Chapter 2
CALEB
First there’s the darkness.
Then the faint sound of something dripping.
Outside, the wind howls, clawing at the windows like something trying to get in.
But it’s the scent that slams into me like a slap to the face.
Sharp. Metallic.
Is that . . . blood?
My eyes fly open, and I scramble to my feet.
Oh fuck!
Yes, it’s fucking blood. So much blood.
Did I fall into a slaughterhouse?
Am I drunk?
Nope, don’t remember drinking.
On drugs?
Possibly . . . although unlikely.
Unless someone spiked my water between the hours of 10 p.m. and now.
More likely, I’m just losing my mind. Or hallucinating. Although, this is some hallucination, if so.
If the universe is listening, can I cash in a refund? Because this . . . whatever the fuck this is, isn’t goddamn fun.
And why am I in my office at the clinic?
Did I mention . . . covered in blood?
Is it even mine?
I pat myself down, my hands shaking.
Chest.
Stomach.
Crotch.
All the vital areas are fine. It’s definitely not my blood, at least from what I can tell.
Am I relieved by this knowledge? Nope. Not in the slightest.
It’s fucking blood .
The putrid, sweet smell of it invades my nostrils. I gag, and race for the small sink in the corner of the room, gripping the edge as I dry retch until the contents of my stomach appear.
Sweat pools on my forehead. This isn’t how I pictured my morning to start.
I sink against the wall, clawing at my shirt, tearing it from my body. The fabric sticks to the dried blood on my skin, the remnants of whatever I ate last making its way down the drain.
I scrub my hands over my face.
What the hell is happening to me?
I’m sleep-walking, and , apparently now, sleep-driving. How else do I explain waking up in here and not at home? In my bed . . . where I went to sleep.
What if the police had pulled me over? A laugh almost escapes. That would never happen.
The Thornhaven police department have hired monkeys, and not the trained kind. There’s a killer on the loose, and the only person who seems to care is a woman I haven’t been able to get out of my head since she barged in here yesterday.
She asked about the past. My past. Why?
What does she want from me? And is she the reason I’m in this mess?
I slam the back of my head against the tiles. If only she could see me now. Tragic doesn’t even begin to describe my life.
Her questions scratched at old wounds I thought had healed, bringing the ghosts of Thornhaven Orphanage closer to the surface.
My memory is hazy at best, flickers of images sometimes creeping in.
Bright lights, stark white walls.
The smell of bleach and burning hair.
Sometimes flesh.
And the name Bethany. It’s like a stain in the back of my mind. I just don’t remember how it got there.
I stagger to my feet, gripping the edge of the sink for support. My reflection in the small mirror above it is a horror show—dark hair matted with dried blood, ruby-red streaks smeared across my face and neck.
The putrefying metallic smell fills my nostrils once more, and I gag again, my eyes watering.
If the blood isn’t mine, then whose is it?
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I can’t think about that right now. What I need to do is go home, take a shower, and pray to God I mauled an animal last night. Not that it’s any better—animals are kinder than humans—but at least I won’t be showing up on the nightly news because a squirrel went missing in the middle of the night.
I glance at my watch. My first appointment is at 9 a.m., which gives me exactly one hour and thirty-eight minutes to pull myself together.
A noise, just outside the front of the building. My ears perk up.
The sound of keys jingling, the lock on the front door snapping open. I freeze, my pupils blowing wide in the mirror.
Shit. This can’t be happening.
A soft humming filters down the hallway. Sarah—my receptionist—is early. Or is this her usual time of arrival? How the fuck do I not know this?
I ball my hands into fists at my sides.
How am I going to explain the state I’m in? Sorry, I was painting the walls red and got carried away . . .
Jesus, I even sound like a crazy person. For starters, I should be more concerned about what I did last night, instead of getting caught . . . red-handed.
Okay, okay. I’ve got this. No need to panic.
I have mere seconds before she walks in. She can’t see me like this. Not with the blood, not with the mess I’ve become. One wrong move, and everything I’ve built is gone.
