IN HER DREAMS, page 17
Olivia had administered the rite to herself first, of course. Alone in her home, she’d prepared the Ka’lutma according to ancient instructions, ingested it, and waited for transcendence, for liberation from her fear.
Instead, she’d experienced a vivid hallucination of being trapped in a hall of mirrors, each one showing a different version of herself, some aged, some youthful, some distorted beyond recognition. She had emerged from the experience more terrified than before, yet also strangely enlightened.
The problem, she’d realized, wasn’t that the ritual didn’t work. It was that fear needed to be faced at its most extreme point—the moment when it threatened to stop the heart itself. Only by surviving that moment could one truly transcend.
But how could she engineer such a moment for herself? She didn’t dare push herself close enough to that brink of madness without understanding it better.
The answer had come slowly, over months of contemplation: she needed to understand the mechanism of fear at its most primal level. And for that, she needed test subjects.
Anthony Walsh had been her first recruit, though he hadn’t known it at the time. She’d easily recognized his problem when he’d failed to deliver a lecture at that conference, and from then on, he’d fallen prey to her manipulations.
Olivia had offered him what seemed like an academic collaboration: a chance to experience an authentic Zaltican ritual that might provide help with his problem and insights for his practice. She’d told him the ritual required two participants, but the truth was that she needed someone to test it on more thoroughly before trying it on herself again.
His joy at regaining his ability to speak in public had led to his willing collaboration. But his joy gave way to dread as he realized he was now her slave. At her insistence—actually, at her posthypnotic command—he’d sent others to her for help: Richard Winters with his claustrophobia, Anita Palmer with her fear of birds, and Samuel Rodriguez with his agoraphobia. All referred discreetly by Walsh, all desperate for relief.
The Chantico Rites she’d performed for them followed the traditional form, with one crucial difference. While they were in their Ka’lutma-induced trance states, receptive to suggestion, she had planted posthypnotic triggers. Each participant received a dreamcatcher, crafted by her own hands, embedded with symbols that would eventually trigger their specific phobias at an unexpected moment.
Richard had been the first to succumb. His heart, already weakened by age and existing arrhythmia, had given out when claustrophobia overtook him in his own bedroom. Anita had followed, her ornithophobia also triggered by her personal dreamcatcher. Sam’s agoraphobia had manifested so severely that he’d apparently suffered a stroke from the sustained panic.
Three apparent failures. But those three deaths, while tragic, had provided Olivia with invaluable data. Now she needed more subjects to continue her work and Anthony was refusing to provide them.
So Dr. Anthony Walsh would become the final subject in her experiment. If he somehow found the strength to transcend his terror, he might hold the key to her own liberation. But if he too succumbed, then Olivia would have to conclude that no one could survive that ultimate confrontation with fear.
Her options were clear. Either she would reinforce the hypnotic suggestion that kept Anthony silent about the Chantico Rite, or she would employ her ultimate weapon. During his ritual, she had linked a specific phrase to his glossophobia—a meaningless sequence of syllables that, when spoken directly to him, would trigger such overwhelming terror that his ability to speak would be paralyzed completely.
In the worst case, if he truly threatened to expose her, the phrase might do to him what the dreamcatchers had done to the others: trigger a fear response so severe that his body simply couldn’t withstand it.
“Nath-hak-to-mah,” she whispered into the car interior, testing the phrase on her tongue. It felt powerful, ancient, though she had invented it herself.
“Nath-hak-to-mah.” Yes, that should bring about a suitable resolution to her problem.
As she drove, Olivia reached into her bag and touched a small leather-bound notebook. She’d documented everything meticulously—the rituals, the posthypnotic suggestions, the progress of each subject. Not out of callousness, but out of scientific rigor. What she was doing wasn’t murder; it was research of the highest importance. If one must break a few eggs to make an omelet, then perhaps one must risk a few lives to achieve transcendence.
She was doing what needed to be done.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Jenna maneuvered her sheriff’s vehicle into a visitor’s parking space at Ozark State University, her mind still processing what they’d learned at Thompson’s Apothecary. The carefully tended plants under grow-lights in his basement had included a hallucinogenic called ka’lutma that was used in ancient rites in connection with fear.
“You really think Summers is the person we’re looking for?” Jake asked, unbuckling his seatbelt. His expression was thoughtful, skeptical but open.
“I don’t know,” Jenna admitted, killing the engine. “But she’s the common thread. She knows about this stuff—the plants, the rituals. More than that, she lied to us about knowing about any of it when she was actually buying ka’lutma from Thompson.”
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the brick buildings, and students moved between classes with the unhurried pace of summer semester. But beneath the campus’s tranquil surface, Jenna sensed something darker. She had yet to grasp a reason for those connections she saw forming between the deaths, ka’lutma, and Dr. Olivia Summers.
They crossed the campus quad toward Blackwell Hall, the four-story brick building that housed the anthropology department. Seeing the elevator doors standing open, she led the way into that instead of the stairs. She watched the floor numbers light up one by one. When the doors opened, they stepped into the corridor where she had visited Summers before. The office door still bore the note “Knock LOUDLY,” but their rapping produced no reply.
