by Isla Jones
“Sweetie,” he said, careful not to spook her. “We’re leaving in a few minutes. Jack thought it might be nice if we get lunch on the way. What’d you think?”
Blake wiped her cheeks. “Do I have a choice?”
Abe crouched down beside her. He looked at the phone. “Who are you talking to?”
Rachel’s voice sang from the speaker; “Hey, Mr Harper.”
Abe smiled at Blake. “I’ll give a few minutes, all right? But then I have to take your phone. Meet us downstairs in five.”
Blake nodded and watched him leave through silent tears. He didn’t close the door behind him.
“Rach,” she whispered. “I need your help. Everyone thinks I’ve lost my mind. You’re the only one I can trust.”
“What do you need me to do?” she asked. By the rare tenderness of Rachel’s tone, Blake knew that she wanted to help her.
“See what you can find out from your dad.” Blake paused to hiccup. “Ask about me, about what the Sheriff has against me” she added. “Please stay away from Bethany until I know what’s going on—stay away from her and that house. I know you don’t understand, but … there’s something seriously off about the Prescotts.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Just … make sure you rest in the meantime, B. I’ll come visit you real soon. Whenever you’re allowed visitors, I’ll be there.”
It sounded definite. Almost as if Rachel wasn’t going to help at all. Almost as if Rachel believed that she was crazy.
Blake swallowed back a sob and said goodbye. She placed her phone on her nightstand, right where she wanted it to be when she returned from Harmony … whenever that would be.
Jack called from downstairs. Blake looked over her shoulder and sighed.
Before she left her bedroom, she unfurled the ball of paper.
The sheet was a faded beige, crisp to the touch, and blotted ink stains smothered it with peculiar symbols. It looked as though it had been torn out from a book about spells or code decryption, she thought. The only symbol she recognised on the page was a small sketch down the bottom corner—a charcoal drawing of a diadem.
It wasn’t the one from Town Hall. The diadem in the sketch was ethereal in its leafy craft; bejewelled with strange gems that were jagged and distorted. Vines coiled around the twiggy diadem and attached the gems to it, then spiked up in sharp black thorns.
Blake frowned and turned over the sheet. The same unreadable symbols were on the other side. But one had been circled in charcoal. It was a sketch of water—calm and gator-free, with swamp trees circling it and a pebbled shore.
Blake recognised it instantly. It was the reservoir; the only place in Belle-Vue that the townspeople could swim without the dangers of alligators snapping them in half.
There were town myths about the reservoir, about why the gators stayed away from the water. It all went back to the lore of the witch hunt. Some believed that the sacrifice the coven had tainted the town; that whatever they had tried to summon had entered through the water of the reservoir. With the water poisoned by a dark entity, the alligators won’t draw near it—they can sense the danger. According to the stories, at least.
Jack shouted up to her; “We need to go!”
Blake sighed and stuffed the useless page under her mattress. The paper rustled in protest, but went ignored as Blake grabbed her things and slumped out of the room.
*
The bespectacled woman smiled. “I’m Dr Mills. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Blake Harper.”
They stood in Dr Mills’ office at Harmony’s Institute, which was white. All of it. The outside of the four-winged, three-story building; the inside, the offices, the reception; and, even the patient clothes on Blake’s body. A simple, thin pair of drawstring pants hung low on her hips, but Blake had discovered that the drawstrings were for decoration. They didn’t budge within the waistband. A plain white singlet covered her upper body, and a pair of white sneakers hugged her feet. Blake hated the outfit, she hated the walls, and the rooms. She wanted to go home.
Through tears, Blake looked between her dads to her left. They both smiled—the same way the doctor had; in that tight, false manner where one’s cheeks puffed out and lips thinned. Blake was sick of smiles.
She stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you, too, Doctor.”
Dr Mills shook her hand before she fixed the rectangular spectacles on the bridge of her nose. “A very well-mannered, young woman,” she said. “I can see we will get along just fine, if you keep that up.” She leaned forward and peered over her lenses at Blake. “The better you are,” she said quietly, as if revealing a crucial secret, “the more I might overlook extended leisure time.”
