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Celestial Souls, Book I: Christine
Chapter Eight: Lost and Found

Throb.

Hm?

Throb.

A small gust of air went past my lips; the best attempt at a sigh I could manage.

Throb.

I think that was my head throbbing. A stab of pain accompanied each throb, and I wanted to cry out.

My vision was still black at the edges.

There were noises, vague and indescribable, somewhere around me. They were quiet. And yet, every time they came, there was another stab of pain shooting through my head. I could feel my face scrunch up at this, feel the rest of my body lying there motionless, but I couldn’t move it.

My vision was slowly coming back, in bits and pieces, like solving a puzzle. A chunk here – a ceiling, painted a bland white – and a chunk there – a ceiling fan, the blades rotating quickly and silently above me. I closed my eyes, still feeling the spinning motion rock through my body, like I was the one spinning around and around.

The noises were still there. My head throbbed. I groaned. This brought on a fresh wave of pain.

I opened my eyes again. The edges of walls were appearing in the edges of my vision. I still felt like I was spinning, and slowly turning my head to the side only made it worse, like my brain was being sloshed about my skull. Walls. Looked to be green in the dim light. I didn’t see a window.

There wasn’t a window on the other side, either.

My body still felt like lead, and it was difficult moving my head, even.

When you go under for surgery, and they wheel you into the recovery ward afterwards, there are nurses there. They tell you where you are, just in case the anaesthesia dulled your mind enough to forget. That was what this was like – coming out of a long, induced stupor. I didn’t have a lot of surgeries when younger, but my mother generally got it if it was covered. My tonsils, for one, and my wisdom teeth later on. The experience was unfailingly the same; they stuck an IV in, slipped an oxygen mask on, and within seconds my vision faded into black, quicker and less recognisable than falling asleep.

And then, when I came to, slowly, in a ward somewhere, there was someone standing over me, saying very clearly and soothingly where I was – the hospital. This was not the hospital, and there wasn’t anyone there. My mouth went dry; I felt a nervous pang in my gut. Where was I?

I still felt dizzy. I tried rolling over onto my side. Wasn’t that what they did in hospitals?

My body didn’t want to co-operate, even as I slowly rolled over, my one arm being crushed underneath my body. Immediately I felt my stomach lurch alongside my brain, a rush of something unpleasant at the back of my throat, and my teeth clamped down painfully on my lower lip.

There were still noises there, and they were getting louder. There was a pause, a brief silence, and then – a gentle swish, a sense of movement as the room spun before my eyes and someone walked in.

My stomach still felt odd, making a strange gurgling noise. The man paused. I couldn’t see him well, just his legs. He was wearing faded blue jeans. After a moment that seemed like forever, I felt a hand on my forehead; very warm – and then, accompanied by another throb, something was slipped into my ear. I tried to turn my head, to fight it, but my senses still spun, and his hand was still on my forehead. The something beeped. It was then removed from my ear.

My stomach gurgled again, followed by a lurch. I clamped my teeth down tighter, feeling my lip go numb from the pressure.

“Are you feeling all right?”

I knew that voice, I knew, but my mind was failing me; I couldn’t connect the dots no matter how hard I tried and to top it off I was all turned around and —

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I heard myself choke out. Within seconds, my head had been placed at the edge of where I lay, a bright red bucket beneath me. And then, finally, my stomach gave up trying to keep it in and I just hurled, the man pulling my hair out of my face.

My throat burned when I was done, but with that over, I felt better. Still dizzy, still weak, but better. A tissue was pressed into my hand, soft and flimsy, and I dabbed at the corners of my mouth.

“Feeling better?” the man said. He did not sound cruel.

“Uh-huh.”

“Good.”

The bucket was taken away then, as the man left the room for a moment. My head still throbbed. Breathing slowly and deeply, I rolled over onto my back again, biting down on my lip as the world spun again. I was not going to be sick again.

The man walked in again, carrying the bucket. It was empty now; he set it beside whatever I was lying on.

“You don’t have a fever,” the man noted. “Can you try and sit up?”

I was feeling very weak and helpless at the moment, and so I did – tried to – what he suggested. Moving my hands slowly, I tried to prop myself up with my arms. A wave of dizziness, stronger than all the previous ones, came over me and I fell back onto the bed – it had to be a bed – groaning. After a moment I tried again, getting into a semi-sitting position before the room spun and I found myself falling sideways; arms wrapped around me and pulled me fully into a straightened position. By now I was face-to-face with the man, and even though the light in the room was not the best, there was something familiar, something my fuzzy mind couldn’t quite put its’ finger on...

“There, dearie. Stay sitting up and see if it passes.”

The pieces clicked into place in my mind.

“Mr. Dessler?”

“Yes?”

My mind was reeling, or that could have been the lingering dizziness. “Where am I?”

“You passed out. I brought you to one of the guest rooms to lie down.”

That was enough for my mind to reassemble the scrambled pieces, and everything fell into place a second time: I had been in the basement, with Eric. It had been Halloween, about half-past five, and we had heard something, or someone from behind the basement wall. We were gonna get help, Eric had said, and then I had panicked and passed out. That sounded about right. Except for the passing out part. Something didn’t seem right about that, but I was still feeling unwell enough to not question it.

“Where’s Eric?”

“He’s in his room.”