“Dr. Summers? Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins.” Her voice echoed slightly in the empty hallway.
After another moment of silence, Jenna tried the handle. Locked.
“Main office?” Jake suggested, gesturing down the hall where a frosted glass door was labeled “Department of Anthropology.”
The department office was a hub of activity—phones ringing, a photocopier humming, student assistants moving about with stacks of papers. Glass cases displayed artifacts from various cultures—clay pots, woven baskets, primitive tools, all meticulously labeled and organized.
Behind a reception desk sat a woman in her fifties, reading glasses perched on her nose, her gray-streaked hair pulled back neatly.
Jenna approached, badge already in hand. “Excuse me, I’m Sheriff Graves from Genesius County, and this is Deputy Hawkins. We’re looking for Dr. Olivia Summers.”
The secretary’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the badge. “Oh! Um, I’m sorry, Dr. Summers isn’t here. She canceled her afternoon class and left for the day.”
“Did she say why?” Jenna pressed.
“Not specifically.” The secretary’s brow furrowed. “She called about two hours ago, said something had come up and asked me to post a notice for her Survey of Mesoamerican Cultures class. It was unusual—she rarely cancels.”
“Did she mention where she was going?” Jake asked.
“No. Just that she wouldn’t be back today.”
Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake. “Could you try reaching her by phone? It’s important that we speak with her.”
“Of course.” The secretary picked up her desk phone and dialed. She waited, eyes on her computer screen. “It’s going straight to voicemail.” She tried again with the same result, then looked up apologetically. “I’m sorry. That’s strange—she usually answers.”
“Does she live on campus?” Jenna asked.
“No, she has a house about twenty minutes from here. In Oakridge Estates.”
“Could you give us that address?”
The secretary hesitated. “I... I’m not sure I should—”
“It’s in connection with an ongoing investigation,” Jake said, his tone gentle but firm. “Multiple deaths.”
The secretary’s face paled. “Oh. I see.” She typed something into her computer, then wrote an address on a Post-it note and handed it to Jenna.
“Thank you,” Jenna said, pocketing the address. Outside in the hallway, she and Jake paused. “Well, that’s not suspicious at all,” Jake muttered. “Cancels class, disappears, phone off.”
“Could be nothing,” Jenna said, though she didn’t believe it. “Could have a doctor’s appointment, family emergency.”
“Or she could be running.”
They walked back toward the elevator, their footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.
“We could check out her house,” Jake said, pressing the down button.
Jenna nodded absently, her mind racing. Something was tugging at her thoughts, connections forming just below the surface of conscious realization. The dreamcatchers in the victims’ bedrooms. The ka’lutma plants in Thompson’s basement. Dr. Summers’ research on indigenous shamanic practices. And something else—something from earlier that day.
The elevator arrived, doors sliding open with a soft ding. They inside the elevator, and Jenna leaned against the wall, her eyes unfocused as she sorted through mental fragments.
“What is it?” Jake asked, recognizing the look.
“Dr. Walsh,” Jenna said suddenly. “This morning, when we interviewed him. He was terrified.”
“Well, yeah. Guy practically jumped out of his skin when we walked in.”
“No, it was more than that.” Jenna’s mind raced back to their meeting with the psychiatrist. “He was hiding something. And he specializes in sleep disorders—problems that our victims had.”
The elevator reached the ground floor. As they crossed the lobby, Jenna pulled out her phone.
“You’re calling Walsh?” Jake asked, pushing open the building’s heavy door.
“His office,” Jenna confirmed, scrolling through her contacts. “We need to talk to him again.”
Outside, the campus hummed with afternoon activity. Students lounged on the grass, laptops open. A frisbee arced through the air between two laughing young men. It all seemed so normal, so disconnected from the darkness Jenna was beginning to suspect lurked beneath the surface.
She found the number for Dr. Walsh’s practice and dialed. After three rings, a woman’s voice answered.
“Trentville Psychiatric Associates, how may I help you?”
“This is Sheriff Jenna Graves,” she said, making eye contact with Jake as they walked toward their vehicle. “I spoke with Dr. Walsh this morning, and I need to follow up with him on an urgent matter.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Oh, Sheriff Graves. I’m afraid Dr. Walsh isn’t available. He, um, he canceled all his afternoon appointments about an hour ago.”
Jenna stopped walking, her pulse quickening. “Did he say why?”
“No, not really. He just... he seemed upset. Agitated. He said he wasn’t feeling well and needed to go home.” The secretary’s voice lowered. “Between you and me, I was worried. I’ve never seen him like that before. I’ve tried calling him, but he’s not answering his cell.”
Jenna’s eyes met Jake’s. “Thank you. Can you give me Dr. Walsh’s home address?”
After getting the address and ending the call, Jenna stood motionless, the pieces finally clicking into place.
“Walsh bolted too,” Jake said, not really a question.
“Yeah. And he was scared.” Jenna started walking again, faster now. “Walsh treats sleep disorders. Olivia Summers researches shamanic rituals, and her specialty involves consciousness-altering practices.”
