But the memory of Deb’s face as she sat slumped in the lobby’s recreation area renews my courage, or at least what I’m trying to convince myself is courage. If she thought this place might hold answers, I want to know why.
Standing in front of the door at the end of the corridor, I see that it’s adorned with the same keycard reader as every other door in Oakside, and not a rusted padlock like the rest of the storage doors.
“Great,” I whisper.
I only have the one keycard. I shrug and slide it through the reader. My effort is returned with a brief green flash, followed by a click.
“Well, what do you know,” I say to the lock, half expecting it to respond.
Turning the industrial metal handle affixed to the rotting wood, I give it one more command. “Show me what Deb didn’t get a chance to see.”
Freed from its tether, the door opens. I should be excited, but I’m unsettled, afraid of what I might find.
The storage closet is dark and probably six feet high, tall enough to admit me or Deb with ease, but squat enough to make anyone else stoop low. It’s impossible to tell how far back it goes. Not far, I would imagine, probably no more than eight feet. But I’d feel better if I knew where it ended.
I’m surprised to find only a few boxes—moldy cardboard folding in on itself with age and wear. Two rotting steps precede the door. I climb them reluctantly and enter the musty-smelling closet. Big black letters announce a few boxes are TAXES, and the one on the floor beside those is labeled MISC. I decide to search that one first, and though I don’t know what I expected to find, I am at once disappointed and relieved to find it filled with more blue scrubs, mostly in extra large.
I peek into the boxes marked TAXES and find nothing of interest, mostly receipts and government forms. But my toe hits another box—one I hadn’t seen at first, and when I slide it closer to me, there’s no label marking its contents.
As I unfold the top flaps, I find an assortment of files and folders, scraps of paper, a laminated tag. I pick up the tag first. It’s a photograph of a somber-looking Adam dressed in stiff white. The photo was snapped against a gray background, making his dark features even darker by contrast. Below his photo is his name, Adam Newfeld, Orderly.
I don’t have to search through the box much before I find a thick folder, a burgundy accordion thing bound with elastic and sealed with a gummy adhesive stamped CONFIDENTIAL. The cover of the folder, I see once I hold it to the faint light by the storage door, reads David, Nell.
“Nell,” I repeat to the folder, as though I could conjure her just by staring at her name. And when I unbind the folder, I’m startled to find that in a way, I do: a Polaroid of her falls from the top of the stack of papers I’ve unearthed.
I draw in a sharp breath at the sight of the photo, realizing this is the most recent picture I’ve seen of her, maybe the last one ever taken. My stomach turns at the image of her face, thin and stark against one of Oakside’s smooth gray walls. Nell’s cheekbones, normally plumped by a sly smile, are sharp and crude. Her sunken eyes are nearly buried in dark circles, and her hair, normally full of body, looks lank and is splayed across her shoulders. For the first time, I understand why the sight of her makes my stomach ache so much—I was afraid of her.
For some reason, I remember something Adam had said that day in Jerome, about when Seers begin to experience what it is that changes them forever, setting them apart from everyone in the worst way.
There’s no connection to age, not that I know of.
I believed him then, though I didn’t know why. And now, looking at Nell’s picture, I’m reminded of another time she looked more like this than I’d like to admit. It was after our grandmother died. That day in the mausoleum.
Nell had been close to our Nana, closer than I ever was. I was too young to really understand that sort of closeness. But Nell’s additional year of maturity gave her a special relationship with our only living grandparent. When Nana died, Nell withdrew for weeks. She wouldn’t play with me, would barely speak to anyone. And she’d looked, I don’t know, almost like her soul had withdrawn from her body, as if trying to take a break from the pain it felt inside of her. And when she seemed to get better, that’s when she started hearing things.
And then so did I. After everything began happening to Nell.
“The pain makes it happen,” I whisper, only a little aware of my own voice. I’ve finally figured out what makes a Seer begin to hear the Takers. Just like a Taker is born of pain, its soul split, a Seer is born of pain, too. Or rather, they’re born with the ability, like a predisposition, but only when they experience the type of pain a Taker has experienced do they begin to hear the Taker’s whispers.
It’s a commonality that bonds them, the very same connection that dooms them both.
With some effort, and several shuddering breaths, I set the picture of my sister on the floor beside me and begin sifting through the rest of the papers from the folder. My hands shake with the need to learn more.
I find what look to be sheets torn from a yellow legal pad, the handwriting neatly slanted. The headings on each page are all the same, with dates spanning every couple of days from the day after Nell was admitted to the day before she ran. And next to each date are the letters J. K., MD.
Dr. Jeremy Keller.
“I’ve got your notes, you sick freak,” I say, and spread the first sheet over my knee like a treasure map, skimming the superficial observations for something of relevance. It doesn’t take me long to find it.
Patient exhibits signs of paranoia and hallucinatory qualities, manifesting in auditory and visual symptoms. Further observation is necessary; candidacy for Test Evocation promising.
“Test evocation,” I say under my breath, my blood pulsing hard through my veins. The bastard was already sniffing her out for guinea pig status.
The next few pages hold more of the same kinds of observations.
