The Chrysalis

by Deneen, Brendan

  She found herself descending into this sort of fugue state more and more. She was barely eating or sleeping, barely talking to her sister. Victoria pleaded with her to get help, said she knew a great therapist only a few blocks away, but Jenny just shook her head. Sometimes Victoria would angrily say that Jenny should be the one living in the house, that Tom should be crashing on someone’s couch. Then she would quickly apologize and say that Jenny was welcome to stay as long as she wanted. Whatever she said, Jenny would simply nod and try to smile, then retreat into her room, spending hour after hour in bed, staring out the window at the sky, at the ice and snow. Feeling nothing. Or next to nothing. Ever since the incident with Chad at her studio …

  She hadn’t been back since. She’d managed to keep the place going by finding some part-time help, a nice college girl who was studying physical therapy. Try as she might, Jenny couldn’t remember how that had happened. Had she run into the young woman somewhere? Advertised the job somehow? Still, the college student called every couple of days to report on what was going on, and Jenny would repeat “uh-huh” into the phone until the call was over. The details of what was said vanished immediately from her consciousness.

  Jenny tried to purge the incident with Chad from her memory but failed. If anything, the images from that day had grown even clearer in her mind. The feel of his fragile throat against her fingers. The sound of his choked breathing. The reverberation of his body hitting the wall, which she had felt running along the floor and up her legs, turned her on even more than being kissed by him.

  The look on his face as he practically crawled to the door, toward the freedom that she could have denied him at any moment.

  She loved that feeling of absolute power over another human being. And hated it. She had no idea what to think of it.

  Often, she closed her eyes against the memories and waited for sleep to come, though it rarely did. She’d try to cry but had no more tears, so instead she would lean against the headboard, gently hitting her head against it, just enough to feel something. To know that she was still there.

  She found herself walking the streets of Manhattan, underdressed for February’s chill, staring at the people she passed. Wherever she turned, she saw blood leaking from their ears, or lips curling back to reveal jagged fangs. A blink and the images would be gone, if only for a few minutes. Often, she would stand in the doorway of a bar, wanting so badly to go in and drink until she was completely wasted. If anyone looked at her and at her bulging belly, she would hurry home and shower, trying to wash everything off her, out of her mind. And failing.

  Her nightmares increased in the weeks after the incident with Chad, becoming horrifying, blood-drenched dreams, usually of disfigured children, that left her gasping for breath as she awoke. Almost all the dreams took place in her house’s basement or kitchen; sometimes instead of children, the dreams were about an older couple. Jenny assumed that she was envisioning the people who lived there before she and Tom had moved in. Because she didn’t know what they looked like, her mind created different faces for them each time, often distorted and covered in gore.

  Jenny grew increasingly obsessed with the woman who had murdered her husband in their kitchen. She wanted to know everything about the old couple, how they had lived, how he had died, where the woman was now. When she’d looked into the house’s history, months earlier, she was preoccupied with crucifying Chelsea, so she hadn’t gone much beyond the basic facts.

  Late one night, a little after three o’clock, Jenny had crept into her sister’s room to borrow her laptop. She watched Victoria and Lakshmi sleeping peacefully, their limbs intertwined, until she felt an urge to smash their faces in with the computer. Shaking her head, trying not to scream in terror and frustration, she backed away, clutching the laptop to her chest as if it were the only thing keeping her sane.

  Back in her bedroom—the guest room, she corrected herself; her bedroom was in New Jersey—Jenny booted up the computer, got online, and began to dig for information. She quickly found the short article she’d read before; then, using key words from that article, she widened her search. For almost three hours, Jenny scoured the internet, scribbling notes onto a pad she’d taken from Lakshmi’s desk.

  At nearly six in the morning, she decided that she’d tracked down as much information as she could. She cleared the browser’s history, closed and returned the laptop, and reviewed her notes.

  The house’s previous inhabitants were Abigail and Spencer Gilchrist; she was a retired archaeologist; he, a retired schoolteacher. They’d had three children but, heartbreakingly, all had died, two in separate car accidents and one due to a health condition. That explains the big house, Jenny thought. Although Abigail was retired, she had still gone on occasional digs with students or elder groups, judging by an old newspaper photo Jenny had found on someone’s social media page, showing Abigail returning from a trip with a group of college students.

  It was much harder to find information about Spencer. He’d been a high school science teacher for decades and coached the boys’ varsity baseball team for most of that time. One year, the team had pulled off a string of major upsets and won a state championship, but otherwise Spencer’s career had apparently been uneventful.

  The most interesting information appeared in a news story on an obscure true crime website. A follow-up on the case, it contained a lot of the same information Jenny had found elsewhere, but one tidbit was a game changer: Abigail was practically comatose after the murder and largely unresponsive throughout the beginning stages of the trial. In the end, she had been found “not responsible by reason of insanity” and was remanded to Valley View, a state psychiatric facility about forty miles from Springdale.

  Now Jenny was sitting in the Valley View parking lot. She wasn’t sure why she had come; she only knew that she had to talk to Abigail Gilchrist. She’d parked as far from the entrance as possible—just looking at the front door of the hospital made her nauseated, as if it were the entrance into every nightmare she had ever experienced.

