Chapter Twenty-One
Declan
“But I’ll be twenty-eight soon.” I hear Daphne answer Doctor Campos, and he has my attention.
“Thank you, Ms. Brooks,” says the doctor. “We’ve never officially met before, but I have reviewed your file in its entirety, and I thought we needed to meet face-to-face. It looks like you’re concerned about someone who is following you, or so you’ve told your previous doctors. Is that correct?”
“Not exactly doctor. I–” Daphne’s cut off by the doctor.
“Not exactly?” Dr. Campos asks. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t believe I’m being followed necessarily,” Daphne remarks. She sounds shy and reserved—two traits I rarely experienced from her. “It’s difficult to explain, but–I–I don’t know what to tell you doctor. I’m never alone.”
Huh?
“Ms. Brooks,” the doctor briefly starts, then stops to let out a breath. “What do you mean by alone? Are you saying that you can’t find privacy?”
It’s a bit encouraging to know the doctor has always interviewed with riddles.
“No doctor,” she responds. “I mean I’m never alone. It’s not someone who’s following me. It’s something.” There isn’t a hint of dishonesty in her tone. She believes what she’s saying, and though my opinion may be irrelevant, I believe her, too.
“Please, Ms. Brooks,” he insists. “Tell me what is following you. What is it? Where did it come from? How long have you been feeling this way?”
I don’t know what he’s thinking. He sounds like a tiger stalking his prey. A predator waiting to pounce.
“It, Dr. Campos,” says Daphne. “It is following me. There’s no way to describe what it is.
It just is. I don’t know where it came from.
All I know is that I’ve been haunted by these, I don’t know, dreams, ever since I was a little girl.
I always thought they were nightmares, but I’m really not so sure.
I’m worried that it’s real. And it wants me. ”
This isn’t a joke. Something is wrong.
“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Dr. Campos offers consolation, “but I need you to be as specific as you can possibly be. Can you do that for me? Can you describe a specific interaction with whatever it is? Can you describe it? Please Ms. Brooks, this is of the utmost importance.” The good doctor sounds as though he’s on to something.
“I–” Daphne hesitates. “I can try, if you think it will help.”
I look down at my hands for a minute and notice they’re sweating. If I had a seat, or anything to sit on, rather than hugging this, what did he call it, breeding pole, I’d be sitting on the edge of it.
“Please do Ms. Brooks,” he contends. “It’ll be greatly appreciated. Do you need me to do anything before you begin?” There’s a brief pause in the recording.
Fuck. Is the tape damaged?
But the doctor doesn’t move and lets it play on.
“Let the record reflect that Ms. Brooks is shaking her head to signify an answer of ‘no’ to the previous question. If you will Ms. Brooks, the room is yours.”
Just then, Doctor Campos stops the recording and turns his attention back to me.
“Declan,” he says, “I will continue with Daphne’s session in a moment, but I want to mention that the following segment is the part I believe to be of significance to you. Therefore, I want you to listen closely. We will talk about this more afterward.”
“Okay Dr. C,” I say anxiously. “If this is going to get me out of here faster, let’s cut the chitchat and get this over with.” I’m tired of these fucking games. But, I also have to know what she says next.
Without another word, Dr. Campos continues the playback of the recording.
“I know you want me to explain things in detail doctor,” the woman on the recording, Daphne, starts. “But I warn you, I’m not very good at telling stories.”
“That’s okay Ms. Brooks,” the doctor reassures. “If you stop worrying about it and let it out, I’m certain you’ll do just fine.”
“If you’ve read my entire file as you say you have,” she continues, but stops for a second.
“Then, you’re aware of my early childhood.
” I hear her take a deep breath, and I wish I could see the expression on her face as she seeks her words.
“You know I was beaten by my father on a daily basis, and you know if I took one too many breaths of his air, he took anything that was near him and swung it at me. You know I was hit with electric cords, chairs, a coffee table, a telephone... you name it.” The microphone catches her swallowing, hard.
“You likely know his brother, my uncle, sexually assaulted me. Twice. Just that left me mentally scarred.”
“Yes, Daphne,” the doctor replies. His voice was softer then.
Before he was my captor. “Any one of those traumas can be permanently damaging, let alone all of them together. I’m not questioning your qualifications for being here, nor do I want you to think I’m discarding them.
” There’s small break, and I recognize a scratching sound, though I have no idea what it is before the doctor adds, “Please, continue.”
“Social Services eventually stepped in and took me away from my parents,” she carries on.