Patient David, Nell, is of optimal age for maximum impact.
Exhibits positive response to individual therapeutic sessions. Vulnerability to abandonment, doubts of sanity, insecurity with relations to immediate family.
Employee Y initiated to begin multidimensional observation and engagement. Preliminary findings promising.
“Employee Y,” I whisper, rereading it. I’m having trouble deciphering the tilted handwriting, but I can’t find any other interpretation. Someone was watching Nell outside of her sessions. Someone besides Dr. Keller.
“The Pigeon,” I realize with disgust. Of course. Who else would it be but his willing sidekick—the same person who’s poised and ready to take over Oakside the minute Dr. Keller succumbs to his own obsession?
But the thought of the Pigeon gaining Nell’s trust is baffling. Of course, I wasn’t in Nell’s position. I wonder how alone she felt and desperate she must have been for a friend. I fight back a fresh wave of nausea, thinking about how I nearly succumbed to the same desperation during one or two encounters with Dr. Keller after my drug-induced haze.
I try to distract myself by flipping through more of the pages, but most of it is paperwork I don’t understand, official-looking documents, contracts of some kind, and admittance forms signed in handwriting all too familiar to me—Mom’s. Seeing her name in this place, surrounded by the mold and grime of this basement, feels strange, like she might as well be living in another dimension. Then again, that isn’t too far off the mark.
Yet a tiny flame of hope flickers inside of me as I remember Aunt Becca’s panicked words from earlier this evening.
She’s fine. We just . . . we should have been . . .
I let that vague reassurance serve as fuel as I continue to sift through the unmarked box.
Frustrated with the contents of the accordion folder, I set it aside, carefully replacing Nell’s Polaroid face down between the sheets of paper, unhappy to put her back there but unable to have her look at me anymore. Besides, that wasn’t really her anyway. Not the way I remember her.
The only other item in the box is a thin folder with two metal prongs at the top attaching more legal pad pages in a crinkly stack. Leafing through, I see that the handwriting is different, tilting not to the right but straight up and down or slightly to the left. The edges of the letters look sharper. There are smudges of ink at various places on the page.
I understand immediately. “A lefty,” I mutter. Nell was a lefty. She couldn’t go a day without licking a finger and rubbing away the ink from the knuckle of her pinky. She was always too intent on the poetry she was writing to remember to lift her hand away from the page, so as not to smear the words.
The headings of these notes are in a similar format to Dr. Keller’s, with a date at the top, and Patient David, Nell.
“Employee Y,” I hiss through gritted teeth. I’ve found the Pigeon’s notes.
But as I skim the first entry, dated a couple of months after Nell’s admittance, something about the way the notes are written doesn’t feel like the Pigeon. I would have expected sharp, almost brittle observations. I’d imagine she’d relished watching Nell fight demons she had convinced herself were only in her head.
Instead, the first entry is short, almost guarded:
Patient is in a severe state of trauma. Physical signs of stress present. Notably withdrawn, suffering from sleep deprivation. Possible reduction in medication suggested. Appears distracted. Startles at visual stimuli. Receptive to interpersonal interaction.
It’s almost as though I’m reading notes from someone who should have been treating Nell. Dr. Keller’s notes felt . . . hungry. These are sympathetic, almost protective. I flip the page and continue reading.
Patient recalled a memory today, possibly the initial signs of Seer tendency. Popping sensation in the auditory realm and vague vocal stimuli. Further assessment required. Possible phenomena evident in sibling. Further research needed. Second request for reduction in medication.
As I continue to leaf through the pages, it seems that the entries get shorter, and somehow more guarded as they go on, as if major details are being withheld.
Patient experienced breakthrough today. Meeting strongly suggested. Notes insufficient.
“Meeting with whom?” I ask, but I know the answer the moment the question leaves my lips. Dr. Keller, of course. These notes were meant for him.
I rest the folder on my lap and rub the dust from my eyes, which only seems to make them water more. I had no idea what I’d find down here, but being this close to Nell’s last days, I’m overwhelmed by just how alone she was.
As I smear the wetness away from my eyes, I become aware of something poking into my thigh through my blue scrubs. I lift the notes from the folder and peer underneath them. Another Polaroid sticks out—this one again of Nell, but it looks like it was taken without her knowing. She is hunched against a wall, her slim legs drawn up with her knees under her chin. She’s biting her bottom lip, and that one motion seems to draw the rest of her face downward. Her eyes are half-closed, but alert—hysterical. It barely looks like my sister. I think back to the notes in their crooked handwriting: notably withdrawn, suffering from sleep deprivation. Further observation required.
“Oh God.” This was the Pigeon’s idea of observation? To dope her up and follow her around with a camera? But as I lift the Polaroid to fling it away in disgust, I’m surprised to find two more pictures stuck to the back of its glossy film.