I’ve spent years building this life, my clinic, my patients, a semblance of normalcy. And now, it’s all slipping away, piece by bloody piece.
Each second that passes feels like it’s squeezing the air from my lungs, and I’m on the verge of a complete and utter meltdown.
My fingers dig into my scalp, nails scraping over my skin. I can’t even control my own goddamn mind.
“You can say that again .”
Great. I’m hearing voices, too.
I dart out of my office and into the washroom, my legs unsteady beneath me. The fluorescent lights flicker to life as I stumble inside, slamming the door shut.
Sarah’s humming ceases, and the sound of footsteps down the hall has me hyperventilating. “Is that you, Dr. Caleb? You’re in early this morning.”
My breath comes out in ragged, uneven gasps as I lean against the cold tile wall. At this rate, I’m going to give myself a damn heart attack.
Although, I’m not sure which would be worse right now. Sarah witnessing the wreck that I am, or my heart finally giving out on me.
“Fuck,” I whisper, banging my forehead against the tiles. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”
“Dr. Caleb?” Sarah’s voice is closer now, concern evident in her tone. “Is everything alright?”
“Fine!” I call back, wincing at the hoarseness in my voice. “Just . . . feeling under the weather. I’ll be out in a moment.”
Under the weather? Jesus. I’m also suddenly posh.
With trembling hands, I fumble with the tap on the sink as though I’m not entirely in control of my body. I manage to turn it on full blast, sending water spraying up at me. I scrub frantically at my face and hands, red-tinged water swirling down the drain, swallowing the evidence.
Flashes of memory assault me.
A man’s face, blurred. A bedroom I don’t recognise.
What the hell?
Then there’s the blood.
The curdled screams of someone crying out in pain.
Hands, bloodied hands.
I glance down at my own, blood still caked under my fingernails. The hands in my vision are mine. These hands are murderers.
Am . . . I?
Oh, shit.
My stomach convulses again, but this time there’s nothing to expel but the memories of what I might have done last night. This can’t be real. I need to clean up, erase it all.
Shoving my pants down my thighs, I snatch some paper towel from the holder on the wall, and wet it under the tap. I scrub at the dried blood matted into my chest hair, my stomach.
Okay. That’s better. Now I don’t look like I stepped off the set of a zombie movie.
Exhaling sharply, I throw the paper towel into the small bin beside the sink. Something else catches my eye. My muscles lock up. What the fuck is that? I lean down to get a better look.
More paper towels—bloodied, scrunched up, sitting in the bottom of the bin. A faint red stain lingers on the side of the sink. Dried. Darker than the rest.
A fingerprint.
My chest tightens as I stare at it.
It’s possible I attempted to clean the mess last night. It’s the only logical explanation, although there’s nothing logical at all about this situation.
I swipe the back of my wrist under my nose and sniff, glancing in the mirror. A fine crack runs through the centre of the glass, bisecting my reflection as it stares back at me, paler than usual, like a stranger wearing my face.
The image feels wrong, off somehow. I scrub my hands over my face and force myself to take a deep breath. The knot in my stomach barely loosens.
“Get it together, you pathetic piece of shit.”
“Excuse me?” I whip my head around to the door.
No-one. No-one else is here. I’m still alone, just me and my reflection.
That voice, though? The tone.
I shake my head, slapping my cheeks. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.
“I see nothing has changed .”
Fuck. It’s happening.
“Shut up,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
Who am I even talking to?
I open my eyes and stare at my reflection again. It stares back at me. Twisted and wrong. Something beneath the surface shifts, almost imperceptibly. The eyes are mine, only darker. The pupils swallowed whole. The mouth is mine too, but the lips curve up, just slightly.
Why the hell am I smiling?
A strained laugh escapes me, and I press the heels of my palms into my eye sockets. Oh my god, I’m going fucking insane. This is just . . . great.
“You aren’t going insane,” the voice purrs . “You’re finally waking up again. It’s been too long. But if you don’t pull your shit together, you’re going to ruin this for the both of us.”