Blake twisted her fingers together and tried to hide the shock from her face. ‘Extended leisure time?’ Were her days to be planned by the doctor? Was she only allowed limited time to do as she pleased? 2pm, reading time; 3pm, bath time—that sort of thing? A … A schedule?!
This is a prison, she thought, a downright prison for teens!
“Now,” began Dr Mills with a soft smile. Blake imagined—only for a moment—grabbing the clipboard and whacking that stupid smile off the doctor’s face. “Because you’re here on an emergency admittance,” said Mills, “I’ve moved some appointments around to squeeze you in for tomorrow. We’ll have a proper chat then. For now, you’re free to join the other patients in the games room. Maybe you could get started on forming friendships?”
Jack placed his hand on Blake’s shoulder. “Can we have minute, doctor?”
Dr Mills nodded before she left.
Blake simple stared at the office door. “Friendships,” she repeated. “That’s how long I’ll be here? Long enough to need friends?”
Jack stepped around her, forcing her gaze to meet his. He took her hands in his. “You’ll be here for as long as you need to be, Blake.”
Blake scowled. “I don’t need to be here at all, dad. You’ve sent me a bloody asylum for the insane.”
Abe came up behind and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Be angry with us as much as you want. But please, give this place a chance. Talk to Dr Mills, tell her what you’ve been experiencing—let her help you. Don’t worry about anything else, Blakie.”
“And this isn’t an asylum,” added Jack. “It’s a rehabilitation centre with great facilities, and a team of orderlies and doctors who care about you.”
Blake’s simmering gaze bore into his. “Are you daft?” she snapped. “You saw those patients out there. One of them was talking to the wall! And I’m pretty damn sure that ginger girl was trying to make a bomb out of crayons! It’s an asylum.”
Abe hummed, suddenly serious. “Stay away from those girls, especially the one who talks to the walls.” The light twinkle in his eyes gave him away—he was joking.
Jack shot Abe a reproachful look, then looked down at Blake. “There will be other patients here like you. Just normal teenagers who need a bit of help. There’s no shame in that—”
A knock rapped against the door. Dr Mills opened it and poked her oval-shaped face inside. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we really must get Blake settled in. The less time spent on goodbyes, though it’s difficult at first, eases the transition.”
Blake couldn’t be one hundred percent sure, but she had a strong suspicion that Dr Mills was Lucifer in disguise. Of course, saying such things only further cemented her place at Harmony, so she kept quiet.
Jack and Abe took turns embracing her, but Blake didn’t reciprocate. She remained stiff in their arms, and stared at the wall.
After Abe and Jack had left, Dr Mills introduced her to another patient. The strawberry-blonde girl—Jessica—seemed normal to Blake, yet a little on the catty side. Jessica, as Blake observed, was Harmony’s equivalent of a teacher’s pet. As Jessica showed Blake around, her back would stiffen as she beamed at the orderlies and doctors in the corridors. But the moment the staff were out of sight, Jessica dismissed her falsities and slipped on a resting bitch face. Blake di
sliked her straight away, and assumed that she was from the city.
At the end of the third corridor, they stopped at a plain white door with an enforced glass window. Unbreakable, noted Blake.
“The swimming pool is in there,” said Jessica stiffly. Her sweet tone was reserved for staff members only. “We only use it on Sundays in the morning. But that depends on the overall behaviour in the games room.”
“What do you mean?” pried Blake. “What happens in the games room?”
Jessica rolled her eyes and resumed walking. Blake jogged to keep up with her long strides. “Sometimes a few of the patients fight.”
“Each other?”
“Each other,” agreed Jessica in a refined drawl. Maybe, wondered Blake, she wasn’t from the city at all—her slow and thick accent hinted to a Southern Belle descendant. “And other times with the orderlies,” added Jessica. “When that happens, we lose pool and gymnasium privileges.”
“That happens a lot?”