In his room? I thought he was going outside to get help...

“But I thought...we needed – he needed...to get help,” I said, the words coming slowly in my mind, “There was something coming from the wall, and...”

“Oh, dearie, it’s just an old house. Probably something burrowed into the walls.”

“No,” I said, more forcefully than I intended; he jumped a little, “There’s no way that was just rats or something. This was a person. They were yelling and tapping on the wall.”

In the darkness, I felt Mr. Dessler pat my hand affectionately. “Christine, dearie, you’re not well. You’re not thinking clearly! I’ll get you a glass of water and you can sleep it off.”

“My mother will—”

“I called your mother already,” he said, “She said you could stay here for the night and she’d come get you in the morning. I didn’t want to drive you home unconscious.”

I felt myself frown. That didn’t sound like my mother. I knew my mother pretty well, and she was the definition of protective. Hell, she had the ‘protective parent’ thing down better than Papa ever did. If anything I would have expected her to come there straightaway...

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure,” he said. “Now I’ll get you that water, dearie. Wait here.”

No, I wanted to say, you’re not sure, I’m not sure – something is wrong. Very, very wrong. But I couldn’t explain exactly what. Maybe I didn’t know my mother as well as I thought I did, but that was unlikely. But I knew that was no rat; no rat had the intelligence to tap out Morse code and talk. And what kind of guest room had no windows? And where was Eric?

Mr. Dessler came back with the promised glass of water, pressing it into my hands. I muttered a thank you, unsure of what to do. Sipping it down slowly, my stomach still gurgling a little, I sat there. Mr. Dessler fished out a blanket from somewhere and passed it to me. It wasn’t much, but the room wasn’t very cold.

“I’ll come and check on you in the morning,” he said, “Good night.”

And then, he left. Somewhere in the hallway, I heard a door opening, then shutting, followed by the creak of footsteps on a staircase. I was left alone in the room.

It was then, just then, that I finally realised I had a watch on me somewhere, or should have. Feeling my right wrist, I was relieved to feel it underneath my sweater. Tugging back the sleeve, I struck the correct button and squinted at the glowing screen: one-forty-two in the morning. If I guessed and said I’d been awake for ten to fifteen minutes at that point, that still meant I was passed out for a good seven hours. How could anyone be unconscious for so long? No wonder I’d puked.

I was still feeling badly – even if the dizziness had slowly passed, or was on its’ way out, I felt a strange light-headedness that, maybe, would go away with sleep...

I should have used my time alone to do something, to figure out where I was, but I was feeling so off that it was a relief when I set the empty glass aside and pulled the thin blanket over me, slowly nodding off as I rested on the uncomfortable pillow.

My dreams that night were very strange and disjointed, flashes of the evening coming and going before my closed eyes, accompanied my flashes of the store and all the strange things it contained. Altogether, it was nonsensical, having no beginning or sense of clear direction, and it only ended when I jolted awake.

It had to be morning now. As I woke up, feeling like death warmed over and then some, I noticed hints of sunlight coming into the room. Peeling my eyes open, for they felt like they were stuck shut, I glanced over to the wall on my right. I had been wrong the previous night; there was a window, a tiny, rectangular window set high into the wall near the ceiling. It was covered with a little curtain, but sunlight still made its’ way in.

Only a basement had that kind of window, I realised. A sense of horror crept over me as my situation finally sunk in with my clear-headedness. Feeling numb, I stood slowly, the carpeted floor warm beneath my feet, and slowly crept out of the room. If anyone asked, I needed to use the bathroom, but I had a horrible sense no one was going to ask.

The hallway that I found myself in was incredibly narrow, giving enough space for an average person to walk, single-file. It was also very short; there were doors on both ends. Glancing about, scared someone would see, I tip-toed over to the one nearest me, trying to open the door as silently as possible. It was the same kind of wood and make as the other doors in the house, very old-looking, and I only relaxed when it opened without squeaking.

It was a bathroom, very small, with a toilet, a sink, and a shower stall, and not much room to move between them. The stall looked newer than everything else, which had a very dated, old look. There was the bathroom. Shutting the door, I then crept silently to the other end. That door was locked. Finally, there was a third door that I had passed. I almost didn’t want to know what was in that third room.

But at the same time I had to be sure. Placing a clammy hand on the knob, I twisted it slowly, and tried to open it without sound as I had the other doors. Thankfully it opened silently, and I found myself holding my breath as I angled myself to see as much as I could through the little crack I allowed myself. My heart was pounding in my chest, making it difficult to hear much.

All I could see was that she wasn’t awake yet, sprawled out on the futon given to her. My mouth dried out, and I shut the door too quickly for my own good, stumbling backwards. My back pressed up against the wall of the hallway, my head following, the sense of horror came back tenfold. My mother was not coming this morning, I realised, my mouth dry, and I had not simply passed out.

My legs wobbled, and finally gave out. I stayed there for what felt like ages, feeling my heart ready to burst out of my chest and beginning to hyperventilate. It was only when I heard movement, definite movement, above me did my muscles spring into action. Forcing myself to my feet, I half-ran, half-crawled over to the room I’d been in before. Maybe there was something there, something I could use to buy time, or distance—

I had been resting on a futon as well. It was very simply built, made to be easily tucked away when not needed. There wasn’t much else besides a small closet. There was no bar for hangers, no metal shelf, just the closet with a few things stuffed in there. Blankets. Nothing I could use.

