Page 7 of The Nightmare's Kiss

Her smile is sharp. “No,” she says. “But you seem so very curious about my workplace, which made me very curious aboutyou.”

My throat tightens. I suspected this, but still, the confirmation gives me goose bumps. I thought she would at least come up with a less creepy way to say “we know everything people do and say in this town,” but this was pretty blatant, and now I’m wondering if all of those conspiracy theorists had the right idea. “You’re from the Facility.”

“Yes. Dr. Calliope Wright.”

“Samara Vance,” I say automatically, though she already called me by name.

She folds one leg over the other and rests her hands in her lap. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions, Samara Vance.”

I flush, bite the inside of my cheek, and fight the urge to be defensive. I haven’t done anything wrong, even though this feels like I’m a problematic child called into the principal’s office. “Everybody has questions about the Facility.” Even though she named herself, I note, she did not give any indication of what to call the building itself.

“I expect that’s true, but you’d be surprised by how few actuallyaskthem. Most, I suspect, do not actually want to know the answers. They prefer to speculate, or perhaps they’re afraid of what the truth may be.” She leans forward. Her eyes are an intense green, and I can’t look away. “But you’re not afraid.”

I swallow. “Should I be?” I intend for it to be a joke, but it comes out more like a challenge.

She regards me in silence. Then she leans back in her chair and smiles like she’s learned something that satisfies her. “You earned a degree in psychology at USC, is that correct?”

“Yes,” I say, and swallow an instinctivema’amthat wants to tag along.

“There aren’t a lot of job prospects for such a degree in Ash Valley.”

I nod. What else is there to say?

“And that’s a shame,” she continues, “because you seem like a very promising young woman. Great marks, no trouble on your record, experience in a professional lab setting. You were a tech for a research study about sleep disorders, correct?”

“Yes, that’s—”

“Your former supervisor spoke highly of you,” she continues without waiting for me to answer. “Strong work ethic, good under pressure.”

I startle. “You talked to…?”

“But what really caught my eye was the essay you wrote in Abnormal Psychology,” she says. Her eyes go a bit distant, wandering above my head. “‘Even delusions maintain their own internal logic, and if we hope to understand the patient, we must indulge their version of the world, no matter how far it may be from our own. For who are we to claim that our reality is the only one?’”

I hardly remember what I wrote in that essay, but I know she just quoted it from memory. I suppress a shiver, unsure what to say. “What is this about?” I ask—whisper, really.

Her eyes snap back to me.

“Despite local sentiment, the truth is that the Facility is eager to foster relationships with those who live in Ash Valley,” she says. “However, it must also be said that there are few among the population with the proper education or background for the type of positions we are looking for. You, however, are a unique case. We believe this could be a valuable opportunity for the both of us. And as such, we would like to offer you a job opportunity.”

It takes me a couple of seconds to digest that. I stare at her across the table. “A job,” I repeat. “At the Facility.”

It feels like a bad joke, but her expression is serious. “It is an entry-level position, but there is plenty of opportunity for advancement if you are able to perform your role well.”

“Okay… And what would I be doing, exactly?” Despite my bewilderment at this whole situation, I find myself leaning forward slightly, eager to finally get some of the answers I’ve been seeking. “What kind of work do youdoat the Facility?” I ask, before realizing she’s already dropped some hints. Lab work. Research. “What are you studying?”

Dr. Wright offers a sliver of a smile, but rather than giving a response, she clicks open her briefcase, takes out a thick stack of papers, and slides them across the table to me. My eyes scan the first page, heart thumping as I wonder if this is a chance to sate my curiosity, but I find only further exasperation.

“An NDA,” I say, unable to hide my disappointment.

“Indeed,” she says. “And I am afraid we need you to sign it before we reveal more information about the nature of our research or the position we are offering. Especially as…” She hesitates for a moment. “Well, it is easier to show you the work you will be doing, rather than explain it. We need your agreement before we can allow you within the Facility. But rest assured, we will not consider this an acceptance of the offer until you have all of the information you require.”

An NDA isn’t a surprise, especially when the Facility is obviously secretive, but having the agreement in front of me suddenly makes this feel a lot more real. My heart rate spikes as I read further. Not only am I forbidden from writing about my work in any public forum, or taking any pictures or videos, or even bringing a cell phone or any other “digital device” into the building. I’m also not allowed to take personal notes out of the building, or speak about it to anyone,ever, for the rest of my life.

What could they possibly be doing within those concrete walls? As I scan through the pages, I only become more certain that I’m walking into something stranger than I expected. It has to be something military, or government related, just like the rumors suggested. Something important, as Ethan hinted at, even though I really didn’t want that to be true. Possibly something that will challenge my morals.

Then I reach the final page, which includes a brief outline of the job they’re offering, including the pay. I go still, my finger resting just under the listed figure like I’m trying to reassure myself it’s really there. My eyebrows shoot up as my mouth forms an expression that must be comical. I glance up at Dr. Wright’s impassive face, and then back down at the number, and it’s still the same.Generouswould be putting it lightly, especially for entry-level work with my useless degree. This is…life-changing, even if I only work there for a couple of years.

But more than the money, my curiosity overrides my trepidation and quite possibly my common sense. If I come this close to answers and then turn and walk away without even setting foot in the building and getting aglimpseof what I’m rejecting, how could I possibly live with that? I’d spend the rest of my life haunted by what could have been. Probably become one of those locals ranting and raving about various conspiracy theories and ghost radio channels in the middle of the night.

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