The both of us? I pull at my hair. Now I’m definitely hearing voices. It’s possible these are signs of schizophrenia. I need to go to the hospital to have my head checked.
A knock at the door yanks me back to reality. Sarah. Shit.
“What is it, Sarah?”
“Dr. Caleb, I’m worried.” There’s a pause. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
I stare at my reflection for a moment longer. Am I alright?
Nope. Not even close.
“Tell her you’re fine.”
“I’m fine, Sarah,” I say, my mouth moving before my brain catches up. “Why don’t you head over the road and grab us both a coffee?”
“That’s a boy. Very good.”
Now, I’m listening to the voice. Perfect. Soon I’ll have a white van pulling up outside the clinic, a straitjacket with my name on it.
“Okay.” She draws out the word, her voice muffled slightly by the door. “Be back soon.”
Her footsteps get quieter. Then the sound of the front door opening and closing reaches me. I exhale, long and slow, hanging my head.
Right. I need to clean up the rest of this mess, then we’ll deal with whatever the hell is going on later.
Or more likely, I’ll completely ignore it.
I change into a fresh pair of scrubs and shove my hair back with my hands, brushing out the knotted strands as best I can. It’s dark enough to hide the blood stains, and until I can shower, it’ll have to do.
I take a deep breath and step out of the washroom, my heart galloping in my chest. The waiting room is empty, eerily quiet except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights. A dust mote drifts through a sunbeam streaming in from the window, totally oblivious to the chaos running rampant inside me.
Everything is normal. Too normal. Like the world is pretending I didn’t just wake up covered in someone else’s blood.
Sarah is still across the street, the line for the coffee shop already out the door, her blonde bob visible from here. A few minutes is all I have to gather myself before she comes bouncing back through the door.
I dart back into my office, and slump down in the chair. For a long moment I just sit, staring at nothing. I’ve read stories about people going insane from lack of sleep. Is that what’s happening right now? I could have sleep apnoea . . . or something.
Just when my heart rate has settled into an acceptable rhythm, a notification pops up on the computer screen, startling me from my daze. Sniffing, I click it open.
All the air rushes from my lungs.
Two words ‘ body’ and ‘ found’ slap me in the face. My hand hovers over the mouse. Do I want to keep reading?
It doesn’t matter. I’m already scrolling.
The body of Doctor Ernest Hendry was found early this morning. Stabbed to death in his mansion. His death is being treated as suspicious, and for now the residents of Thornhaven should remain vigilant.
That’s police speak for ‘no fucking clue.’
Maeve was right. The murders are linked to the orphanage. Dr. Hendry, he worked there during my time. If that’s what you want to call it.
I drop my gaze to my shaking hands. Flashes of memory collide inside my brain—the glint of a blade, the sound of something wet hitting the floor.
My stomach recoils, the sour taste of vomit still lingering in the back of my throat.
Was it . . . me?
Did I do this?
“You’re welcome ,” the voice inside my head murmurs, humour in the tone, as if this is all some sick joke.
Jokes on him, because I’m not laughing.
Then, just like the high beams on a car racing towards me, realisation slams into me. My breath catches, my vision blurring as a sharp pressure builds behind my eyes.
I grip the edge of the desk.
No, it’s not possible. It’s been years. I thought . . .
“I was gone for good?” A sinister laugh echoes around my skull, forcing me to take deep breaths. “Did you really think you could live your perfect little life without me? You need me, Caleb. You always have.”
I tug at the strands of my hair. Lost time. Blank spaces where my memory should be. The blood. The fucking blood.
Planting my hands on the desk, I force myself onto unsteady legs. An image of a smiling Dr. Hendry stares back at me. Taunting. Willing me to remember what I did.
But there’s a reason I don’t remember.
It’s the same reason I remember little from my time at Thornhaven Orphanage.
I can try explaining it away.
Maybe I hit my head.
Maybe I had a stroke.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
But it’s him. The part of me I thought I buried. The part of me that never really died. He’s controlling the flashbacks, giving me enough to make me question my sanity.
This whole time he’s been the one in control, and I’m just the meat suit he uses to do his dirty work.