by Kayla Krantz
We finally arrive at a rundown home. It looks more like a shack than a house. Even from the car, I can nearly smell the decay. A shiver passes down my spine as I peer through the window into the shadows beyond. I can’t imagine myself going inside.
“Are you sure about this, Carson?”
He smiles and squeezes my knee, then climbs out without a word. Not wanting to be left alone, I follow him. We stir up dust on the way to the door and the grit fills my nose, causing me to sneeze. Carson is the first to reach the door and he doesn’t hesitate to knock.
If I had been ahead of him, I might not have done the same.
The door cracks open, and an old man peers out at us. An eerie smile lights his face, showing all of his yellowed and broken teeth. The man is frail, but that doesn’t help the uneasy feeling in my stomach caused by the sight of him. His face is scrunched together, with thick, bushy eyebrows obscuring his black, beady eyes. He wears a robe that looks almost like a kimono and I crinkle my nose in confusion.
“Hello, sir,” Carson greets, polite as ever. Did he get the same creepy vibe from this man as I did? “We saw your sign for dreamcatchers?”
The smile on his face grows even wider and he steps aside, opening the door to its full extent. “Ah, yes. Come right in.”
I grasp Carson’s hand, stopping him in place. He shoots me a questioning look. I want to tell him to turn around—to forget it—and that there’s something off about this whole thing, but the words lodge in my throat.
Maybe it’s all in my head.
“Come on,” he says.
Lost for words and action, I follow.
The inside of the shack is in just as bad shape as the outside. It’s hard to believe anyone lives here—it stinks. I don’t know if the smell is coming from the moldy dishes in the sink or the general decay of the building itself.
“I have quite a few dreamcatchers on hand,” the man says, stopping beside a table in the middle of the room.
I jump at the sound of his voice, almost forgetting—in my disgust—the reason for our arrival. Carson nods, but I can only swallow roughly, leaning from side to side. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” I say to the man.
“My name is irrelevant, my art speaks for itself,” he says.
Strange. I draw my eyebrows together and this time even Carson seems to lose a bit of his confidence. What an odd reaction to such a normal question! Carson’s uneasiness fades though, when he catches sight of the dreamcatchers on the table.
“Evie…Evie, come look! These are absolutely beautiful!”
He’s right, of course. They’re the most beautiful pieces of art I’ve ever seen. One is even emerald…my favorite color. The sight of the dreamcatchers takes away every reservation in my body and all I can think about is how much I want to own one. It seems to be my only purpose.
“How much?” Carson asks, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. Next thing I know, we’re sitting in the car with the dreamcatcher in my hands. I blink, trying to remember how Carson got me out of the house and how I blacked out at the part where he paid, but I’m for a loss. When my eyes land on the dreamcatcher, all others thoughts move to the back of my mind. I can’t deny how much it appeals to me. I’m drawn to it, but I can’t figure out why. Tracing the lines of the web, I hardly notice when the car pulls to a stop.
“Are you gonna be okay by yourself?” Carson asks.
I look up and realize we’re outside of my house. Dazed, I nod. “I’ll manage, Carson. Thank you so much.”
“Anytime, Evie. I’ll stop by tonight after work,” he says, pulling me into one of the tightest hugs of my life. I savor it and climb out of the car, too preoccupied with the precious bundle in my hands. I cross the living room, hardly conscious of my mom’s dreamcatcher painted on the ceiling, or any of her belongings, as I trudge to my room. I brainstorm possible places to hang my newest possession.
Finally, I decide the poster above my bed has to go. Quick work is made of tearing it down. I don’t know how long I stand there, admiring the green against the gold walls of my room, but before I know it, I’m tired. I can barely keep my heavy eyelids open, so I crawl into bed, and the last image I see before slipping into unconsciousness is the eye of the dreamcatcher.
