Sorry for the delay. These kind of transitional chapters are always the most challenging to write. My wedding is also May 31, so there will be some more delays over the next month as I officially gain a Mr. Quiet :)

Thank you for your support and patience! Read and Review!

Being around Erik was not as terrifying as being alone.

Because she was completely losing her mind.

Those were the only two facts that she knew. Everything else—Christine couldn't discern between reality and the twisted fantasies of her damaged brain.

After barely speaking to him the entire night, huddled on his couch in a ball, she pled with him again the following morning. Erik had asked her how she liked her eggs. Scrambled? Sunnyside?

"I won't tell anyone about you," she began in a calm voice as her hands trembled beneath the table. "Not the police. I'll visit you. Please let me go home."

"Give me time to help you understand," he replied, keeping his gaze downward as he poured her orange juice. "I care for you so very dearly. Now—what sort of fruit would you like?"

With a sob, she jumped up, knocking the wooden chair over, and ran back to the bedroom. She slammed the door. Once inside, Christine remembered why she'd left. The room had seemed normal at first, even pretty if somewhat bare. But she heard whispers in her head and saw the silhouettes slithering across the walls and floors. And, as she had reclined in the bed, she swore that the floral-printed sheet began to twist itself around her bare ankles. She swore that the bed wanted to devour her. That had been the last straw.

The stress of being a captive was making her crazy. That was the only explanation.

With her knees drawn up to her chest, she remained in the room for twenty minutes. Again, she felt an energy crawl over her skin like tiny ants, and so she emerged. Nowhere was safe.

"Would you like me to play for you?" he asked, glancing up. She barely nodded her head and sat back down on the sofa. Music was the one thing that did help; the notes and melody wrapped her brain in a protective cocoon. She closed her eyes and listened to the violin, feeling safer as she imagined herself to be somewhere else. She remembered Raoul's parents' house at Thanksgiving, around a dinner table with normalcy and savory turkey and pumpkin pie. She remembered Friday night sleepovers with Meg, cinnamon popcorn and cheesy romantic films.

Please let me see them again.

And yet, even back before all this madness, Christine hadn't felt like she belonged in their world.

Because she had always been a little different - pretending to be normal while always feeling a little odd.

I could be normal again if I could just get out of here. Raoul makes me saner. Raoul makes me…normal.

When Erik stopped playing, she opened her eyes and stared straight ahead.

"Christine?" he softly asked, the bow dropping to his side.

"Erik," she whispered. "You have to understand that-that I'm not well. That's why I need to go. It has nothing to do with you."

"What do you mean?"

She swallowed, praying that partial honesty would help rather than hurt her. "When I was fourteen, I had a mental breakdown. I got very, very sick. And I think I get sick whenever I'm stressed. And afraid."

"But why are you afraid?"

"Because you've kidnapped me!" she snapped, finally looking at him. "I don't know you!"

"Yes, you do! I am Erik! You have known me for months! You were kind to me! You cared for me! And now…." His voice softened. "Now you hate me. Because you have seen my face. But even before that, you hated me. Why?!"

"I don't hate you. I-" But he was right about everything else. Even before he'd kidnapped her, she'd felt differently toward Erik the second he'd reappeared. There was something crueler and colder about him in these last days. There was something less human about him.

Did she tell him there were voices in her head? Or about the hallucinations? Did she tell him that she was practically schizophrenic?

He would never let her go if he thought she was afraid. That was clear. The crazier she acted, the more Erik seemed determined to never release her. So if she ever wanted to escape, she would have to hide her insanity. And pretend that none of this was really happening.

The lights flickered twice. A vase of red roses browned and withered within the span of an hour.

Christine ignored it even as her heart pounded. Yet she'd do anything to make this all go away. Drugs. Shock therapy. A lobotomy. All of it seemed preferable to living within this sort of world.

As long as you know you're crazy—at least you have that. The second that you believe any of this is real is the second that you're in big trouble.

He waited for her to continue, but she didn't. She picked up a book of poems and pretended to read until he left.

Picking at a garden salad with tomatoes and croutons that afternoon, she softly said, "If you're going to keep me here, you could at least tell me more about yourself."

Erik kept the leather mask on and did not eat a bite. He merely watched her, occasionally asking if she needed anything. Water? A sharper fork? "I have told you everything, my dear."

"You said you moved from place to place as a child. All by yourself. How did you survive?"

"I grew up quickly."

"But how did you eat? Where did you sleep?"

