Tom had no nightmares that night but he was still sleeping fitfully, waking up at four in the morning and again at regular intervals after that until he pulled himself out of bed around eleven. He was still groggy. He had that feeling that his brain wasn't properly connected to his body. Max was right of course. There were zombies that looked better than he did. And zombies that had more emotional expression.
He parted the blinds and peered through them. The light was brighter today but there seemed to be something odd with his vision. He couldn't focus his eyes properly. Bright areas were hazy and glaring, as if he were looking through a glass smeared with oil. Shadows were darker than they should have been. He couldn't make out any details in them.
He took a shower. He closed his eyes and gave his consciousness up to the sensation of the stream of hot, steamy water. He swayed a little side to side in rhythm to his heartbeat. He was startled at the feeling of something around his throat. He opened his eyes. Black strands of hair were wrapped around his neck like tentacles, choking him. He grabbed hold of them with both hands and pulled but the locks did not loosen. Tom peered over his shoulder and saw that the strands of hair were coming out of the shower head, as if the water had transformed itself into hair. He couldn't pull them further out of the shower head. Their grip tightened. He thought he would pass out when, twisting and struggling, he suddenly broke free and fell into the wall. As suddenly as the attack had begun it was ended. The hair seemed to have vanished except for a few limp strands lying on the bottom of the bathtub. He imagined he could still feel the pressure on his throat. Looking in the mirror, Tom could see red marks on his neck.
Despite the warm, steamy air he sank down on the edge of the bathtub shivering. His limbs felt numb. It was difficult for him to admit to fear but now he felt genuinely shaken.
It was late evening when the doorbell rang at Rachel Keller's house. "I'll get it, Aidan," she said. She looked through the peephole at a man in a black raincoat. She opened the door but kept the chain in place. "What can I do for you?" She was wary enough of strange men on her doorstep, even in a town as peaceful as Astoria, but it only took one close look at the man's strained, sickly face before she decided to open the door. She could guess why he was here.
"Rachel Keller? I'm sorry to disturb you at night. My name is Tom Wills. Let me explain why I've come." He couldn't help noticing, in spite of his other preoccupations, that she was very attractive. She had a sympathetic, expressive face framed by wavy blond hair. He found himself staring at her pale blue eyes. She took his raincoat. Underneath he was wearing his suit. She could smell the liquor on his breath.
Aidan stood in the doorway.
"Aidan! Don't you have homework to do?"
"I'm all finished, Rachel."
" Well, find something else to do," Rachel said, a little annoyed. She and Tom sat down on the sofa.
"All right, Rachel."
"Does he always call you 'Rachel'?" Tom asked.
"He's done that since he was very little," she said with an embarrassed shrug. "He says the name suits me, whatever that means."
Tom proceeded to tell his story in detail. When he was finished Rachel seemed puzzled and worried. She said, "Mr. Wills, I wish I could help you, but the video you describe is completely different from what I—what we all saw. Yet so much of what you've told me sounds familiar. It's like a nightmare that you've had before." She left the room and came back with an expandable plastic file holder under one arm. It was stuffed with papers, photographs and newspaper clippings.
"I've kept my notes on the story. Most of it never saw print. You're welcome to read it when you have time." She paused for a moment. "You know, I haven't shown this to anyone since I left Seattle."
Tom nodded appreciatively. "I already know the outline of what happened. Could Samara Morgan be the girl in the video? I couldn't find a picture of her online."
"Yes, I suppose she could be, but that description could match millions of girls."
"I have the video with me. If I could show it to you…"
"Yes, I want to see it." Seeing his hesitation, she added with a small laugh, "I'm sure it wouldn't hurt me. I suppose I must be immune to lethal videos."
"Are you sure?" Tom was genuinely anxious for her. Rachel nodded. She was not sure, of course, but she was not one to shrink from possible danger.
