Page 8 of The Nightmare's Kiss

I take a deep breath, lean back in my chair, and raise my eyes to meet Dr. Wright’s again. “Do you have a pen?”

5

Chapter Five

I’ve signed away a whole lot of rights in that NDA, but I’m still allowed to talk about the very basics, like the offer of a job as a “research tech” at the Facility. But I keep it to myself anyway. Part of me is afraid that if I tell my parents, they’ll talk me out of it. Especially if I mention the strange circumstances of the offer—Dr. Wright showing up at the house after the questions I asked around town. They’ll think it’s sketchy…because it is. It really, really is. If I had any sense, I would probably be fleeing town, and quite possibly the country, right now.

Yet when Sunday night rolls around, I make up an excuse of a fake shopping trip with old friends to make sure I can have the car the next day, and my parents agree.

On Monday morning, I wake up, get ready, and drive toward the building that most of this town tries to ignore. The building that doesn’t seem to exist according to any sources outside of Ash Valley.

My heart is pounding as I roll up to the security booth at the gate. The more I try to quiet my mind, the more it seems to babble on about mysterious disappearances, secret prisons, portals to hell, and all the other wild conspiracy theories I encountered when asking about this place. I have no idea what I’m about to walk into, or if it’s dangerous.

But that’s why I’m here, I remind myself. To find out once and for all what this place is. I take a deep breath and roll my window down.

The sour-faced, uniformed man within leans out to scrutinize me and the car. “Name?” he asks.

“Samara Vance,” I answer.

He checks his computer and then squints at me. “ID.”

I hand over the two forms that Dr. Wright instructed me to bring: my driver’s license and my passport. The security guard spends an uncomfortably long time scrutinizing them and scanning them into his system before finally handing them back. Then, without a word from him, the gate opens.

Just like that, I’m entering the Facility. But my sense of awe quickly fades. Within the walls, the building is far less exciting than the imagination suggests. The grounds look like I would expect from any military facility—or prison, for that matter—nothing but dirt, a small parking lot, and the boxy, windowless building at the center. Whatever secrets this place has, they’re beyondthosewalls, not the first set of electric fences.

After parking and heading to the only entrance I can see, I’m met by a blast of air conditioning and a second security guard. This one is a woman and just as cranky as the first. She asks me to hand over my cell phone and step through the kind of body scanner that I’ve only seen in airports.

After that, she takes my picture and hands over a security card and a lanyard. She stresses that the card istemporary, and honestly, thank God for that. The picture is terrible. I look wide-eyed and washed-out, grimacing because I wasn’t sure whether I should look friendly or serious. From there, I’m ushered into a hallway where Dr. Wright herself is waiting for me. It’s a relief to see a familiar face, even though it’s a woman who scared the shit out of me last time we met.

“Welcome, Ms. Vance,” she says, giving me a handshake. I smile at her, but she doesn’t return it. Instead, she turns and sets off down the hallway. Feeling a bit like a kicked dog, I slink after the clack of her high heels. Her pace is brisk, not giving me much time to take in the building around me. But then again, there’s not much to see. The tile and paint are all pure white, and the building is completely silent except for the sound of our footsteps. Harsh fluorescent lights render everything in sharp angles, and the air is uncomfortably cold, chilling my film of anxiety sweat from the ride over. Seemingly endless metal doors line each wall, each with their own security scanner.

All of the doors are closed and identical except for the numbered brass plates. They come in pairs—doors 1 and 1B, 2 and 2B, etc. I glance around as we go, eager for some hint of what I’m about to walk into, but get nothing.

The place feels weirdly empty. The other employees must be behind those closed doors, or sequestered elsewhere. At least that can put to rest one piece of my anxiety—the very mundane fear lurking behind all of the conspiracy theories: my dread of running into Ethan while I’m here.

Dr. Wright comes to a stop in front of the door numbered 13.Ominous.I suppress a nervous laugh.

“Try your security card and make sure it works,” she says.

I fumble with the card around my neck before holding it up to the scanner. It takes a moment to think, then lets out an affirmative chirp and flashes a green light. At Dr. Wright’s gesture, I reach for the handle and open the door.

A tiny box of a room awaits. There’s a rectangular metal table that hosts an intimidating control panel and some screens, a single metal chair, and four blank walls.

“This,” Dr. Wright says, “is Observation Room 13. If you accept the job, your role will be to record the behavior of subject X-13.”

Nerves and curiosity twine in my gut. Maybe thesecret prisontheory was right. Maybe I’m here to observe some kind of high-level criminal—though for what purpose, I couldn’t begin to guess at. “And who is this subject?” I ask, my eyes drifting toward the screens. But before I can get a good look, she leans over the desk and taps a button on the control panel.

“The correct question would be:Whatis this subject?” she says. As she speaks, the wall in front of the table slides open—turning out to be two panels instead of a solid wall—and reveals a window underneath, looking into an adjacent room that must be13B.

My breath hitches in surprise and wonder. There’s something a little bit sci-fi about all of this; I’ve seen observation rooms used in psych experiments before, but nothing quite so high-tech. Rather than asking the question she’s suggested, or letting my brain run wild with outlandish theories, I lean forward and peek through the window to seewhatexactly I’m going to be working with.

At first, I think that I’m looking at an empty room. There’s only a small cot tucked in one corner, a plastic table, a chair, and smooth metal walls. I wonder if this is some kind of prank, a hazing ritual for new employees, or if they have yet to bring in my subject. But when I glance sideways at Dr. Wright, her expression is deadly serious; she doesn’t seem like the type for jokes or wasting time. When she catches my questioning look, she leans forward and adjusts a lever on the panel, which increases the brightness in the room.

“Look more closely,” she says.

I turn back to the cell, and something catches my attention. At first, my eyes gloss over it, assuming it’s just a shadow. But something about it nags at me, and when I look back at the patch of darkness in the corner, I realize there’s nothing in the room that would cast such a shadow. Nothing with those jagged edges.

A chill creeps up my spine. The feeling stirring in my chest is half fear and half awe. Once I notice it—as if in response—it ripples and changes; its edges blur and then settle into a new shape, rounded and soft. Another moment, and it peels away from the wall and bleeds into the center of the room, like a slow-spreading stain of darkness. Upon a closer look, it doesn’t look like it’sonthe floor, but rather hovering slightly over it, like a murky cloud.

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