The Perfect Family, page 22
“I’ll call you back!” I said hurriedly, ending the call and shoving the phone back into my pocket. My hands were shaking. The sound of the ringtone still echoed in my ears, blending with the buzz of the machines.
I forced myself to steady my breath. The phone call had yanked me out of my spiraling thoughts, but the fear was still there, crawling under my skin.
I turned toward the doorway, glancing back at the machines one last time before stepping out of the room, my mind racing. The symbols, the memories, the fear—it was all too much. But I couldn’t leave. Not yet.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to keep moving. There was still more to find. More to remember.
Chapter 74
I stumbled back into the hallway, my breath ragged, the glow of the flashlight bobbing against the stone walls as I tried to steady myself. My legs felt like they might give out beneath me, but I forced myself to keep moving, to get out of that room before the memories swallowed me whole.
Once upstairs, I pressed my back against the kitchen counter, trying to calm the shaking in my hands. The house felt even colder now, as if the machines below were somehow reaching up through the floor, wrapping around me, whispering things I didn’t want to hear.
I needed air. I needed to think. The phone call—I could use it as an excuse to step away, to breathe, to remember that I was still in control.
My hands were still trembling as I dialed my boss’s number, pacing near the window as it rang. He picked up almost immediately.
“Mellie! Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know. Sorry.” My voice was thin, wavering. I cleared my throat. “Reception in the house is bad. I had to come upstairs.”
There was a pause before he spoke again, his voice calmer, more measured. “How’s it going out there?”
I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to focus. “The initial clearing is almost done. I’ve cataloged the structural issues, taken all the interior documentation, and marked what the workers need to address once they come in. Most of the walls are sound, but the foundation has water damage, and the windows all need to be replaced. The old wiring is…” I hesitated, thinking of the hidden cameras, the frayed wires, the wires I had found leading into the basement. “The wiring is going to need a complete overhaul.”
“And the paperwork?”
“I’ve filed everything I’ve found that’s relevant. I’m almost done here.” My voice caught on the word “almost.” My boss didn’t notice.
“Good work, Mellie. I know this has been… a lot. But you’re doing exactly what you need to do.”
“Thanks.” My voice was small, the weight of the house pressing against my shoulders. “Once the last round of prep is done, I’ll be ready for the workers to come in.”
“Perfect. Keep me updated,” he said before hanging up.
I let the phone fall to my side, staring at my reflection in the black screen. My eyes looked too big, haunted, the darkness under them deepening every day I spent in this place.
I swallowed and, without thinking, dialed Ben’s number.
It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Straight to voicemail.
I tried again. Same result.
“Come on, Ben,” I whispered. “Pick up.”
The sheriff had come by earlier, asking if I had heard from Ben. I’d told him I hadn’t, and the way he’d looked at me—tight-lipped, that furrow in his brow—had made something cold settle in my stomach.
But Ben was on assignment. He had told me there might be stretches where he wouldn’t have service, where he would be off the grid, working, lost in his camera and the stories he was chasing. This was normal for him.
Wasn’t it?
I lowered the phone, pressing it to my chest. The house was silent around me, the shadows in the corners of the room thick and unmoving. Theo meowed from somewhere nearby, and the sound made me flinch before I exhaled, forcing a shaky laugh.
“He’s fine,” I said, more to myself than to the cat. “He’s fine.”
I slipped the phone into my pocket, grabbing the flashlight again. My hand hovered over the light switch, the thought of going back down there making every part of me tense.
But I wasn’t leaving. Not yet.
The job wasn’t done. I wasn’t done.
I took a deep breath and turned toward the basement door, forcing my feet to move, to carry me down into the dark once more.
Chapter 75
My legs felt weak as I stepped back into the tunnel, the cold air swallowing me the deeper I went. The door to the machine room was still ajar behind me, a silent reminder of what I had seen, of the memories that had clawed their way back to the surface whether I was ready or not.
I had left because I needed to breathe, to remind myself that there was still a world above this place, still a job to finish, a life waiting for me on the other side of this house. But now, as I returned, the darkness felt heavier, thicker, pressing against my shoulders as if it were alive.
My flashlight cut through the gloom, catching on the rough stone walls and the edges of rusted pipes that snaked along the ceiling. Each step echoed, too loud in the stillness, reminding me that I was alone down here, that whatever waited in these rooms was mine to face.
There was one more door before the larger room at the end of the tunnel—a door I had passed before, telling myself I would come back to it. Now, there was no avoiding it. Something deep in my chest told me that this was where I would find the answers I had been searching for, whether I was ready to face them or not.
I tightened my grip on the flashlight, forcing my feet to keep moving, even as my body screamed to turn around, to leave, to run.
But I didn’t.
Because I needed to know.
