Page 21 of The Nightmare's Kiss

I expect myself to feel frightened when I sink into my observation chair Monday morning. Instead, I just feel…numb. Disappointed, almost. Whether it’s because I was so wrong about the subject, or because I let myself be fooled so thoroughly by what’s apparently a vicious monster, I’m not sure. Either way, I know that neither Dr. Wright nor the subject are to blame. This is all on me.

I got carried away by my imagination and probably my ego, too, thinking I had discovered something new about the subject that they’ve been studying here for decades. I should be grateful that Dr. Wright had the good sense—and the evidence—to drag me back to planet Earth before I got myself killed.

When I think about those photographs again, I shudder and squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to blot them out. But it’s good that I saw them. They were convincing in a way that even Dr. Wright’s best logic couldn’t be. Now I know that I need to keep my distance from this subject, no matter what my romantic, self-indulgent side says.

“Back to our regularly appointed schedule,” I mutter, and retrieve today’s set of instructions from the envelope on the desk. Just checking responses to various stimuli on the control panel again. Regular, boring…safe.

Still, as I open the observation window and find the Nightmare waiting for me in its human shape, head cocked to one side and something like anticipation in its stature, I feel a flicker of sadness. But I squash it as ruthlessly as I can and start to carry out my instructions.

If I hadn’t had Dr. Wright so firmly deny my suspicions, I would be reading into the Nightmare’s behavior this week. Surely I’m just letting my imagination get the better of me, but it’s hard to look at the way it’s acting and describe it in a way other thanfrustrated. Orangry, maybe. Before I started veering away from my instructions, it responded to the various stimuli in a fairly predictable pattern. Now that I return to the routine and stop adding my own tests, it’s behaving completely differently. Sometimes it sulks in a corner and refuses to respond at all; other times, it flings itself at the observation window, throwing gnashing teeth and writhing tentacles and pounding fists against the glass. Once, it even throws its chair, making me flinch, though it only bounces away harmlessly, the barrier absorbing the impact with a tinythumpto show for it.

But I am trying to be objective here. So I don’t use words likesullenorangryorbetrayedto describe its behavior, even when my brain whispers them, and my stomach churns with guilt, and my hand shakes as I write my notes. I record everything with as little bias as I can and continue with my instructions the way I’m supposed to.

I’m surprised how emotionally exhausting it is. The first week was so exciting, each day feeling like a new breakthrough or discovery. Returning to this dull routine and rote instruction feels soul-sucking. Like admitting defeat. No matter how curious I am about certain aspects of the job, I’m not sure how long I can keep this up if things continue like this.

Especially when every night, I fall asleep and dream of the Nightmare glaring at me from the corner, his eyes full of accusation.

I spend all week grinding through tasks, chatting with Ezra at lunch, and thinking about the upcoming weekend. Yet when it arrives, I find myself at a loss. Work keeps me so busy that I barely have time to think about anything else. But over the weekend, I’m left with far too many vacant hours, and I don’t want my mom sliding back into worry mode. I should start looking into my own place, now that I have a steady income, but I keep procrastinating—still unsure if Ireallywant to build a life for myself here in Ash Valley. Every step toward settling myself here feels like a step away from ever escaping.

So for now, I’m still stuck at my childhood home. My parents are surprisingly busy with the routine they’ve settled into in my absence. My dad goes to a sports bar to watch games with his friends, my mom has a hiking group and a book club at the library, and they also have a weekly date night at Cheesecake Factory. It’s adorable, and it makes me feel even more like a sad sack for sitting at home alone. Not sad enough to accept the half-hearted invitation to third wheel their cheesecake date, though. I wave them off with a lie that I have plans to meet a new work friend out tonight and tell them not to wait up for me.

As the door shuts behind them, I slump back against the couch. Why did I say that? Now they’ll be even more concerned if they come back and I’m still here. Maybe even unpleasantly surprised if they’re expecting some post-date-night—urgh—“quality time.” I shudder at the thought, grab my phone, and hastily scroll through my options for getting out of this goddamn house.

There aren’t many. But there is one local bar with half-decent reviews.The Dustpanis not a promising name, but I can’t afford to be choosy. Plus, I remember seeing the place as a teenager and being curious about what it might be like inside, after catching a tantalizing glimpse of neon lights and pool tables. The last time I was in Ash Valley, I was still too young to be allowed past the door. So I might as well check it out.

If only I had some company to enjoy it with. I’d text Ezra, but I don’t have any way to contact him outside of work. A scroll through my contact list leaves me feeling progressively more despondent. Everyone I want to hang out with is back in California. I shoot off anI miss youtext to Amy and try hitting up an old high school friend on Instagram, but it turns out she’s busy with her two young children at home. Shows how much I’ve been keeping up with things back here. I catch up with her and send lots of heart eye emojis in response to pics of her incredibly adorable toddlers. It leaves me feeling a little less isolated, but I still have no one to go out with.