The dream I find myself in is cold and dark. A steady drip of water sounds from somewhere far away. I assume I’m in a cave. Desperate to maintain a bit of warmth, I fold my arms across my body and try to figure out the situation I’m in. I remember falling asleep, but this doesn’t feel like a dream—it’s too vivid. Footsteps echo in the darkness. I freeze, glancing over my shoulder. Wherever “here” is, I’m not alone. I swallow roughly and take two steps deeper into the cave, the earth chilling my bare feet.
Dread creeps up my spine with icy fingers, colder than the rocks beneath my feet. I know I’m in danger. The next thing I know, I’m bolting through the darkness and even deeper into the cave, snarls and footsteps not too far behind. I begin to tire, desperate for rest I can’t afford. My foot slides and I realize—mid-air and too late—the mistake I’ve made.
I’m screaming, but no one can hear me. The sound echoes upwards as my body falls. At this moment, so dangerously close to death, it’s hard to remember that I’m alone—that no one can hear me.
And that matter how many times I scream for help, no help will come.
***
CARSON’S BROW CRINKLES. He stares at the red light hanging at the last intersection before Evie’s house. She was left alone way too soon after her terrible discovery. He hated his worthless 9-to-5 more than ever now for preventing him from having just one day off to be with his childhood friend.
He glances at his phone, resting on the passenger seat beside him, waiting for the screen to light up with a text from Evie. He hadn’t heard from her yet—not even a one word answer to any of his texts—and it worries him. When the light turned green, Carson floored the gas pedal, despite angry honks from the cars around him. He didn’t care—they didn’t matter anyway.
Carson pulls up in front of Evie’s house and kills the ignition. The place was dark, causing his brow to furrow in concern once again. Something’s not right, his instinct warns, but his logic argues. Maybe she’s just asleep.
He pushes both aside. His heart wasn’t one to guess, it needed to know the truth. With a deep breath, he steels his shoulders and heads into the blackness of the house. It is even harder to see than he thought it would be. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he shines the light ahead of him and makes it through the hallway. As he approaches the base of the stairs, the light dims, then goes out completely.
“Come on,” he groans, smacking it. The light wouldn’t return. “Damn it,” he mutters, slipping the useless thing back into his pocket.
His eyes had adjusted to the bit of light, so now he was even less aware of where he was. His fingers glide against the wall as he makes his way to Evie’s room.
“Evie!” he calls.
There is no response.
Anxiety stabs him as he steps through her doorframe. The electricity blared to life, the sudden brightness blinding him. As his sight returns, he suddenly wishes he could have remained blind. Some sights are so horrific that your brain can’t even comprehend them, so you keep staring, hoping it’ll all eventually make sense. The feeling eats at every inch of Carson’s body as his eyes trail from the bloodstains on the white carpet to the cold body lying still on the bed.
The only way he even knew it was his best friend was from her mess of raven hair, oddly untouched given the state of her face. Silver glinted from her bloody hand. Tears stream down Carson’s face, as he forces himself to look away from Evie’s body. Only then did he notice a beautiful purple dreamcatcher—identical to the one he had bought—hanging beside her green one.
A canvas, or a maze? A book without a word, or a story shouted from the rooftops?
Stockholm Syndrome
THE HEADACHE IS what alerts me to the fact I’m conscious. I
feel like a pickaxe is wedged squarely in the middle of my forehead. For a moment, an irrational fear of physical injury fills my mind. I groan, struggling to move my fingers. My body comes alive, but it is a slow—one that I fear may never come to an end. I regain some control over myself, feeling like I’ve come out of a coma.
My eyes crack open and the sharp white light shining down from the ceiling cuts into my vision and attacks the pain in my forehead. Feels like a finger in my eye. I sit up, groaning as a wave of nausea washes over me, and I feel around for container. My hands brush against a metal pan on the floor that seems to fit the part. I snatch it up and hurl, emptying every meal I’ve had that day into the silver basin. I choke on the taste, but I’m unable to stop.