The flashlight flickered in my hand, the beam barely cutting through the thick air. My fingers brushed against the cool stone walls as I made my way toward the next door. This one was closed, but unlike the others, it wasn’t locked. The handle turned easily under my grip, the old hinges creaking as I pushed the door open.
Inside, the room was filled with shelves—metal racks stacked high with binders, folders, and files. There were no machines here, no strange contraptions—just paperwork. My heart pounded in my chest as I stepped inside, my eyes scanning the shelves. This was different. This was organized. And somehow, that made it even more terrifying.
I took a deep breath and walked over to the nearest shelf. The files were covered in dust, but they were neatly arranged, each one marked with a date. I pulled the first binder off the shelf, my hands shaking as I opened it. Inside were rows of typed notes, medical records, data that made no sense to me. I flipped through the pages quickly, scanning the information.
Names. Dates. Experiments.
But none of the names meant anything to me.
I moved to the next binder, then the next. Each one was the same—detailed records of experiments, subjects listed by name and number. Some of the names were crossed out, others had notes scribbled in the margins, but there was no pattern I could see.
My heart raced as I reached for another file, this one marked with a date from years ago. My fingers trembled as I opened it. More names, more dates, more meaningless information. I felt a wave of frustration building inside me.
But then, something caught my eye. A name, half-hidden in the margins of one of the pages. My name.
I froze, staring at the letters. It wasn’t possible. My name was there, in black and white, typed neatly among the other entries. But I didn’t remember any of this. I didn’t remember being part of whatever experiment this was. My breath hitched as I flipped through the rest of the pages, each one filled with data about “Subject M.”
I slammed the binder shut, my heart pounding. I needed to find more.
I moved to the back of the room where the files were more recent. The shelves here were crammed with binders, each one more worn than the last. I scanned the spines, looking for something—anything—that would explain why my name had been in that binder.
And then I saw it.
A single folder, tucked between two larger binders, unmarked except for a faint smudge on the edge. My hands shook as I pulled it free. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have, as if the truth itself were pressing down on me.
I opened the folder, my breath catching in my throat. The first thing I saw was my name written in bold letters at the top of a page. Beneath it were notes—fragments of details about me. My age. My address. My habits.
And then, tucked in the back of the folder, I saw it. A photograph.
My hands trembled as I pulled it out. The edges were worn, the image faded, but the face was unmistakable. Marry.
Her eyes stared back at me, piercing and familiar. My chest tightened as I studied the picture, every detail pulling me deeper into confusion. She looked like me. The resemblance was undeniable. The same shape of the face, the same curve of the jaw.
I flipped through the rest of the folder, my pulse racing. There were more pictures—some of Marry, others of places I didn’t recognize. Notes scrawled in the margins, references to experiments, to subjects, to things I couldn’t understand.
Marry.
The name echoed in my mind, over and over. Who was she? Why was she in this file? And why did she look like me?
I stumbled back, the folder slipping from my hands, papers scattering across the floor. My heart pounded as I tried to piece it together, but nothing made sense.
I backed toward the door, my pulse racing, the weight of the truth crashing down on me. Everything I thought I knew was unraveling, slipping through my fingers like sand.
I needed answers. I needed to know who Marry was.
But there was one more room to explore. One final door at the end of the tunnel.
And somehow, I knew that was where the truth would be waiting.
Chapter 76
The morning light filtered through the slats of Jacob's blinds, casting thin stripes across his face. He blinked against the brightness, his mind groggy as he sat up in bed. The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt off. Something was missing.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and made his way downstairs, his bare feet padding softly against the cool hardwood floor.
“Mom?” he called out, his voice cutting through the silence. He glanced around the living room, the usual clutter of books and half-finished projects scattered across the coffee table. No sign of Elenore.
In the kitchen, his mother stood at the counter, her back to him as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Jacob frowned, the unease growing in his chest.
“Where’s Elenore?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.
His mother didn’t turn around. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her movements deliberate, calculated. “She failed the experiment,” she said flatly, her voice devoid of emotion.
Jacob’s stomach tightened, the words hanging heavy in the air. Failed the experiment? He didn’t know what that meant, but something about the way she said it sent a shiver down his spine.
“What do you mean she failed?” he pressed, his tone clipped now, though a strange, detached part of him wasn’t sure he really wanted an answer.
Before his mother could respond, a sound cut through the tense tranquility—a baby’s cry, thin and high-pitched, coming from somewhere deeper in the house.
Jacob froze. “What’s that?”
His mother finally turned to face him, her expression calm, almost serene. “That’s your new sister,” she said. “Her name is Mellie.”
Jacob stared at her, his mind struggling to process the words. Mellie? He didn’t remember her being pregnant. Not like with Elenore. He remembered the months of her swollen belly, the way she’d absentmindedly run her hands over it while reading or watching TV. He remembered the excitement, the preparations, the day Elenore was born.
But Mellie? There had been no signs. No belly, no anticipation, no talk of a new baby. It didn’t make sense.
