Author's Note: Again, sorry for the wait, and thanks for RnRing! And Yekith, yes, you're right – that's exactly what Paul is up to. Also, as you guys may or may not have noticed, there are supposed to be scene breaks in some of these chapters and for some reason they're not showing up. I dunno what problem is with asteriks and pound signs, but for now I'll just have to go with the less professional, far tackier (SCENE BREAK) tags so you guys know what's going on. Sorry about that - I'll fix it in the previous chapters some other time, just bear with me. Okay! This chapter is extra-long, but hopefully it'll explain some things, so enjoy.

Day Four: The Kingdom

The doctors of Kingdom Hospital were gathered around the table in the board room for the morning run-down. Dr. Stegman, the Chief of Neurosciences, had been late as usual, but that didn't change much. One of the staff psychiatrists mentioned an epidemic of nose bleeds that had been sweeping the ninth floor over the past two days, and wondered if there might be a problem with the ventilation up there. Predictably, Stegman pawned that particular issue off to "someone in maintenance" to worry about. Then Dr. Massingale brought up Becca's unusual case. The others listened attentively, but Stegman was not impressed.

"Sounds like it's time to crack open that nut and see what's wrong," Stegman said, after letting Dr. Massingale speak.

"She is showing a lot of improvement with the medications alone," said Dr. Massingale. "If I can get her to start talking more—"

"Showing 'improvement' after a solid year of the same kind of treatment isn't enough, Lona," said Stegman. "It might be a little aggressive, but psychosurgery—"

"It is aggressive," said Dr. Massingale. "Very aggressive, and invasive, and potentially more dangerous to her recovery than what she's already been through. This problem, whatever it is, isn't physical – I'm positive about that."

"All the same, we don't want to keep her family waiting for results, do we? I'm going to recommend psychosurgery for – what was her name again?"

"Becca," said Dr. Massingale. "Rebecca Jordan."

"Yes – Miss Jordan. Lovely. Let's recommend at the very least an X-Ray and have a look at what's going on in there. Then we can talk more about surgery."

Dr. Massingale glared across the table at Stegman. That was his answer to everything – X-Rays, then MRIs, then surgery. Then, more often than not, a pending lawsuit from the family of the patient about whatever he'd done wrong. "Well," she said finally, "Becca's parents are coming to visit her this afternoon. The final decision on the surgery will be up to them of course."

Stegman stared at Dr. Massingale as if only just realizing she was there, then gave her a tight, lightless smile. "Of course," he said.

(SCENE BREAK)

So close. So close, and then she'd had to go and wake herself up again. Even her subconscious was too shaky to trust. Paul had no choice – he was going to have to try Gottreich again. But this time, he'd try a different approach.

Paul found Gottreich in his lab, bent over bubbling glass vials and ancient machinery. He didn't look up when Paul came in. Paul leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and waited. Finally the doctor glanced up, frowned at the boy, and muttered, "What is it now?"

Paul grinned. "I talked to our visitor," he said. "It's a girl. Young, maybe twelve or thirteen."

Gottreich's brow furrowed, and he straightened up. Good – he was paying attention now. "That young?" he asked.

Paul nodded.

Gottreich clicked his tongue. "Such a shame to die so young," he said. "I wonder what happened to her?"

"Only one way to find out, right?" asked Paul. "She's not very friendly, but I think maybe she just needs a good doctor."

"Maybe. . . Not friendly, you say?"

Paul nodded again.

"Mm." Gottreich moved away from his steaming experiments and took up his notebook. "How very interesting. A possible mood disorder, antisocial behavior, psychosomatic abnormalities perhaps." He flipped through the dirty pages and a slow smile stretched his wrinkled face. "Yes, she may be a good candidate for this new procedure."

Paul smiled.

"Paul, I should like to meet this visitor," said Gottreich. "See to it that she finds her way to the Pain Room."

"No problem," said Paul. And then he left the lab. It was almost cute, how easy it was to manipulate the old man. He wished he'd known that before the accident. . . But never mind – that was in the past. Tonight, he had another job to do. The hitchhiker wasn't playing by the Kingdom's rules, but every restless spirit had rules. Paul just had to find out what hers were, and figure out a way to work them to his advantage. That meant Becca – he had to try to talk to her again. But no theatrics this time. Just get her talking, and get some answers.

