“Makes sense,” she said and ate more chili.
“You’re not convinced, though.” Evans sat back.
“Not yet,” she admitted with a slight smirk. She looked up suddenly. “Hey, what’s the deal with the crucifix?”
Evans repressed a slight laugh. Had he gotten too close to something? Why the sudden change in subject? He reminded himself that things were different now. She’s not your patient, don’t treat her like one.
“My mom gave it to me,” he explained. “She raised my brother and I Catholic. Our dad wasn’t around. The church meant a lot to her.”
“But not to you?” she asked.
Sonofabitch, she’s good, he thought. She could pick up on what his choice of words implied with a quick ease. He settled for opening up more—or did he actually want to open up more?
“It did at one point,” he said. “But my mom developed early onset Alzheimer's. I watched her mind slowly fade. She become a totally different person. Towards the end, she had a good day; she remembered me. She thought I was still ten, but she knew it was me. She gave me the crucifix that she had worn every single day as long as I could remember. And she told me to always keep it with me.”
Mitchell smiled warmly. “I see,” she said softly.
“How about you?” Evans asked. “You’ve never brought up religion in our sessions.”
Her warmth faded as her eye sank back to her unfinished chili. “My religion is catching bad guys.”
***
Blackness surrounded her. She felt cold. Her hands reached out feeling along the metallic floor until she felt a wall. Stephanie slowly raised herself up. She stood, feeling the cold air around her. The place was pitch black. No matter where she focused her eyes, she could see nothing. Dread and panic threatened to take over her body.
A bright flash of light stunned her. She cowered against the wall. The light flashed again. She tried to look around, but the sudden intensity of the light made it nearly impossible to see anything. Her eyes couldn’t quite adjust quickly enough. The light flashed again, and this time she could at least determine that it came from overhead somewhere.
A loud boom caused a scream to involuntarily leap from her throat. It was followed by metallic creaking. Then, another flash.
As the darkness returned, Stephanie spoke: “Hello?”
Another flash.
“Is there anyone there?”
She slowly moved forward, keeping her left hand on the metal wall next to her as her guide since the flashing was too disorienting. She kept moving forward without any sense that the wall changed, curved, or bent in any direction. How big was this room? Where exactly was she? But at least she seemed to slowly manage to get away from the source of the flashing so that with each subsequent flash, the intensity of the light was diminished by distance. She was starting to be able to see a little better. But the metal walls and floor were themselves black, so only the occasional seam made them noticeable at all.
She moved further, keeping her eyes focused on where she last saw a seam in the wall up ahead. When the next flash came, something stood before her! She registered the big black eyes in that brief second. She screamed! But as she did, she felt the clammy cold fingers of another being wrap themselves around her arms. There was another one behind her! She pulled with all her might against those hands, screaming. The being before her stood perfectly still, staring at her with those black eyes. She fought. But suddenly she felt her whole body go limp. It was as if they’d thrown a switch and she was no longer in control. Her heart raced. The being before her reached out to her. She wanted so desperately to scream, to fight, to run.
***
Stephanie jerked suddenly, waking herself at last. Cold sweat covered her body and face. She was in her own room, and her own bed. She looked around the room. The window was shut in spite of the heat. A fan ran in the corner and her alarm clock read 3:02 AM. As her mind reoriented itself, she recalled going to bed. It was a dream, right? Just a dream.
She swallowed, noticing how dry her throat felt. There was nothing to it, she needed a drink. She would much rather have stayed in bed and done all she could to go back to sleep. But now that she was aware of her thirst, it nagged at her. She tried swallowing saliva to see if she could get just enough moisture in her throat to make it bearable, but it was useless. It wasn’t just her throat’s dryness, it was thirst. She needed water. She threw back the thin sheet on her bed, the only covering she could manage in the heat, and headed for the bathroom.
Once in the bathroom, she found a glass she’d left there for exactly such occasions and filled it up in the sink. Bringing it up to her lips, she drank deeply, surprised at just how thirsty she had been. But as she drank, a long creaking sound from somewhere in the house caught her attention. She paused mid drink. Her eyes locked on the bathroom door she’d left partially open. There was only blackness beyond it.
Lowering the still half full glass of water, she kept her eyes locked on the partially open door. Another long creaking sound travelled through the house. Was someone up? Certainly someone must be awake. But as much as she tried to convince herself that there was a reasonable explanation for the creaking, something about the quality of the sound, how long each creak lasted, stirred panic within her. She could feel a chill in her chest as her heart raced.
She moved forward quickly, putting out her hand to push the bathroom door closed. As she did so, a hand reached out and stopped the door. Instinctively, Stephanie screamed at the hand. But as the scream escaped her mouth, she realized the hand belonged to her father, who stood just outside the door.
Tim pushed the door open, an expression of confusion and shock on his face. “Stephanie! What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“Dad!” was all she could manage at first. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Hey. Language,” he reprimanded her.
Embarrassed and now angry, Stephanie set the glass aside and pushed past her father and headed back to her room. She climbed back in her bed and tried to calm herself. It would be a while now before she could fall back to sleep. Her heart still thumped hard inside her chest. Her breathing was shallow. First the nightmare, now this. The night was a waste.
