by Michael Bray
CHAPTER 11
Melody Samson couldn’t have imagined the cruelty life would throw at her after the fateful tidal wave of events at Hope House. Its horrors, and those which came after, had not only damaged her mentally, but had taken a physical toll. She had lost weight, and the laughter lines of her youth had deepened into their worry-driven cousins. Crow’s feet reached out from the corners of her eyes, which were dull, only showing the faintest glimmer of their former exuberance. Her hair, once thick and black, had thinned and started to gray. Worse than the physical and mental toll was the absolute loneliness she felt. When she lost Steve, she had clung to her son, thinking he would be enough to save her. Yet, like her, Isaac suffered with demons of his own. Plagued by nightmares of his ordeal at the hands of Henry Marshall and the sheer horror at seeing his father die in front of him, she supposed it was almost inevitable the nightmares would eventually morph into something worse.
Although she had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder just like Isaac, she wasn’t entirely convinced they were listening to the whole story. She’d had enough of the countless and mostly frustrating therapy sessions with the psychologists and doctors trying their best to tell her she didn’t know what she was talking about, especially when it came to the horrors she had endured at Hope House. She had tried to be patient, and explain as thoroughly and slowly as she could exactly what had happened; however, the therapists seemed less interested in what she had to say, and more in trying to tell her that she needed to start facing up to the reality of the situation and not hide behind the supernatural. They had prescribed her medication, and although she assured them she was taking it, the bottle remained unopened in the kitchen drawer. She knew that everything she’d experienced was real, and no matter who tried to tell her otherwise, she believed it completely. The weeks since she’d been ordered to seek help had been an endless void of misery. Her nights were sleepless, her days spent walking around her empty and silent apartment like some forgotten ghoul with nobody to haunt. It was only during her therapy sessions that she put on a mask of relative normality. She smiled and tried to be as casual and ordinary as possible, all with the goal of getting her son back in her care.
Melody sat once again in Styles’ office, knowing that his decision would have an overwhelming impact on the rest of her life. She tried to read him, to second-guess what was going to happen, but it seemed Styles was more than used to dealing with such cases, and his poker face held true.
“Would you like a glass of water, Mrs. Samson?”
She looked at him. Blinked. The reply stuck in the back of her throat. “No, I’m fine, thank you.”
Styles nodded curtly, and addressed the file in front of him. “I see you’ve been attending the sessions. I’m glad to see it. How are you finding them?”
“They’re fine. Very helpful.”
He watched her, dark eyes probing. She imagined him sniffing the air, sensing her lie. “That’s good,” he said, turning back to the file. “Very good,” he added.
“Mr. Styles, please, can I see my son? I don’t even know how he’s been doing.”
“Isaac is doing fine, Mrs. Samson. He continues to show excellent progress. His night terrors are being controlled by his medication and he seems to be responding well to his new environment.”
“Does that mean I can take him home?”
“Mrs. Samson, the reports from your sessions show you to still be dealing with intense grief after the loss of your husband, which is quite understandable given the recent nature of such a traumatic experience,” Styles said, ignoring her question. “It seems you continue to persist with these very rich and vivid stories about supernatural beings somehow attaching themselves to your family. Indeed, these reports say you were quite vocal about this.”
She stared at her hands, spinning her wedding ring around her finger, which was almost too thin to hold it anymore. “I’ve been unwell. I was confused. Overtired.”
Styles held up a hand. “Please, let me finish.”
She shifted in her seat, sensing that things were taking a turn in a direction she didn’t want them to go.
“As I was saying, the subject matter discussed during your therapy sessions has, frankly, caused some concern. Although Isaac is showing good progress, you, unfortunately have proven to be less responsive. Now I know that trauma such as this can take a long time to recover from, even without the added stresses of life as a single parent. My job, and that of the state, is to provide the best and safest environment for all parties involved in any particular case. That’s why the therapy sessions we organized for you are so important, as they give us the opportunity to assess your progress ahead of any decision we make.”
“Please, I’m really trying to get over this.”
“I understand that, Mrs. Samson, and I don’t want you to feel like we are in any way rushing you. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. In cases like this, children naturally seem more receptive to recovery than adults. This is just one of those cases where Isaac is making faster progress than you are. It’s perfectly normal, in fact, it was to be expected.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means that we have a very delicate situation here which has been the subject of much discussion and thought with myself, your doctors and Isaacs’s carers. As I said during our first meeting, our job is to provide the best care we can in assisting both you and your son in your recovery. With that said, I think it’s wise if, for the time being, you and your son remain separated, especially after Isaac has shown such good progress.”
“You can’t do this. Six weeks you said. Six weeks as long as I did the therapy.”
“No, I said we would review the case, which we have in great detail. Believe me Mrs. Samson, this isn’t a part of the job I enjoy. The board have decided that it would be in everyone’s best interests if we extended the current arrangement until you are more capable to offer Isaac the stability he needs.”