(SCENE BREAK)

Dr. Massingale met Becca's parents in the lounge after they'd visited their daughter. Becca was immune to the nosebleeds afflicting the rest of the floor, but she was the only one – and that included some of the hospital staff, nurses and orderlies, who were beginning to complain of strange dreams as well. Nightmares. The eerie epidemic worried Dr. Massingale, but she had Becca to take care of – one thing at a time. She stood up and smiled warmly to greet Mr. and Mrs. Jordan, but Mr. Jordan had fire in his eyes and a set to his jaw.

"What's this I hear about you wanting to open up my little girl's head?" asked Mr. Jordan.

Dr. Massingale took a breath and made a silent oath to find out and strangle whoever had let that piece of information out. "That's just an idea right now," she said. "Nothing definite. Of course we wanted to run it by you first, before—"

"It's not happening," said Mr. Jordan. "No way, do you understand?"

"Honey, calm down," said Mrs. Jordan, taking her husband's arm and patting him on the shoulder.

"I understand, sir," said Dr. Massingale. "Actually, I agree completely – I think that psychosurgery is both aggressive and unnecessary in Becca's case. I wouldn't have suggested it myself, but our Chief of Neurosciences wants to make sure that there's no physical damage to Becca's brain, so I would like to run an X-Ray to prove that that's not the case."

"And how much is that going to cost us?" asked Mr. Jordan.

Mrs. Jordan took a tighter grip on her husband's arm, and he flinched slightly. "Our insurance will cover it," she said. "Go ahead with the X-Ray, but no surgery. Not this time."

Dr. Massingale nodded. "Fine," she said. "Great. I'll schedule her for seven this evening."

(SCENE BREAK)

Becca was in a dark place. She could hear people talking, and she recognized Dr. Massingale's voice, but she couldn't understand the words. Everything was distant, and blurry. She could feel her mind trying to pull itself back, to grab onto reality if only by a thread, but it always slipped back to the fuzzyness.

Also, there was a name inside her head now: Paul Morlock. She didn't know anyone by that name – not that she remembered anyway – but when she said it inside her head, an image came with it. It was a boy, about her age give or take, in dirty old-fashioned clothes circa 1930-something, with eyes that gleamed like black water.

The tile was dusty and cold under her feet; how long had she been walking? She didn't remember getting out of bed. Maybe she hadn't. . . The steady murmur of voices that had followed her from the waking world had morphed into the distant screams and growls of . . . whatever this place was. The old hospital. She wasn't dreaming – that much was obvious. And she hadn't died, because she could still feel and hear a bit of what was going on upstairs. Her brain was somewhere else, but her mind was in the shadow world between life and death. "Swedenborgian Space" some called it, after the philosopher who had discovered it.

Static behind her – Becca froze. An electric crackle sounded once, twice, a bit closer behind each time. It was the sound of a television trying to come on, or a dodgy videotape trying to play. Becca didn't want to, but she turned and looked behind her.

There was no T.V., no VCR. But just a few yards down the grey-green hallway was the grainy, flickering image of the girl in the white dress. Samara, the wicked child, the nensha-weilder. Her long, black hair hung over her face damp and tangled. The image flickered again with a burst of static energy, and reappeared three feet closer.

Becca wanted to scream, but her throat had tightened and closed. She couldn't move. Suddenly another voice came from the other end of the hallway: "No!" and a hand as cold as clay grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her backwards. Becca yelped, startled, and fell onto the shoulder of whoever had grabbed her. She looked up, and saw the pale, narrow face of the boy she'd seen in her mind.

Paul moved forward, his head low and his jaw set, staring down the wraith at the end of the hall. "Back off, rookie," he said. "She's mine."

Samara's shrouded head lifted slightly, but Paul threw his arm out and a beam of white-hot energy shot from his fingertips. With a scream like the buzz of an electrical fire, the girl vanished, scattering into fragmented particles of fiber optic light.

Paul made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, and shook his arm where Becca was grabbing him. "Let go, will ya?" he said. "I can still feel pain, y'know."

"Sorry," Becca muttered. She stepped forward, staring at the space where Samara had been only a moment ago. "Is she dead?"

Paul scoffed. "Yeah, she's dead – that's the problem," he said. "Can't kill her anymore. She's starting to piss me off, your little hitchhiker."

"My. . .?"