“I was told I couldn’t return to their home until either my dad got help or my mom made him leave the house.
” She halts again, this time releasing a boisterous exhale.
“They never returned home, which I assumed meant they decided to proceed through life without me, which is fine, you know, I didn’t want to be a burden. ”
“Perhaps, Daphne,” the doctor hints, “you were better off not living in your parents’ home.”
There’s a long silence, and for a moment I wonder if that’s it. If that’s the end of the tape. But no, Daphne eventually breaks the tension.
“So, I was placed in a foster home. Yay me, haha.” She giggles, but it doesn’t sound sincere. “At eight years old I was given new parents, new siblings, a new family, but I don’t want to talk about them.”
“Is there a reason you don’t want to talk about your foster family?” the doctor asks.
“It was weird living with strangers,” she responds. “But that’s not what I’m supposed to be talking about. You want to know about It. I don’t want to belabor the point, and you don’t look like a man who enjoys bullshit.”
“I want you to explain things as you see fit, Daphne,” says Dr. Campos. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about your foster family. I was merely asking if you had a specific reason for choosing not to.”
“It’s cold doctor,” she snaps, sounding angry now. “The coldest thing I’ve ever encountered. Shortly after I was placed with my new family, I began having these–I don’t know–dreams, I guess.”
“Dreams you say,” the doctor affirms in an inquisitive, though arrogant tone.
“I’m not a scientist,” she retorts. “So, I don’t know what they were technically.”
“Can you describe them to me, the dreams?” He pushes for more.
“All I know is that I would go to sleep at night,” she answers.
“And after a couple hours passed, without fail, the same terrible dream woke me up. I can still see it as if I were sleeping now.” I can’t tell for sure, but she sounds like she’s getting uncomfortable the more she shares.
“I never recognized the place, but it was always the same. It wasn’t a castle.
Not really. A deceptively large house. With this thing inside.
This, I don’t even know what to call it, that would chase me.
I’m sorry. I know I’m not making any sense. ”
“So, this always took place while you slept. Is that right?” The doctor seeks to clarify.
“After dealing with the nightmares for a few years,” she retorts, “my new parents brought me to a specialist. I don’t remember his name, but I’m sure he’s listed in my file.
He said I suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress caused by my father’s and uncle’s attacks.
” She hesitates, and the recording goes silent again.
But the doctor doesn’t interject. He simply, waits for her to offer more.
“Honestly, I laughed at first. My father wanted nothing to do with me. But he was haunting me in my sleep. Talk about irony.”
“You sound skeptical of the diagnosis,” the doctor points out what a deaf man could hear. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” she blurts quickly. “Whatever my issue was, it—it felt more present. Like active trauma. Not something from the past.”
“Did they ever stop, the dreams?” He presses her more, giving her no time to think. To breathe.
“After years of counseling,” she mumbles, and I wonder if she’s biting her bottom lip.
The Daphne I knew always sucked on hers when she wanted me to change the subject.
“I was able to cope with the dreams. They mostly faded, or so I thought. Later, in high school, they came back. Worse. And when I woke up, they didn’t end. ”
“How do you mean?” the doctor queries.
“I used to think I was crazy,” she answers. “And who knows, maybe I am. But for the past ten years, whenever I wake up in the middle of the night, It’s there.”
“It–” Doctor Campos tries to speak.
“Before you go and judge me,” she cuts him off before he gets another word out.
“Let me tell you that I have thought this through, and either I’m a lunatic who needs help, or I’m not crazy and something is watching me.
Every time I sit up in my bed.” She takes a quick breath, but doesn’t lose a beat.
“I look toward the corner of my room, across from my bed, near the doorway, and It’s there, in the shadows. Waiting. Watching. In silence.”
I linger on her every word. Because, holy shit. I know what she means.
“The room fills with cold air. I think my heart is going to stop beating, frozen in place.” She carries on, more pleading than stating now. “It’s there.”
My heart sinks to my ass. This is too familiar. Too coincidental.
“As if that isn’t bad enough,” she adds, “for the past six weeks, It has been getting closer and closer to me. The instant I pop up in my bed, It’s—there.
Right in front of me. It touches my legs at night, and it feels so real.
I can’t get away from It and don’t know what to do.
That’s why I’m here. Please, tell me you can help me. Please.”
The recording stops. I watch as Dr. Campos removes the tape from his desk and places it back in the file.
“That’s all for now Declan,” he says, before changing his attention. “We’re all set for now, Miss Paxon. He’s all yours.”