He shrugged. "I need little of sleep or food. You might say I am biologically blessed."

"Did you get an education?"

"An unconventional one."

"Who taught you?"

"An unconventional teacher."

She detected sarcasm in the sentence. Christine ignored it and asked, "And then you went overseas? What did you do? I know you weren't poor there. You weren't homeless."

"You are correct. I learned various trades. And then I learned a great deal about politics and economics in the region. The ins and outs of the oil industry. But, Christine, there was absolutely nothing for me there. Nothing. And so I nearly gave up on life until I found you. That is what I am trying to say. The past does not matter."

"Were you really sick?" she asked. "Or was that some sort of-of trick?"

"Yes, I was very sick."

"With what?" He didn't answer. "With what?" Still, he said nothing. "You lied to me. I thought you needed my help."

He slammed his fists on the table. "I did! You have saved me! You saved Erik!"

Her impulse was to yell back at him, but she fought it. Instead, Christine buried her face in her hands and took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She sensed him standing. "Come here," he said. "Come with me."

"Why?" she asked, glancing up with suspicion.

"Fresh air may help you."

Her heart jumped. She shakily stood and followed Erik to one of the white doors in the living room that had been locked. With a click, he opened it. Dim sunlight and a gust of cold air burst into the room. A surge of adrenaline prepared her to run if the opportunity presented itself. Swallowing, she walked out the door and onto a concrete porch that was the size of a large closet. A grey wall, several inches shorter than her, surrounded them on all four sides. Christine squinted in confusion and slowly walked toward the rough barrier. Erik made no mood to stop her, remaining in the shadows as she stared over the edge.

Her heart fell. Cars moved beneath them on a puddle-filled street. Andrea's Flower Shop. Big Bob's Pizza House. Two red neon signs flashed "Open." Beneath them on a sidewalk, a red-headed girl around her age ran up to a guy and said, "Sorry I'm late!" They kissed and walked off together, unaware of the kidnapping victim right above their heads.

They were up at least twenty stories. This was downtown of the nearest city; she could see even taller buildings in the distance, yellow squares of lights against a darkening sky. So much for climbing out windows. Not unless she found a magic broomstick or a radioactive spider. Christine felt dizzy and queasy, the world spinning beneath her. She put a hand to her clammy forehead.

"See, Christine?" he asked, gesturing outward. "We are perfectly safe."

She shuddered and rubbed her arm, knowing there would be no escape. "Thank you, Erik," she murmured. When they returned inside, she crawled beneath the blanket on the sofa, wondering what her next step would be. For a while, she tried to read a book, but that required too much energy. She turned on the television to an 80's sitcom. The channel switched back and forth on its own. Weather channel. Back to the sitcom. MTV. Back to the sitcom.

Please let me stop being crazy. Turning off the TV, she sat up straight and closed her eyes.

"What are you doing?" Erik asked when he entered. "You are concentrating very hard, my dear."

"Meditating."

He chuckled. "I had an acquaintance who would do that often. Every sunrise. He would get up and meditate."

"Did you ever try?" she asked, finally opening her lids and glancing up.

"No."

"Why not?"

"My mind will never be still," he curtly replied.

"Meditation can help in other ways."

"Sitting in the quiet with my thoughts is no good for anyone, my dear. I prefer to stay busy." He touched his temple with a tilted hand, and the yellow eyes were momentarily distressed. "Yes, Erik must always keep busy." After a second, he turned and walked away as though disturbed by something.

He was not going to injure her. Not soon anyway. The person she had come to know throughout the autumn months was still in there somewhere. At least, she had to believe that. She had to believe that she could eventually reach him and get him to see how wrong this all was.

"You are less scared?" he hopefully asked after he played the violin that evening. "You seem less afraid, Christine?"

"Yes," she replied.

But, then, in her mind-

"Be terrified of him. He is ugly. He is disgusting. Repulsive. Look at him. He is a monster."

For a second, Christine wondered if it was her thought. Yet she knew it couldn't be. Her own thought would have gone- "I'm afraid of him. He's keeping me here against my will. I don't know him. I don't understand him. And being here is making me crazy."

And yet how could the crueler thought not be hers, too?

The voices.

Shivering, she curled up on the couch. Erik sang her to sleep that night, a slow and gentle French song in a voice that surpassed his speaking one. And that was pure Heaven, a brief escape from this strange Hell.

"You're positive there's nowhere else she might have gone? A friend? Relative?"