Paul squared his shoulders and faced her. "Becca we need to talk," he said. "That little nightmare of yours is making a lot of problems for the doctor and me. We want her gone, and I bet you do too, so you better cooperate."

"But. . . Didn't you just—?"

"I sent her somewhere else, for now, but she'll be back and she'll be angry when she gets here."

"Who are you?"

Paul frowned slightly, and tilted his head as he looked at her, as if deciding just how much she needed to know. "Never mind," he said. "The more important thing is that spook. I need you to tell me who she is and what she's doing here."

An echo, not quite a memory but a small part, came back to Becca's mind, and clicked into place. She'd seen Paul before. It had only been for a moment, but she'd seen him. "It was you, wasn't it?" she asked. "The other night. But you looked like Katie. You put on her face and led me down here."

A muscle in Paul's jaw twitched, but then he smiled and said, "Yes, that was me. It's a little trick of mine – maybe I'll tell you about it sometime. But right now, you need to tell me everything you know about Samara Morgan."

Becca ducked her head and hugged herself tightly; just hearing the name made her insides go cold. "I don't know much," she said. "She's evil, and she gives me nightmares."

"Yeah, but she hasn't killed you."

"No. . ."

"Why not?"

"I guess it's because I never saw that tape. The one Katie watched. That's why she died. . . She didn't have enough time."

"Enough time for what, Becca?" Paul's dark eyes were blazing, hungry for more information. "What was she supposed to do?"

But Becca wasn't listening anymore. "She followed me here," she murmured. "She follows me everywhere. She shows me things. Memories, but they're not mine. I don't know why they're in my head. . ."

Paul reached out and grabbed Becca's wrist. "Oh, no you don't," he said. "Don't trip out on me now. Becca!"

Becca's eyes flashed up to meet Paul's again, and her mind returned somewhat focused. "Who are you?" she asked again.

"Don't worry about that," said Paul. "Just stay with me, don't get lost out there. Listen, she hasn't killed you yet, but she could. That girl is stuck to you like glue – why?"

Becca stared at him, and as she stared, a new wave of images flooded her tangled mind. A fire in a hospital, not unlike the one in which they were standing, long ago. A bad doctor, grinning madly in the heat of the blaze. A scared young boy trapped in a glass prison filled with water. The sound of a bell ringing, very clearly, but very far away.

"You didn't die in the fire," said Becca.

Paul's eyes darkened. "What?"

"They found you after and thought that's what happened," Becca continued. "But when it started, you were already dead."

Paul let go of her and backed away. "You. . . How did you. . .?"

Becca blinked, then crossed her arms over her middle again, huddling over to keep out the cold. She could hear Dr. Massingale's voice coming from somewhere high above, echoing bleakly through the fog of the old hospital.

"Get out," said Paul. "Get out of here now."

Becca frowned. "Why?" she asked.

"I said go!"

Becca opened her eyes, and sat upright in her hospital bed. Dr. Massingale was standing just outside the door, talking to a tall man with blond hair and a cruel, thin mouth. She was showing him some X-Rays, and they were both speaking in low, heated tones. A few minutes later, the blond doctor left, and Dr. Massingale returned to Becca's room in a huff. Her demeanor shifted as soon as her eyes fell on Becca.

"Oh, hello there!" said Dr. Massingale, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I didn't know you were awake."

"Am I going to be okay, Lona?" Becca asked.

"Of course you are, sweetheart," said Dr. Massingale, taking Becca's hand. "We just need to figure out. . ." She faltered and cleared her throat. "We just need to decide how to help you best, that's all."

But Becca heard her unspoken words as clearly as if she'd said them aloud: What's wrong with you. They needed to figure out what was wrong with her.

"I'm scared," said Becca. "There's not enough time."

"Don't be silly, of course there's time." Dr. Massingale patted Becca's hand. "You're going to be fine, one way or another."

"Not me – the others. They only have three days left."

For some reason, that was too much for her, and Becca lowered her head and started to cry. Dr. Massingale moved closer and put her arm around Becca's shoulders.

"Here we go again," she said, not unkindly. "I wish you could tell me what's bothering you so much. Is it Katie?"

"NO!"

The word came out with such force that Dr. Massingale started and let Becca go.

"Becca, what on Earth is the matter?" she asked. "Why can't you tell me?"

Becca looked up at Dr. Massingale through a veil of tears. "Ask Rachel," she said. And then her mind went blank again.