Jessica slid her narrowed eyes to Blake. “Let’s just say, I haven’t been in that room for three months. A shame, really. I enjoy the water. There is something serene about it.” Her gaze raked up and down Blake’s physique. “You’re skinny-fat. If I were you, I would take full advantage of the pool once we’re allowed to use it again.”
Blake sneered at the girl.
The corridor ended with a painted brick wall, joined by another hallway to the right. They turned onto the corridor, which was lined with thick metal doors and slider windows.
“And this is where we sleep,” she explained. “The doors that are closed have the crazy ones locked inside.”
Blake scoffed, thinking that they were all crazy. But she passed it off as clearing her throat when Jessica glowered at her. There was something foreboding about her.
“Which one’s mine?” asked Blake.
“Do I look like an orderly?” she said crossly.
Blake rolled her eyes and followed Jessica through the corridor until they came back around to the communal area; a glass internal reception office with a medical window where they handed out the prescriptions, and the games room. Jessica wandered off once they entered, leaving Blake stranded at the threshold. A dozen tables and chairs littered the area, all as white as the neon lights flooding the room. A plasma television was bolted to the wall, encased in protective glass which blurred the screen. Two leather couches faced the television, and three plush armchairs, all of which were occupied by patients watching tele like zombies in a trance.
Blake stepped into the games room and raked her vulnerable eyes over the patients. The short chubby girl still pressed her body against the wall and whispered secrets to it. Blake grimaced. The red-headed girl sat at a desk across the room, sticky-taping a digital alarm clock to boxes of crayons. Her fiery ropes of hair reminded Blake of Bethany.
Blake approached her. “What’re you doing?”
“Making a bomb,” she said, and wound sticky tape around the childish contraption.
“Why?”
“To blow up the White House,” the girl said. She stilled and looked up at Blake. “Want to help?”
Blake shook her head.
“You should,” she said. Her hazel eyes sparked with cruelty. “It might save you.”
“From what?” asked Blake.
“From the witch,” she said matter-of-factly. “The one hunting you. If a witch was hunting me, I’d probably use fire to protect myself—witches hate fire.”
Blake nodded, then wandered away with wide eyes.
There wasn’t much to do in the games room except watch the television. All the other activity tables were taken by demented patients, some even talking to themselves. Blake submitted and plopped down on the linoleum floor, hugging her knees to her chest. She rested her chin on her knees and gazed up at the screen. The programme was a childish cartoon about a talking sponge and stupid starfish that she had no interest in at all. The only cartoon Blake liked was Family Guy, and even then, they’d killed off her favourite character. A ripple of understanding washed over her. She and Brian, the dog, had a lot in common, she realised; to be cast to the side when those you love grew tired of you.
Blake hadn’t been assigned a private bedroom. As Harmony was an expensive institute and her dads had forked out a fortune for her place there, she’d expected a bedroom to herself. She was terrified when she’d realised that her roommate was the bomb-girl. It wasn’t so bad, she told herself. At least the meds she’d been given had relaxed her tense muscles and eased her anxieties. In fact, as she lay in her narrow metal bed, Blake was peaceful and content.
Lucy, the bomb-girl, rattled on about the government and how they’d killed her dad for discovering their secrets. Apparently the government had aliens in their custody that they’d found on the moon. Blake soon tuned out—Lucy’s agitated voice became a harmonious hum. The drugs worked wonders on Blake’s frazzled mind. Before long, Lucy’s voice vanished entirely and silence flooded the room. They had fallen asleep.
Sometime during the night, Blake opened her eyes. The room was dark; she could hear whispers in the corridor. Orderlies making their rounds, she supposed. Sleep washed over her.
Blake’s heavy eyelids fluttered. Silence pressed down on her, embracing her body. She smiled sleepily and closed her eyes, dreams calling for her once more.
She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep for until the moonlight pierced her eyes. Blake frowned; she squinted at the shadows stretching up the wall. She remembered the Prescott manor. Bethany’s face came out of the darkness, eyes glowing red with a promise of revenge. Blake shivered beneath the coarse blanket and clenched her eyes shut.