"I don't know that for sure. But she won't answer her phone. She'd never ignore both of us."

The middle-aged officer nodded and jotted something onto a white form. His grey moustache twitched as he asked. "Did she have any reason to be upset? Had she argued with either of you?"

"No," Raoul and Meg both answered at the same time.

Meg added, "She seemed okay during our last conversation. Just a little distracted."

"Distracted how?"

"Um." Meg hesitated. "Busy with school and her music studies, I guess. Like I said, there was that voice teacher. The other voice teacher."

The police station was fairly quiet early that Sunday morning. Someone walked in with Styrofoam cups of coffee, and a phone occasionally rang. An old woman with a walker wanted to report a missing dog and was patiently redirected to the local animal shelters. Winter sun streaked through the dusty windows. Raoul squinted and rubbed his head. He and Meg had been up for most of the night looking for Christine with no luck.

The officers had easily been able to pull up her driver's license, and Raoul confirmed there had been no major changes to her appearance. No, she hadn't gained weight. Maybe lost a tiny bit. No, she hadn't dyed her hair recently. No glasses. No piercings outside of her ears. No tattoos. No unusual markings.

"Does she have any history of mental illness?" Raoul started to say no, but Meg locked gazes with him. He hesitated. The officer glanced between them. "Look. If there's anything like that, we need to look into it. Depression? Did she ever talk about suicide?"

"No! Jesus. It's just-"

Meg took over. "When she was a lot younger, she had something happen. Kind of like hearing voices. But that was a really long time ago. She doesn't have any issues now."

The officer maintained a poker face and continued without comment. "Was she on medication?"

"No," said Raoul. Meg nodded in verification. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Okay. Has she ever wandered off before?"

"No," Raoul murmured. "Never."

"Okay." The officer glanced at his notes. "So the last time that anyone heard from her was about forty-eight hours ago? Is that right?"

"Yeah," said Raoul. The pain in his chest tightened. Each passing hour was more terrifying than the last. "That's right."

"Do you have any other recent photographs?"

"Uh. Yeah. One." Raoul shakily took his brown leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and opened it. Digging through the contents, cards and receipts, he took a shuddery breath and pulled out a picture. "This was taken last summer. We went horseback riding." She smiled at him from the top of a black mare. Christine had jokingly called the horse her 'Black Beauty.' The sight of her made his heart ache.

"That'll work," said the officer, taking the picture. His green eyes softened just slightly when he saw it.

"What will you do now?" asked Meg, nibbling on her bottom lip.

"First, I'm going to enter this information into a national database. That alerts law enforcement around the country."

"That's it?" Raoul asked with an edge in his voice.

"Not necessarily. We'll look into her phone and send a car out to her apartment. But given what you've told me, I can't determine whether your friend just wanted some time to herself. Which is completely legal; she's not a minor. Or whether this is foul play or a mental health concern. If you have any more evidence either way, that's what I need to see."

"What about the guy we told you about? Erik?" asked Meg. "Did that help at all?"

"Only if you can give me more information. A last name? A physical location? Did he ever threaten her?" Raoul and Meg both looked at each other and then shook their heads. "Do you know how many men named Eric there are in the country? Different spellings and whatnot." He must have seen their dejected faces. "Lots of the time, people want to get away. They're stressed or upset. And then they show up in a couple days without injury."

"So we just go home now and wait?" Raoul asked. "That's it?"

"I would keep calling around to any family members or friends you can think of. Or you can try the media," said the officer with a shrug. "But they'll usually only pursue the story if there's something catchy about it. Proof of foul play, in which case we need to know immediately."

"Thanks," Raoul muttered.

"Call me if you think of anything else. We'll see if anything comes in on her phone."

"I will." The officer shuffled his papers and walked away from the desk. Raoul stared at the lime green linoleum tiles. He heard a choking sound and turned to see Meg with a hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Something's really wrong, isn't it?" she whispered. "Something bad happened to her."

Raoul clenched his jaw. "I'm not going to stop looking till we find her. I know we'll find her."

"Damn it! Why didn't I ask her more about that guy? I knew it sounded weird! I knew it was dangerous! I knew—"

"Meg, we can't waste time hating ourselves right now." He gently put a hand on her shoulder. "This isn't…we can't act like this is our fault. We have to keep looking. If you know anyone who wants to help us, grab them, too. Anywhere you remember her going."

