Author's Note: As usual, thanks to everybody who's reading and reviewing – you're all awesome – and I apologize once again for taking so freakin' long getting these updates together. This chapter was particularly difficult to finish. Partly on account of my own laziness, partly because I wasn't sure exactly how to flesh out Becca's relationship with Paul, partly because I've been grieving the loss of one of my personal heroes this week. It seems like death always hits us when we least expect it. I've lost people who were important to me before – my uncle, both my grandmothers, my baby cousin (who was also named "Becca"), three dogs and two cats. It's a different kind of grief when it's someone that you admire, someone who inspires you, someone you've never met. I guess it's because you tend to think of celebrities a little differently than regular people. Even though movies, books, and music affect me and speak to me in profoundly personal ways, it's easy to forget just how little I really know about the people behind the art.

I've been a fan of Heath Ledger's for about eight years, give or take. I liked the fact that he stayed just under the radar of superstardom, taking roles that seemed off-beat or risky for his career because they were stories he felt needed to be told. Every person I cajole into watching The Four Feathers with me agrees that it's one of most moving and under appreciated films ever made. The Dark Knight is, I'm sure, going to be the best "Batman" film to date, and his involvement in it is one of the biggest reasons for that. Never in a million years would I have imagined him going out like this.

Still, I reckon it's time for me to quit moping and keep writing. Stories are what give me hope in light of all the bad things that happen in the world. Like Paul Bettany's Chaucer in A Knight's Tale says, "I'm a writer – I give the truth scope!"

Day Six: Blueprints and Pictures

Paul sat at Becca's bedside, waiting for dawn to break. It was day, but it was still dark, and everyone was sleeping. He could hear their nightmares clearly, mostly because they were identical, but also because he was making an effort to listen.

It irked him that Antibus had had to explain things for him, but he understood now. Becca's mind was a blueprint, a back-up of all of Samara's memories, to keep the nightmare going just in case the tapes were destroyed. And Paul had been eavesdropping on Dr. Massingale's conversation with Rachel – she had destroyed the tapes. Every last one. Samara's hold on Becca's mind was strong, but her immortality was hanging by a thread. If Paul could find a way to sever that bond sometime before she had a chance to do any more damage, then she'd be gone forever. The ones she'd killed already were in limbo, most likely; they'd be released once Samara was destroyed.

The easiest way was to just kill Becca. Samara had gotten into the heads of the people on the psyche ward already, and Paul wasn't sure how to stop her if he couldn't lure her to the Pain Room before the seven days were up. And even if he could, how could he be sure that she wouldn't just pop back into the ninth-floor ward as soon as it was time for her to kill everyone? So that was the answer: kill Becca, take Samara out with her. That was what Antibus had meant, in telling Paul that it was useless to try to protect her.

Why was this so hard? Paul had killed before, many times, in this hospital and even before his death. All he had to do was reach out, take the girl's slender throat in his hand, and squeeze until she stopped breathing. It was easy. And she'd belong to him forever if he made her a ghost here, in the Kingdom. She'd keep wandering, along with Mary and Gottreich and all the other tortured souls who got stuck here. It would be nice to have somebody to talk to. . .

Paul stood up, stretched his hand out, but when his fingers brushed Becca's cheek he stopped. He pulled back and took a step away from the bedside. There had to be another way. If only to prove Antibus wrong, he was going to find another way. Paul turned away and left Becca's room, disappearing a few steps into the hallway outside.

(scene break)

The story that Rachel had told Dr. Massingale was a strange one, but not the strangest she'd heard. So the dead girl, Becca's friend, Katie, had been killed by a ghost. A vengeful spirit who was so full of rage and anger that she murdered anyone who got too close. Dr. Massingale wasn't sure she believed it, but Rachel's description of the wraith matched the girl she'd seen in the sleep lab data feed. It was absurd to even entertain the idea that this was true, but it would explain a few things. Such as the foreign, unfamiliar objects that had found their way into Becca's X-Rays; and the epidemic of nosebleeds on the psyche ward; and the strange drawings that some of the patients had made, of ladders and circles and humanoid figures with their faces scratched out in black.

This was beyond her field of expertise, but she'd be damned before she let Stegman find that out. There was only one person in the Kingdom that Dr. Massingale could turn to in this situation, and she was determined to do it quietly.

The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and Dr. Massingale walked briskly to Sally Druse's room. Sally was sitting up, laying out Tarot cards on the empty dinner tray over her bed. She smiled up at Dr. Massingale as she came in. "Hello, dear," she said kindly, her bright eyes folding into crows feet that somehow made her look younger rather than older. "What can I do for you?"

Dr. Massingale smiled back. It was Sally's way, assuming a natural authority over any situation without seeming pushy.

"I have um . . . an unusual request to make of you, Mrs. Druse," said Dr. Massingale.

"Sally, please."

"Sally," repeated Dr. Massingale.

"What is it, dear?"

"It's a patient of mine. Becca, Rebecca Jordan. She was admitted as a trauma patient – nothing physically wrong with her, at least not that we can find, but—"

"Oh, you mean that little girl up on the psychiatric ward?" Sally interrupted. "Yes, I know exactly who you mean. She likes to wander a bit, doesn't she? Poor thing. . ."

