by Indi Martin
Rage filled him. He threw several hard, frustrated kicks into the wood, getting nothing in return except a throbbing pain in his heel. Grabbing the knob with both hands, he pulled at it, twisting and turning, screaming words that were not words.
The knob gave way, and he stumbled backwards onto the floor, sending a new sharp spike of pain up his spine. He glared at the knob in his hand, unattached from the door, and, swiveling his body, threw the knob as hard as he could across the room. He felt a hand on his shoulder, dragging him backwards, and looked up into Luke’s sallow, terror-stricken face. The knob had fallen off of the door, leaving only the small, delicate-looking locking mechanisms blocking the small hole in the thick wood.
There was a finger, now two, feeling around the splintered wood, reaching into the space beyond. They were long and thin, white, almost glowing in the faint light cast by the flames. A long, low chuckle sounded through the hole, menacing and somehow playful. Chris scrambled to his feet, his shoes finding little purchase on the dusty ground as he pushed himself up and back, away from the door. As a group, they backed away until their backs were against the wall.
“Hey!” whispered Nathan, pointing at the floor. “Maybe there’s a way out..?”
Chris glanced at the cellar door and winced, but then looked back at the door, where the fingers had disappeared, and nodded. He helped Nathan pull up the heavy trapdoor, and they all stared into the dark hole.
“I don’t really like this idea,” whispered Luke, edging away from the hole. “We could just break the boards on one of the windows?” he suggested, without much hope.
“That bastard would be able to hear where we’re coming out, lay in wait, kill us one at a time when we crawl out,” argued Nathan. “Maybe there’s a quieter way down here. If not, at least we can try again in the daylight.”
Scritch, scritch, scritch…
Chris glanced up at the door and saw a single finger arching into where the knob had been, scratching at the wood with a long fingernail. The chuckle floated in the air again, at once sinister and taunting. He nodded at Luke, gesturing for him to crawl down the hole. With a nervous glance back toward the front door, Luke did so, gingerly, his light dimming as he descended the ladder. Nathan quickly followed, and Chris readjusted his grip to keep the heavy trapdoor up while keeping his eyes fixed on the front door. The finger had withdrawn again, but Chris could almost feel eyes on him, feel a presence just outside the heavy wood. He bit his lip impatiently, willing Nathan to climb down faster.
“Okay!” came Nathan’s hoarse whisper, drafting up from beneath him.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Chris stepped onto the first rung of the ladder. He set the candle down in front of him, hoisting the door over his head with his right hand. Carefully, he stepped down, steadying himself with his free hand. Movement caught his eye, and he glanced back at the door, confused. Nothing moved at the door, and the scratching had stopped. He stepped down further, and felt the wood give sickeningly, a creaking, splintering sound. He shoved his foot to the side, figuring it would be stronger, mouthing a silent prayer that the ladder wouldn’t choose now to give way for the last time. The candlelight illuminated a small bundle round the corner of the shelf, a few feet away. Frozen momentarily, Chris peered past the bright candle. A rat? he thought, but then it inched a bit closer, and his blood ran cold. The cracked porcelain head looked too heavy for the doll to fully support, so it twisted down at a sickly angle, in between it’s delicately molded hands, which lurched forward toward him. The eyes were swiveled up, and the frozen smile was cracked in two by age and disrepair. Chris slammed the trapdoor shut above him and fell the rest of the way down the ladder, catching a rung with his hands on the way down to slow himself.
“What..” started Nathan, but Chris gestured at him to stay silent, waving his hands and staring up the ladder. A faint dragging sound, followed by a thump echoed through the small basement, repeating itself a few times until it sounded from directly overhead. Then, nothing. Chris waited as the silence stretched out, staring up at the dark and heavy trapdoor. After several minutes, he allowed his gaze to drop down to his friends, illuminated by their candles. He was tired, more tired than he ever remembered being in his entire life, but he dragged himself closer to them.
