Page 55 of In Her Dreams
There had been something compelling about her openness, her lack of pretense.
“I’d never have guessed,” Anthony said, finding comfort in this unexpected connection.“You seem so confident during discussions.”
A smile curved her lips.“As do you—until you’re standing at that podium.”
They’d talked for hours, two professionals bound by the irony of their situations—experts trapped by their own minds.It was near midnight when she leaned close, lowering her voice despite the nearly empty bar.
“I’ve found something,” she’d said, excitement evident in her tone.“Something that actually works.”
Anthony remembered how his heart had quickened with hope.“What is it?”
“The Santico Rite—an ancient practice of the Zantican people.I discovered it during my ethnological research.”Her eyes had gleamed with intensity.“It’s not published in any journal.It’s not endorsed by any medical board.But Anthony, it works.”
He should have been skeptical.Should have asked for peer-reviewed evidence, case studies, documentation.But desperation had overridden his professional caution.
“What does it involve?”he’d asked, already leaning toward yes.
“A substance called Ka’lutma.A guided meditation of sorts.”She’d hesitated, looking around before continuing.“I need to perform the rite on myself to address my spectrophobia, but the ritual requires two participants.We could help each other.”
Anthony opened his eyes, the memory dissolving as his attention returned to the dreamcatcher on the wall with its intricate web of threads and dangling beads.He couldn’t recall most of what happened in her hotel room that night.The drink she’d prepared had tasted bitter, herbal.There were candles, chanting in a language he didn’t recognize.
Then...nothing.Fragments only.Her voice, weaving through his consciousness.Strange symbols drawn on his skin.The sensation of falling, endlessly falling.
He remembered waking the next morning in his own hotel room with the dreamcatcher beside him and a note that simply read: “It is done.”
And it had worked.Two weeks later, he’d given a flawless presentation at a local medical seminar without a trace of anxiety.His phobia had vanished as if it had never existed.
But something else had taken its place—an invisible tether binding him to Olivia Summers.A compulsion he couldn’t resist, couldn’t even fully comprehend.
When she’d called a month later asking him to refer suitable patients to her for what she called an “experiment,” he’d found himself agreeing despite every ethical alarm bell clanging in his mind.He seemed to have no choice, as if he had no will of his own.Worse, he couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t warn anyone, couldn’t seek help.The words simply wouldn’t form when he tried.
Anthony sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.He’d chosen them carefully, hadn’t he?Patients with severe phobias who hadn’t responded to conventional treatment.Richard Winters with his claustrophobia.Anita Palmer and her crippling fear of birds.Samuel Rodriguez and his agoraphobia.
He’d told them about an experimental treatment protocol.Hadn’t mentioned Summers by name, just gave them each a card with an address and appointment time.
And now they were dead.All of them.
The shrill ring of his phone cut through the silence, making him jump.His caller ID displayed a number he recognized instantly.His hand shook as he picked up the receiver, knowing he had no choice but to answer.
“Hello?”His voice cracked on the single word.
“Dr.Walsh.”Olivia Summers’s voice flowed through the line.“I trust you’re having a pleasant afternoon?”
Anthony’s free hand curled into a fist.“What do you want?”
“That’s hardly polite,” she chided, amusement evident in her tone.“I’m calling because I believe there’s something you should tell me.Isn’t there?”
His mouth went dry.“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come now, Anthony.”Her voice hardened slightly.“I’m talking about Samuel Rodriguez.I just learned about his unfortunate passing a little while ago.”
Anthony closed his eyes, fighting the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.“Yes,” he managed.“Sam is dead.”
“I see.”A pause, then: “You know what this means, of course.”
“No more,” he whispered.“I won’t do this anymore.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how our arrangement works,” Summers replied, her tone mild as if they were discussing lunch plans rather than the deaths of three people.“You owe me three more subjects for my experiment.”