Maybe I could break the bucket. It was hard plastic; the broken edge could be jagged enough to draw blood. It could buy me time. Seizing the bucket, I tried to break it on the edge of the futon – wham, it went as I slammed it down on the edge of the frame. Nothing. I tried again, and again, and nothing happened. Not to the futon frame, and not to the bucket. Shit.

The door handle! It was an old place; maybe it would fall off easily. Seizing it, I wrenched it firmly, twisting and turning and tugging, hoping a piece of it might break off. It clicked and clacked as the lock twisted and turned with my movements, but it wouldn’t budge. Feeling a growl of frustration building in my throat, I ran back outside.

Pain shot through me as I ran face-first into the wall, having not taken into account the narrowness of the hallway. I pulled back quickly, the struck parts throbbing, bringing back last night’s – this morning’s – headache. Dazed a bit, I headed to the bathroom. There had to be something there. Just about anything could be used as a weapon. It couldn’t be too hard to find something.

I grunted as I walked straight into the sink, the edge catching my gut, and I caught myself on the cold porcelain. The noises were still above me, slow and unsure. Good. I think that bought me some time. Feeling along the tiled wall, I came across a light switch, my hand flicking it automatically. When the lights came on, I was staring back at my own sickly reflection, my skin a horrible shade of white, and a hint of rings under my eyes.

It took me a good, long moment for my mind to calm down enough to see it, and when I did, I grinned madly. It did not make my reflection look any better; if anything, I looked worse. If anyone were there to see, they probably thought I was crazy. A maniacal little giggle escaped my throat, before I quickly shushed myself, an eerie calm coming over me. How simple. And how funny I hadn’t thought of it before – all I’d do was break the mirror. I’d done it before, hadn’t I? One of the pieces should be big enough to use like a knife.

Now, what was I to smash it with? Not my hands. They’d get all cut up. The bucket, maybe. I went to go fetch it, the red plastic not even dented from my earlier escapade. It was one of those big, industrial-looking buckets, with a thin metal handle and sharp edges. Hopefully a few good throws would break the thing. Backing up as far as I could go (which, as my back pressed up against the wall, wasn’t far), I threw the bucket as hard as I possibly could.

It clanged against the mirror, bouncing off it, clattering to the cold tile floor. Not even a dent. I picked it up again. Again, with a clang, it bounced off the mirror and struck the floor. A third time.

On the fourth throw she showed up, dressed in a thin pink shirt and very wrinkled looking jeans. I didn’t notice her until the bucket had fallen to the floor and I watched as a hairline crack appeared in the glass of the mirror. Good, that meant it would shatter much easier. But when I went to pick up the sorry bucket, I saw her, standing in the doorway and looking bemused, and very, very tired.

“That mirror isn’t gonna break,” she said, stifling a yawn, “Trust me, you’re not the first person whose tried.”

I jabbed a finger towards the mirror. “No way,” I said to her, a little too eager, “See? It’s cracked.”

She followed the direction of my point, glancing at the mirror. “It ain’t much of a crack.”

“It’s something,” I said. “Now are you gonna help me or not?”

“I think not,” she said. “Put down the bucket and go back to your room. Try and calm down. Everything’ll go much better that way.”

“Calm down? Calm down? Are you insane?”

“You look like the crazy one,” she said. “Smashing that’s only gonna cut up your arms.”

“So? I’m trying to get out of here!”

“Everyone’s tried to get out of here, okay? And everyone’s failed. And yet...everyone’s come back okay. Just sit down, do as he says, and you’ll probably be out of here by tonight.”

“Except you.”

She stiffened, her muscles tensing. “Except me, yeah. But I’m not quite like everyone else, apparently. Not that you need to worry about it.”

I stood there, still holding the bucket. It wasn’t tough enough; I needed something stronger, something a bit more sturdy than plastic...

“I’m trying to help you, okay? I was scared when I first found myself here – hell, I’m still a little scared even if he’s promised over and over that he’s not gonna hurt me. And what I’ve found is to stay calm and just go with the flow. So you can stand here, trying to smash a glass mirror with a little plastic bucket until something breaks and you cut yourself up something fierce, or you can go back into your room and wait until he comes down. He usually brings breakfast around nine. I’m going back to my room. I suggest you do the same.”

Breakfast? The mere mention of it reminded me I was hungry now, but how she could just stand there, going on and on in such a calm tone like absolutely nothing was wrong when everything was wrong; everything that could possibly be wrong was...

It was as she turned and left did I get an idea. The showerhead. She could stay in her room all she liked; that was why she had been missing for a week now, But I – I was gonna do something, I wasn’t just going to stand there. That was what my mother had said. Fight back. That was what she had always said. I was going to fight back.

I set the bucket down, quietly creeping over to the shower. Most showerheads could unscrew relatively easily; I just hoped this would be one of them. I glanced upwards. It wasn’t the kind that we had, with a hose that could be pulled down; this looked more like the nozzle of a watering can, screwed in directly to the wall. It was just out of my reach.

Stepping inside the shower stall, I saw there was a small bench built into it; stepping onto it, I found I could barely reach it. With my left hand clutching the door for support and my right hand attempting to unscrew the head from the wall, I felt tense as I tried not to slip and fall. The metal was smooth and difficult to turn until finally, with a squeak, it started coming loose. Relief flooded over me as I struggled to loosen it enough to pull it free.

