by Amy Cross
“Support her,” the older man says, his voice twisting in the air. “Make sure she doesn't hit her head when she -”
Suddenly I slump back, falling off the edge of the bed. The last thing I feel is someone catching me, and then everything fades to black.
“He's real!” I gasp, although I don't know if my lips are even moving anymore. “I saw him! Chanciechaunie is real!”
Chapter Sixteen
The lights are too bright, burning my eyes as I tilt my head back. Some kind of leather restraint pulls tight against my neck and I let out a gasp of pain, but hands quickly grab the sides of my face. A moment later, a blurry face leans over me. Voices are discussing something, although I can't make out any of their words.
“Please,” I stammer, with tears streaming from my eyes, “you have to let me out of here! I've got work to do! I have to go back and show you the truth! I have to -”
Suddenly a needle slides into the side of my neck. I gasp as I feel something hot and sharp flooding my body, and I quickly feel my mind sinking again. Down into the pit of darkness.
Down into nothingness again.
The last thing I hear is a voice nearby.
“Patient 412, Emily Carter, finally back where she belongs. Somebody call her husband. Let him know she's not on the loose anymore. We need him to authorize the next stage of her treatment.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Good afternoon, Emily. It's nice to see you again. I have to admit, I was starting to wonder if I'd ever have the pleasure again.”
He stares at me from behind his desk, smiling that same supercilious smile I remember from my last stay here at the hospital. Apart from a little extra weight and a lot less hair, Doctor Emil Hamlin doesn't look to have changed at all.
I guess he's waiting for me to say something.
“Do you remember me, Emily?” he asks after a moment.
I nod.
“That's good. That's a start. And do you remember -”
“I don't have to be here,” I tell him.
“Well, that's not entirely -”
“I'm free to go!”
“That's not actually true.”
I try to pull my arms free from the straitjacket, but the leather straps immediately tighten and I'm left struggling for a few seconds before finally I lean back in the chair.
“I hope you understand that we're merely taking precautions,” he continues. “After all, it has been four years since I was last able to assess your condition, and if you've been out in the world all that time, it's possible that -”
“I'm not crazy!”
“Well, that's why we're here. To make that determination and -”
“I want to speak to someone,” I tell him. “I want to make a phone call.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Now!”
“After our session.”
“No,” I say firmly, “I want to call someone right now! I want to call a lawyer!”
“Your husband's lawyer can -”
“Not him!” I hiss. “Never him! He's part of this, he's on your side!”
“I'm on your side, Emily,” he replies, before looking down at his notebook for a moment. “It says here that you were finally apprehended in Malmarbor, but that prior to that you were almost located in a dozen other towns and cities stretching all the way across the country. It would appear that you've been remarkably resourceful during your time away from the hospital.”
“That's because I'm not insane!”
“Nobody thinks you're insane, Emily. Merely trouble. The death of your son left you in a highly vulnerable state, and your husband felt that -”
“I was mourning!” I shout, trying once again to pull my arms free. I also try to get to my feet, only for the straitjacket's restraints to pull tight against the locks that are holding me in the chair. “I was mourning Charlie!” I continue. “That doesn't make me crazy, it just makes me a mother who lost her child!”
“Your husband was worried about you. He felt that your situation was beyond the parameters of simple mourning.”
“And what would he know about anything?” I ask.
“He knows you.”
“I haven't even spoken to him in four years,” I point out. “He doesn't know me now. The person he knew, the person he was married to...”
My voice trails off.
“What have you been doing, Emily?” Doctor Hamlin asks. “I understand the basics, I know you're convinced that somebody is responsible for Charlie's death and -”
“I found him!”
“Who?”
“The creature!”
He makes a note. Probably something to do with me being crazy.
“It's cold in here,” I stammer, hugging myself. “Is it cold?”
“I'm not cold, Emily.”
“It's freezing! Can't you turn the heat up?”
“Your son's death was an accident,” he continues. “There were several witnesses who saw Charlie simply walking into the lake.”
“I found him!” I say firmly, leaning forward until the restraints pull tight again. I'm so cold, my teeth are starting to chatter. “His name is Chanciechaunie and he lives in a cottage in the forest near Malmarbor! I think he's invisible sometimes, especially during the day, and only certain people can see him! If you need proof, there are people in a town called Redfield who can back me up! Chanciechaunie killed Amanda just a few days ago!”
“You mentioned something about that earlier,” he replies, grabbing another file and taking a look. “A woman named Amanda Farmer committed suicide recently by stepping in front of -”
“It wasn't suicide! She was forced to do it!”
“I believe she was caught on camera, and -”
“She was lured out there!” I continue, trying to think of some way to make him understand. “That's what Chanciechaunie does, he empties your mind and then he puts his own thoughts in, and he makes you do things. He tried to kill Amanda when she was younger, but he failed, and now he finally came back for her. There are other people in Redfield, too, people who can back me up! You need to track down Marie Fullerton, or Luke Daniels, and ask them what happened!”