“And they both disappeared within hours of each other,” Jake added, keeping pace. “After we started asking questions.”
Jenna pulled out of the parking space. As they drove away from campus, Jenna’s mind raced. The pieces were falling into place, revealing a picture darker than she had imagined. If she was right, if Summers was behind these deaths and Walsh knew enough to be afraid for his life, they might already be too late. The image of Walsh, trembling slightly during their interview, eyes darting to the door like a cornered animal, burned in her memory.
Jenna pressed harder on the accelerator, hoping they weren’t already too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The dreamcatcher hung on the wall like a malevolent eye, its web tangled and chaotic. Dr. Anthony Walsh sat huddled on the floor beside his bed, knees drawn to his chest.
“Don’t look at it,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Look anywhere else.”
He forced his eyes toward the full-length mirror on his closet door. The reflection that stared back at him was barely recognizable—a disheveled man with dark hollows beneath bloodshot eyes, hair sticking up in tufts where he’d been pulling at it. This wasn’t the respected psychiatrist who specialized in sleep disorders. This was a man unraveling at the seams.
The harsh buzz of the intercom shattered the silence, sending a jolt of fear through Anthony’s body. He knew who it must be.
“No,” he whispered, even as his body betrayed him, rising from the floor with the jerky movements of a poorly operated marionette. “Don’t answer it. Don’t let her in.”
But the posthypnotic suggestions planted while he was under the influence of ka’lutma were too powerful. His legs carried him out of the bedroom, into the living room.
The intercom buzzed again as Anthony approached it, his arm reached out against his will. His finger hovered over the button, trembling with the effort of his resistance.
“Anthony?” Dr. Summers’ voice came through the speaker, deceptively gentle. “I know you’re there. Let me in, please. We need to talk.”
He pressed the button.
“I’ll be right up,” she said, satisfaction evident in her tone.
He found himself moving to the door, his body once again betraying his mind’s frantic commands to run, to hide, to fight. He stood there, hand on the doorknob, waiting helplessly.
Anthony Walsh knew his time had run out.
***
Olivia Summers assessed Anthony with clinical detachment as he opened the door. The hypnotic suggestion was working precisely as designed. Fear had hollowed him out, making him malleable. Perfect. Or was it?
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “Sit down,” she said, gesturing to the sofa.
Walsh moved to the couch, his movements stiff and mechanical.
“You’re fighting it,” she observed, settling into the armchair opposite him. “That’s unusual, but ultimately futile.”
“What do you want?” Walsh managed to ask, the words seeming to scrape his throat raw.
“I thought I made that clear. I need three more patients from you—specifically, those struggling with significant phobias. The Chantico Rite requires new participants.”
Walsh’s face contorted. “No more. They’re dying because of us.”
“Because of their inability to transcend,” Olivia corrected him firmly. “They weren’t strong enough to face their fears.”
“I can’t,” Walsh said, each word clearly requiring immense effort. “No more patients. No more deaths.”
Olivia leaned forward, her intensity filling the space between them. “The Zaltican shamans understood what modern psychology refuses to acknowledge—true transformation requires confrontation with our deepest terrors. What we’re doing is revolutionary.”
“What you’re doing is murder,” he whispered.
Olivia felt a flicker of annoyance. She hadn’t expected this level of resistance after the posthypnotic suggestion.
“You seemed to have developed a rather inconvenient conscience, Anthony,” she said, her voice cooling several degrees. “When we met, you were desperate for relief from your phobia. I offered you a path few will ever experience—direct communion with the subconscious through ka’lutma. Now you want to renege on our agreement?”
“I’m going to reach out to Sheriff Graves,” Walsh said, his voice stronger now. “I’m going to tell her everything.”
Olivia tilted her head, examining him like a curious specimen. “Are you? How interesting that you think you can.” She paused, watching realization dawn on his face. “You physically cannot tell them, Anthony.”
His expression collapsed, the momentary strength draining away. “They’re figuring it out anyway. The dreamcatchers—”
“Where is yours?” Olivia interrupted.
Walsh’s mouth worked silently for a moment, fighting the compulsion to answer. Then, defeat: “Bedroom.”
Olivia rose. “Show me.”
“No.” The single word seemed to cost him tremendous effort.
“Show me your dreamcatcher, Anthony,” she repeated with the same hypnotic cadence she had used during the ritual.
“I can’t go in there,” he said, gripping the sofa cushions as if they could anchor him. “It’s... affecting me.”
Olivia smiled thinly. “That’s precisely the point. The dreamcatcher is working as designed, bringing your fear to the surface.” She gestured toward the hallway. “Come. Now.”
Walsh remained seated, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of resistance. His defiance was becoming problematic. Olivia needed to ensure his silence—permanently.
She moved to stand directly in front of him, leaning down until their faces were inches apart. “You leave me no choice, Anthony.”
His eyes widened with recognition of what was coming. “Please, don’t—”
“The emergency trigger was designed as a last resort,” she said calmly. “The Zalticans believed that one could either transcend their fear or be consumed by it. I had hoped you would be strong enough to transcend.”
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