Finally, it gave, falling to the floor with a loud clunk. I winced, scrambling to pick it up. Had he heard? I hoped he hadn’t heard. It was much heavier than the bucket and I adjusted my grip on it, moving towards the door. Just like swinging a baseball bat, that was all it was. So what if I was horrible at baseball?

The crunch it made as it collided solidly with the mirror was satisfying; a spider web-like arrangement of cracks had formed, and, with a final swing, I slammed it with as much force as I could muster – it shattered spectacularly, and I threw myself out of the bathroom to avoid the miniscule bits of glass. They lined the floor now, tiny and glimmering. I scanned them to see if there was a big enough piece – damn! They were all small ones, except for one decently-sized piece still clinging to the mirror frame. Maybe I could wrench it out.

I hissed, feeling pain shoot up my hand and a sudden feeling of warmth. Glancing down slowly, I saw a long cut on my palm, seeping blood onto my skin. Shit. I couldn’t just grab it.

I headed back to the room I’d been in. The blanket on the futon was thin, but it was all that was there; I seized the nearest end and wrapped my hand in it, seeing a hint of a reddish stain seep through. The cut was beginning to throb, as my head still was, and I stumbled out into the hallway. The mirror was still shattered.

My hand was all but bundled in the thin cloth, and I hoped this would be enough of a barrier to prevent a second gash. Trying to steady the shard with my left while I tugged it out with my right, it finally broke free with an odd cracking noise, like an icicle being wrenched from a roof. A second later I found myself holding a fragment of mirror, no longer than a pencil and tapering to a sharp point. I stayed still, trying to hear the noises upstairs. Where was he?

The door down the hallway opened with only a faint creak. I found myself frozen. Shit. I had thought there was more time than that! I threw myself behind the door. God, I hope he didn’t notice me, or the mirror.

Mr. Dessler appeared at the bottom of a staircase, holding a small tray of something. Fully dressed already, looking no different than the man I’d met outside the previous day, he looked completely, utterly calm as he knocked on the door closest to him, leaving the tray outside before disappearing upstairs. I heard the door click shut again. My heart still hammering in my chest, it was horrible to move, to creep out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

This had to be a mistake. There was no way that pleasant man could be the man behind this. I took a step down the hallway, my legs feeling like they were going to give way again. He had been so...kind. How could he have...? I took a second step, feeling my knees wobble.

The third step forced me to throw a hand out for support, holding my makeshift knife away from me. And, on the fourth step, I heard him come downstairs again, slowly. On the fifth step, the door opened. He did not notice me at first, carefully balancing a small tray in his hands. But on the sixth step – my legs were seriously wobbling now – he looked up. At me. His eyes were very brown. I had never noticed before.

My hand was throbbing still from the gash, but I held up my weapon, the shard reflecting the small bit of light in the area. My muscles were starting to cramp up from how tightly I was holding it, my hand trembling as I forced myself to simply stand, and not collapse into a scared heap in front of him. I would fight back. I had told my mother I could do that.

His voice was disturbingly calm for the situation: “Put that down, Christine.”

I opened my mouth to tell him ‘no’, but my voice failed me, only coming out in a faint rasp, and so I shook my head instead, the mere motion bringing back a hint of dizziness.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, still calm, “You see? I have no weapon. This is just breakfast. You must be hungry, aren’t you?”

I didn’t know why, and I probably never would, but everything crashed into one – the man from last night compared to the man who was kidnapping women, and which of those men was in front of me? My legs finally gave out, sinking slowly to the floor. My nails scraped across the wall with a horrible scriiiiitch noise, all the way down to the floor. My hand was not letting go of the mirror shard. Was I really planning on stabbing Mr. Dessler?

I could hear my own panicked, gaspy breathing more than I could hear him, receding inwards to listen to the sounds of my own panic: my breathing, my heart, my own confused thoughts jostling for my attention.

“There, there, dearie,” I could hear him say, soothingly, “It’s all right.”

He set the tray down, slowly, and stayed low so that he was more level with me.

“Now why don’t you put that down and have a bit to eat? I’m sure you’ll feel much better—”

He moved towards me, slowly, reaching out to take the shard from me, and instinct took over, my arm moving to swipe at his.

“No!” I choked out, trying to shove myself backwards.

“Shit!” he hissed as the jagged edge sliced his arm, ripping his shirtsleeve open before breaking the skin. He jerked away quickly, blood already seeping from the wound I’d inflicted. It wasn’t that long, and he pressed his free hand to it to stem the flow. The tip of the shard was tinged with blood.

And yet, even though I’d hurt him, he did not get mad, he did not disappear upstairs to tend to the wound – he stayed there, keeping the distance I was trying to put between us. He stayed level with me. And I stayed where I was, the fight ebbing out of me.

“I’m sure you’re scared, Christine,” he said, wincing from the gash, “And you have every right to be. But I didn’t hurt you yesterday, and I’m not going to hurt you now. Please. Put the glass down.”

I didn’t know why, but my hand lowered, slowly, as panic gave way to fatigue. The hand gripping it, still throbbing, slowly unlocked its’ position until the shard landed uselessly on the floor. My hand, now free, ached. Mr. Dessler was still very slow to move until, finally, he moved forward and nudged the shard away from both of us; it tumbled and landed towards the door.