“Do you have contact details for these people?”
Staring at him, I realize I can see a faint smile on his lips.”
“You don't believe me,” I whisper.
“You're talking about some kind of fairy-tale monster.”
“But that's not what he actually is!” I tell him. I know I must sound crazy, but I can't think of any other way to make him understand the truth. “Maybe people have told stories about him, maybe no-one ever wanted to admit that he's real, but all those fairy-tales are just a way for everyone to deal with what's really happening! If you strip it all away and get down to the heart of it all, there really is a creature named Chanciechaunie and he really is killing children! He lures them away from his parents, and then... I don't know why he does it. Maybe to take their souls, or...”
My voice fades away as I realize that I sound completely nuts. I take a deep breath, desperately trying to think of another approach, but for a moment I feel as if there's no point. Whatever I say, Doctor Hamlin and the others are never going to take me seriously.
“I've decided to go with the treatment plan I mapped out for you during your previous stay,” he says finally. “Do you remember what that was, Emily?”
“I refuse,” I tell him. “I'm not giving you permission.”
“Your husband has the legal power to make all decisions regarding your treatment, and he has already given his consent.”
“That's why I have to talk to a lawyer!”
“Phone calls are made at the discretion of the hospital.”
“Get me a phone!”
“I don't think that would be helpful, Emily. I think we need to push on with the treatment plan, and quite soon you'll start to feel a real benefit. If only you'd been more cooperative four years ago, it would all be over by now and you'd
be back in your normal, happy life.”
I shake my head. “I have to get back out there! I have to go to Malmarbor and find some way to stop him!”
“Absolutely not. Going back to that town would be disastrous for your mental health, Emily. We've already seen what happened during your first visit.”
“I saw him!” I shout.
Reaching across the desk, he presses a button. “I'm going to have you taken straight to the treatment center,” he explains, as I hear footsteps coming toward the door. “The initial program will be sixteen courses, twice a week, although I expect to extend this to at least twenty-four sessions. You'll be given appropriate medication to help you manage the side-effects, and one day you'll be very glad that we did this.”
“No!” I yell, but the doors swing open and two burly attendants enter the room.
“Good luck, Emily,” Doctor Hamlin continues. “I'm so sorry that you're finding this hard!”
“Call a lawyer!” I scream, as the attendants unstrap me and haul me from the chair. Kicking out, I strike the desk with my right foot, but I'm quickly dragged over toward the door. “I don't agree to this!” I yell. “I refuse! I want to speak to a lawyer! You can't just haul me away and do this to me!”
“I'll call your husband,” Doctor Hamlin says calmly, already tapping his phone. “I'm sure he'll be very pleased to learn that everything is back on track.”
“No!” I shout, but I'm already being pulled along the corridor. “You can't do this to me! I want to see a lawyer!”
***
“Is this your first time?” the nurse asks with a smile as she leans over me. “Don't worry, it really doesn't hurt. Most patients don't even remember anything from this moment on. You'll just wake up in a nice, peaceful room, and the worst thing is probably going to be a bad memory. Does that sound so awful?”
“Untie me right now!” I hiss, pulling on the restraints that are holding my body against the table. “You can't do this, it's not legal! You can't just strap me down and fry my brain!”
“All the paperwork is in order,” she replies, placing the pads on my forehead. “Doctor Hamlin is always very careful about that sort of thing. Now that you've had a nice dose of oxygen and the electrodes are attached, I'll administer a little something to make you more comfortable.”
“No!” I shout, struggling to get free. I turn my head away from the nurse, but she has no trouble attaching the pads, and I can already hear the machine getting ready. “If you do this,” I continue, “I'll sue you. Not just the hospital, but you as well! What you're doing is barbaric!”
“Electro-convulsive therapy is actually a very safe treatment path,” she says as she holds a rubber cylinder up for me to see. “You should bite down on this. It'll help.”
“No!”
“It's for your own good, Emily.”
“I don't want this!” I shout, with tears streaming down my face. “Why won't anybody listen to me? I don't want you to fry my brain! I just want to get out of here! I don't -”
Before I can finish, she forces the cylinder into my mouth and uses a strap to hold it in place. I try to push the cylinder out, but it's wedged tight and finally I tilt my head back and let out a pained moan. Somebody has to hear me and come to stop this. I can't believe that they can just tie me down like this and do something so barbaric.
“We're going to get started now, Emily,” the nurse explains. “Don't be afraid. I'm just giving you a little injection.”
Seconds later, my mouth is flooded by the taste of onion. Tears are streaming down my face, but I can still hear the nurse fiddling with equipment next to the bed. She's humming to herself, as if this is the most normal situation in the world.
“Alrightly-roo, then,” she says finally. “Don't be scared. Here goes nothing!”
I scream as loud as possible, although the rubber cylinder stifles most of the noise. Still tilting my head back, I try desperately to make someone hear me, before suddenly I feel myself slipping into an anesthetized daze. No matter how hard I try to stay awake, my thoughts start to collapse into darkness.