The first is a snapshot of two faces close to the lens. The photo’s blurry, but I recognize them immediately. To the right is my sister, smiling the way she used to, so hard that her neck strains and practically all her teeth show. She’s the one holding the camera. The other face is Adam’s. I’m struck by how his dark features seem somehow lighter. His stiff white uniform collar stands against his neck, but his shoulders are low, his chin dipped toward Nell’s face. Under any other circumstances, they might have looked like a cute couple messing around with a camera in the park instead of the sterile desert courtyard of a psych ward. For just a second, I suppose that maybe my sister was not so alone after all. She had Adam, the one person who knew what was really going on at Oakside and fought to get her away from it, even if that put him in danger too.
I’m still holding onto this thought when I peel the photograph away to reveal the one stuck to its back.
This image is of Adam. He’s in his starched orderly whites, his mouth open in protest. The corners of his lips are turned down, his hand extended to the lens as though reaching for it. A blurred finger sneaks into the frame, and I can just barely make out the tarnished sheen of silver that matches my own. Nell was taking the picture.
My eyes fall to Adam’s extended hand—his left hand—and I see a dark blotch of blue ink along the side, stretching from his pinky finger to the bottom of his palm. My stomach sinks. In the picture, Adam is clutching a legal pad.
I drop the Polaroid as if it burns.
“It was you,” I say to the image of Adam now lying on the floor of the storage closet. “You’re Employee Y!”
Suddenly, Adam’s voice reverberates through my mind.
He was made head psychiatrist at Oakside, and he made me his orderly, his right hand, in a way. By then, he knew I could detect a Seer as well as he could.
Then Deb’s voice interrupts my memory.
She wasn’t around when Dr. Keller and Adam were real buddy-buddy. None of us trusted him.
Adam never hid the fact that he and Dr. Keller used to be close. He was an Insider in every way. But what if I’ve been reading him wrong this whole time? What if he has been working for Dr. Keller all along, trying to lure another Seer to this place in order to pick up where they left off with Nell? I read back over his notes.
Possible phenomena evident in sibling. Further research needed.
Could it be that I’ve fallen into a trap? Stumbled into whatever it was Nell was so desperate to keep me away from? Could I have really been that stupid?
All at once, the basement goes dark, the lights extinguishing with a disturbing hiss and sizzle.
It’s just a power outage. Nothing to worry about. At least that’s what I repeat over and over to myself. But as the seconds tick by with no light and I sink further into darkness, I come to the reluctant conclusion that I’m going to have to make my way out of this basement by feel. I’m already worried one of the orderlies has decided to check my room ahead of schedule.
“Just find the stairs, find the door, get back to your room, and then you can figure out what the hell to do,” I coach myself, as if saying it aloud will convince me. It’s an old building. I’m sure the power goes out all the time.
But nothing about this theory eases my feeling of dread.
I poke one foot from the storage closet and find the step down. Planting my foot, I ease out of my crouch, the thick manila folder containing Nell’s records falling to the floor of the closet, a double-slapping sound resonating in the wake of the fall. I find my footing and lean against the wall to keep my balance and get my bearings. Once out of the closet, I strain my eyes. It’s a futile effort, but I can’t help it. The dark is thick, and my only choice is to run my hand along the wall of the little mortuary doors until I find the railing to the stairs.
The wood is cold and damp to the touch, like everything else in the basement, and I try not to knock into the door handles. I’m terrified of waking the basement creature my mind has managed to conjure. After what feels like hours, I finally find the metal railing and the first step leading out of the basement. I run up the stairs, no longer caring how much noise I make, relieved to be past the worst part. I’m nearly to the top when I remember the keycard.
“Shit,” I whisper.
I lift my right foot to grope the only place I could have stuffed it—into a sock. It’s not there. I check my left sock, already certain I didn’t put the keycard there, either. In fact, I didn’t put it anywhere. I was holding it when I opened the door to the storage closet.
What did I do with it after
that?
I’ve already been down here too long, and I’m sure I’m going to miss the next bed check.
Then I remember the accordion file hitting the floor and the slapping sound it made. The keycard must have been in my lap along with the folder.
The thought of retracing my steps back to the closet makes my stomach plummet. I take a chance and try pushing upward on the door, hoping beyond reason that it will open without its key. The trapdoor refuses to budge.
I descend the stairs once again, determined to move as quickly as possible in the dark.
“Just go down the stairs, down the hallway, grab the keycard and run,” I tell myself, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
I plod my way back down the stairs and through the corridor—it actually is sort of easy. I find the closet still open, realizing that, by some dumb stroke of luck, I’d forgotten to close it behind me. My God, what if I’d closed the door with the keycard still inside?
I sink to my knees, searching for the accordion folder that is no doubt covering the key. My hands quickly fall on the file’s banded cover, and just as I lift it and feel the coolness of the keycard beneath it, my ears pop, as if the air pressure has left the room.
It takes me only a second to realize what’s happening, and terror takes hold.
It’s faint at first, but the rustling sounds creep to my ear slowly, then rush past me like a vicious wind, sending a shudder through me.
The murmuring.
It’s indecipherable but terrifying. My ear is hot. Someone is breathing too close. It’s horribly familiar, and though there are no mirrors nearby, I know what it wants. It wants me to lean in close and listen. The unfinished soul. The Taker.
The murmuring continues, warm and wet, against my ear.
And then something happens that’s never happened before.
The Murmurings Page 22