“Now,” he said slowly, “Why don’t you go back to your room, and I’ll get something to patch this up.”

I don’t know why I did it, why I listened to him rather than attacking him further. I could have, and we both knew it. But he was so bizarrely peaceful despite everything – he wasn’t angry or threatening, he was simply there, and I couldn’t see a vicious man there. I just saw the man I ate dinner with the night before, the one who’d seemed concerned over my welfare and who seemed to like me. Even if I knew he’d likely lied to me earlier, both about passing out and about calling my mother, I couldn’t bring myself to do any further damage.

Even if someone else in my position would have done that easily. I could be making a fatal mistake for all I knew, but the other girls; they’d been released all right, hadn’t they? Shaken up, yes, but all right. I stood, slowly, rejecting Mr. Dessler’s offered hand, blood smeared on his palm. I stumbled back to the room, crashing onto the futon. He came in a second later, leaving the tray on the floor, and the leaving just as quickly. I heard him go upstairs, the creak of the floorboards above me an indicator.

He could have poisoned the food for all I knew. But I was tired now, and hungry. I crept over to the tray, trailing the sheet behind me. It turned out to be a bowl of oatmeal and a second glass of water. Bland. Very bland. But it was food.

Mr. Dessler came back while I was in the midst of picking at it, having changed into a fresh shirt. With his sleeves rolled up, I could see the white gauze wrapped around his arm. But he passed me by, and within a moment he was in the little bathroom, cleaning up the shards still scattered all over the floor. I watched him come and go by the door with various things to get every last piece, until, when I was just about finished picking at my bowl, he came along with a piece of cardboard. And then, finally, he came back to me, hovering in the doorway rather than stepping in.

“Better?” he said. I didn’t say anything, half-curling into the sheet I was still gripping onto, my hand still pressed into it. “Or not.”

He moved, very slowly and deliberately, towards me, suggesting I should show him my cut hand. But he paused before he came too close, and I dimly got the idea that I had been the first to really, truly attack him. Was he wary of me? Did he think I would turn into a maniac if he frightened me too much?

I winced as he peeled the blanket away from my cut; the blood had made it partially stick to the thin sheet and I could feel it stinging as it was finally exposed to air. A bloody stain was on the sheet. He tisked and went upstairs again, taking the tray with him. When he came back down, he had a roll of gauze and some...bottle. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but he led me to the bathroom – a piece of cardboard had been taped over the mirror frame for the time being – washed the cut, and then sprayed some of the bottle onto it before wrapping it in gauze. It must have been an antiseptic.

It was only when we went back to the room, him standing in the doorway, I curled up on the futon, did I manage to speak: “Why?”

“Why what?” he said, before catching himself. “Why? Because I panicked, all right? She was scratching at the walls so loudly I didn’t know what would happen if you left the room. They all have, mind you, and that’s why there’s those awful gash marks in the drywall, but she’s been steadily going at it for the week.”

I shook my head. That wasn’t what I had meant, but it brought up questions of its’ own: “But Eric was with me too. He was right beside me.”

“I know,” Mr. Dessler said bitterly. His expression was contorted into one of regret. “Killed me to do it.”

“He got knocked out too?”

“You took the brunt of it. He didn’t get quite as much. Woozy, but conscious. I led him to his room to sleep it off.”

“Is he okay?”

“Physically, yes,” he said, looking agonised merely talking about it, whatever it was. I still didn’t know what had caused me to pass out.

There was a long silence. In the other room, I could hear her going about what had become her routine now. Mr. Dessler looked upset still, leaning against the doorframe.

“I meant...” I started, “why...would you do this to begin with? Not just me, but all those other girls – just...taken, just like that! And then you let them go! Why? I don’t understand.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to,” Mr. Dessler said, trying to recompose himself. “And I wouldn’t expect you to believe me even if I did explain it. God only knows she doesn’t, and if I weren’t so damned sure I’d say I couldn’t blame her.”

That didn’t answer my question, and I looked at him, my puzzled expression written all over my face. Mr. Dessler glanced at me and sighed. He didn’t seem any calmer than he was before, though he was trying. But he didn’t seem like he was going to say anything just yet. Behind him, I heard the other girl – Carmen, her name must’ve been; it sounded familiar – leave her room.

“Are you going to move?” she said mildly.

He edged into my room just enough to let her pass, then stepped out again, continuing to hover by the doorway.

“Explain...what?”

There was another long pause. “May I come in? I don’t want to frighten you.”

I debated it. I was in a bad, vulnerable position. He knew it, I knew it. But...what other options were there? My pitiful attempt at attack had failed when my legs gave out with my nerves...and there were all the other unharmed girls out there...and...and...

“Okay,” I said slowly. He edged into the room, cautiously, perching himself on the far edge of the bed, while I put myself as far away as I reasonably could, my back pressed up against the wall. With the door now partially closed, only open a crack, we were alone. It was very quiet; Mr. Dessler still seemed torn up about whatever he’d done to Eric, and it took a while before he spoke, mentally sorting out his words.

“Mr. Dessler?” I prompted.