“Let’s find a way out,” he whispered, glancing up at the door again. “I don’t want to have to wait until daylight unless we have to.”
20
“Oh, hello, Morgan,” chirped Charlie from behind her computer screen.
Morgan edged into the room, peering at what little of her he could see. He didn’t expect her to be here so early after last night. “Morning,” he answered, cautiously. “You seem… in good spirits.” Personally, he was exhausted. Normally, he got to the office by 8 sharp every morning, but it had been a chore to drag himself in at.. he glanced down at his watch… 9:13am.
“Yes, well, I think I have something.” She threw up her hand and gestured for him to come around and look at her screen. He did so, carefully. Charlie looked far more put together than he’d have expected; when he’d left her, crying softly to herself on the bed after downing several night-time pain pills, he figured she’d take a day off. At the very least, he hadn’t expected her to wake up before noon.
“Have you talked to anyone? About…” he let it trail off, unsure about broaching the subject.
She waved it off. “Oh, that. I’m sure it was nothing. Gina was fine. I just overreacted.” Her tone was light and chipper, but she met his eyes for a moment, and he read a clear warning in them not to continue the line of questions.
Morgan nodded slowly. “What did you find?”
Charlie nodded back and rewarded his topic change with a dazzling smile. “These porcelain dolls,” she pointed at her screen, on which was a frozen frame from the video. “Some of these are actually very rare. Not in good condition, obviously, but some of these are still identifiable.”
“How rare?” asked Morgan. “Can we narrow down a list of collectors?”
“Maybe,” Charlie blew a stray piece of blonde hair away from her face. “See this one?” She pointed at a badly cracked head, adorned with what looked like a crimson bonnet over flowing blonde locks. Morgan squinted; he wasn’t sure how she could figure any of this out with such a fuzzy frame. “Pretty sure this is Victorian bisque, that’s probably trackable. And this one?” She pointed a few dolls over, at one with a bizarrely featured white face. “I’m no expert, but from my research this might be a parian doll. That’s the same general era, circa 1850s or so, but much rarer.” She shrugged. “I have a few calls into real experts, I’m thinking we might get a hit on it.”
Morgan nodded, impressed. “Nice job. Anything else in the video that might give us a clue?”
“Maybe. I have another call out to a video editor who has been able to help us out a few times in the past. He might be able to tell us something about the conditions, the temperature, something. It’s kind of a long shot. I’d bet the farm on the dolls paying out before anything else does.”
“Alright. I guess I’ll go loop Gina in.” He watched her for any reaction, but she gave none. She looked at him blankly.
“Sounds good,” she answered, and then turned her attention back to her computer. “Let her know to be ready to go if we narrow this down. It shouldn’t be all that far away, a few hours, maybe more. But we won’t know til we get there what we’re dealing with or how long it will take. Make sure she’s got her stuff packed for a few days, just in case.” Her voice was clipped and professional, hearkening back to the Charlie Parker he’d suffered after his integration with the Unit.
Morgan pinched his lips. “Yep,” he answered, and quickly walked out of the office. He knew there was more there than she was telling him, but he’d long ago learned that trying to chip away at that stone exterior accomplished nothing but dulling his tools. Sighing, he walked down the hall. Gina had a desk in their office, but most of her time had been spent in “training” with Victor;
they didn’t really need her until they got a mission. Hell, they don’t really need me until we have a mission. He was pleased that Charlie was making some progress on tracing the location of the video; he still felt it was probably just a stunt, but it was an excuse to get Gina away from her training for a while, and back in the “real” world. He chuckled to himself. The real world, he thought. I haven’t seen a trace of that since I left Oklahoma.
Morgan arrived at Victor’s laboratory door and rapped on it with his knuckles. Sure, he could have walked right in, but after last night’s events, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be here at all, let alone walking in unannounced. “Come in,” he heard from beyond the door. He turned the knob and entered the room.
