“She was killed during the witch trials,” he says. “Ironic really. They branded her the wrong kind of monster.”
“Do you really think we’re all monsters?” I ask.
He shrugs. “What else can we possibly be? We do not belong here, with humans. We do not belong to this world. We are a sickness that must be healed. That’s what they’re trying to do here. Heal us so we can be normal. So we can live amongst the humans as one of them again.”
There it is again. He continues to relegate us to the same group. Almost as if he’s a patient here too.
“It seems to me humans are just as monstrous, if not more so,” I say, imagining all those people slaughtered because their religious beliefs were slightly different. Catholic versus Protestant. Who the hell cared? It was all about power and control.
The wind picks up around us, carrying the smell of the ocean laced with the scent of graveyard dirt and lost souls. I step forward, walking to the edge of the cliff overlooking the water. I can’t get a clear sense of where we are, but it feels like a mountain on an island or peninsula.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell clangs the hour. It’s the first indication of time I’ve had since my arrival. Inside, there are no clocks, cell phones or watches. I never know what time of day it is. Even our food and sleep schedule seems deliberately designed to mess with our heads.
But now, I know two things. It’s dark still.
And the clock just struck three.
So 3 AM.
The Witching Hour, I’ve heard it said. Of course, I passed that off as silly superstitions, not reality.
But now I feel a buzzing in my blood, a tingling on my skin, and I know something is happening.
I turn away from the ocean to examine the graveyard, and I feel them before I see them.
“They’re coming,” I say under my breath, and I don’t know whether to be scared or excited.
Estelle flashes before me, her ethereal glow so much stronger at this hour. “Do not fear them,” she says, though only I can hear her. “Do not fear the dead. Fear the living.”
And then they are here. Hundreds of them, rising from their graves, their bodies made of moonbeams, despite the moonless night. The vision of them brings to mind something Dr. Cutter said about me, that I am born of the New Moon Coven. That I am connected to the spirit world. It’s a New Moon tonight, and I wonder if that is why I feel this pulsing in my blood, like something living trying to free itself.
I look around at the ghosts. There are so many of them, I don’t know who to look at or what to do. They float before me, a ghostly army waiting for their command.
“What do you want?” I ask them.
Dr. Livingstone watches me curiously. He can’t see what I see. Can’t hear what I hear. I wonder if he did this on purpose. Does he know I can see ghosts? Did he know what would happen to me in a graveyard at 3 AM?
PeaceJusticeDeathRevenge
The voices merge, disjointed and aligned at once, bouncing off the stone and drowning in the sea.
And then a woman separates herself from them, coming closer to me. I squint at her, my mind struggling to understand why she looks so familiar.
She has long hair and is wearing a sundress.
Youknowmeyouknowmeyouknowme
“How?” I ask.
You. Killed. Me.
10
Dr. Livingstone tenses as he shifts his attention to something over my shoulder.
“Pardon me for interrupting.”
The voice is familiar, and I watch as the woman floating before me stills in terror. Then she vanishes.
“Sir, I was giving our patient a bit of fresh air.” Dr. Livingstone’s voice is guarded as I turn to face the newcomer.
“Yes, Schmidt mentioned you were indulging this one with quite the tour.”
Dr. Livingstone’s eyes flash at that, his lips pressing into a tight line. Whatever these men are to each other, it’s not friends.
“I’ve kept to the common areas,” the doctor says, his shoulders stiff.
“Of course you have. No matter. But let’s stick to treatment rooms from now on, shall we?”
“Yes, sir,” Dr. Livingstone says in a clipped voice.
The man doesn’t react, his gaze locked on mine. Recognition hits me as I take in his familiar features and tailored suit.
“I know you,” I say, not bothering with manners or decorum.
“I’m glad you remember.” His eyes twinkle in amusement, but it’s unsettling given his intimidating demeanor. Like he’s trying too hard to appear harmless when he’s anything but.
It makes me think of the snake from our first session.
He glances at the doctor. “May I borrow the patient for a bit?”
Dr. Livingstone frowns.
“She is, after all, my ward,” the man adds.
“We were just finishing up,” the doctor says grudgingly.
“Perfect.” The man beams. “I’ll escort her from here.”
Dr. Livingstone hesitates, and the man’s smile dims.
“Is there a problem, doctor?”
“No, Sir, I’m merely surprised you’ve already met. I wasn’t aware you participated in patient treatment.”
“Ah. Well, we all play our parts.”
Dr. Livingstone murmurs an agreement, and the man gestures for me to accompany him. “Shall we, Miss D’LeLune?”
Behind him, the spirits of the dead watch me with grim expressions. But there’s no refusing, and even attempting it will only result in pain.
As I walk past him to the door, the spirits bow their head in silent acceptance and then, as one, they vanish.
I feel a hollowness in my chest as they do, a cold loss as their collective pain washes over me.
My skin itches and my nerves feel raw being so close to Dr. Cutter as I follow him back to my prison. From this angle, I am finally afforded a view of Le Rêve.
On the outside, the structure looks like nothing more than the ruins of a castle sitting atop a mountain surrounded by the ocean. The lower hospital must have been built within the mountain itself, a secret underground holding.
At the entrance, I hesitate, but even if I tried to resist, there’s nowhere to run. Nothing but a cliff’s edge and a fatal drop to a rocky beach. Resigned, I follow Dr. Cutter back inside my prison.
The moment we walk through the door and it locks shut behind us, the air becomes stifling, full of dust, death, and lost dreams.
I glance back longingly at the exit, wishing I could have had a few more minutes with Dr. Livingstone, a few more minutes under the stars with the smell of the ocean filling me.
Instead, I am escorted up yet another flight of drab stairs and down a series of halls I honestly can’t say if I saw five minutes ago or never.
The genius of this place is that every corridor looks exactly the same.
By the time we reach our destination, I’m past fear and well into irritation. This man—whoever he is—interrupted my only moment of freedom in days. Maybe weeks. Or even months.
Time is the real dream in this place of nightmares.
I don’t want to sit in his creepy office with his creepy snake and talk about my feelings. And I’m just about to snap and tell him so when I step through the door he’s opened.
But I stop short.
My eyes are wide as I take in the space.