Page 10 of The Nightmare's Kiss

After a full day of observing the subject’s behavior, I’ve taken note of a couple of the more frequent shapes it takes when it moves. The amorphous cloud seems to be its default, but it often shows longer tendrils that seem almost like ethereal tentacles, jagged lines like sharp teeth, and occasionally a crawling mass that seems like the shadow of a hundred human hands. The last one makes the hair on the back of my neck rise every time, but regardless, I’m more curious about the creature than frightened of it so far. Maybe I should be warier, but it hasn’t shown any signs of aggression, and its movements are usually sluggish and aimless.

Still, I’m sure I wouldn’t be half so bold without the bulletproof viewing panel between us and heavy steel walls keeping it fully contained.

As the subject ripples and shifts again, I scratch down a note.No discernible stimulus: shape change, spiral pattern. Held for approx. ten seconds, swirling slowly, before returning to default.

I’ve been strictly instructed on the facility’s protocol. All notes are to be taken by hand, and turned in to my supervisor at the end of the day. Nobody has explicitly said as much, but I expect that the only files are physical ones within the building itself. Nothing digital that might be hacked or leaked to the outside world. The building is a dead zone for Wi-Fi and cell service. Even if all employees weren’t forced to surrender all technology upon entering, nothing would work within these concrete walls. The cameras dotting the corners of the halls are old-school, their footage undoubtedly stored on-site rather than in a cloud someplace. Same with the single camera in my observation room, situated so it views the back of my head and the panel in front of me.

They take security very seriously here, and I can’t say I blame them for it. If anything about this place and the subjects it contains leaked to the outside world, people would lose their absolute shit.

And I say that having only seenoneof the subjects. I can’t even imagine what else is here. Monsters? Aliens? Things that go bump in the night? If this thing exists, I can’t imagine what else might. Are vampires real? Werewolves?

As my mind wanders into the land of folklore and fairy tales, the door opens behind me. I flinch a little, sitting up straighter in my chair and trying to pretend I’m paying absolute attention to the subject, even though it’s doing nothing other than hovering menacingly at the moment. Okay, “menacing” is just my own personal reading of its behavior, but still. It’s hard to interpret it as anything else, especially when they call it the freaking Nightmare.

A tall, thin man who looks only a few years older than me enters the room and shuts the door behind him. He has a mop of dark hair and a pair of round wire-framed glasses, and he’s wearing a button-up shirt and a bowtie. On some people, it would be an exhaustingly trite look, but he manages to make it look endearing.

I blink. “Hi,” I say. And then, realizing that might not be the most professional response, I add, “Can I help you?”

“Hey. I’m Ezra. Ezra Bradford, lab tech.” He reaches out a hand to shake, which I accept, and then smoothly hands me a folded piece of paper with his other hand. “Passing along instructions from Director Ramsey.”

“Instructions?” I look at the paper in my hand like it’s a live grenade. I may have started getting used to watching the thing in the cell, but the thought of having to interact with it floods me with an anxiety so intense, it makes me nauseous. “Um, I thought I was only supposed to observe and record…”

“Right, yes, you’re new here,” he says. “And your name is…?”

“Oh.” I flush, realizing he introduced himself and I didn’t return the favor. “Sorry. Mara. Vance.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Sorry Mara Vance,” he says with a tiny smile. The dad joke and his warmth help me relax. “I was an observer when I started, too. Sometimes instructions will come along from up top, asking you to check responses to certain stimuli. Nothing dangerous, no direct interactions or exposure to the subject. It’s all just pressing buttons on your control panel.” He points out the expanse of blinking lights in front of me.

“They’ll produce effects within the cell, play sounds from the speakers, release scents, et cetera. All you have to do is hit a button and record the response.”

“I see.” I take a breath and look at the panel he’s pointing at. Everything is clearly labeled: “sound 1,” “sound 2,” “scent 1,” and so on. It looks simple enough, and I’m relieved to hear it doesn’t mean I have to do anything to the subject myself. Even the thought of speaking directly to it gives me a bit of a chill, but this? I can handle this. “Okay, thank you.”

“Good luck,” he says, and shuts the door on his way out, leaving me alone again.

I unfold the paper and scan the short list. It is bulleted, concise, and clear. Still, I scan it a few times to ensure I have no questions before laying it flat on the table and moving on to the first step:Record subject response to Sound 1.

I reach out, my hand hovering over the button for a moment. It feels like I’m stepping over a threshold, in a way, involving myself more directly in the experimentation process. But that’s ridiculous. All I’m doing is hitting a button. I summon my resolve, smack the button, and recoil my hand quickly, struck with a rush of adrenaline like I just sent a risky text.

I don’t hear the sound that plays over the speakers in the room. There’s a button that will let me hear inside, but I’ve been instructed to keep that function turned off so I can record “unbiased” notes about the subject’s response without knowing about the stimulus presented within.

X-13 responds immediately and obviously. Its dark form ripples like a pond struck by a rock, and then shifts in an abrupt jolt of a motion, its edges going spiky and jagged. Its movement stops. It hovers in place, still and sharp-edged. I have the impression of a hedgehog or a pufferfish sending out its spines in a defensive action, bracing itself against some foe.

But that is exactly the kind of biased reaction I am not supposed to have. I dutifully scratch down an entirely objective account of its response, mentioning only the cessation of movement and the change to its form. Then I wait five minutes, while the subject remains motionless and unchanging and my hand remains poised over the paper for any changes, before moving on to the second instruction.

I hit Sound 2, and the jagged protrusions slowly recoil back into the creature’s main body. It goes round and soft around the edges again, but it still seems denser and more contained than before I began producing the stimuli. Almost like it’s bracing itself for something. But that’s, again, just me reading sentience into its behavior.

I press Sound 4.

The shadow spreads like ink spilling across the white tile, or dry grassland catching fire, the movement far more rapid than anything I’ve seen from it before. Black tendrils lick at the walls and climb up the glass in front of me. My heart rate picks up, despite my self-reassurances that the subject is entirely contained. The tendril slithers across the glass, rears back, and slams against it like a fist.

Thethumpis muffled, but still enough to make me jump; the control panel rattles in front of me. I push back on my rolling chair until I slam into the wall, one hand raised in front of my face as if to ward off a threat.

The Nightmare stands in front of the glass, its shadowy form molded the shape of a man: tall and spindly, stretched and sharply angular, its face smooth and blank but clearly humanoid.

A cold dread swirls in my chest before sinking down, down, into the pit of my stomach. And even though it’s a one-way mirror, and it doesn’t have eyes inside the swirling darkness, IswearI can feel it staring at me.

7

Chapter Seven

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