Page 58 of Last Seen

Chapter Forty

Little by little, she starts coming back to herself.

She is not dead.

She is alive.

I am alive.

And I must live.

It doesn’t matter if I have my eyes open or closed, I can sense the smile on the face of the man in the corner.

He is a shadow, and he is talking—talking, talking, incessantly—telling me all the things I always wanted to understand, and much I don’t want to know.

His voice will not stop. It never has. I can’t listen, but I must. I am his confessor, his priest, his savior.

His inamorata. I must dole out benediction; he is desperate for it.

“Where am I?” I manage.

“Oh, now you want to talk to me?”

The voice halts. That constant, incessant patter that I’ve lived with for so long is coming from outside my head.

Outside. Which means ... it’s real.

Like I could be dead and still talking to you?

This voice is internal, but the other is external, I’m sure of it. But they are the same. It has lived inside of me for so long hearing it aloud is baffling. Surely I am hallucinating. It wouldn’t be the first time. Considering I am in darkness, it’s even more likely.

“Yes. Please. Where am I?”

“In Brockville.”

Brockville. I remember, barely. The voice was castigating me. I ducked off onto a small trail to clear my head. But before ... I cast my mind back. I was chatting with a man. He had a sweet smile and kind eyes. He offered to make me dinner.

“Noah? Is that you?”

“Wow, little brother made quite an impression on you. Not bad for a man holding a trout.”

Noah is not this man. Not this monster.

Fighting with my own brain is frustrating. Someone followed me into the woods. I ran, crashing through the brush, but he was faster. Stronger. He caught me. He dragged me. I fought, I screamed; he laughed.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, my sweet kitty cat. I can’t believe you have to ask me that.”

I am filled with horror. This is my nightmare come alive. Every night terror, every bad dream, every sense of fear, of something horrifying scuttling along the baseboards, about to rise up and devour me, is here. Now. In this room. This is no longer a convoluted fantasy. This is real.

“Ian?”

The lights go on, and I am blinded. “Hello, sweetheart. Long time no see.”

It takes me a moment to adjust. I am in a charcoal room. Spiky triangles stick out from the walls, ceiling, and floor like hungry maws. It’s like being inside a shark’s jaws, looking out into the endless sea. My head spins.

“What is this place?”

“This? Dad’s anechoic chamber. He likes to come in here and meditate without any sort of sound. Or sensation. Did you know when the door is closed this room registers minus nine-point-four decibels? It is beyond pure silence. It is a void. Drives you a little mad if you’re not careful.”

“Why am I here? Why are you here?”

“You came to see me. I figured I’d repay the favor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Brockville. The writers’ retreat? Didn’t think I hit you hard enough to remove your memories, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snarl.

I told you not to do it. Do you ever listen to me? No.

I moan, realizing the awful truth. The only voice I’ve not been able to exorcise is Ian’s. It’s always been Ian’s. Since I met him in that dark forest and he decided I was going to be his, that he would heal me, cure me, love me—and then betrayed me. He’s been in my head, mocking me, for years.

Yes, I wanted in to the Brockville Writers’ Retreat because I want to be a writer.

But the voice knows there was a deeper reason.

I needed to be near where we met. I needed to understand why he made me into the creature I am.

I needed to understand why I’d listened to him, all those years ago.

Why I was so weak. To prove to myself it wasn’t just a bad dream. And now, I am going to find out.

I searched for him for so long.

I finally found him. My plan, though, has backfired.

He has found me.

He stands, moving toward me, the smile affixed to his face. The face of a monster.