Joe, chubby and smiling, radiated a nervousness Megan felt even with her shields up. Last was Grant, barely out of his teens, with dyed black hair, a pierced eyebrow, and black-enameled fingernails.
Art closed the door behind them and turned off the overhead lights. Megan hadn't noticed the candles earlier, but they glowed on the windowsills and tables by the walls, giving the room a low, intimate ambience. Some of the clients’ tensions eased as they settled themselves onto the mats, but to Megan the whole set-up felt more like a s?ance than therapy.
"Okay,” Art said, clasping his hands and sitting in the chair on the other side of the mats. “You've all introduced yourselves to Dr. Megan Chase.” He nodded across their heads indicating Megan. “Megan has her own practice for individual counseling, but she's accepted my offer to come and help us out at Fearbusters."
"I didn't—” Megan started, but stopped. These people were paying for a session. She wouldn't waste their time arguing with Art.
"Now, yesterday we discussed some of the feelings we get before we're afraid, right?” Art's voice lowered. “What we see or hear right before we notice the fear."
The group murmured assent. Kevin's hands were clenched tight.
"Let's talk about that,” Art said. “Hanna, what do you see, hear or feel before you notice you're afraid?"
Hanna's voice wavered. “I hear a voice. It whispers in my ear. It tells me something bad is going to happen."
"Doesn't it only feel like it's whispering in your ear?"
"No."
"It's just a voice in your head, Hanna."
"No!"
Megan leaned forward, trying to understand why Art was arguing with the poor girl and why she was fighting back. “It's a whisper in my ear. Sometimes I feel its breath."
"I hear them, too,” Grant said. “Just like that."
"No, you don't,” snapped Joe. Megan had been right about his nerves and dislike of the group. “You say whatever Hanna says, you always do."
"I don't!” Grant said.
"Okay, guys,” Art said. “Let's not argue. Let's get back to Hanna. It's her turn. Hanna, what does the voice tell you?"
Megan's discomfort grew as Hanna continued speaking.
"It tells me I'm a terrible person. Or that other people are terrible and I should hurt them. Like the other day at work it told me to erase one of my boss's files when he wasn't looking."
Bob laughed. “That's your own subconscious anger."
"Bob,” Art said. He sounded ... pleased. Like this was what he wanted to hear. “Remember who the therapist is here. You're not a mentor yet."
"I want to hear more from Hanna,” Grant said. At least, Megan thought it was Grant. It was difficult to know exactly who was talking. Her eyes didn't seem to be adjusting to the light anymore. In fact, the room seemed to be getting darker, even though she could still see the candles burning.
"That's all,” Hanna said. “I'm cursed. I hear the voice, and it's like I have to believe it and do what it says or it won't stop talking. It won't leave me alone."
Chapter Five
Regina's voice echoed in Megan's head. "They won't go away, they won't go away..."
"Hanna,” Megan said, not knowing or caring if she was committing a sin by interrupting the session, “do you hear the voice when other people are around?"
If Hanna was surprised, her voice didn't reflect it. “No. Just when I'm alone. And not here. Never here, in this building."
"That's because you know this is a place of healing,” Art said. “Your subconscious voice does not speak to you here because you know this is where you get better."
Megan wished he would shut up. If there was some kind of connection between Regina and what Hanna was experiencing—and what Grant apparently felt too—she might see it if she tuned in to Hanna. This was no time to be afraid. This was her job.
She exhaled and reached out with her mind, finding the shape on the floor that was Hanna and feeling it, touching it. Steeling herself for whatever grisly images might come, she probed inside.
A little house, decorated with old-fashioned furniture, down home ginghams, and country quaintness. Three cats snuggled on the flowered couch next to Megan—next to Hanna—and watched what looked like a Lifetime movie.
Other than that, nothing.
Megan tried harder. Now she saw an office interior. People liked Hanna, although they found her a little dull. She was reliable and friendly. Her boss depended on her. It was all very nice, but there was still no grinning face, no blood, no horrible feet. Nothing she saw made Megan think Hanna and Regina were suffering the same problem.
Then why were their stories so similar? Most people had similar anxieties, but Megan had never heard of two people who didn't read as organically disturbed having the exact same kind of delusions.
She read Grant next. His home life was nowhere near as happy as Hanna's, but just as lonely. Adults—Megan assumed they were his parents—flitted around like moths around a flame, but ignored him. They were there, but they didn't pay attention. His sister smelled of alcohol and laughed when Grant said something about it. The kids at school ignored him, too. It didn't paint a pretty or happy picture, but there was nothing to be scared of in the way Megan had been scared by Regina.
Another voice spoke. Bob. “My voice tells me to burn things."
"Mine tells me to kill people,” Joe retorted.
Ah. The group members were playing off each other, trying to one-up each others’ illnesses or disturbances. In the hands of a good therapist such things did not happen. Art was not a good therapist. The whole thing distressed and disheartened her.
