression from the typical apathy. She is suspicious. And she looks hungry, much like a dog looks right before you take a scoop of its food and rattle it in front of its bowl.
“Check in at the counter,” she says unnecessarily through the intercom before admitting me past the second set of sliding doors.
I’ve seen her before. She has a long, shriveled neck and a tiny head topped with a bun, which conjures the image of a shrunken head a boy in elementary school once showed me in a textbook. As soon as the second doors slide open, the woman’s out from behind her Plexiglas enclosure and next to me like we’re old pals.
“Just sign your name right here, Ms. David, and I’ll let Dr. Keller know you’re here.” Apparently, I’m familiar to her, too. She’s smiling in a way that tells me her face isn’t used to doing that. I want to laugh at her, but I’m still too unsettled by this place to do much of anything other than look at her.
She taps her bony finger on the line where she wants me to sign.
“I know the drill,” I say, not masking my dislike of her even a little.
Her back goes erect so fast, she looks like she might get whiplash. The fibers of her neck strain against her yellowy skin. A quick swipe of her tongue wets her parched lips, which, when pursed, look remarkably like a short beak. She looks like a scrawny pigeon in a white, boxy uniform.
“Well, then, I’ll just run and get Dr. Keller for you,” she says, her voice syrupy sweet. The smile hasn’t come back, and that’s fine by me. This place is creepy enough.
I scan the room behind me for unseen danger. I could feel it lurking somewhere behind these walls before. But now that I’ve read Adam’s blog, I feel even more vulnerable. I reread his last post again this morning, the one dated July 14. I can’t keep his words from passing through my brain like a toy train on a track, circling round and round in a self-abusive mantra.
I made the mistake of thinking I could escape, but I was wrong.
Escape from what, exactly? And there’s something else that’s been gnawing at my mind—just one more feeling of dread to add to my ever-growing list: Why hasn’t he written since July 14? Have the police finally caught up with him? But if that’s the case, why haven’t we heard anything? And why am I suddenly hoping he hasn’t gotten caught?
Then, like some sort of omen confirming my unease, I catch the glare of a bald head out of the corner of my eye.
It has to be LM, Nell’s—I suppose “friend” is the only word I can use—from her journal.
His head is a shiny dome at the far edge of the room. He carries an armful of Legos—towering blocks of primary colors. His face is set in a rigid, singular thought, one I couldn’t even begin to guess. The woman with the tight topknot catches me staring and follows my gaze.
“Wait here,” she commands.
This was a bad idea.
I’m already taking a backward step toward the sliding doors when a girl’s scream, like something straight out of a horror film, makes us both jump. From behind the birdlike nurse, sneakers squeak on the linoleum floor, announcing someone’s approach—and judging by the speed of the squeaking, that person is approaching the corner at a run. Another movie-worthy scream follows, this one closer. It grows to a shriek so loud it makes my eardrums pulse. A small-framed girl with stringy blond hair and enormous eyes swings around the corner, a blur in light-blue cotton heading straight for us. Another blur, this one in white, chases closely behind, but he looks like he’s having trouble keeping up. The orderly is clutching his side like he has a cramp. The girl with the stringy blond hair doesn’t look like she’s having any trouble outrunning him.
The pigeon lady turns calmly, having recovered from shock much faster than I am able to. She faces the girl and subdues her with frightening efficiency. Before I can blink, the Pigeon has her scrawny arm across the narrow expanse of the girl’s shoulders and is holding her from behind while her counterpart is busy rubbing the cramp out of his side.
The girl with the blond hair is still screaming, but it’s more noise than words. She kicks her legs and tries to free her arms from the Pigeon’s hold, but she’s not fast enough to escape the poke and plunge of the syringe that’s somehow materialized in the Pigeon’s fingers.
Just before the needle pricks the girl’s skin, I watch her eyes find LM in the recreation room, and something in her gaze shifts. Her once fanatical, darting gaze is clear of its mania for a fraction of a second. Almost imperceptibly, her head nods on her straining neck. I turn to LM just in time to see his head rise in response.
“Come on, Ms. Lasky. Let’s get you back to your room,” the Pigeon says like a tired babysitter, yet I hear satisfaction in her voice. She knows she’s won, and as much as I didn’t want to be bowled over by the crazed blond girl, I really didn’t want the Pigeon to win either.
Still, as soon as the three round the corner, I can’t help but notice that I’m all at once unobserved.