She closed her eyes, trying to force herself to calm down, but the darkness felt somehow oppressive and she couldn’t keep them closed for long. She looked about the room. Through her closed door and walls, she heard the toilet flush in the bathroom followed by the sink running. At last, the sound of her father walking back to his room could be heard. Once he was back in bed, the house returned to silence. The small fan in her room droned on, providing a bed of constant noise.
She looked at the window. Thoughts of the dream she had just had threatened to take over her mind. She needed something else to focus on, anything else. She reached for her smartphone, but then retracted her hand. She’d never get to sleep this way. She needed to sleep. Tomorrow—well, today, actually—was Monday. She was back on duty as a life guard at one of the resorts in Lincoln. It wasn’t much of a job, but it was close to home and managed to help her earn some money before heading back to college in the fall.
She rolled over in her bed, facing away from the window. Again, she closed her eyes, trying to still her rushing mind. She focused on slowing her breathing and trying to consciously relax. Slowly, her mind cleared. Feeling relaxation set in, she felt hopeful that soon she might fall back asleep. She needed it; being a lifeguard could be quite tedious. Being a lifeguard running on little sleep meant she would be tempted to fall asleep at some point in the afternoon heat. That was definitely not an option.
As her mind began to drift in the aimless ways it did just before at last being overtaken by slumber, the image of the grey figure with large black eyes standing before her popped into her brain. She opened her eyes suddenly as a reflex. She was still her room. But now, something felt different. A chill climbed up her back, the hair on her arms standing up. She felt sure something stood behind her, looking
at her.
She tried to convince herself she was still upset by the dream. But then, she heard the slight tapping sound! And she knew it was there.
She didn’t need to turn. She knew it was in the room with her. Her breathing came in short gasps now. What choice did she have? Ignoring them never sent them away.
Stephanie whirled around in time to catch a glimpse of a silhouetted figure moving in front of the window and into the corner with her mirror. She had only a second to take in the moving slender frame, the large head, and lanky arms. She screamed, knowing it lurked in the shadows just out of sight.
From the hallway, she heard the commotion of her father and mother rushing to her room. Her door flew open and the lights came on. And in the light she saw … nothing.
The mirror stood in the corner as it always did, and there was no being there. There was no place it could have gone, but it wasn’t there. She was absolutely positive she’d seen it. But where was it now?
“What is it, sweetie?” her mother asked. “What happened?”
Stephanie turned and flung her face into her pillow. All her pent-up fear rushed out of her lungs as she sobbed. It was as if her body reacted of its own will to the vile poison that was all that fear rushing through her. She muffled her cries in her pillow. She could feel her mother and father sit down on the bed on either side of her, but she couldn’t stop herself from crying.
“Steph,” her mother said, “Everything’s okay. It was only a dream. You’re safe.”
No. No, she wasn’t safe! She was sure of that now. She fought the sobbing, trying to form words. All that came out was, “No! No!”
She fought harder against the emotions, struggling to breathe. Pushing herself away from her pillow, she at last managed to spit out, “No. I’m not safe!” She fought against the dizziness that threatened to overrun her consciousness. “It was here! It was in the room!”
CHAPTER SIX
The ringing of her cell phone had pulled Mitchell out of the dream she must have been having that morning. The dream evaporated instantly, leaving only a slight sense of heaviness, of regret. Her eyes had opened and she had tried to focus on the world around her. For a second everything seemed off until the memory of where she was came to her. She had reached over and picked up her smartphone, unplugging it from the charger cord that ran to the outlet on the lamp that sat on the bedside table. The call had been from the North Woodstock police station. Now driving down the road in her car with Evans in the passenger seat, she felt more awake. The heaviness of her dream slowly evaporated.
Next to her, Evans yawned. She had called him immediately after hanging up with Officer O’Conner. Then she’d quickly jumped in the shower. He appeared to have done the same, but still struggled to seem alert.
“So, what time did this happen?” Evans asked her.
She’d only given him minimal information so far. “According to Officer O’Conner, just after 3:00 AM. Stephanie claimed someone was in the room with her. Her parents found no evidence anyone was there.”
Evans looked out the window as they came upon an intersection. “Don’t we turn there to go to the Clark’s house?” he pointed.
“We’re not going to their house,” Mitchell said as she maintained speed.
She proceeded to fill him in on what details of whatever had happened to Stephanie last night had been relayed to her over the phone as they drove. They had a ways to go yet. Apparently Stephanie had dreamed, woken up, and then claimed to have seen someone or something in her room.
“But how do we know it wasn’t all a bad dream?” Evans asked.
“That’s what I’m hoping you can help determine” Mitchell smiled at him.
“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” he pointed out.
“St. Jerome,” she answered.
“Hospital?” Evans said, looking off and searching his mind for any recollection of such a place.
“It’s an old mental ward,” she said.
He looked over at her, frowning. “Oh,” he said softly. “They think she’s crazy.” He shook his head, looking out his window.
They drove on in silence.
