Author's Note: Sorry it took so much longer this time; I'm in the process of moving, so my down-time has been cramped with packing things into boxes and deciding what to keep and what to throw away. (The book and CDs were particularly difficult. . . They're the biggest pain to pack, you know.) As always, THANK YOU for reviewing! And in case there's anyone out there who's just lurking without dropping a line – thanks for reading and (hopefully) enjoying the story! Just one thing: Yekith, you are NOT a bad commenter. Kay? I'm not telling you again, so quit hating on yourself when you write me things. J Anywho, this chapter is a good deal longer, so hopefully that makes up somewhat for the delay. Enjoy!
Day Three: The Sleep Lab
Becca had slept fitfully the night before, but she'd slept through the night, and she hadn't woken up screaming. She was still largely unresponsive during the day, and given to unpredictable mood swings, but she was improving overall. That morning, when Dr. Massingale had come in to Becca's room to check on her, she'd spoken almost coherently.
"Lona," she'd said softly, staring at Dr. Massingale, puzzled. "You told me to call you Lona?"
Dr. Massingale had smiled. "Yes," she'd said. "That's right. That's me. How are you feeling today, Becca?"
But then Becca's eyes had slid out of focus again, and she hadn't spoken another word.
It wasn't much, but it was enough for Dr. Massingale to take her down to the sleep lab that evening to start her tests. As soon as Becca was out, laid down on one of the lab beds, Dr. Massingale fixed the electrodes onto her temples and heated up the EEG machine. Then she crossed the lab to her desk to watch the results. One large computer monitor took up the central position on the desk, along with three smaller ones fixed a bit higher up. One showed Becca's sleeping face; another was split down the middle to show two glowing, green-scale scans of her brain, from two different angles; a third continually scrolled a series of codes and numbers; and the large one contained Dr. Massingale's personal notes and recordings as she typed them.
Dr. Massingale sat down behind her many computer screens, and waited. Analyzing brain waves was monotonous work – just watching and waiting and recording data for many hours before anything definitive could be concluded. If Becca would at least start talking a bit more, if she could describe her dreams even vaguely, then Dr. Massingale could move forward on her case. In the meantime, she just wanted to scour the girl's neurological inner workings for abnormalities. As far as she knew, the damage Becca had suffered was purely psychological, but it was never a bad idea to double-check.
A shadow fell over Dr. Massingale's computer console. She turned and looked over her shoulder, but there was nothing there. Then a hand came down on her shoulder. She gasped and spun, and found Elmer Traff's lips crushed against hers.
Dr. Massingale shoved him and wiped her mouth. "Elmer!" she said.
Elmer laughed and settled into a chair next to the console. "Did I scare you?" he asked.
Dr. Massingale sighed impatiently. "I'm working," she said. "And you know how I feel about this little game of yours."
"Game?" Elmer scoffed. "This isn't a game, sweetness – it's an ongoing declaration of my devotion! You know, the sooner you stop fighting me on this, the easier it's going to be for both of us."
Dr. Massingale rolled her eyes and turned back to her console.
"So, who is this?" asked Elmer, nodding at the screen showing Becca's face.
"That's Becca," said Dr. Massingale. "Rebecca Jordan, recent transfer from Seattle Psychiatric."
"What, is she a nutcase?"
"That's not the PC term, but yes. She's a trauma victim, she doesn't talk much."
"Trauma?" Elmer asked, raising an eyebrow. "She doesn't look too banged up from here."
"Not that kind of 'trauma', Elmer," said Dr. Massingale. "She watched her best friend die about a year back. She's been catatonic ever since."
"Wow, that's rough. What happened to her? The girl who died?"
"That's the really obnoxious part – no one knows."
Elmer frowned. "What does that mean?" he asked. "Sixteen-year-old girls don't just drop dead for no reason – somebody must know."
"Well, no one else was in the room with her when it happened except for Becca," said Dr. Massingale. "So until I can get her to open up enough to tell me about it, your guess is as good as mine."
"I wonder if Becca killed her. . ."
Dr. Massingale laughed and glared back at Elmer. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "If that were true, they would have figured it out in forensics when it happened." Dr. Massingale sighed and rubbed her temples. "At least she's sleeping now. And she recognized me this morning – she called me 'Lona'. So she's making some progress."
Elmer moved his chair closer and started to put his arm around Dr. Massingale's shoulder. "I call you 'Lona' all the time," he said. "Does that mean I'm making progress too?"
Dr. Massingale stopped his arm at the wrist. "Don't," she said firmly. "Why are you down here anyway? Don't you have work to do?"
But Elmer wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking at the computer screens. "What is that?" he asked.
Dr. Massingale turned to look. The data readouts, the brain scans, and the video of Becca's face were all gone. In their place was an image of a white, tiled room, and in the center sat a little girl in a white hospital gown, with long black hair. Her pale face was tilted to one side and peeked halfway through the dark veil.
Dr. Massingale let out an exasperated groan and went to the intercom by the door. "Otto," she said into the speaker. "Otto, I need somebody to fix the video feed down here – are you there?"
No answer.
"He's probably asleep," said Elmer.
Dr. Massingale sat down again. "Must be getting mixed up with another signal," she said. "I don't know why I'm picking it up in here, but I can't work like this! How am I supposed to record data when I'm not even getting a video feed?"
A voice was speaking from the video of the girl on the screen. It was a man's voice, probably from the other side of the camera. He was asking her questions.