I turn to my right and find LM stacking his Legos with renewed concentration. His meaty hands hover over a pile of loose pieces, and then, with the care of a surgeon, he lifts a yellow block from the pile and affixes it to his growing tower, nodding with approval and repeating the same task twice more.
I walk over slowly, deciding it’s probably best to approach him as if he were an animal with a reputation for biting. Only now, if he does bite, there’s no one here to help me.
“You came back,” he says without looking at me. His voice is soft, almost pouting. He sounds surprised, maybe hurt, that it took me so long. I find myself wondering again how old he is. He
looks about forty, but his tone is so young-sounding, I can’t tell.
I nod at first, then remember that he’s fixated on his blocks.
“Yeah, I did.” I say, hoping this is enough. I reach for the chair nearest him and, as quietly as possible, pull it out from the table where he’s set up his operation. “Okay if I sit here with you a second?” I ask, trying to make my voice low like his. But I’m way too shaken up for that. It comes out like cooing.
“I don’t have enough greens,” he says, and this makes his brow crease. He looks at the tower he’s built; it’s probably three feet high.
“I—I’m . . . ” I have no idea what to say to this. I want to apologize for some reason.
“They take them on purpose. They only give them to me if I show them,” he says, looking more disturbed by this notion than by the absence of the green pieces.
“Do you mean the orderlies?” I ask, looking over my shoulder for the Pigeon or the guy with the side cramp. Either one could be back at any second. Something tells me it isn’t going to take long for them to strap the poor blond girl to a mattress and pump her full of bedtime meds.
“They think it’s funny,” LM says, and smiles. He has the creepiest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. His eyes get huge and his bottom row of teeth jut out to create an under-bite like a bulldog’s. If he didn’t look psychotic before, he sure paints the picture now.
I’m desperate for him to stop smiling, but I’m not sure it’s worth pissing him off. I opt to look down at my hands instead.
“They don’t treat you so great in here, do they?” I ask, this time achieving the sympathy I actually mean. My heart throbs as thoughts of Nell wash over me. Adam’s words haunt me once again.
This place is storage for people who really need psychiatric help, and prison for those they’re actually interested in “treating.”
“It’s dangerous stuff. Nobody really knows.” He might as well be talking to his blocks for all the sense he’s making.
“The Legos?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t know how a person like LM reacts when a person like me gets the answer wrong.
“No!” he scolds, and I lean back so hard that I almost tip over in my chair.
“Not the Legos! Christ, how far gone do you think I am?” He looks at me with betrayal, and confusion at my confusion.
He doesn’t know the half of it.
My throat goes dry, and I quickly realize it’s because my mouth is hanging open. I snap it shut and accidentally bite my tongue. Trying to recover, I stare with salty eyes at the suddenly lucid-seeming man Nell had affectionately referred to as LM.
“What’s your name?” My words sound mushy with my swollen tongue.
“Kenny. And I’m not . . . you think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
There’s desperation behind his tone.
“No! No, no, no!” I reassure him, but I’m not fooling anyone. If I even had half a hope that LM—Kenny—could give me some answers about Nell, that hope is gone. I’ve offended him, and there’s no way I’ll be able to make up for that insult before the orderlies come back.
“You do. Everybody thinks so. Everybody except for them,” Kenny says, nodding his shining globe head toward the hallway. “They know I’m not crazy, but it’s almost worse that way. Because they make me show them . . . ”
Kenny has crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his chin, creating the appearance of a snowman, all round surfaces with no limbs.
“I won’t make you do anything, Kenny. I swear. I don’t want to upset you. I’m so sorry if I did.”
I start to reach for his arm to comfort him, but his wild blue eyes shoot me a look that is somehow inviting and warning all at once. Like he’s dying for an excuse to lash out at me, but the part of him that keeps control is telling me to back off before it’s too late.
I retract my shaking hand and sit on it. But I’m not ready to give up. Kenny and MM, whoever that is, are the only two people (aside from Adam) Nell ever mentioned trusting, and even then, she only dared to confide this to her journal. She never told me a thing. This could be my only chance to understand what she was too afraid to tell me.
I peek over my shoulder and assure myself the Pigeon isn’t coming. Then I turn back to Kenny—who is now holding a coveted green Lego and staring at me with that hungry/wary look.
“Kenny, I need to ask you something, okay?” I start carefully. Maybe if he feels like he’s in control, he’ll be more forthcoming. Though he is in complete control. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m terrified of him.
“Can you tell me what the doctors made Nell show them? What they make you show them?”