Somewhere in the distance, there's the sound of a switch being flicked.
PART TWO
PVT. STEPHEN FLEMING, 308TH REGIMENT
MANY YEARS AGO
Chapter Eighteen
Collapsing against the wall, I let out a gasp of pain as I slide down onto the wet grass. At the same time, I cup my hands around the wound on my chest, trying to catch as much blood as possible.
For the next few minutes, all I can do is wait. The pain is intense, but I'm focused on the sensation of blood still dribbling between my fingers. My own heart, pumping furiously, is betraying me by forcing more and more blood from my body. If I don't find a way to close the wound, I'm going to end up bleeding to death right here in this godforsaken forest, and my wretched corpse will be left to rot alone.
I'll probably never be found.
The others will think that I got scared and ran from the battle. I'll be marked off as a traitor, a deserter, as someone who failed to stand with his fellow soldier. Then they'll get word back home, telling my father and mother that I was a coward, and my name will be dirt. My family will be shamed, and even the valor of my two brothers won't be enough to undo the damage. My father will surely curse the day I was born.
My bones will be picked clean by animals.
And then trampled into the dirt.
Buried in heathen soil.
So even though I will surely die soon, I must get back to my regiment. I must show them that even if I'm not a hero, I'm most certainly no coward. I must not die here, and not like this.
Wincing as I feel broken bones cutting through the flesh of my chest, I force myself back up and start staggering through the forest. I have to find someone. I cannot die alone.
Yet after just a few steps, I stumble and fall, and this time I am not strong enough to get back up.
Chapter Nineteen
As soon as she rolls me over, I open my eyes and look up to see a face leaning down toward me. My vision is blurred, but I can tell that this is a woman, and I can feel her hands gently peeling back the blood-soaked layers of my uniform. She's examining the wound.
“You're dying,” she whispers finally. “I don't think there's anything to be done about it. You're a gone man.”
Chapter Twenty
Dripping with sweat, I limp through the mansion's front door and stop to look up the magnificent spiral staircase. Somehow I already know this is a fever dream, yet still I feel a rush of gratitude that I am seeing home one final time. I'm back at the family mansion in Huntingdon.
“Mother?” I gasp, although I know I do not speak loud enough for anyone to hear from another part of the house. I take a step forward. “Father? It's me, it's -”
Suddenly I slip, falling hard against the marble floor. Letting out a gasp of pain, I roll onto my back and stare up at the chandelier that hangs high above. I remember when my father had the new chandelier installed, five summers ago, and he was so proud. My brothers and I helped, of course, and at the time we privately mocked our parents for their vanity. Now that I'm dying, however, I feel I understand my father's choice a little better. He wanted to leave his mark on the house, to make some change to the world that would outlast his own life. And since he was not a great man but a rich one, this chandelier was his only choice.
Hearing footsteps nearby, I turn and see that my mother is making her way to the front door.
“Wait,” I whisper, reaching out toward her with a bloodied hand. “Mother, please...”
“Your brothers are still off fighting,” she replies archly as she removes a parasol from the table, taking a moment to admire its pattern. “Making us proud. And what of you, Stephen? How are you making your family proud?”
“I was injured in battle,” I tell her, my voice already faltering and weak. “Shrapnel... I tried to turn away, but it was too late. Shards of metal cut through my chest and I was felled. I tried to fo
llow the others, but I collapsed. Now I'm...”
My voice trails off.
“Now I'm...”
“And that's supposed to make us proud?”
“No, I -”
“How many of the enemy did you kill?”
“I don't know.”
“Any at all?”
“I don't... I don't know...”
“This is no good,” she mutters, frowning as if some aspect of the parasol displeases her. “How can your father and I be proud of your sacrifice, if you give us no cause?”
She glances at me, and I can see that while the parasol gives her cause for concern, my condition causes disgust.
“We shall simply have to focus on your brothers,” she explains, “and only grudgingly admit to your existence should someone press us on the subject. Perhaps the family portraits can be altered in some way, so as to exclude you. We certainly shall not volunteer the information that you fought so badly, or that you fell so swiftly. Really, Stephen... You bring shame upon the family.”
With that, she steps over me and heads out into the morning sun.
“Wait,” I whisper, feeling immense pain in my chest as I turn and try to grab the hem of her skirt. My bloodied fingers merely brush helplessly against the fabric, and I'm left gasping for breath as my mother makes her way across the porch and down the front steps. “I fought, mother!” I call after her. “I didn't run when the guns started to fire. I swear to you, I fought...”
“Fighting is not enough,” she replies calmly. “Even a child can fight. One must fight effectively, and actually achieve something.”
I slump back, letting my head bump against the marble floor. There is more sweat than ever on my face now, and I can feel myself slipping away. Staring up at the chandelier, I cannot help wondering whether death is finally coming to claim my soul.
And then, with no warning whatsoever, a foul and incomparable pain grips my chest. Man or not, soldier or not, I cannot help but scream. This is a dream, and I am about to wake again.