Rachel's face was expressive of her sympathetic suffering as she watched the video. She held her face in her hands and emitted little gasps whenever blows were struck. When it was finished she looked downcast. She was massaging the back of her neck with one hand. The wrist of that hand was clasped in her other hand. "It's her, Samara. I saw her on videotape shot at the Eola County Psychiatric Hospital. That could have been the same equipment. It could even have been the same room. Yet it's a completely different video." In spite of what she knew, Rachel smiled grimly. "It's all so insane. You think this video could kill, too?"
"We don't know that. We only know that Mr. Carstairs died, apparently a week after watching it, but he may not have been a well man. There could be a natural explanation."
"You watched it yourself. How many days ago?"
"It was on Sunday. This is the third day." Tom's pronouncement was as flat and unemotional as most of his speech was.
Rachel looked at him with distress. "You don't really believe. You must! There's too much of a risk. You're already experiencing hallucinations and nightmares."
"This morning, in the shower. That wasn't a hallucination. I found the hair in the bottom of the bathtub."
"Yes, I know. I meant…" Her voice trailed away. The two of them lapsed into silence. Rachel was trying to think her way through the new information. "The video I saw in Seattle was full of images that gave clues about Samara's life and death. That led us to the well where her body was. Now that her body's been recovered it's no longer relevant. Could the tape have changed? Is that too crazy to imagine? Remember the kids in Seattle recorded the video when they set the machine to an empty channel."
"I'm not entirely willing to accept some supernatural explanation. Suppose the video was shot at Eola Hospital at the time Samara was there. We may never know how it came to be trafficked."
"That thing is vile. How could anyone do that to a young girl? You have to know how much I hate her." Rachel turned to look away. "I lost Noah, Aidan's father. I wasn't in time to save him. She would have killed Aidan too." Rachel seemed to fold up and withdraw into the memory of her grief, but she didn't cry. "I had to pass on the video. It was the only way to save Aidan. Of course, I knew there was a good chance it would kill someone down the chain."
"I shouldn't be taking up any more of your time tonight. I'll be in touch with you tomorrow if you have the time."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I've forgotten you're on eastern time. You must be very tired. Please stay here tonight."
"I shouldn't trouble you."
"I insist. This is a sofa bed. I'll bring down some bed linens."
"You could easily send me away. You could say honestly that this doesn't involve you any more. The video, Samara, it's all my problem, not yours."
"It's my problem, too," she said firmly. "Don't think I don't want to avoid it. I quit my job and left Seattle. All my neighbors want to know why I left and what I'm doing working for a small town newspaper like the 'Daily Astorian'. My co-workers are the same. I thought I could start over in a new town where no one knows me and no one has been touched by this. I haven't told the people here about the past. I guess I thought I could run away. But it seems Samara won't let me.
"I did it all for Aidan. He managed to watch the video when I wasn't keeping an eye on him. I barely had time to save him. He's a sensitive child. He seemed to have some special connection with Samara. She seemed to communicate through him. After the horrors he experienced I wanted to raise him in a different, quieter place. It's what any parent would do, isn't it?"
Tom nodded sympathetically. "I'm surprised no one has sought you out so far, I mean those 'ringers' I told you about."
Rachel shook her head and grinned wryly. "Well, it looks like you've beaten the rush."
As Rachel hooked the bed sheet over the corners of the sofa bed mattress Tom became strongly aware of her physical presence. As Tom watched her, she smiled to herself.
Tom looked out the window of Rachel's living room before retiring for the night. Her house was on a steep rise from the river. It offered a good view of the houses in the neighborhood. Tom could see the yellow lights in the interior of each of them, like so many camp fires scattered across a wilderness.
Tom sighed. What was left of his case? He had been driven by the hope of finding the girl in the video but now he was weighed down by the realization that she had been dead for over twenty years. Yet he was surprised at himself. There was still something nagging at him, irritating him like liniment applied to the skin. There was still a desire driving him forward, to find those involved and bring them to justice, however belated. He could not simply let it rest. The very thought of that triggered his anger again. He expected that Mrs. Carstairs would agree that he should continue pursuing the case.