Page 13 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

Chapter Eight

Fast as she could manage without falling over herself, Ingrid spun and flung herself backward against the elevator door. She extended her arms out, gripping the flat surface at first, then clawing at it like she might pry the steel open with her nails.

“So lost,” the voice continued from the darkness. “How did you get here, little Viator ?”

The meaning of the stranger’s words escaped her.

But the sound of it. That otherworldly growl, the genderless intonation.

It stapled her eyelids to the bottom of her brows as she peered into the black void.

No matter how long her eyes had to adjust to the darkness, she saw nothing but empty space in front of her.

“Where are you?” she asked finally.

“Here,” the voice responded calmly. “There. Everywhere.”

What does that mean? What do you want? Ingrid thought instinctively.

These were the kind of questions someone would’ve asked when they found themselves trapped with an invisible entity such as this.

But Ingrid asked no such thing. She didn’t have any curiosity left.

The details seemed irrelevant now. Since the moment Dean had shown her those symbols, she knew.

In some deep and forgotten part of herself, she could feel it.

She was dealing with something she couldn’t understand.

All she had to focus on now was survival. Which meant biding her time until she figured out a way to escape.

“Why can’t I see you?” Ingrid asked, gulping.

“You haven’t gathered that yet, girl? Do parents not tell their children horror stories anymore?”

“I didn’t have parents,” Ingrid retorted coldly.

The Thing laughed a guttural, scratchy laugh. “Everyone comes from somewhere. From someone. Now, if you do not know where that is, then that is another matter. We could make a game of it.”

A game. This thing wanted to play games. Yes, she could feel that too. It wanted to toy with her. She sensed the violent intent, but strangely, she did not fear for her life. Not yet, anyhow.

“Help me understand,” Ingrid said tactfully. “I want to. Please help me understand what it is you’re trying to tell me? Why you’ve been sending me those messages?”

She couldn’t picture this thing owning a phone. But if nothing else, it bought her more time.

“Helped you?” the Thing snapped. Annoyed or confused, Ingrid couldn’t tell. She still couldn’t make sense of the odd octave and guttural clicks that followed certain syllables. “You’ve mistaken me, child. I’ve sent you nothing. I’ve never helped you .” Disgust dripped off that last word.

“Forgive me,” Ingrid replied with haste. “I’m so confused. So scared.” She let out a small, nervous whimper. “I’ve been getting these messages. From someone I don’t know. They say they want to help me, but I—I think they want to hurt me.”

A gust of wind blew toward Ingrid. Then came a strange, sickening noise. Like joints crunching. Bones popping.

The Thing must’ve moved closer, she thought. Must be inspecting her, closing the gap between them, or?—

Her guessing halted when the Thing’s breath crept into her hair. “And you deduced that this person… was me?” it asked.

Ingrid swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” She dropped her head even lower, looking pitiful, but the act didn’t work this time.

Nails scratched at the metal doors and shocked Ingrid back into a frozen state.

She held her breath, feeling another gust of air coming toward her.

It was all she could do to keep from screaming once the sharp talons tickled her abdomen, lightly grazing the fabric of her shirt, and moving downward until it reached the pocket of her jeans.

“Detestable things,” the Thing said.

Ingrid watched numbly as an unseen force drew her phone from her pocket, lifted it in front of her face, and smashed it into pieces.

“We all have them,” Ingrid laughed nervously. “What do you mean?”

“We? We?!” It was all the Thing said for a long while, like it was trying to solve a riddle.

Then with a cackle so loud and jarring that it caused Ingrid to flinch, the Thing asked, “Do you truly not know what you are, child?”

Ingrid’s eyes widened innocently. “What am I?”

Yet another cold breeze rushed at her.

She recoiled slightly.

“You are sickness,” it said. “You are death. You are a plague to my people.”

“No. No. I’m no one’s enemy. I only want to be left alone.”

“Yes.” The thing found her amusing now, its laughter softening. “You must. After all, you are quite irresistible. Those Shades seemed very territorial over you.” A pause, considering. “Tell me, have you always seen them? Even as a child? Have you always been able to see what hunts you?”

“Yes,” Ingrid blurted out.

She knew instantly what the Thing was referring to.

The madness, that dark something, the nightmares.

But the shocking fact that this creature could see her own personal hell was utterly overshadowed by one word.

Hunt . As if the waking nightmares had wills of their own. Conscious minds, needs and desires.

It made her sick to think that all her life, what she was seeing was not some ghostly nightmare, or some signal of danger on its way to her, but a conscious entity somehow hunting her.

She was so stunted by the revelation that she didn’t weigh whether or not it was wise to tell the truth to this Thing.

“I’ve always seen them,” she added.

“Then you might be useful, after all.” It seemed pleased, or at the very least, less aggressive. “How tortured you must be. Always prodded. Watching those nasty little Shades trying to pry open your pretty skull and nestle in your mind.”

“Yes,” Ingrid repeated flatly, nearly unconsciously. “I’ve always seen them. I don’t think I’ve ever felt peace. I have always seen them.”