His mother turned back to her coffee, as if the conversation was already over. Jacob stood there for a moment, the cry of the baby echoing faintly in his ears.
He didn’t know how to feel. Confused, yes. Uneasy, definitely. But beneath that, there was something else—a strange indifference.
He didn’t care.
This new baby—Mellie—she wasn’t Elenore. And if Elenore had “failed the experiment,” as his mother put it, then maybe it was better not to think too hard about it.
Still, the questions lingered, gnawing at the edge of his mind. Why didn’t he remember? Why didn’t any of this feel real?
But Jacob shook the thoughts away, shoving them into the same dark corner of his mind where all the other unanswered questions lived. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, the sound of Mellie’s cries growing faint as he climbed the stairs back to his room.
For now, it was easier not to care.
Chapter 77
I could barely breathe as I stepped out of the file room, my heart pounding in my chest, the name Marry still echoing in my mind. The tunnel felt darker now, the walls closing in tighter with every step I took. My feet felt like lead as I made my way toward the last door at the end of the tunnel—the door that had been looming there, waiting for me. It was the final barrier between me and the truth, and every instinct screamed at me to turn back. But I couldn’t. Not now.
The flashlight beam shook in my trembling hand, casting long shadows that danced on the stone walls. The air was colder here, heavier. I swallowed hard, the knot in my stomach tightening as I reached the door. My breath hitched when I saw it.
Locked.
I stared at the metal handle, confusion flooding my mind. The other doors had opened so easily. Why was this one locked?
I rattled the handle, pushing against the heavy wood, but it didn’t budge. Panic flared inside me, the need for answers gnawing at my insides like a wild animal. I pressed my ear against the door, listening for any sound on the other side, but there was nothing. Just silence.
I stepped back, my heart racing, when suddenly, the darkness shifted. A faint hum filled the air, barely perceptible, like a low-frequency vibration. I froze, my breath catching in my throat as the noise grew louder.
And then I saw it.
On the wall, hidden in the shadows, was a screen.
It flickered to life, the sudden glow casting an eerie light across the tunnel. I hadn’t noticed it before—it had been hidden, blended seamlessly with the stone. My pulse quickened as I stared at it, confusion and fear twisting together in my chest.
The screen flickered again, static filling the air, before an image began to form. I stepped closer, my hand instinctively tightening around the flashlight as I watched, my mind struggling to make sense of what I was seeing.
It was a video. Grainy and distorted, like it had been recorded decades ago.
A child. A girl.
She was sitting in a metal chair, her arms and legs strapped down with thick leather belts. Her small frame shook as she struggled against the restraints, her face twisted in terror.
My breath stopped.
It was me.
I was the child in the video.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I just stood there, frozen, as the past played out in front of me.
The camera panned, revealing more of the room. It was the same room I had just been in—the one filled with machines. But it was different now. There were people standing around the chair, their faces obscured by shadows. But I knew who they were.
My parents.
They were standing at the machines, adjusting dials and pressing buttons as I—as the child—screamed, tears streaming down my face. My small body writhed in the chair, my voice cracking as I begged for them to stop.
But they didn’t. They didn’t even look at me.
A sob clawed its way up my throat, and I clamped a hand over my mouth, my knees threatening to give out as I watched. My parents were calm, methodical, their faces devoid of any emotion as they continued their work. The machines hummed to life, their strange lights blinking in time with the child’s screams.
My screams.
The camera zoomed in on my face—the young, terrified version of myself. I could see the panic in my eyes, the fear. My heart raced as I watched, the memory of that terror flooding back, more real than ever. I had blocked it out, buried it deep, but now it was here, right in front of me, playing out like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
I felt the bile rise in my throat as the video continued. My screams became hoarse, my body shaking as I struggled to break free from the restraints. But it was useless. They had me trapped.
They had always had me trapped.
The camera panned again, focusing on my parents. My father was speaking, his voice calm and measured as he explained the procedure. Words like “conditioning” and “response stimuli” slipped from his mouth, clinical and detached, as if what they were doing to me wasn’t torture.
My mother stood beside him, her face set in a cold, distant expression. She didn’t look at me. Not once.
And then, as if to twist the knife even deeper, the camera zoomed in on the machine in the corner. The machine I had seen earlier. The one with the strange symbols etched into the metal.
My vision blurred, tears streaming down my face as the image flickered and the sound cut out. For a moment, everything went silent. The screen froze on my face—young, terrified, pleading.
I collapsed to my knees, my body shaking uncontrollably as the truth crashed over me. My parents had done this to me. All of it. They had turned me into a subject, an experiment. And I had been too young, too helpless, to stop them.
The video flickered again, the static growing louder, and then the screen went black.
For a moment, I just knelt there, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the weight of everything pressing down on me like a tidal wave. The silence in the tunnel was deafening, broken only by the sound of my own sobs echoing off the walls.
