‘Is this the door, Melanie?’
‘It’s … the hatch. The tank.’
‘But is it also the door to December?’
‘No.’
‘What is the door to December?’
‘The way out.’
‘The way out of where?’
‘Out … out of … the tank.’
Baffled, Laura took a deep breath. ‘Forget about that for now. For now, I just want you to go inside the tank.
Melanie began to cry.
‘Go inside, honey.’
‘I … I’m s-scared.’
‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘I might …’
‘What?’
‘If I go inside … I might…’
‘You might what?’
‘Do something,’ the girl said bleakly.
‘What might you do?’
‘Something …’
‘Tell me.’
‘Terrible,’ Melanie said in a voice so soft that it was almost inaudible.
Not sure that she understood, Laura said, ‘You think something terrible is going to happen to you?’
Softer: ‘No.’
‘Well, then—’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is it?’
Softer still: ‘No … yes…’
‘Honey?’
Silence.
The lines in the child’s face were no longer entirely lines of fear. Another emotion shared her features, and it might have been despair.
Laura said, ‘All right. Don’t be afraid. Be calm. Relax. I’m right here with you. You’ve got to go into the tank. You’ve got to go in, but you’ll be all right.’
The tension drained out of Melanie, and she sagged in her chair. Her face remained grim. Worse than grim. Her eyes were impossibly sunken; they appeared to be in the process of caving into her skull, and it was not difficult to imagine that within minutes she would be left with two empty sockets. Her face was so white that it might have been a mask carved out of soap, and her lips were nearly as bloodless as her skin. She possessed an extremely fragile quality — as if she were not composed of flesh and blood and bone, but as if she were a construct of the thinnest tissue and the lightest powder — as if she would dissolve and blow away if someone spoke too loudly or waved a hand in her direction.
Dan Haldane said, ‘Maybe we’ve gone far enough for one day.’
‘No,’ Laura said. ‘We have to do this. It’s the quickest way to find out what the hell’s been going on. I can guide her through the memories, no matter how bad they are. I’ve done this sort of thing before. I’m good at it.’
But as Laura looked across the table at her wan and withered daughter, a sinking feeling filled her, and she had to choke back a wave of nausea. It seemed as if Melanie was already dead. Stumped in her chair, eyes closed, the child appeared lifeless; her face was the face of a cold corpse, the features frozen in the final, painful grimace of death.
Could these memories be terrible enough to kill her if she were forced to bring them into the light before she was ready?
No. Surely not. Laura had never heard of hypnotic-regression therapy being dangerous to any patient’s physical health.
Yet … being taken back into the gray room, being forced to speak of the chair where she had received electric-shock aversion therapy, being forced to climb into the sensory-deprivation tank … well, it seemed to be draining the life out of the girl. If memories could be vampiric, these were exactly that, sucking the blood and vitality from her.
‘Melanie?’
‘Mmmmmm?’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Floating.’
‘In the tank?’
‘Floating.’
‘What do you feel?’
‘Water. But…’
‘But what?’
‘But that’s fading too …’
‘What else do you feel?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you see?’
‘Darkness.’
‘What do you hear?’
‘My … heart … beating, beating … But … that’s fading too …’
‘What do they want you to do?’
The girl was silent.
‘Melanie?’
Nothing.
With sudden urgency, Laura said, ‘Melanie, don’t drift away from me. Stay with me.’
The girl stirred and breathed, though shallowly, and it was as though she had come back from the faraway and lightless shore of the river that flowed darkly between this world and the next.
‘Mmmmmm.’
‘Are you with me?’
‘Yes,’ the girl said, but so quietly that the spoken word was barely more than a shadow of the thought.
‘You’re in the tank,’ Laura said. ‘It’s like it always is in the tank … except that I’m there with you this time: a safety line, a hand to grasp. You understand? Now … floating. Feeling nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing … but why are you there?’