“I’ll admit, I’m...not quite sure where to begin. No one’s asked me why I’m doing this; they just asked how, if that – why them, what did I want, who I was. But then again, you’re ahead of the curve, aren’t you?”

“I am?”

“Yes,” he said. “I can’t say I know what they’re doing in that store on Queen’s, but it’s certainly odd.”

“What’s the store have to do with this?”

“I can’t say for sure, as I’ve never seen what goes on. But the people there...well, I don’t know how to explain it for sure, but let’s just say you’re a little more immersed in this world than most people.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mr. Dessler sighed. “Do you really, truly think this little planet is the only one out there?”

“No.”

“Let me rephrase...do you think this is the only planet with life on it?”

“I dunno,” I said. I had never entertained the concept before. There could be, or there couldn’t be, but it mattered little either way to me.

“Why do they all say that?” he said to himself, “Well, I hate to burst your little bubble, dearie, but you’re not alone. There are others.”

“That’s nice,” I said stupidly. “I don’t see what this has to do with kidnappings.”

“I’m getting to that,” he said, “There are other planets, other peoples out there, and they’ve been subtly trying to immerse themselves in here for decades. They need the information for their programs, I believe. The goal is eventual integration – but that’s beside the point. Whether you believe or not, let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that there are other peoples out there. Do you know of reincarnation?”

“Sort of,” I said. O’Reilly had vaguely covered it at some point or another; all of her lectures blending into one big one that I couldn’t pick out individual concepts.

“Yes, well, if someone died on one planet, what’s to say they couldn’t be reborn here?”

“I dunno,” I said stupidly.

“There is one people, not far from here – they call themselves the Nisekem. About two centuries ago or thereabouts, the head of the army staged a coup. Went fairly smoothly until the end, when a series of bad events caused him to lose. The details aren’t important right now, just know that he died. The monarchy had accused him of kidnapping their heir, a princess, and murdering her when she was found dead, too.”

“So you’re...trying to re-enact this...”

“Would you wait until I’m finished?” he said impatiently. “So the crown princess is found dead, and pretty soon four other princesses are dead, too. There’s a big panic. Now, reincarnation says, basically, when one person dies, they will eventually be reborn in another body somewhere else. It doesn’t necessarily have to be their home country. Let’s just say these five heirs were reincarnated. What’s to say they couldn’t be reborn here?

“Now let’s say the heads of these countries, either because of personal belief or a state religion, truly believe in reincarnation. They really believe it can happen and they really believe their daughters have been reborn somewhere else. Is it not plausible they would go searching for them?”

“I guess so,” I said. “Like the Dalai Lama?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Now, the legal details are beyond me, but let’s say they’re searching so they can be placed back upon the throne, regardless of their current station in life. And if we assume there is more than one life-harbouring planet out there and each planet had multitudes of countries with multitudes of laws, then they’ve got billions of people to sift through. But they haven’t looked through here yet, and that is where I have the advantage.

“I am trying to find these heirs. Why...well, that’s my business, dearie, not yours. But unlike the leaders who know of each other and can come and go as they please, I can’t. We’re stuck out in the proverbial boondocks, and I can’t just go up the police and ask for a bit of legal help searching for a reincarnated crown princess. They’d ship me off to the funny farm. So I have to do it covertly. I don’t like to do it this way. If I had my way I’d do it out in the open with no more fuss than going for a check-up. But the world doesn’t operate the way I please, and so I’ve been forced to.”

“Does...your family,” I said, quickly shifting the focus away from solely Eric, “ know of this?”

“Of course not,” he said with a frown. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere, remember? I must pretend everything is normal so that they’re not affected.”

“But why let them go after a couple days?”

“Because that’s all it takes to know that they’re not the person I’m looking for – and if they’re not the person I’m looking for, I have no business with them.”

It was all very stupid-sounding, like the plot of a bad science-fiction movie. But the eagerness with which he explained it gave me the impression that he did believe it to be true. Ignoring how stupid it sounded, I tried to connect the dots. He was looking for certain people, and it took only a day or so of questioning to figure it out, tops. All the other girls had been released after a few days, but the Carmen – she’d been here a week. They’d classed it as a standard missing-persons case now, for crying out loud.

“But that other girl, in the other room,” I said slowly, “she’s been here much longer than everyone else. Are you saying...?”

“That I believe her to be one of them,” he said, looking pleased I’d figured it out. “She doesn’t believe, of course, and it’s been painful to try and explain it to her.”

“And what’s this gonna do? What’s keeping her here going to really do?”

“Nothing except allow me to keep an eye on her,” he said. “Until I can get a hold of the current ruling family, a tricky situation at best, I think it best to know where they are.”

“So...what, you’re looking for money? You think if you find these women, these alien people’ll pay you?”

It seemed stupid even as it slipped out of my mouth, but the desire for money was a strong one, that I knew. It was why my mother worked long shifts, it was why I felt a twinge of jealousy looking at the Dessler’s nice house. The idea of conning some king out there somewhere with his reincarnated grandmother or something seemed like a good way to get money.

“I said my reasons were my own,” he said. “I don’t feel the need to share those with you.”

All right, so that area was out of the question. Time to shift other tactics. “I still don’t see what the store has to do with it.”

“Do you remember when I said you were immersed more than most people? I’ve never seen what happens there myself, but judging by what you and Eric have said, I’m willing to bet that that is one of the outposts for some other country. I don’t know which one – and I’m not a linguist, either, so even though they’re speaking something odd, I wouldn’t know which language it is.”