  She’d called the facility a day earlier and asked to speak to Abigail. The receptionist asked for her name, and when Jenny hesitated before trying to stutter out a lie, the woman said neither the hospital nor its patients spoke to the media and hung up. Undeterred, Jenny called the closest rental car place and made a reservation.

  Sitting in the car wasn’t getting her any nearer to her goal, so Jenny got out and trudged through the snow to the front door, fighting unease every step of the way. She felt her cell phone buzzing yet again. Victoria had been calling regularly all day, but Jenny ignored it. She had to do this by herself.

  By the time she reached the portico, she was cold and wet—her coat wasn’t warm enough for the weather, and she wasn’t wearing a hat, gloves, or boots. She stopped under the parapet to catch her breath. Though she hadn’t been hurrying, her heart was pounding.

  Even on the doorstep of the building, Jenny wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing, had no idea what she was going to say if she was allowed to speak to the previous inhabitant of her house. But her life had fallen apart completely, and every fiber of her being told her that Abigail was essential to understanding what was happening.

  * * *

  “Can I help you?”

  The young woman sitting at a desk behind a thick plastic partition had kind eyes. In her early twenties, she looked at Jenny with genuine warmth and curiosity, a pen in one hand and papers strewn across the desk. If not for the intermittent shrieking from behind the nearby walls, this could have been a reception area in any office building, anywhere. Tinny music played from unseen speakers.

  “I…,” Jenny began, then found that she had no idea what to say. If she told this woman the truth, they’d probably lock her away. She fantasized about breaking the receptionist’s nose with her fist.

  She blinked several times, then tried again. “I’m here to visit a guest,” she said. “A patient.”

  “I see,” the other woman sa
id. “And who would that be?”

  “Abigail Gilchrist.”

  The young woman turned to her computer and started typing. “Do you … have an appointment?”

  Jenny hesitated again. This was the part she’d been dreading. “No.”

  The smile vanished for a second, then reappeared when the receptionist looked back at Jenny. “I’m so sorry, but we require patient- or doctor-approved appointments for any visits. I’m sure you understand the … the delicate nature of our residents. Would you like to schedule something now?”

  “I … It’s really quite urgent that I see Abigail. Today. Now.”

  The receptionist made a clicking sound with her tongue and shook her head. “I’m sorry, it’s just not possible.”

  Jenny looked at the floor and tried to push down the unnatural rage that was building inside her. Losing her temper wouldn’t help at all, would probably just get her kicked out.

  “Can you deliver a message to her? I think it would convince her to see me.”

  The woman nodded. “All messages have to go through her doctor, but I can do that, and you’re welcome to wait for a response, if there is one. I can’t guarantee that you’ll be able to see her today, even if the doctor is here.”

  “Thank you,” Jenny said. “Please ask the doctor to tell Abigail that my name is Jennifer Decker and that I’m here about the house. Her house. Where I live now. I think she’ll know what I mean.”

  The receptionist nodded again. Jenny walked over to the row of guest chairs and sat down. The woman picked up a phone and dialed with beautifully manicured fingernails. After a short conversation, she hung up and turned to Jenny.

  “I’m not sure how long it’ll take to get an answer. Like I said, we may not even hear anything before the end of visiting hours.”

  “Okay,” Jenny said. “Either way … thank you.”

  The young woman nodded and went back to work. Jenny closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. She didn’t know what she would do if Abigail wouldn’t see her. She imagined bursting past this button-nosed receptionist and smashing down doors until she found Abigail Gilchrist.

  She wished Tom were with her. She had never felt so lonely in her life. Even growing up, after Victoria left for college and Jenny was alone in the house for a couple of years with her parents, who were focused on their own lives and careers, Jenny had a close circle of friends. They took advantage of their final high school years, partying hard, committing minor crimes around town, usually when drunk or high or both, and skipping school whenever and however possible.

  Those years were some of the best of Jenny’s life, and she found herself in that moment, sitting in the waiting room at a psychiatric hospital, wondering what had happened to those friendships. Sure, she was still connected with most of them on social media, but she rarely spoke to any of them and never saw them at all, even though at least one lived in New York City. After all this insanity was over, after she had the baby and figured out her life, whether Tom was in it or not, she promised herself she would fix that. She would rekindle those relationships. They would be part of her own rebirth.

  A clock on the far wall clicked away, the passing of seconds a constant punishment. Jenny had to stop herself from freaking out. How much of this could she take before losing her mind for good?

  The receptionist made no sound whatsoever, even as she moved papers around. Jenny stared at her. How the fuck was that possible? The woman started laughing, but there was still no sound. Jenny shook her head. Had she gone deaf? Was that also a part of late pregnancy that she had missed in the books she’d read? No, that was ridiculous. She could still hear the clock.

  The laughing receptionist picked up a metal letter opener and shoved it into her own neck, blood spraying out all over the desk. Jenny tried to stand up, wanting to help, but was rooted to the flimsy plastic seat, unable to move. The young woman bled out, the smile slowly fading from her pale face before she slumped onto the desk. Jenny closed her eyes against the image, but it was burned into the darkness behind her eyes.