“And now?” the voice pushed monstrously. “Do you see them now? Do you, girl?” The Thing’s snarl acted like a divine command, and Ingrid paused, mentally probing her surroundings.

It didn’t take long to realize they were gone. Not even the vibrations she’d feel when the visions were just starting to make themselves known. Those steady, low taps of the nightmares trying to get in, reminding her of what would come later that night—they weren’t there.

“No,” she said. “I don’t. I don’t feel them now.”

“And why do you suppose that is? Why, little Viator, do you think they left you here now?”

Ingrid didn’t reply. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because she already knew the answer. And once it sank in, it rattled her to her very core.

This Thing… it had scared off her worst nightmares.

“They ran from you,” Ingrid said in a whisper.

“Very good,” it snarled.

And before Ingrid could think of what to say next, she was seized by impossibly long and bony hands and lifted off the floor.

She floated upward, her dark-adjusted eyes blinded by lights.

Then out of the haze, she made out the seashell-shaped lamps and the shaggy green and blue carpet of her apartment building.

The hallway. She was in the hallway. Somehow, this thing had broken free from the dysfunctional confines of the elevator and had taken her with it.

With just her gaze, she desperately searched for familiarity.

For help. Darting back and forth as she slowly ascended, up, up, up, until she was at her own floor. The sixth floor.

She scanned for her door like merely seeing it would set her free, snap her out of this nightmare. But once she locked onto it, it changed. It seemed further away, almost unrecognizable. Everything else in the place she’d called home for years began to shift.

It was as if the Thing had penetrated her mind, somehow altering her surroundings.

The creature grumbled something like a laugh, holding her still so she could watch.

Watch as it stretched the hallway and turned her door into a mere speck in the far distance.

Watch as the lights imploded and sickly green weeds sprang from the floor and the walls crumbled into a rotting pit of endless nothing.

Next came the voices. People. Real people. Her neighbors. Laughing and talking. Louder and louder their cries of joy became until Ingrid almost called out to them. Asked them for help.

But she didn’t. She knew they weren’t there.

They weren’t real. She couldn’t trust her senses anymore.

She was truly, finally, and hopelessly powerless.

The strain in her shoulders relaxed, and she simply…

held still. She would save her strength for whatever would come next.

Maybe it was more darkness. Or maybe it was a psych ward, which seemed preferable.

If she’d woken up in some white-walled hell with a doctor feeding her pills like candy, she might not be all that opposed, considering.

She would take just about anything over these illusions. This Thing’s power over her, reminding her of how weak she was.

Her reality bent. The floors caved in. The ceiling dripped. Then she was in her apartment. Or, a rendition of it. A bland, empty version of her home where the kitchen was overrun by decaying food and her bedroom was drowning in foamy black water.

The voices returned, rising to piercingly high levels and then warbling into something familiar.

Franky.

It was Franky.

He was reciting a slightly different, bizarro version of the pre-shift talk he always gave Ingrid, full of clichéd jokes and “go get ‘em” affirmations. Things she’d normally roll her eyes at, but now seemed so precious.

Then she heard Dean. He was angry, just like he’d been at the lack of leads Ingrid provided when he’d shown her the symbols.

The Thing must’ve picked the worst memories he could pluck from her mind.

And Dean, like this, muttering something unintelligible at her, it was more painful to recall than she’d thought.

She listened intently to what he was saying, but the more she focused, the more muffled it seemed.

Even if this was an illusion, she wanted to know.

If this was the last time she’d hear a familiar voice, then she wanted something tangible.

A single sentence. Anything. She silently begged her captor for just one single word.

Just as she felt like she was making one out, Dean stopped, and in his place came someone new. A voice she’d heard before, but knew she’d never hear again.

Her father. His deep whiskey-soaked tone, the melodic cadence, the snarky affectation. He was a rotten, arrogant son of a bitch—always had been—even this dark recreation couldn’t miss that. It was him. For the first time in twenty years, she was hearing her father’s voice.

A tear welled in her eyes for all that she’d lost. For the little she’d been able to hold on to. But she forced the tear to stay put. She steadied herself, locking every joint and muscle in her body into place, preparing.

There would be no crying. There would be no more groveling. No more feigning weakness or saving her energy for later. Because if this evil force could stoop so low as to resurrect the voice of her long-lost father, then it didn’t deserve to have her.

“Fuck… this,” she muttered, and drained every ounce of energy she had left.

She fought back. Clawing and kicking and screaming, just like she’d fought the madness all those years.

The Thing screeched out in pain. An awful, animal cry that sliced into Ingrid’s eardrums like tiny pins.

She put her hands over her ears, too occupied to realize she had gained back the use of them.

She was free. The spindly arms and sharp fingers vanished and Ingrid’s body crashed to the floor with a harsh slap.

Her eyes needed a moment to adjust before she saw the hallway had returned to normal. The walls were intact again. The lights were working. The roof was secure and in one piece.

But the voices were still there.

One voice, in particular.

Dean’s. Still so loud, and still nonsensical.