Something interrupted her broken sleep. Blake gazed up at a dark, looming figure. It towered over the side of her bed. Sharp features, seductive and savage, glinted in the pale moonlight. Sandy blond hair fell over a white forehead. Theodore. Blake blinked, attempting to focus on his curious expression. He titled his head, lost in thought, and raked his fingertip over her slack jaw. His finger trailed to her parted lips, where they lingered for a moment.
“I’ll come for you when the time is right.” His voice held a strong promise, like the eyes that pierced through the darkness. “Sleep well, little waitress.”
When she blinked again, he was gone, as if he hadn’t been there to begin with. She closed her eyes as sleep clutched onto her and dragged her back into the haunted abyss.
A clang struck through the room. Blake’s eyelashes shadowed her sight. She pried her own eyelids open as sleep fluttered away from her. The moonlight was stronger now. No, that wasn’t the moonlight. It was the light from the corridor—the door was wide open. The blanket weighed down on Blake, suffocating her. She squirmed and groaned. A figure moved in her peripherals.
Her hooded gaze flickered to outline. It was dark, even in the light. A caramel complexion filled her vision as the figure treaded closer to her. She squirmed again, her heavy limbs aching to be free of the sweat-inducing blanket. Her back was dewy, her chest damp. Sweat coated her body, but she was cold.
“Harper,” whispered a rough voice. Blake recognised it. She frowned and squinted at the approaching figure, her eyes straining to focus. It knelt beside her bed and pressed its finger against its own lips, shushing her.
“Who …” she rasped, blinking at the familiar face. Brown eyes, deeper than rich Belgian chocolate; smooth, tanned skin; black curls, falling over his forehead, brushing against his shaped eyebrows.
“It’s me.” She knew who he was just by the gruff whisper of his voice. “Hunter. We go to the same school.”
Blake grunted as she tried to sit up, but the weight of the blanket held her down.
“Here,” he said, and peeled the blanket from her damp body. “What did they give you? Do you remember?”
“Qua—zee—pam.”
“A lot, by the look of it,” he mumbled, and helped her sit up. “I need you to focus, can you do that, Harper?”
“Are you
really here?” she asked, slumping against the metal headboard.
“I hope so,” he said, flashing her lopsided grin. “Either that, or you’re as nuts as the rest of the loonies in here.”
Hunter scooped his arm around the small of her back and helped her climb off the bed. Her legs were deadweight. Her feet dragged over the cold floor and twisted beneath her as Hunter supported her weight.
“Why are you here?” she groaned, resting her dewy forehead against his chest. The warmth of his skin through the fabric of his black t-shirt was a welcomed sensation.
“I’m breaking you out,” he said, and manoeuvred her arm to drape over his shoulders. He held her up against him. “Can you walk?”
Blake swayed on the spot. “Why?”
“To get somewhere. That’s usually why people walk.”
Blake groaned as he guided her toward the open door.
When they reached the corridor, he rested her against the wall and shut the door. She noticed that he had keys to lock it.
“Where’d you get them?” she slurred, looking at the big ring that held onto over fifty keys.
“Not important,” he dismissed.
Hunter smirked before he scooped her up in his arms and carried her limp body down the hallway. Blake settled the side of her face on his shoulder and drowsily gazed up at him. Determination hardened his face as he jogged down the corridor. They reached the games room. He stopped at the edge and peeked around the corner at the reception box. It must’ve been all clear, as he resumed jogging, and carried her through the empty area.
“Why are you helping me?”
“You don’t belong here,” he said as he slowed to a stop at the white gate. Hunter lowered her to her feet and she gripped onto the bars to steady herself. Blake glanced over her shoulder at the glassed reception office. An orderly was sprawled out by the open door, unconscious. The sound of the keys jangled into the lock before a loud clink sounded.
“You had your chance to help me,” she mumbled as he opened the gate. He caught her before she could tumble to the ground, then lifted her back up into a bundle in his arms. “Yesterday,” she said, “you could’ve helped me.”