“You’re saying that the Kendricks are aliens?”

“If you want to get technical, yes. I’m not using the term to mean science-fiction aliens; more like the legal term alien – a person who lives somewhere without being a legal citizen. I don’t know what their home country might be; they could have adopted aliases for all I know.”

“So they’re from another country,” I said slowly. “What’s that—”

“Another country on another planet. That’s the difference between them and your average immigrant.”

I couldn’t help it. I found myself arching an eyebrow, a pose my mother usually did when she was incredulous. He was speaking of it so mundanely – yeah, they were aliens, but they were hiding out here as illegal immigrants just like lots of other people. Like it was no big deal. I didn’t want to believe it, but it could – might – explain the odd languages. It didn’t explain the shifty looks.

“So what mysterious alien country are you from?”

A hint of a smile crossed his face. “A mysterious and far-away place called England, dearie.”

“Then how do you know all this stuff?”

“Did you not hear me say earlier that they’re trying to integrate this place? It has to start somewhere.”

He left not long after that, which was just as well; an awkward silence had fallen upon us. It left me in the room with my own thoughts, still baffled. Aliens. New planets. Integration. Reincarnation. I had wanted answers, and I had wanted them badly, and now I had them and I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Ruth, Theophanes, and Konstancja being from another country? Yeah, I could buy it; Ruth had a Southern drawl, and Theophanes and Konstancja had their own unusual accents. But being from another country on another planet? I wasn’t so sure I could buy that.

There were the odd languages – the harsh sounding, jagged-script one; the flowing, lyrical one – that they were very evasive about. If they were really open about where they came from, why wouldn’t they just tell me, rather than make up a name? It’s not like I would have reported them to the government. But if they didn’t want me to know because I would have never heard of those countries...

Carmen came by eventually, her hair damp from a shower.

“He gave you the alien spiel, did he?” she said, her voice still carefully neutral. “He’s been going at it for a week now. I almost want to say that I buy it just to see if he’ll let me out.”

I didn’t quite know what to say to that. “Dunno. Maybe.”

“You’ll probably be home by tomorrow,” she said, her voice intending to be reassuring, but a hint of bitterness was creeping in. “He’ll come in, ask you a few questions, and that’s that.”

“Like what?”

“What sorts of things do you remember,” she snorted, “Dreams, memories of when you were a baby – I said I dunno, I can’t remember that far back, but still...”

“You must’ve said something.”

“Must’ve, but I don’t know what.”

“Has he...hurt you?”

“No,” she said. “Hasn’t touched me. He’s been very polite for someone keeping me hostage.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah...” she said. It was with relief that she let me be, heading back to her room. I was alone again, sitting on the futon and trying to process it all. It refused to be processed.

Mr. Dessler came back a little after one in the afternoon, according to my watch, with a little snack for lunch and an odd box-like device. It looked a little like a space heater, but it was far too small for that. He set in down in a corner of the room before leaving me be with the lunch. It was a sandwich.

After I’d finished, which didn’t take long, he stepped back into my room again, cautiously. Again he sat at the edge of the bed, and again I sat near the wall. His face was less emotional now; he looked set, steeling himself to do something.

“Eric’s moping. It’s driving me up a wall,” he said, half-regretful, half-exasperated. “I told him...well, I suppose it’s not important. It was a pain to set up. But, while you’re here, I suppose I might as well...you seem like a nice girl, so let’s just get this over with and you can be on your way.”

“Get what over with?”

“It’s just a few questions. I shan’t hurt you. You can close your eyes; it helps with concentration.”

I chose to keep them open for the time being.

“Answer honestly and things will go much faster,” he said, with the intonation of someone who had said the exact thing over and over before, “Have you had any unusual dreams lately?”

Co-operate with him, that was what Carmen had suggested. She seemed all right. “What d’you mean by unusual?”

“Any dreams that were unusually vivid, that didn’t feel like a dream?”

“No,” I said. I would have remembered if I’d been having unusual dreams, but the ones I’d been having were my own situation reflected back at me.

“What is your earliest memory?”

I stared at him. “I don’t know. A birthday party when I was about seven.”

“Well surely you must remember further back that that,” he said impatiently. “Think, would you?”

I sighed, trying to think. My early years were sort of hazy, bouncing from base to base, never really getting settled. But I strove to think of even earlier than that, well before Thom was born, when I knew Mama and Sylvia were still in the process of attaining citizenship, living in a small apartment in Toronto. My father was there too. It had been an unusual situation, my mother had once said, but I couldn’t remember why...

“When I was about...two,” I said, “just turned two. My mother was carrying me around the apartment we lived in.”

“And? Describe it as much as you remember.”

Finally, I had to close my eyes. I couldn’t see it very clearly at all, just hazy snatches of the apartment – a window there, a doorframe here – and my mother, dressed in some eighties way with big hair and bright colours. But I didn’t know if that was actually my memory, or if I was merely inventing this from the pictures I’d seen. She was talking in German, of course. I was probably inventing that last part, but it was plausible; she always spoke German when she could help it.

“I dunno what’s she’s doing, but she’s talking. I can’t remember what she’s saying.”

“And?”