The rush of liquid is unpleasantly loud as it fills the dish. Wiping my mouth, I finish vomiting. I want the container as far away from me as possible. Disgusted, I set it on the floor. That’s when I realize I’m not at home. I look around slowly, as if the scene will change if I take it in all at once. My heart begins to thud with an oncoming panic attack.
I let it come, but I don’t let it overtake me. Glancing down, I notice I’m wearing an ugly white gown. I can’t remember my own clothing, but this is not familiar—it reminds me of hospital attire. A quick look around the room reveals how tiny it is, containing only the bed, the pan, and a toilet that would look right at home in a prison.
Where am I? How did I get here? The more I look around, the more confused I become. This isn’t like any place I’ve seen before—not a place where anyone would go under normal circumstances. The sparkling white walls feed the claustrophobia that has kicked.
My mouth feels dry from the bout of vomiting. How long has it been since I’ve had something to drink? I also wonder how long it will be until I have the opportunity again. My mouth tastes awful. I wish I had something to wash it out with.
“Where am I?” I try to call. But no sound seems to pass my chapped lips. I swallow, wincing at the slight pain it causes, and crawl out of bed. The smooth, white tiles feel cool against my bare feet, sending a wave of goosebumps all over my skin. In two steps, I’m at the door, which I pound on relentlessly in hopes that someone will let me out.
My voice may fail me, but the sound I make with each strike will not. A slot at the bottom of the door opens, and a tray is shoved through. I spot a container of juice, dive for it, with no thought of poisoning or ill will as I greedily gulp it down my parched throat. The liquid brings me back to life. There’s a sandwich on the other end of the tray, but I ignore it. Between the bout of vomiting and the feeling in my stomach, I don’t plan on eating anytime soon.
I toss the empty juice container and push the tray to the side. Using all the strength in my fingertips, I try to pry open the slot at the bottom of the door, but it will not budge. I sigh. Sitting back up, I glance at the empty juice container. I should have rationed it better. Who knows when I’d be given food again? I push the thought to the back of my mind. Already I feel like I can think more clearly, so my mind focuses on other issues. I try to remember how I got here, but nothing comes to mind. The harder I think, the less I recall. Struggling to my feet, I pace the length of the tiny room, searching for a means of escape. The curls of my brown locks brush against my back with each step I take, the only constant in my life right now.
I don’t know what I should do—or what I can do. There seems to be no way out, besides the door—and it’s stuck shut. I’m not here by choice, so I must have been kidnapped.
“What is this place?” I call out, searching for a camera or something that could bring me in contact with the people who brought me here. I look up into each corner, feeling more and more defeated as I see that each one is empty.
“Why am I here?” I ask, a lot quieter than I wish I could speak.
Silence fills the room again, and I feel that the second question will be ignored, just like the first. The door clicks, and then opens. I’m on it. The flare of hope in my chest presses me onward despite the tide of fear. I peer into the hallway, but see nothing there. The rest of me emerges, and continues down the corridor. I hear voices up ahead, and my pace quickens. Maybe I’ll gain some answers—or even my freedom. The thought that they could be my kidnappers doesn’t even occur to me.
I enter a large, white room filled with others, dressed the same as me and milling about like they haven’t got a care in the world. I scan the sea of faces, relieved to see other people. Without hesitation, I run up to the nearest person, an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair. Probably in her 50’s.
“C-can you help me? I’ve been kidnapped!” I gush. She doesn’t answer. Instead, she offers me a wide smile revealing several broken and uneven teeth. A dry, chortling laugh passes through her lips. I freeze, swallowing hard as I’m unsure what to say. Turning on my heels, I glance around the room again.
She’s insane. Surely the rest won’t be like her.
I search for another person to approach, but once again, I am struck by the lack of dread on everyone’s faces. I’m under the impression that they’re all in the same position as me, yet none of them act like it. They’re calm—relaxed even. Have they been drugged? If they have, they are quite alert for it, looking around the room and chattering with one another like old friends. A few of them send glances my way, as if to acknowledge that I’m new.