She took a shaky breath and nodded. Tilting her head, she said, "It seems like if people thought it was a mental health thing, they might help us more. And-and now that I think about it, it has to be one or the other, right? The Christine we know wouldn't just leave without a word. She'd feel terrible for making us worry. So she either got sick again. Or-or someone—" Meg choked.

"You might be right about that," Raoul murmured. "One or the other. Maybe I can get my dad to help."

Normally, he didn't like to call upon his connections and privilege. But what better time than now?

Shoulder to shoulder, Raoul and Meg walked back outside, their breaths visible in the morning air.

"Where did you learn to sing and play the violin?"

"I do not remember."

"You taught yourself?"

"Yes."

"Just like you taught yourself everything else. Then you must be a genius." Her voice was a little cold. Maybe it was the idea that someone so intelligent, someone who should know better, was putting her through this. Then again, the world's brightest people were still capable of terrible things.

He ignored her mood. "I am going out to get us groceries this evening. As well as to retrieve your clothing. What else do you need?"

"Can I come?" she asked far too eagerly.

"No. Maybe another time."

"Why not?"

"You will run from me."

"I don't want to be alone," she said. "I don't feel well when I'm alone."

He hesitated. "Perhaps I could order groceries to be delivered then? Yes, that may be best. But then I cannot retrieve your clothing without difficulty."

She rapidly considered the situation. No, it was better for him to leave than for him to not go at all. It would be an opportunity for her to look for an escape. All that she had to fear while being alone was her own sanity. She shook her head and gathered her courage. "Fine. I'll be okay here by myself."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. I do want my own clothes. And please get me something for headaches," she quickly continued before he could change his mind. "And minty floss. And hair bands. And Diet Coke."

"Nothing else to eat?" he asked.

"No. You can decide that." Food didn't even sound appealing.

"Very well. You are certain you will be fine here?"

"Yes." She paused and asked, "Erik, what happened to my phone?"

"You will get it back later. For now—" He held up a small device with a small screen and a single button. "If you are in trouble, push this green button. It will alert me."

"I haven't seen a pager in forever," she muttered. "I wish I had my phone."

Again, he ignored her request and foul mood. After verifying that she would be okay by herself several more times, Erik departed through a door in the kitchen. Her first thought was to try that door ten minutes after he left, pulling and jiggling on the handle…practically throwing herself against the painted wood. Boom, thud, boom. Of course, all the doors were firmly locked except for the one that led to 'her' bedroom and a closet. The windows wouldn't budge. She was sealed inside with no sharp tools that would allow her to cut or break through plaster and metal. Twice, she screamed, "Help me! Help me!"

She held her breath and waited. No one ever came.

Christine stepped into the bedroom and braced herself for a swarm of shadows and whispers. She mentally prepared her mind to fight them off.

But there was nothing. Silence except for the heater.

It was then she realized that the entire apartment was still and quiet.

Christine stood there blinking as the enormity hit her. For the first time, her head felt nearly normal. Her thoughts were still. No voices or shadows. Strange. Was it really Erik's presence that made her crazy?

Taking advantage of her newfound sanity, Christine continued her search for answers. There was very little to look at. A few classic novels. Pen and lined paper with some red notes scribbled nearly illegibly. Finally, in a corner of the kitchen, she discovered the book lying closed on the counter. That stupid, awful black book had gotten her into this entire mess.

She slowly picked it up and began to flip through the yellowed pages. Still, Christine couldn't understand a word. Even some of the letters seemed archaic. One corner was bent, and she turned to that page. More words that she couldn't understand hovered over a small drawing. A grey outline of a woman in a long dress, maybe from the 17th or 18th century. Her long, black hair flew wildly out behind her. Another shadowy head and upper torso hovered over her, like a genie that had come out of its lamp. The strange figure's arms were stretched out and its palms faced upward as though beckoning the woman forward. Her head was raised toward the shadow creature as though she were praying to it. Was it some sort of fairy tale scene?

Christine looked at some of the other pictures. Flower designs. Symbols. Every once in a while, she thought a word seemed a little recognizable. Fortuna. But most of it was far beyond her.

She sighed and rubbed her temples. She half-heartedly tried the locked doors again. "Help me! Help me! Fire! Murder! Help me!"

Nothing.

She took a two minute shower, her first shower since she'd arrived at that fancy prison. Keeping the door to the bathroom open in case Erik came into the bedroom, she rapidly scrubbed coconut-scented shampoo and soap into her oily hair and sweaty skin, trying to feel like somewhat of a human being again. She finished five minutes before he arrived, throwing on the same clothes in a desperate need to be covered.