But screw it. Alone or not, I enjoy having an excuse to look nice. I take my time showering, doing my hair, and giving myself a simple cat-eye and red lip. Then I pull out a little black dress and snakeskin heels I haven’t had an excuse to wear since I was in the city. I might be a little overdressed for a small-town dive bar, but whatever. I’ll accept the curse of being the hottest bitch in the Dustpan if I must.

When I pull up in the back of an Uber, the amount of beat-up pickup trucks in the parking lot is almost enough to make me change my mind. But then I think of spending the night eating ice cream alone and waiting for my parents to get back from their date and force myself to get out and march up to the door. I’m almost disappointed there’s no one to check my ID after all of those teenage fantasies about sneaking in, but my first whiff of booze chases that disappointment away.

The music might be a little hokey and the floor a bit sticky, and the whole place smells like cigarette smoke and stale beer, but it still feels good to be out at a bar. It’s also a much-needed ego boost to catch heads turning my way. And the place is surprisingly lively, even though most of the patrons are either twice my age or look uncomfortably like people I half remember from high school. Ireallydo not want to end up in a long conversation about memories and poorly disguised jabs about my missed potential…but maybe after a couple drinks I’ll be able to stomach it more easily. I head over to the bar, hop onto a rickety stool, and order a beer.

The bartender is a woman about ten years my senior andveryattractive, with long, dark hair and a sleeve of faded tattoos. I’m tempted to flirt with her—Ihavebeen awfully lonely, and she’s the only person here I’d even consider going home with—but it seems like she has enough on her hands. The other, drunker, overwhelmingly male patrons are already leering at her low-cut top and trying to drag her into conversations. So I keep it polite, though the wink she gives me along with my beer makes me note I might want to try on another, quieter night.

I sip my beer and look around, drinking in the atmosphere along with the alcohol. After the monotony of work and living with my parents, it feels pretty good to be somewhere new and reasonably interesting. I watch a group of men with the same bad haircut argue over a pool game, and a highly intoxicated couple dancing progressively more inappropriately on the almost-empty dance floor.

As trashy as the last sight is, I can’t stop glancing over, and I’m ashamed to find that it sparks a hint of longing in me. God, it’s been a long time since I’ve been laid. But aside from the overworked and much-harassed bartender, there isn’t anyone I would dream of fucking in this place. I grimace down at my drink and wonder if I should call it an early night and retire with my vibrator and a spicy book for company.

When I feel a tap on my shoulder, I expect it’s a fifty-fifty between finding an old high school friend or being hit on by someone wearing cowboy boots—but instead, I turn and find myself looking up at Ethan.

My mouth drops open. “Oh, hey!”

“Hey yourself.” He smiles. “Surprised to see you here. Doesn’t seem like your vibe.” He looks good, in a tight V-neck and dark jeans. It’s annoying. Especially when I glance past him and see the young blonde he’s here with, while I’m alone at the bar.

I smile, hoping it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. “Not a lot of places to be in this town.”

He laughs. “Fair enough.” Then, catching me glancing at her again, he steps aside and gestures to his companion. “Oh, right! This is Belle. She also works at—” He catches himself, glancing around, and adds in a lower voice, “Well, you know.” He winks—actually winks, ew, he really cannot pull it off like the hot bartender can—and adds to Belle, “I sort of helped get Mara set up there.”

Fucker. He most certainly did not. But I decide to let that pass, and instead offer a more genuine grin to Belle than the one I gave Ethan. “Hey, I’m Mara.” When I get a closer look, I realize, with a shock, that I recognize her. This is the other female employee that I share my lunch with, the one who is always rushing off without talking to anyone. It’s odd that she’s here with Ethan, since she always seems to pointedly ignore him…but maybe what I mistook for dislike was actually her attempt to keep her work and personal life separate.

I study her as she shakes my hand with a small, shy smile that I can’t help but find endearing. She’s way too pretty to hang out with a guy like Ethan. “I’ve seen you around, but I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. What do you do there?”

“Research assistant,” she says, so quietly, I barely hear her above the music.

“Oh, me too!” I’m dying of curiosity wondering what kind of subject she ended up with, but I know that we’ve both signed an extensive NDA preventing either of us from talking about it. In fact, I’m not sure if we can really say anything about the job other than what’s already been said, so the conversation quickly tapers into awkward silence.

“Well, cheers to nondisclosure agreements,” I say, raising my glass, and she laughs and loosens up a bit.

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