“Can I get everyone’s attention?” a voice calls out.
I freeze in place, standing in the middle of the room. There are a few males, but most appear to be female. The new voice is booming, strong. I’m drawn to the sound, coming from a door that has opened on the other side of the room. A male, about six or seven years older than me, stands there, wearing all white like the rest of us. Yet, he seems more put together, for some reason. I realize his outfit is by choice, not force.
“I’d like to give a big cheer to Avera, our newest addition!” he says, gesturing to me. I can’t think. Everyone in the room turns to look at me, as if I’m on display. Newest addition to what?
“What is this place?” I ask, approaching him with as much strength as I can muster without showing any of my other conflicting emotions. I don’t get far before I feel arms snake around my shoulders and a sharp, painful pinch in the side of my neck. I go limp. The man in the tidy white clothes is not working alone. The Common Room fades away they drag me down a hallway, opposite the one I had wandered from minutes before. The eerie door slides shut behind us, closing the room from view. I struggle to catch a glimpse of emotion from any of the others as they watch the struggle, but their faces are as blank as when I first arrived.
They dump me on a table, rendering me helpless as my torture begins. Knives slice a piece of my skin off of my arm while several shots are injected into my body at different points. I struggle to move—to fight back—but I’ve lost control of my body from the neck down. I pass out many times; each time hoping that I’ll awake to find out the whole thing’s been a dream. When I finally come to consciousness for the last time, I’m back in the little room—the prison with the sealed door that had initially greeted me.
I lift my hand to wipe the sweat away from my forehead. I’m sure it was all just a bad dream—a nightmare within a nightmare— until I see my bandaged, wrapped arm. I know it’s in vain, but still I scream out, unable to think of a more productive strategy. I scream until my throat becomes dry and hoarse, leaving me to sob quietly as I poke at the bandage, feeling every bit of pain in my arm through the layers of cloth. I try to get off the bed, but the drugs they injected have weakened me.
I can’t trust my legs to support me, but I try to ignore the sensation, regretting it when I slam to the ground. My injured arm collides with the ground first, and I give up my futile attempt at escape, crying myself to sleep to escape the never-ending pain. But sleep isn’t any kinder to me than reality has been. Memories of my torture flash through my mind. I strike out during the night, and when I wake up the next morning, I feel no better for having slept. I gasp for air, pulling m
y arms around myself as I huddle in the corner of my bed. Soon, the aftereffects of the vivid nightmares begin to fade. In the back of my mind, I relive my agony, and then I think back to the Common Room and the other people that are trapped here. Have they all been tortured as well, or are they here for some other reason?
I think of the calm expressions on their faces as they watched me being dragged away. None of them tried to help me. They were indifferent to the torture I would endure. None of them seemed to feel my desperation to escape. One even had the audacity to smile at me, at my panic. Were they drugged to the point where they didn’t even realize the depth of the danger they were in?
I can’t depend on them, and neither do I care that they’re in the same position as me. It’s obvious that they don’t care either. I want my freedom back—no matter the cost. I clench my fists; swallowing hard as my throat itches from dryness. I blink and glance by the door. Another tray has been delivered; the first one was gone. I ignore the thought of people inspecting my room while I was asleep and crawl over to it. I gulp down the juice quickly, like I had done the day before, but merely eye the sandwich. My stomach turns at the thought of food, recalling the torture session I endured hours before.
It’s been at least a day and a half, or two days since my last meal, but that’s not enough to convince me to actually put the offering in my mouth. I stay on the floor until I hear the door click again. I only stare at it this time, throwing myself backwards until my back hits the wall. I’m afraid men will barge into my room to drag me back to their torture chamber. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I anticipate the next moment of my life, and the thought petrifies me. Should I try to leave? Maybe attempt to find a person that may free me? I could wind up being tortured again.
With my luck, the third option seems most likely to occur.