“You can’t take him away from me. You have no right. He’s my son.”
“And we have a duty of care,” Styles snapped. “Mrs. Samson, I take no pleasure in making decisions like this. I’m just a small cog in a very big wheel. Sometimes we agree, sometimes we don’t. In this case, the decision to keep Isaac in a settled home where he can be monitored and treated for his condition whilst also giving you the time to recover further is the best option for everyone. I’m sure you can understand that we aren’t your enemies here. We are doing this to help you. Both of you.”
“None of this helps me,” Melody shrieked. “You’re stealing my son. I won’t have it. I’ll go to the press, I’ll take legal action.”
If Styles was concerned, he didn’t show it. He closed the file and folded his hands on the desk. “Mrs. Samson, I think it’s important you look at the bigger picture here. The very last thing we want to do is break up families, especially when they’ve experienced the kind of terrible trauma you and your son have been forced to endure. At the same time, you must see the reasons for our concerns. There is a very real and valid concern that if you were to be given back custody of your son, he would regress to a similar state to when we first became involved. Not to mention the added pressure and stress of caring for him would hinder your own recovery and make your condition worse. I hope you can understand that that this is for the best. The long term goal is to help both you and your son recover from the ordeal you have endured.”
“You can’t just take him, not without my say so. I have rights. I need to give permission.”
Melody knew how she must sound. She could hear the shrill tone herself and could imagine how everything she said made the situation worse. Even so, she wasn’t about to go down without a fight.
“I’m afraid we can, Mrs. Samson. We have the power to do whatever is in the best interests of the child,” Styles said, straightening the folder on the table top.
“His best interests are to stay with me!”
“No disrespect,
but we need to protect your son from the real world rather than these paranormal delusions.”
“I knew it,” she said, glaring at Styles. “You don’t believe any of it, do you? The things I told you, the things I told your therapists.”
“I don’t want to get drawn into this now, Mrs. Samson. The decision has been taken. I’m sorry it wasn’t what you wanted. I hope that once you’ve calmed down, you can find a way to work with us. Our end goal is the same. Would you like a drink? Some time to compose yourself perhaps?”
“No,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “I don’t see there’s much point, is there? I’m not going to get him back. You said so yourself.”
“Short term, Mrs. Samson. Keep attending the therapy sessions. Before you know it, things will be back to normal.”
She stood, feeling alien, distant from herself. She walked to the door, placed a pale hand on the handle, and then turned back toward Styles. “It won’t work like that though, will it, Mr. Styles?”
“Why’s that?” he replied, eyebrows raised.
“Because you just told me that the things I know to be absolutely true were lies. And I know they’re not. How can we ever find a way to fix this if you don’t believe what I’m telling you? How can I get my son back if you don’t believe me?”
“Mrs. Samson—”
“Forget it. I’ll show you. I’ll prove it to you if that’s what it takes.”
Although she wanted to unleash her rage, she knew it would do her no good. Instead, she opened the door and left the office. Only when she was safely in her car did she let it out. As she sobbed, holding nothing back, she realized that there was a good chance she would never see her son again.
PART TWO:
REAWAKENING
CHAPTER 12
THREE YEARS LATER
It was his sixth adoptive family. Now ten years old, Isaac Samson had become convinced that nobody wanted or loved him. Some of the families he’d been sent to had been fine with him at first, doing everything they could to make him feel as welcome as possible. However, the persistent night terrors proved to be a universal problem that many of them weren’t prepared to cope with. The other, more serious issue was that of his mother, who tracked him down at every new home demanding to see him. He had been with Grant and Tanya Gaunt for two months, and so far they seemed nice enough, and were even handling his nightmares better than most. Grant was a headmaster at a local school. Slim and blond, he was quiet and serious, with a firm belief in traditional entertainment. Reading, art and music were actively encouraged in the house, and as the days went by, Isaac had started to see a happy, funny man behind the serious exterior. Tanya was the polar opposite of her husband. Happy and outgoing, she loved children, and took Isaac in with unconditional love from the start. Some days, he could almost forget all that had happened. The upset, the trauma. Other days, a deep, all-consuming darkness overcame him. Today was one such day, and as he always did, he sat in his bedroom, unable to muster any enthusiasm or excitement for anything. His sole joy was reading, and it was something he had taken to vigorously, devouring a novel per week, sometimes two. Mostly he read young adult and fantasy, and was currently blasting through the third Harry Potter book. To him, those worlds between the pages seemed like magical locations which swept him away from the mundaneness of his own existence.
Downstairs, Grant and Tanya were putting away the groceries together. Married for eleven years, they had tried to have children of their own without success. Adoption had seemed like the most obvious choice, and one which was still on the cards. For now, however, with their own careers to manage, it proved to be a better option to volunteer for the temporary care program. Designed with short term care in mind, it gave the children a stable environment in which to live and develop.