The conversation continued, but Megan tuned it out. No wonder Kevin had tried to leave. This was dangerous, a mockery of what therapy was supposed to be, and Art Bellingham was enjoying it. She heard it in his voice, the sort of rich happiness that comes from a job well done. Whatever cheap thrills he got by playing Svengali were going to end, though. Tomorrow she would start making calls to the proper people. This could not be allowed to continue.
The room was almost completely dark. Megan couldn't understand why the candles were no longer providing light or why the temperature seemed to be dropping. The exercise mat whispered softly as the people on it moved, presumably crowding closer together—whether for comfort or warmth she did not know. The energy in the room was changing, becoming more alive. Voices merged together into something like a chant, but Megan couldn't understand what they were saying.
Their energy melded too. Their emotions swirled around her, combining into one, separating again.
She floated in the darkness, her arms outstretched, facing upwards. Far below her were the voices and the sadness, the fear. She felt it, but it felt ... good. Right, somehow. It clung to her skin like syrup and she licked it off, savoring the piquancy. Why do this job if you couldn't gain something from taking the fear into yourself?
The vision shifted abruptly. She stood in the kitchen of her childhood home, holding her schoolbooks. She was sixteen years old, just come home from school to an empty house. What could be more exciting?
Megan threw the books down and headed upstairs to her room. The Ouija board waited under her bed. Ever since she'd realized she knew things about other people, that she could somehow see into their heads, she'd wanted to try this. Maybe she could talk to ghosts. Maybe they could make Todd Gentry fall in love with her, or force that bitch Tara Coleman to leave her alone.
She pulled the box out from under her bed. The conscious, adult Megan tried to fight, tried to scream. This would lead to no good, she knew it, she felt it ... Megan screamed in her head, screamed as loudly as she could.
The lights went on. Megan blinked as her eyes started watering from the sudden illumination. On the floor beside her chair, some of the others squinted or rubbed their eyes; some yawned and stretched. The session was over.
What the hell had happened?
Everyone headed for a small table by the door, covered with pap
er cups and bottles of juice, cookies, and other snacks. Art smiled at Megan.
"We always have something to eat afterwards,” he said. “After working this hard, we need something to keep our strength up, right guys?"
The others murmured noises of assent, but they were too busy eating and drinking to speak. They'd fallen on the food like a pack of hungry baby wolves.
Art handed her a cup of warm Coke and a cookie before pulling her into a corner. His hand clung to her sleeve like a horrible insect she couldn't brush off. “What did you think? Interesting?"
"Um, yes.” The Coke was flat, too. “Definitely interesting.” When could she leave? Would it be rude to leave now?
Art watched her. Again the light caught his glasses and obscured his eyes. She was beginning to think he did it on purpose. “How did you like the affirmations at the end? I wrote them myself."
Affirmations? Oh ... the chanting. She hoped. “Great. You'll have to give me a copy."
Art wagged his finger at her. “Oh, no. If you want access to them you have to come work with us again."
"Gee, Art, I'd love to,” she lied, “but as I said before I'm just too busy these days. It sure is a great program, though.” As unobtrusively as possible, she glanced at the clock. It was quarter to nine. She'd called Dante and told him to meet her outside at nine, but she thought she would scream if she had to talk to Art for fifteen more minutes.
"Maybe you could mention us on your show. We can always use more clients, you know."
"Sorry, I'm not allowed to advertise."
"Of course. I understand.” His expression clearly showed he did not. “Maybe you could see what you can do, though?"
"I sure will,” she said, knowing that he knew she wouldn't. They smiled falsely at each other while Megan scrunched her toes up in her shoes in an effort to calm her restlessness.
She took her leave from the group a few minutes later, practically running out the door in her haste to get away from Arthur's stare. She still didn't know what had happened. Had she fallen asleep in the spicy-smelling darkness? It wouldn't surprise her, considering she'd had a rough night and a rougher morning. The demands of the partners still hovered over her like the blade of a guillotine. Tomorrow she'd have to start looking for a new receptionist, start finding a company to do the soundproofing—all out of her own pockets, which were not that deep, despite the boost the radio show gave her finances—and figure out a way to explain to Richard Randall at the station that his publicity was putting her practice in jeopardy. Not that he would care, but maybe she could make him care.
All while trying to look like a competent, together professional for Brian Stone.
The locked front door rattled when she pushed it but did not open. She searched for the buzzer by the door but couldn't find it. The area behind the empty receptionist's desk was blocked off by a wall, a little over waist-high. It, too, was locked. Shit. Was she going to have to go back and ask Art to let her out?
Sighing, she turned towards the hall. Off to her right was a glowing “Exit” sign, but Megan suspected it was a fire exit. She certainly wasn't going to set off an alarm just because she didn't want to see Art Bellingham again.
Holding her car keys loosely in her hand, she walked back across the lobby, an act that seemed to take a lot longer than it should have. The murky silence of the building confused her, considering there was still a group of people in it. She would have expected to hear them talking as they got ready to leave, but she didn't.
Something clattered to the tile in the corner of the room. With a tiny, nervous cry, Megan turned towards the noise, but before she could find its cause the lights went out.
Not even a shaft of moonlight came in through the windows. It was as if something had covered them or they'd disappeared. The exit sign had gone off. The lobby was dark and silent as a tomb.