Victor stood across the room, behind a table with his laptop open and some sort of experiment bubbling beside him. He wore safety glasses tinted a light green and his customary white lab coat. He cocked his head to the side. “Ah, Mr. Morgan! Good morning! How may I help you?” His tone was as light and unaffected as Charlie’s was and Morgan shook his head.
“Um, I was looking for Gina…” he started, thrown slightly off guard by Victor’s sincere-sounding salutation.
“I haven’t seen her yet this morning,” replied Victor, checking something on a screen below the beakers, and walking around the table, taking his safety glasses off. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” Morgan said hurriedly. “What time does she usually come in for... training?”
“Ah, it depends.” Victor leaned against the table and looked thoughtful. “Usually ten or so. I believe she checks her messages and completes some tasks from home before coming in. We do not have a set schedule, necessarily. She is probably there now.”
Morgan nodded. “Well, thanks. I’ll check her place.”
“Never a problem, Mr. Morgan. Have a fine day.” Victor slid his glasses back on and turned his back to Morgan, walking back toward his table.
Morgan began to leave, but paused. “Victor,” he started. The man turned his head to look questioningly at him. “About last night…”
The handsome man smiled. Morgan noted that his teeth looked mostly normal, his canines only slightly longer and sharper than his own, which surprised him. Perhaps it had been the light, or a case of seeing what he expected to see, but he could have sworn the man had true fangs last night. “It is not a problem. I understand you were only looking out for Gina’s best interests.”
Morgan furrowed his brow.
“If I may ask, however, you stated she called you. She stated she did not.” He cocked his head again, questioningly.
“She did,” Morgan fished his phone out of its case and quickly tapped into the call history. Striding across the room, he held it up for Victor to view.
“Interesting. From the images she projected to me, she perceived your conversation as an incoming phone call from you, in her dream. I will be curious to see her call history as well, though of course, I did not hear the phone go off, and I do not believe it was in the room with her.” He pursed his lips in thought.
“What exactly were you doing there? What are these dreams she keeps having?” Morgan flushed with excitement; it hadn’t occurred to him to ask Victor. Stupid, he berated himself. You’re losing your touch.
“She has not told you?” Victor seemed surprised. “I would have thought she would tell you. You two appear close. She talks of you often.”
Morgan blinked in surprise at that, and stammered his reply, thrown a bit off-guard. “N-not, well, not exactly. She said she was having dreams that weren’t dreams. She said I wouldn’t understand.”
“Ah,” Victor said simply.
“But I want to understand,” Morgan followed up quickly. “I want to help, if I can.”
“It is difficult,” admitted the silver-eyed man. “I do not want to…” he seemed to struggle with the words, and Morgan wondered again where exactly his thick accent came from. “...break confidence? I believe that is what you say. However, I think it would help to have someone she knows closely helping her. Someone… like her. Someone human,” he cast his eyes to the floor and sighed heavily, as if a great weight were pressing down on his shoulders. “There are other… concerns… with my assistance in her problems.”
That’s pretty much exactly what Charlie said, thought Morgan, surprised at Victor’s openness. “What sort of concerns?” he ventured.
“They are my own cross to bear,” replied Victor in a courteous, but firm, tone that told Morgan he would learn no more from that line of interrogation.
“What are these dreams she’s having? Are they dangerous? Is that why you were with her?” he tried again.
Victor cast a sidelong look at the screen on his table and typed something, causing the bubbling beaker to cease its activity almost immediately. He took off his safety glasses again and slid them into his coat pocket, walking around the table and sitting in his mesh office chair across from Morgan. He gestured for Morgan to have a seat as well. “Ms. Gina has an impressive amount of talent,” he began. “She is a gifted telepath. You must have noticed even before you both joined the Unit.”
“I knew she was usually able to tell if people were lying, or telling the truth,” admitted Morgan. “She was bizarrely accurate.”