Grant was putting the milk in the refrigerator when the knock at the door came. He walked through the kitchen and opened the door, and instantly recognized the woman standing there. The agency had warned them that she might arrive.
Melody Samson had aged badly. She had lost weight to the point of looking ill. Deep worry lines made her look older than she was, and her hair was greasy and graying. She tried to smile the way she used to but couldn’t quite manage it. It seemed she had forgotten how such a simple gesture was performed.
“Hello, I hope you don’t mind me arriving unannounced, my name is—”
“I know who you are,” Grant said, keeping one arm across the doorframe. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Please, I don’t mean any harm. I need to see my son. Is he here?”
“You can’t do this. You’ve been warned. We were told to call the police if you showed up.”
“Please, don’t do that,” she said, trying to look beyond Grant into the house. “Is he here? Can I just see him to make sure he’s alright?”
“He’s not here.”
“Please, I just want to see him.”
“Look, I appreciate your situation, but you can’t do this. You need to let him go,” Grant said, feeling more pity than anger toward the frail woman in front of him.
“I know it’s easy to say, but try to put yourself in my position. He’s all I have. I need to talk to him.”
“He’s fine. He has everything he needs.”
“Is he… sleeping?”
“He’s sleeping fine,” he said, then as an afterthought, “How long have you known he’s been with us?”
“A week. I’ve been trying to build up the courage to knock on the door. Please, you don’t need to call the police. I won’t cause any trouble.”
“You realize how difficult a position you’ve put me in? I’m supposed to call Mr. Styles if you show up here.”
“Please, I won’t cause any trouble. You seem like nice people. That’s sometimes the worst part, you know? Not knowing what kind of family he’s with,” Melody said. She was wringing her hands, moving her wedding ring around her finger. She saw Grant watching her and put her hands behind her back.
“I still can’t bring myself to take it off,” she said, just about managing a tired smile. “It’s all I have left.”
“Look, I appreciate you’ve been through a lot, and God knows it can’t be easy, but you have to go. I won’t call Styles if you go right now, but you can’t come back here. If you do, then you’ll leave me no choice but to make that call. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
Melody looked at him. Strong features, blond hair. Handsome apart from his slightly crooked nose. She got the feeling that these were good people, and avoiding another brush with the police was also something she was keen to do.
“No, I understand. I’m sorry for coming. I just…” She couldn’t finish, choking on the words.
“It’s okay,” Grant said. Calm, comforting, understanding. “Please, just go, okay? Before he hears you.”
She nodded, fighting not to cry.
“Good luck with getting on your feet. I really hope you do it,” he said, then closed the door.
Melody stood there for a few seconds, unsure of what to do or where to go, then with the threat of the police looming and a few of the neighbors taking an interest, she retreated back down the path and got into her car. She drove away, letting the tears come, and feeling as low as she ever had in her life.
CHAPTER 13
Petrov slammed his fist on the counter as the security guards approached. “I know Fisher is here. The more he refuses to see me the harder I’m going to fight.”
“We’ve told you before,” the guard by the receptionist said. “You’re not supposed to come here.”
“I know, so my captain keeps telling me. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop though. Tell him I’m here,” Petrov said as security closed in on him.
This was a regular occurrence. Petrov would arrive and kick up a fuss, security would throw him out. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, the Oakwell case was lingering in his mind, despite having been closed for almost three years. Part of it was because it repr
esented the one blot on his record, the one unsolved case, although the reason it was unsolved was because he had been pulled from it almost immediately after finding the tunnels under Hope House. The only name he had was that of Fisher, who proved to be frustratingly elusive. Undeterred, he had begun a campaign designed to track the man down so that he could at least speak to him about what he’d found. Despite his best efforts, and employing some of his very best contacts in the police force, Fisher had remained invisible. An enigma. A ghost. Nobody seemed to know him, or if they did, had no idea how to reach him. Petrov had searched every database to which he had access, all without a single hit. Petrov was sure whoever this Fisher character was, he was high up the chain within the government.
“Look, Detective,” the security guard said, leaning on the counter in an effort to intimidate. “You are barred from entering this building. Make no mistake, we will be informing your superiors about this and suggesting they take the appropriate disciplinary action.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Petrov fired back. “You people seem to forget we’re all on the same side here. I need some information in regards to a case. It’s obstruction of justice.”
“Only it isn’t, is it. You already filed that motion without success,” The guard fired back, the arrogant smile suiting him.
“Just five minutes. That’s all I need and then I’ll stop coming here and bothering you.”
The guard shook his head. “Get him out of here.”
The security guards moved in, taking him by both arms and frog-marching him toward the exit. Another stayed at his back to ensure there were no problems. Petrov wondered if they would actually throw him to the ground like they did in the movies, but in the end, they opened the doors and let him out, giving him a gentle shove.