"You've seen her?" asked Dr. Massingale, incredulous.

"Well, no," said Sally. "I've heard of her, though. Just whispers – word is she came in with someone else, someone who's been causing a lot of damage upstairs."

"Hm." Dr. Massingale paused, resting her chin on her fist.

Sally considered Dr. Massingale for a moment, then put her Tarot cards away and looked her in the eye. "What is it, exactly, that you want me to do, Lona?"

"I. . . I'm not sure. This really isn't my field – I have no training for this kind of thing."

"Maybe, if I could speak to Becca myself, then . . .?"

"Yes."

Without another word, Dr. Massingale led Sally Druse upstairs to the ninth floor ward, and down the hall to Becca's room. Becca was sitting cross-legged on the bed, staring up at the shrouded T.V. in the corner. The curtains had been parted. Sally didn't wait for Dr. Massingale to instruct her further, but took the seat next to Becca's bed and reached out to take her hand. Becca blinked, and looked down at the old, wrinkled hand holding her own.

"Hello Becca," said Sally, speaking loudly and clearly, as if she was talking to someone who couldn't hear properly. "My name is Sally. I'm here to help you. Lona's here too."

Becca looked up at Sally, and her dry lips parted. "Sally," she repeated. "You. . . You can see things, like me."

Sally smiled. "That's right," she said. "I see a lot of things. I see what other people can't because they don't want to, because they're afraid. Is that what you see, dear?"

Becca licked her lips and looked away. "Memories."

"Memories?" asked Sally. "Whose?"

"And other things," Becca went on, not listening. "Things that haven't happened yet. Not to me. Horrible things. . ."

Sally frowned, then took a better grip on Becca's hand and moved closer. "Becca," she said, "Can you tell me what it is you saw? Can you show me?"

But Becca wasn't listening anymore. She was staring at a point in the middle distance, behind Sally and Dr. Massingale, her face as blank as her mind.

Dr. Massingale sighed. "Her lucid periods are getting better," she said. "But she keeps slipping away. It's been frustrating, to say the least."

"Mm." Sally patted Becca's hand once more, then let it go. "Well, she's gone for now, but she'll be back." Sally stood up. "These disturbances have been going on for quite a long time, I believe. It's a shame her old hospital didn't make better progress with her."

"I know, I know," said Dr. Massingale. "Listen, Sally: I spoke with a woman named Rachel Keller yesterday, and she told me that this girl had watched her friend get killed by a ghost. That could explain a few things, but it's impossible."

"Impossible?" Sally chuckled. "Oh, you ought to know better than that, dear."

(scene break)

Becca wasn't sure who it was that had beckoned her from her room. It wasn't a kind presence, but it wasn't Samara either, so Becca followed it. It led her back to the Old Kingdom, back to the halls reeking of antiseptic that masked the rot of the dead, down to a room she hadn't seen before.

A small brass plaque was nailed to the door, tarnished and nearly illegible. Becca rubbed at the metal with her thumb. "Pain Room," she murmured, reading it aloud. The door creaked open, revealing a sliver of the dank room inside. There was a long table lined with glass vials filled with colorful, bubbling fluids; a desk at the corner covered in dusty papers and old medical books; a metal table holding a variety of unpleasant-looking instruments, all rusted; and on the far wall, a torn and discolored diagram of a human cranium.

"Come in, child," said a deep, malevolent voice. "I've been expecting you."

The voice was connected to the presence that had led her here; Becca knew it instinctively. She didn't answer, but backed away, leaving the door cracked. But then, footsteps. Two sets, one coming from inside the Pain Room, the other coming from the hall behind her. Before Becca had the chance to decide whether to freeze or run, a cold hand seized her wrist and hauled her away from the door to the Pain Room, into an empty pod with bars over the windows. Becca gasped and started to yell, but a second hand clamped over her mouth and a voice hissed, "Shh!" close to her ear.

The second set of footsteps, the slower one, passed by the doorway. Becca pressed back against her captor, more fearful of the unseen one outside, and in turn, her captor wrapped both arms around her to pull her deeper into the shadows. Neither of them moved or breathed until Gottreich's footsteps had faded completely.

Paul spun Becca around in his arms and gripped her shoulders hard. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a harsh whisper. "If you go in that room, Gottreich will never let you out. He'll kill you!"

Becca blinked. "I. . . I thought that—"

"We're trying to lure Samara here," said Paul. "Gottreich thought you were her. He doesn't know about you yet, and if you want to get out of here alive, you better not let him find out."

Becca stared at Paul, then grabbed his face in both hands, searching his dark eyes.

"What are you doing?" Paul asked quietly.

"He killed you, didn't he?" said Becca. "He was supposed to make you better, but he made you worse. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Paul didn't answer. He gripped Becca's wrists and pulled her hands away from his face. "I have an idea," he said. "It's going to be difficult, and probably dangerous, for you, but you'll just have to trust me. 'Cause I've been wracking my brain, and I can't think of anything else."

Becca nodded. "I trust you," she said.