Megan's skin prickled. Someone else was in the room.
First there was only a tiny movement, a rustling noise, like the whisper of grass in the wind. Megan swallowed. She hoped it was one of the Fearbusters people, but she hadn't heard their door open, and there were still no voices. Only the unshakable certainty she was not alone in the stygian blackness of the cavernous room.
Another sound, like a drop of water hitting a pool. Plop. Her eyes hurt from her refusal to blink. The darkness pressed against them, dry and hot.
Faint rustling answered her next tentative step forward. Something skittered across the floor: tiny fast little footsteps rattling like marbles. The noise sounded like it came from her right, but she couldn't be sure.
"You're not scaring me.” She couldn't seem to catch her breath. The darkness crawled over her skin, setting off tiny alarms in her head, making her muscles ache. She lowered her purse and wrapped the strap around her wrist, ready to swing but certain she didn't have a chance at hitting whoever ... whatever it was. For some reason she didn't think the presence in the dark was human. By the time she knew the thing's location it would be too late.
Someone giggled, a high-pitched gurgling twitter. The sound sent shivers up her spine. Her heart beat so fast she thought it might explode. She hadn't been this scared since ... well, since she was sixteen.
Realization hit her and she almost laughed. This was an after-effect of her odd dream. This wasn't the first time it had happened. She'd always assumed it was because of her abilities, that somehow her subconscious stayed alert for longer. Given that she'd just revisited that long-ago winter, it was no wonder this was happening now. The sweat on her brow started to dry and she once again felt the coolness of the temperature-controlled room. She must be more tired than she'd thought, to panic like that. What did she think, that some sort of evil creature stalked her in the hospital?
She strode back in what she thought was the direction of the hall, with her left arm outstretched. Soon she would touch a wall and follow it back to the Fearbusters room.
Something cold grabbed her hand, something hard and scaly and wet. “Megan,” said a voice, the same slithery voice she'd heard giggle a moment before. The speaker was right next to her ear.
Megan screamed. She swung her purse but only hit her own left hip. She didn't even feel the impact. She tried to pull away but the thing that held her refused to let go, squeezing her hand so hard she thought she could feel the bones rubbing together. She heard a high wordless wail and realized, as her throat began to hurt, the cry was her own.
Then—as suddenly as it had grabbed her—the hand let her go.
The lights came back on.
She was alone.
* * * *
"Megan?"
Still shaking, Megan turned. Art walked towards her. “I thought I heard you scream. Is everything okay?"
Megan nodded and forced herself to speak. “I thought I saw a rat."
"Oh, no, how terrible.” Art glanced around the lobby. “Where?"
"It was probably nothing. I'm afraid I'm a little tired.” The last thing she wanted was for him to insist on looking for it. “Could you just let me out, please?"
"Of course.” He leaned over the receptionist's desk. The buzzer sounded and the door clicked. “I should have told you where the switch was."
"That's okay. Thanks, Art.” Nothing had ever looked better than the smooth-mown lawn outside the building. Megan practically ran for it. Her body still buzzed with adrenaline, her mind twisted in confused circles.
"We'll see you again,” he called after her. She didn't bother to answer.
* * * *
Megan knew city pollution choked the air outside, but the breeze dried the cold sweat on her skin and the faint odor of exhaust smelled like freedom. The parking lot was still brightly lit; the cars still in their neat rows like children bunked up for the night. She headed straight for her car, seeking the safety of its steel body. Dante was nowhere to be seen and, at that moment, she didn't care. She hoped he wouldn't show up. All she wanted was to go home and curl up in her bed with a good romance novel and a bag of potato ch
ips.
Headlights flashed to her left. The car's engine was so quiet she hadn't noticed it. She glanced toward the flash—a Jaguar ... Dante's Jag.
"Get in.” Dante's voice. He was standing on the driver's side, leaning on the top of the low-slung car.
"I'm not getting in your car with you."
"You called me and asked me to meet you here."
"Yes, to meet me here and talk, not to go driving around the city with you."
He glanced at the Outpatient Center, then looked at Megan again. “Come on. If I was going to attack you I would have done so already, don't you think? Just get in."
She still didn't feel good about it, considering she hadn't been able to read him, but he did have a point. Twice now she'd been alone in dark places with him and he hadn't even touched her casually.
The wind lifted her hair from her shoulders as she crossed the parking lot. It felt good, as did the cold leather-scented interior of the car. Dante didn't bother to open the door for her, but he did wait—barely—until she'd settled herself down and fastened her seatbelt before he stomped on the gas and roared out of the parking lot and onto the road by the main hospital building.
"You don't have to go so fast."
"Says who?” His lips tightened.
"You don't have to take that attitude with me, either. You didn't have to come meet me."
"I tried to get out of it, if you'll recall.” He turned right off the hospital grounds.
"I thought you wanted to help me. To keep me safe from all those stalkers following me around? Yesterday you were my hero, today you don't even want to talk to me. Not that I care. I just find it odd."
"I changed my mind."
"Why did you come, then? Why not stand me up? Do you want to talk or not?"