“And that’s all I can really remember,” I said, opening my eyes. “My sister mighta been there, but I can’t know for sure.”

He seemed to process it, before continuing. “Do you remember any vivid dreams as a child?”

“If I can barely remember what happened when I was two, how could I remember my dreams?”

“If they’re vivid enough I think the memory would stick,” he said, “Don’t get angry with me; I didn’t write the questions.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t remember anything.”

The questioning continued on in this vein for quite some time – at least an hour and a half – before he finished. It was all sort of touchy-feely how do you feel questions, like Carmen had said. And when he did, he seemed to sit and process the information for a long while.

“Well?” I said. “What’s your diagnosis?”

“You’re just like everyone else,” he said simply. “Which is good. You’re all right; I wouldn’t mind if you dropped by more often.”

“Why would I want to drop by after this?”

“That is what this is for,” he said, lifting up the small box. I could now see that it folded in on itself, a latch keeping it shut. Mr. Dessler unlatched it and carefully began unfolding and assembling...it on the bed. “It’s not perfect, but nothing is. Hopefully after this, your mind will naturally repress any remaining bits, and we can all pretend nothing happened. I’ve been told it’s a little uncomfortable, but not painful, rather like having a bad headache. Don’t worry, I’ve got a little something else for that.”

He was almost finished with it. I still didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen. Small, but industrial-looking. Mass-produced, and possibly standard-issue; it had that drab, military look to it. It also looked painfully complicated.

“What is it?”

“A memory-repressing device. You’re not a bad kid, but I can’t have you telling everyone.”

“Is that...legal?”

“Where it was manufactured, yes. Here...well, not so much. Don’t worry, this should numb the ache a little bit.”

Shit, he was going to wipe my memory? No one Jamie had such an odd look on her face when she was rescued. I felt my muscles tense.

He reached for something on his belt, pulling out what could only be a gun. It looked more like the pricing guns at a store than a handgun, several buttons and dials were on, it, and the display was a dull grey.

“Hey, that’s got a display on it,” I said. My mind went back to the couple in the store – ‘I can never read those foreign displays’ the man had said, and his wife or girlfriend or whatever had asked me if there was any gun laws. “Is that a gun?”

“Of sorts,” he said.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, why do you care?”

“I think I saw something like that in the store. I didn’t get a good look at them.”

“Did you?” he said. “They must be making a tidy profit off those alone. Now, just hold still and try not to move too much.”

Fiddling with the buttons and the displays, I heard a faint humming from the gun – ah, that was what that noise had been, it had been the gun – while Mr. Dessler pointed it at my head. I froze. Oh shit, it had just struck me that he was going to knock me out again, and it was unpleasant enough the first time—

The hum abruptly died. Mr. Dessler frowned. Pressed more buttons. The hum started up again, briefly, before dying, like attempting to start a car.

“Shit,” he said, pushing the buttons again, to no use. “Oh God, don’t tell me the battery...”

Sliding something out of the handle, he inspected it closely, then swore again.

“What’s the matter?”

“Battery’s dead. I just recharged it this morning, too. Must be gone for good.”

He looked confused and disappointed at the loss of his weird gun. I could only feel relieved. I was conscious, still, and I had all my memories intact.

“What about the mind-wiping thing?”

“No point using it when you’re still fully conscious. They say it’s harder to use that way. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never done it like that.”

I had a temporary break. He’d probably get a hold of a new battery for his gun and that would be it, but I had time. I had to remember what he’d told me. I couldn’t explain why it was so important, but it was. As nonsensical and bizarre as the whole situation was, it was something to think about and puzzle over and possibly confront Ruth with. If I ever saw Ruth again. Or if I remembered her.

Mr. Dessler, still looking sour, redid the latch on the mind-wiping thing. But then he perked up.

“You said you saw guns like these at that store?” he said.

“Yeah. Locked up in a cabinet.”

“Hm,” he said, thinking. “How about tonight you and I go down there and I’ll see if I can’t pick up a new one?”

“That’s hardly a fair deal. What do I get out of it?”

“You’re in no position to bargain,” he said.

“Obviously you need me, or else you wouldn’t say I should come along,” I said, a touch of annoyance coming into me. “I don’t want my mind wiped. At all. Then I’ll help.”

“Dearie, it’s for the best,” he said, “If they think you know a shred of anything, they’ll interrogate you for hours. Do you really want to put up with that? The police are much more aggressive than I am.”

“I can play dumb. But I want to remember this.”

“You don’t think the police would be able to see through that in a heartbeat? Christine, I’d like to let you remember, I really would, but for your own safety I must do this. It’s not painful. It’s just like forgetting what you were going to say next.”

“I don’t give a damn about what you think is safe! I don’t...I don’t know what it is. But I want to remember it for later. Let me at least write it down on something – a scrap of paper to jog my memory or something.”

“I thought you thought it was ridiculous.”

“It is – but it’s something, and it explains...a few things I’ve been thinking about...”

Mr. Dessler was shaking his head. “My dear, do calm down. What I’ve told you is so trivial that it’s no loss to forget it.”

“You just said there were other worlds out there. How is that trivial?”

“To them, it is.”

Promising to come get me later, he left the room, leaving me alone and confused. Why did I want to remember something so absurd? I didn’t know why. But I did, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

Even if I was going to forget this moment later.