***
Forty-five minutes later, Mitchell’s car pulled into the long driveway leading up a hill to the large three story brick building. Its windows were all dark, and as they approached, they could see that bars covered them. The driveway wound up the hill and led to a parking lot. Only a few cars sat scattered in the lot. Large stone steps led up to the archway entrance of the building. It appeared more gothic with every yard that they approached.
At last, Mitchell parked the car and they walked to the steps leading up to the main doors. Over the archway were engraved the words, “St. Jerome Mental Ward.” They both looked up at the words as they walked in. Evans, out of polite instincts, reached the door first and held it open for Mitchell. She entered and he followed her.
The waiting area seemed paused in time. Old chairs sat arranged around a large rug. They all were likely brand new sometime in the early 1970s. The chairs were boxy wood frames with orange upholstering. A desk sat by the wall, on it was an old CRT computer monitor. A man sat there in nursing uniform, looking over a clipboard full of papers. Mitchell headed for him without hesitation and Evans followed.
Reaching the desk, Mitchell wasted no time. She pulled out her badge and said, "Good morning, I’m Special Agent Nicole Mitchell. I understand Stephanie Clark was brought in here.”
The nurse looked up from his papers. For a second he just stared at the badge. Evans had to figure this was the first time a bona fide FBI agent had walked up to this man and introduced herself in such an official manner. The man snapped out of it and nodded.
“Doctor Jeffries is just wrapping up with the family,” he said.
He pointed down a hallway to their right. The hallway was long, stretching off the length of the building. About halfway down the hall a doctor stood with Tim and Dorothy Clark. They spoke, the doctor shaking his head now and again, gesturing with his hands, palms up. Evans recognized the body language as that of someone either guarded or not optimistic.
Without another word, Mitchell started walking down the hallway towards the Clarks and the doctor. Evans followed, but he made no effort to catch up to her. He didn’t feel comfortable interrupting the mother and father as the doctor talked to them. Mitchell, on the other hand, seemed to feel there were more pressing matters at hand. But as she approached, the conversation between the doctor and the Clarks seemed to wrap up. The Clarks looked up at the approaching FBI agent.
“Mr. and Mrs. Clark, how is Stephanie?” Mitchell asked as she reached them.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” the doctor asked, his already wrinkled forehead becoming more wrinkled with the raising of his eyebrows.
Mitchell repeated her official greeting, badge out. The doc nodded, but before he could say anything else, Dorothy Clark jumped in.
“She’s sedated right now” Dorothy said. “She was in hysterics.”
Tim looked at his wife through narrow eyes. Was he unhappy with Dorothy’s easy willingness to divulge information to Mitchell? Evans watched him as his eyes moved from Dorothy to Mitchell. They seemed to be in a perpetual squint. His lips firmly together, jaw set. But he made no move of protest, no indication he would rather his wife not speak.
“What exactly happened?” said Mitchell.
“She said,” Dorothy hesitated, thinking. “She saw someone in her room. I’m sure it was just a nightmare. But Tim thought it would be best if we brought her in for some professional help.”
Dorothy glanced over at the doctor. Tim’s eyes dropped to the floor. Evans tried to track all of this. Meanwhile, Mitchell pressed on.
“It’s probably for the best,” she said. “She will be safer here.”
At this, Tim looked up at Mitchell, his eyes wider now. Surprise? Relief? Evans wasn’t sure. But his expression was certainly softer. It was clear to Evans that whether Mitchell believed it or
not, she’d said the right thing to build a little trust with Tim.
“I would like to look over Stephanie’s room,” Mitchell continued.
This brought back the squint to Tim’s eyes. “Why is that?” he asked.
“We have to cover all of our bases, Mr. Clark,” Mitchell explained. “What if Stephanie is telling the truth? What if someone was there last night? This kidnapper’s pattern is to abduct his victims multiple times. So we have to seriously consider the possibility that someone was, in fact, in Stephanie’s room last night. And if so, maybe they left some evidence.”
Tim’s squint moved over to his wife. She shot him a pleading look. Evans figured this meant there must be some kind of ideological divide between the two, at least on this matter. Tim was the one that had insisted Stephanie be brought in to a mental ward in the middle of the night. Dorothy, on the other hand, seemed ready to comply with anything Mitchell asked of them. Possibly she did not think her daughter was mentally ill or suffering some sort of emotional or psychological breakdown. Either way, Tim seemed to relent at her look. He glanced at Mitchell, nodding.
“Thank you,” Mitchell said, sincerity in her voice. “We’ll head right over.”
Evans frowned. They’d driven all this way to have this conversation? She didn’t want see Stephanie? Granted, the girl was sedated. But it seemed like so little for such a long drive. Maybe she felt this could not have been done over the phone. Or maybe he was missing something. Either way, Evans felt the need to jump in.
“Pardon me,” he said.
Suddenly all eyes were on him. Evans pulled out a business card and handed it to doctor.
“I’m Dr. Alan Evans. I’m working with the FBI. Would you please make sure that everyone working today knows that when Stephanie wakes up, I would like a phone call. It’s important.”
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