  “Miss?”

  The voice seemed to come from across a huge expanse. Jenny felt herself clawing toward it, as if it were leading her out of a deep pit.

  “Miss…?” the voice said again.

  Jenny’s eyes shot open. The receptionist was sitting behind the glass partition, unharmed, with the same pleasant look on her face. Had Jenny fallen asleep? She glanced at the clock. At least an hour had gone by.

  “Sorry. I guess I dozed off. Pregnant-lady thing.” The young woman didn’t laugh, so Jenny soldiered on. “What did the doctor say?”

  “Well, the good news is that Abigail’s doctor is here this evening, but unfortunately, he was unable to get a response out of Mrs. Gilchrist. He did say that if you make a more formal request, a short visit could possibly be arranged. But the process can take several weeks, if not longer. I can print out the paperwork for you now if you’d like?”

  A deafening white noise filled Jenny’s head. No. She was not leaving here without talking to Abigail.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to see her. It’s urgent.”

  “Miss, I’m not authorized to—” the woman started to say, but Jenny stood up and walked forward, then leaned down and spoke directly through the small circle in the thick plastic.

  “I understand that you have a job to do, and I respect that. I really do. But when I say that it’s a matter of life and death that I talk to Abigail Gilchrist, I’m not exaggerating. Not even a little bit. If I told you what’s been going on in my life, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  Jenny could feel an energy pulsing off her skin, more than just desperation, something alien and powerful. She could see the young woman’s eyes glazing over slightly.

  “I’m throwing myself on your mercy,” she continued. “Please. Please. If you could get one more message to the doctor, to her, I’ll sit down in that chair and I won’t say another word. And if she still doesn’t want to talk to me, I swear that I’ll leave and never bother you again. But for my sake and the sake of my baby, I am begging you to do this.”

  The receptionist stared at Jenny for a long, uncomfortable moment. Her smile had vanished completely, and she seemed confused but then slowly opened her mouth and spoke.

  “What’s the new message?”

  Everything depended on this. If she failed, she might as well give up on Tom forever.

  “Tell Abigail that I’m here to talk about the basement.”

  * * *

  Within ten minutes of this second message’s being delivered, Jenny was signing paperwork to enter the facility, her hands trembling.

  During her research back at Victoria’s, she had found some pictures of Abigail online. She’d thought the woman was attractive in a handsome, matronly kind of way. Jenny wondered how much murdering her husband and being thrown into a psychiatric institution would have changed Abigail’s appearance.

  A guard arrived and buzzed Jenny through a plain first door and a second, heavier-looking one that had the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled onto it. Then she had to go through a metal detector; all she had on her were her wallet and the rental car keys.

  The guard was huge, probably in his fifties, dressed in a dark uniform, hair buzzed short and face chiseled, a large walkie-talkie strapped to his belt. Jenny guessed he was an ex-cop or a former prison guard. There was no humor in his eyes. He silently led her down a long, brightly lit hallway lined with doors, most of them closed. Jenny saw patients in a few rooms, some in bed, others standing or seated. In general, they seemed harmless, even happy. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  They reached the end of the hallway, and the guard swiped his ID over a security pad, then pushed an elevator call button, which didn’t light up. Jenny wondered if the elevator was working as an image of a spider hatching from the man’s finger flashed through Jenny’s mind. She shook it away. She needed to keep her shit together, now more than ever.

  After severa
l minutes, when the elevator still hadn’t arrived, Jenny turned to the man. “Maybe it’s—” she began. The doors creaked open at that moment, as if her voice had unlocked them.

  The guard swiveled his head and raised an eyebrow at her, then stepped inside. The doors started to close and Jenny rushed forward; one panel banged against her shoulder before reopening. The impact didn’t hurt, but the guard snickered ever so slightly. Jenny felt the white-hot rage reemerging and didn’t fight it this time.

  “You don’t have to be such a fucking asshole,” she growled at him.

  The man’s gaze remained impassive, but he smiled at her comment, then pressed the button for the top floor, the fourteenth. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood stolidly as the cab moved slowly upward.

  The elevator was probably the slowest one she had ever been in. It felt as though the cables would snap at any moment and they’d tumble down into the darkness until they smashed to pieces at the bottom. In her imagination, the guard’s face never changed from its glaze-eyed, bemused expression, even on impact, even in death. The guy had probably never once had trouble falling asleep in his entire life. Jenny wanted to claw his eyes out with her bare hands.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator stopped with a disturbingly loud clank. There was a long pause and then the doors squealed open. Jenny waited for the man to walk out, since he clearly wanted to be in charge, but he just stood there, extending one arm to indicate that she should exit first.

  Jenny gave him her best fuck you stare and stepped out, glancing back over her shoulder to see how closely the guard would follow. As he stepped forward, his walkie-talkie suddenly blared to life, a frantic voice shouting something unintelligible to Jenny’s ears.

  “God damn it,” the man said, and then hit the device’s button and said angrily, “I told you to keep an eye on him. I’ll be right there.