"I don't think it's that," said Elmer. "Is there even a room like that in this building? Look at it – it's like an interrogation room, like they have for criminal suspects."
The little girl's voice spoke next. It was a small voice, childlike, but with an unnatural sharpness to its tone. A harsh timbre that wasn't quite human. Dr. Massingale checked the wiring behind all four screens and then looked at the setup over by Becca's bed, just to be sure that everything was on and plugged-in the way it ought to be. It was.
"Of course it's not an interrogation room," said Dr. Massingale. "Why would anyone do that to a little girl?"
"You don't want to hurt anyone else, do you Samara?" said the man on the video, the one behind the camera.
The little girl's head straightened, and the dark veil over her hair fell open. She looked dead into the camera. "But I do," said her small, harsh voice. "And I'm sorry. It won't stop."
Then the video cut to static, and the EEG data feed came back onto the screens.
It was happening again. The memory, the nightmare – Becca couldn't stop it. She heard Katie's scream, the last sound she ever uttered, found the gruesome body, and met the gaze of the specter who had killed her. She screamed and screamed, but she couldn't stop it. She couldn't wake up.
Suddenly she sat up in her bed. She was breathing heavy, and her hair was sticking to her face and neck with sweat. Where was she? This wasn't her room. There was a paper curtain drawn around her bed, and it was dark. A hospital bed. Nighttime.
Becca pushed her hair away from her face and tried to think. Her mind was fuzzy all the time now – she couldn't remember things the way she wanted to. Someone else's thoughts kept interrupting.
Something felt off. She breathed in and out, and she could see her room – exact in every detail, down to the metal railings that lined the narrow bed. But her hands, her bed, her sensory perception – it all felt soft around the edges. It felt like a dream. And then a voice, airy and insubstantial, like it was speaking directly inside her mind.
Becca.
Becca started, and looked to her left, where the voice had come from. There was a girl with strawberry blond hair and a blue-and-white school uniform – the same uniform Becca used to wear, down to the knee socks and pleated skirt. (Why didn't she go to school anymore? She couldn't remember.)
"Katie?" asked Becca. "But . . . you're dead, I saw the—"
I need your help.
Katie's eyes were wide and pleading, but her lips didn't move.
Becca got out of bed immediately. "What?" she asked. "What can I do?"
Katie smiled. She took Becca by the wrist; her grip was as cold as clay.
This way – hurry.
Katie led her through the halls of the darkened hospital. It was odd, the hospital being dark. Usually at least one light was on. Hospitals were never closed the way ordinary buildings were – they got dim, but not dark. Even the nurses' station was empty. They arrived at the elevators and Katie pushed the down button. The elevator opened, not to a shiny automatic steel door like a modern one, but to an old-fashioned accordion grill. Katie pulled it open and dragged Becca inside.
The elevator went all the way down to the basement level. When the doors opened again, Becca stepped out into another dark hallway. A hospital hallway. There was light, but it was a faint, greenish light, and it didn't come from any of the usual sources like a window or a fluorescent overhead bulb. It was a glow that seemed to come up from the ground. There were noises – voices screaming, filling the air from every direction, but from a distance. And something else, a low, horrible sound, like the moaning of some giant animal.
"Where are we?" asked Becca.
The elevator door shut behind her, and the car rose back up to the seventh floor, empty. Katie was gone. Becca took a step back into the ghostly hallway, and started walking. The vaulted ceiling overhead was tall – high enough for a church. The high ceiling and the narrow hall created the unpleasant illusion of being in a space that was confined, but open at the same time. All the rooms she passed were empty, but Becca knew she wasn't alone. She'd never felt less alone in her whole life. And Katie had left her again.
Panic crept its way into her throat, and Becca started running. Her bare feet hit the tiled ground hard, causing a chilling numbness to shoot painfully up her calves. The air was old and stale here, making it difficult to breathe. And there was an odd smell. It was like a heavy, cloying perfume, sickening, that hung over the halls – the kind used to cover up something even less pleasant. Formaldehyde.
Becca turned a corner, and stopped short two feet away from a strange boy. He was tall and lean, maybe a year or two younger than Becca; maybe a century older. He wore a white linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves under a pair of suspenders. He had thick, tangled hair and dark circles under both eyes. Eyes that were blacker than night, and stared, unblinking, at Becca.
"Who are you?" asked Becca. "Where's Katie?"
The boy smiled slowly. "Katie?" he repeated. Then he started to laugh. The cold, raucous sound echoed off the high ceilings above them. "Katie's dead," he said.
Becca blinked, and she was no longer in the ghostly hospital. She was in the bright hallway of Kingdom Hospital, on the seventh floor, being led by the arm by Dr. Massingale back to her room.
"What happened?" Becca asked. "Why am I here?"
"We're all finished for tonight, sweetie," said Dr. Massingale. "You did wonderfully, but I think you better spend the rest of the night in your bed so you can get some rest."
They reached Becca's door and went inside. The bed was still unmade. Becca climbed in automatically.
"But," said Becca, "What happened to the other hospital?"
Dr. Massingale smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "You were transferred away from there, Becca," she said. "You moved, along with your parents. I know it's confusing, being in a new place, but you'll feel at home here in no time – I promise."
Becca frowned, then stretched out on the bed and turned her back on Dr. Massingale.
Dr. Massingale squeezed her shoulder and got up off the bed. "Sweet dreams," she said, then she turned and left the room.