Kenny looks so shocked that for a second I think I might have sprouted a second head. It might not be the strangest thing that’s happened in this place.
“She never told you?” His upper lip starts to perspire, and he breathes heavily. It takes me a second to understand why: Shoes squeak down the hallway behind the reception counter. The Pigeon is coming back. If she sees me talking to Kenny, she’s going to know something’s up.
I struggle to answer his question. “I never . . . ” The guilt in my stomach is suffocating, and I can’t unbury the words I need. Finally, they manage to come out: “I never asked her.”
I try to remember all of the italicized and bolded parts of the Insider’s blog posts.
“But I think I know now,” I hurry, words spilling from my lips faster than I can edit them. “Tell me why. Why are they making you show them the thing? The unfinished soul. Damn it, what’s it called? The Taker? Why are they making you show them that, Kenny?”
“You have to go!” He says through clenched teeth, his entire face turning red. I look down at his hands—one fist squeezes the green Lego so hard I’m afraid he’s going to draw blood.
“I can’t. Not yet. I need you to tell me. Kenny, what are they trying to do? Is it Dr. Keller?”
I know Kenny’s perilously close to losing it, but I’ve come this far, and I’m not going to get another shot at talking to him without arousing too much suspicion.
“Leave! She’s coming back. She’s not just an orderly. She can’t know that you know anything or they’ll take you, too!” he cries, his face crumpled like a raisin.
His hands are shaking, his upper lip covered in beads of sweat that drip down his face. His trembling knees are making the table with its Lego tower rumble.
“Kenny, I won’t be able to come back. They’ll catch on. Tell me. Please, tell me!”
The squeaking is getting louder, and I can hear the echo of a voice. It’s the Pigeon, and she’s close to the end of the hall. She’ll be rounding the corner any second, and once she does, she’ll look for me.
“Kenny, just tell me—”
The voice creeps around the corner, oozing like toxic smoke. “She’ll be out for at least eight more hours . . .,” it says. The white of her smock is visible now.
I see a flash of primary colors in my periphery before the side of my head feels like it’s caving in. I’m on the ground, staring at the ceiling, the chair underneath me jutting into the small of my back. A vent is blowing puffs of humid air. Then everything goes blurry, and the pain in my head makes my stomach roll so violently that I’m sure I’m going to throw up. I can feel something brush my side, near my waist, and then I can’t see or feel anything. A beautiful darkness takes over.
• • •
“Ms. David, can you hear me?”
My pool of darkness is being disturbed. Someone is swimming in my nice calm pond. My mind is frayed, fuzzy.
“Ms. David, if you can hear me, I’d like you to open your eyes.”
I can hear too well. I want the voice to stop. Oh God, my head feels like it’s ready to split open.
“Easy now, that’s right. Take your time.”
I know this voice. There’s a reason I hate it. Not just because it’s rippling my nice calm pond. It’s the same voice that has haunted my answering machine for months.
“There, there. Everything’s okay.”
But everything is not okay.
• • •
A light pierces my eyes like a sharp blade, and I squint to keep it out. But the squinting only hurts more, so I open my eyes again. I roll to my side, sure I’m going to puke all over the place. But the nausea fades, and in its place a warm, pulsating pain radiates in the back of my head. I shift slowly to a sitting position, wincing at an unidentifiable crinkling sound as I make myself as upright as possible.
“Slowly now, Sophie. We don’t want you to move too fast. You took quite a blow to your head.”
The voice is warm and thick. I want to scream at it, and I just might if I wasn’t absolutely certain that my head would explode if I even tried to whisper.
“Eyes up at me now. Let me just check those pupils.”
My vision returns slowly, and I stare at a handsome face that is just as smooth as the voice that comes from it. Dr. Keller holds my chin with one delicate finger. His hand smells like a nice, mild soap. I resist the urge to flick away his touch as he shines a light into my eyes again.
“Looks fine. But you definitely shouldn’t drive yourself home. Maybe you should stay with us for a little while longer.”
“I have to go,” I say, and my words sound strange, like someone else has taken over my body and is moving me like some awkward marionette.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Dr. Keller soothes, but I couldn’t be less comforted.
He has his tiny flashlight in one hand, but his other is pressing down on mine, keeping me bolted to the gurney I’m sitting on. It’s on wheels, meant to transport a person who’s not able to walk. An unconscious person. The room that I’m in has those same bland walls that are indistinguishable from the floor. There’s a tiny window close to the ceiling, but the light from the outside is dimmed by the mesh covering it.
The Murmurings Page 9