With her hair still damp, she returned to the couch and sat down, defeated in her attempts to escape or find some sort of answer. Her only hope was to convince him to let her leave. And then what? Grab Raoul and pray that Siberia or Antarctica was nice this time of year? She could hear Erik approaching in her mind before the doorknob turned. Darkly-tinged head tingles. He entered carrying several brown sacks. The shadows and sounds returned with him like some nightmarish orchestra that accompanied his every step. The energy of the entire room shifted when he entered.

Or, rather, she became crazy again.

"Is all well?" he asked, glancing around the room. "Your hair is wet."

"Yes. I washed it," she awkwardly replied.

"Excellent. I have found you clothes and other bathing supplies that women tend to enjoy."

He said 'women' as though they were an entirely different species—but in a reverent way. Like one might talk about elves or fairies. Then Erik cooked her a dinner of medium-well steak and scalloped potatoes, and she was able to eat half of it. He played the violin for her. And then he brought her an off-white china plate with strawberries on a yellow cake. A dollop of whipped cream sat atop it. Instead of immediately handing the dessert to her, Erik stood above her, holding the plate with both hands. She shifted and didn't look him in the eye.

"May I sit by you?" he finally asked.

"Yes," she murmured. He did so and then offered the plate to her. Christine glanced up and took it into slightly trembling hands. She slowly ate the sweet, moist bites, always aware of his presence.

He stared at her. "Is it to your liking?"

"Yes. It's good."

"I bought you these as well." He almost magically produced a small blue velvet box. A bracelet with three square rows of sparkling white diamonds rested inside. She blinked at it, her stomach churning. "Do you like this? Women like jewelry, yes? If not, I can—"

"Yes. I like it."

"So you do not hate me anymore?" he weakly asked, setting the box on the table.

"No, Erik," she whispered. "I don't hate you." Honestly, she was too exhausted to hate anyone. All she wanted was her sanity and freedom back. Christine leaned forward and set the plate down on the table with a soft clink. She licked a couple crumbs off her lips and swallowed. "Everything could be like it was last fall. We'll meet to sing once a week. We'll be good friends."

"What if Erik wants to see you more than once a week?" he asked.

"That's…fine."

"I would prefer you not see that boy again. He is nothing but a distraction. Nothing but a face."

"I—That's not—" She sighed. "Erik, maybe we both need some help."

"No one can help me except you."

"How can I help?" Frustration finally entered her voice. "What do you want me to do? What do you want from me?"

"Simply be with me. It is so simple, so little. Yet your presence makes it all so much more bearable."

A cold breeze emerged from nowhere and brushed against her hair. A shadow kissed her cheek.

She wasn't sane. Sane people didn't see, hear, or feel these things.

And sane people didn't kidnap young girls because they were lonely.

They were both very sick. And with that thought she found some real empathy. They were both mentally unwell.

He slowly lifted his hand and placed it beside hers on the sofa. Erik touched the edge of her thumb with the tips of his cold fingers. She didn't pull away.

Another foreign thought grazed her mind—He's disgusting. Tell him you hate him. Scream at him. Curse him!

"No!" she said out loud, jerking forward and putting her face in her hands. "It's not real. No, no, no."

"No?" Erik asked. She only shook her head, her face still buried. When she glanced up, he had left her. She'd probably made things worse again.

Later that evening, after Erik had returned to the kitchen, she turned on the television for a distraction from the strangeness. As she flipped through the lower channels, her hand froze over the buttons of the remote control. Her heart leaped into her throat.

There was Raoul on Channel 4 News, in a bulky black jacket with the wind blowing his blond hair slightly to the side. The expression of fear on his face hurt her heart. "I know she wouldn't have run off," he said toward the camera, his voice catching. "Something is wrong. And we're begging for your help in finding her. She's either not well or someone has taken her. If you've seen her, please call."

You're right on both accounts, Raoul. Oh….

A tear streamed down her cheek. She sensed Erik approaching and attempted to turn off the television before he could see her boyfriend.

But it was too late.

Erik silently stared at the blank screen. She looked at the carpet.

"Perhaps it would be best if we left this entire area," he stated, coldness creeping into his beautiful voice. "Perhaps there are far too many distractions here."

Her head whipped toward him. "No," she whispered. "Please no. Please let's go back to how things were. Please."

"We will see," was all Erik said.