Victor nodded. “Yes, that can be determined just from a surface scan. It is unusual for an untrained telepath to have that level of control. What usually happens is that someone with that gift uses it - normally without knowing what they are doing - and they end up hurting someone. Perhaps even killing them. At some level, they know it was their actions that caused it, and the guilt forces them to shut it all off. It is difficult to bring someone back from that.” He pursed his lips. “Ms. Gina is lucky that this never happened to her. It is all too common, though of course the gift itself is relatively rare.”
“What does this have to do with her dreams?”
“Everything.” Victor looked surprised at the question. “Ms. Gina has not hurt anyone, not yet, and hopefully she never will. However, that lack of guilt translates into a lack of restraint; she believes she has more control than she does. She is too open. I have assisted her in strengthening the barriers she will need in this line of work, but her defensive work is sometimes sloppy. She throws herself at these experiences without care, perhaps not believing that these gifts can be as much of a curse as a blessing. These dreams are the first sign to her that any sort of defense is necessary, other than my reminders, and too often they fall upon deaf ears. The nightmares have scared her, but not enough.”
Morgan shook his head and rubbed his temple. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe I can’t understand.”
Victor frowned disapprovingly. “You are a smart man, Mr. Morgan. You can and you must. Listen and keep up. You are, at the very least, aware and accepting that there are forces working in this world that are not recognizable to most humans, yes?”
Morgan nodded.
“Do you remember the struggle in your mind when you first saw something that could not exist?”
Morgan thought back to Snow Hill, to the black wall of blood undulating and twisting, licked by flames. He remembered his mind’s battle to accept what was happening to them. “Yes,” he answered, suppressing a shudder.
“That is good,” Victor replied, and Morgan glared at his condescending tone. Victor spread his hands in apology. “I mean no offense, but many do not remember. They accept it, and move on, believing that they always had accepted it. It is as if a switch were flipped, and they rewrite their own histories to fit in what they have experienced. But it is a struggle, a fight. In that moment, you are breaking down walls of reality that your mind has built for your entire life. Have you ever wondered why so many children have imaginary friends? See monsters in their closets? Ghosts wandering the halls?” Morgan considered this as Victor continued. “They have not yet had a long enough lifetime to build such strong walls. They see what is, not what they have conditioned themselves to believe should be. Ms. Gina, I would gues
s she does not remember the struggle, not as clearly, perhaps, as you do. She leaps headlong into the darkness, her curiosity driving her to discover new things. She may not do it consciously, but she does not need to. Her mind will do it for her. These dreams, as she told you so concisely, are not dreams. Because she is too open, she is drawing these experiences to her. She is accessing places she is not ready to experience. To survive.”
Morgan smiled grimly. “This isn’t a new thing. She’s never been the overly cautious type.”
“Unfortunately, just as the danger in law enforcement of not being cautious enough means you may take a bullet, the danger in her new circumstances is just as dire. The bullet may not be physical, but it is just as deadly.”
“So these dreams are…” Morgan furrowed his brow in concentration. He was not a dumb man, had always excelled in his studies, and he didn’t enjoy the feeling of struggling to keep up with a conversation. “Gina’s traveling somewhere real in these dreams. Somewhere dangerous.”
Victor’s face expanded into a wide smile. “Yes! Very real. At first, I could scarcely believe the images I saw in her mind. I have never traveled there before, but I have heard tales of such places, cautionary tales. I tried to get her to stop, but she did not believe she had any control over the dreams, so she did not. Belief is powerful, necessary. I gave her something she could funnel that belief into instead; since she did not believe herself to have control, perhaps she would believe this did.” He opened his desk drawer and withdrew a small amulet wrapped in white linen. “Unfortunately, her belief was so strong that it attracted other… creatures. This talisman itself does have some power, but magnified by her gifts, imbued by her own power… well, it proved impossible to resist to some things that feed in the dark.” He shuddered as he re-wrapped the amulet, and a chill went down Morgan’s spine.
