Chapter Forty-Seven
Declan
"Good morning, Declan," Dr. Campos says, his voice laced with a fatigue that mirrors the tension in his drawn, haggard face as he leans against the glass divider.
His attempted smile nearly falters beneath the gravity of sleepless nights etched into every crease.
"I do hope you're well rested." The irony of his words hangs between us, heavy with the unmistakable sense that only one of us managed any real sleep.
I let my eyes drift over the dismal, frigid cell I’ve existed in for days, each shadow a reminder of my inner turmoil.
Today, though, something in the oppressive space seems to shift.
In one corner, a plush bean bag sofa exudes an almost mocking invitation with its soft curves, a stark counterpoint to the unyielding concrete.
Nearby, a tall, gleaming carafe brims with piping hot coffee, its steamy aroma mingling with the oddly comforting, buttery scent of freshly baked ham and cheese croissants arranged on a small table.
"Shortly after my honeymoon." He begins as he shifts his weight, and his voice drags me back through a maze of past decisions.
"I met Francis, who I mentioned before." His eyes drift to a place far removed from here as he continues.
"When I left you here last night, I went back to his file.
He was obsessed. Absolutely convinced that some unknown entity was after him, following a precise pattern. "
"A pattern, Doc?" I parrot, my tone rigid.
"Yes,” he answers, sighing deeply, with his next words barely rising above a whisper.
“Man. Woman. Man. Woman. Always the same.
Never differentiating. But at unpredictable intervals.
Ten, eleven, even fifteen years in between.
This thing moves with a cold, precise intent, lurking close, inhabiting shadows.
" Each word weighs on him, burdened by the midnight hours and decades of guilt and newfound shame.
"I dismissed him at the time as nothing more than a madman, despite calling him friend.
Even now, my scribbled notes from our sessions read like the desperate ramblings of someone unhinged. "
I can feel my patience tear at the edges of my composure, the storm of annoyance and confusion panging in my pulse.
"What was that about shadows," I ask, trying to break the flow of his narrative.
Dr. Campos shakes his head almost imperceptibly, his tired eyes reflecting the light like distant regrets.
"I think he meant It lurks in actual shadows. Francis was often fixated on the idea of it lashing out from darkened corners, much like what you and Ms. Brooks described."
A bitter chill sinks into my bones. I recall those unsettling moments of sleep paralysis. The distressing instances when It lunged at me from blackness of my room. I attempt to brush it off, but the prickling on my skin betrays a reluctant understanding.
"Did he say anything more?" I ask hesitantly, each word marinated in apprehension.
"It feeds on energy, on emotion." Choking on the absurdity of his own words, his voice falls to an even murmur, burdened with both anguish and resignation. "Francis used to babble about life forces, as he called them. Like souls, if they were tangible things to be devoured."
"Okay." I shake my head in a conflicted mix of disbelief and dawning recognition. "But how could he possibly know any of this?"
“Ha ha.” Dr. Campos offers a short, humorless chuckle. "I honestly have no idea," he admits, his voice trailing off. "I hoped what you’ve been experiencing was mental. Tricks of the mind. Not—"
"Oh fuck off," I snap, a surge of anger flooding out as I counter his utter bullshit. "Part of you has known this whole time, Doc."
He rubs his temples, the deepening lines on his face betraying a pain he can no longer hide.
"No," he confesses softly. "Denial has long been one of my bigger weaknesses—choosing the safety of ignorance. I dismissed Francis, despite being my friend, and I had little time with Ms. Brooks before it was too late."
"So.” I take a deep breath, centering my focus once more, “What does all of this mean for me, Doc?"
With a final, conflicted exhale, he meets my eyes and states, "It means I’m letting you go."