The Dead House, стр. 43
(FH): Do you think Naida has something to do with Carly’s escape?
(AL): You know better than I do what happened, Inspector. All I know is that Naida came, and then Carly regressed, and then she escaped. Smashed right through the window in her room.
(FH): Did you ever meet Naida face-to-face?
(AL): Yes. Directly before she went in to see Carly.
(FH): Is that meeting on tape?
(AL): No. Only the meeting room is recorded.
(FH): Did Naida seem normal to you when you met her?
[Pause]
(AL): What do you mean?
(FH): Do you think that Naida herself might have been… emotionally unstable?
(AL): I never had any professional dealings with Naida, so I don’t know.
(FH): And if I were to inform you that Naida was a patient at Claydon for a summer some years ago?
(AL): I was unaware of that.
(FH): Her records are sealed, but her consultant, a Dr. [name omitted], stated that she had an anxiety disorder that was brought under control.
(AL): Then I expect that’s correct.
(FH): Is it possible that Naida, a girl with a history of anxiety and hospitalization, might have been… influenced by Carly in some way?
(AL): Mr. Homes, I think you’d better be frank with me if you expect a helpful response.
[Pause]
(FH): What is your opinion on group hysteria?
(AL): My opinion?
(FH): Myth or fact?
(AL): It’s very real. I think you’d better tell me what you’re getting at.
(FH): Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been helpful. I’ll be in touch.
[End of tape]
71 31 days until the incident
Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson
Sunday, 2 January 2005, 7:00 pm
Attic
These are what my thoughts sound like.
Have you ever heard glass sing? It’s so beautiful. Delicate, crystalline—it’s a sound you think should be relegated to the happiest places and the friendliest gestures.
I hear glass splintering… no, not even glass, really. It’s too soft for that. More like the glass equivalent of toffee… more like… a mirror. A mirror, squeaking and snapping as it splinters and begins to break. On and on.
Chip… crack… squeak…
A plastic sound, not quite real, but real enough to cut if you grab too hard. And I always do, so I always bleed.
These are what my thoughts sound like.
The house is mine.
I hear him in the day now too. I feel him, the way I felt the house in that nightmare. I feel the house like my own heartbeat.
Later
What do you think, Dee?
Naida Camera Footage
Date and Time Index Missing
Basement
A succession of days and nights follow, all of them with Kaitlyn waiting, restlessly pacing in the dank cellar room. Occasionally she examines her arms, pulling back the long sleeves of her top to stare down at her stitches. Scott brings food and drink, then Brett, who stays to chat with a fairly unenthusiastic Kaitlyn, then Scott again. Naida is rarely seen.
“Naida’s busy again?” Kaitlyn asks Scott one night. “Am I too much… am I a burden?”
Scott puts down the tray of food he has brought with him. “Just hang in there, I guess. I know it’s hard—”
“No, you don’t! It’s more than hard, Scott—I’m going crazy in here! I’m losing my mind!”
Scott, in a yet-unseen act of kindness, pulls Kaitlyn into a hug. “She’s been working hard to find out what’s what. Waiting for a sign from the Shyan bloke, watching students around her, performing rituals, and laying—whatever she calls them.” He releases her. “I’ll tell her.”
Kaitlyn shakes her head. “Don’t. Carly’s more important.”
He nods. “I can stay for a while, if you want?”
“No. Help Naida if you can. But… maybe you can find Ari first? He’s doing extra-credit work after school, but… ask him to come?”
“Right.” He grins. “You and the army brat getting close, huh?”
“Did he say something?”
Scott laughs, the sound echoing through the chamber. “Are you insane? Ari never says anything. He’s about as chatty as you. But I saw you two at Naida’s party. You seemed really comfortable. I’ll tell him to get his arse over here.”
“Thanks.”
He turns to leave, then pauses. “Carly—I mean, Kaitlyn…”
“Yeah?”
“Do you believe this stuff? The Mala stuff?”
Kaitlyn stares at him for a moment and then gives one sad laugh. “I… don’t know.”
“Kind of sounds…”
“Crazy?”
“Yeah. Crazy.”
“I guess it fits me, then.”
Scott laughs, then notices Kaitlyn’s face. “I joined her Mala group last year because I thought she was hot. Now I’m up to my neck in it.”
Kaitlyn smiles. “Life is weird.”
“Major understatement.”
“So you’ll get Ari?”
“Yes, ma’am! At your service, ma’am!”
She nods, and he leaves, closing the door behind him. Kaitlyn stands for a moment, looking down at the soup, then walks over to the old mattress and picks up her pen and journal. She writes a sentence, smiles, and shuts the book, before walking slowly over to the light chain and pulling it once. The room is flooded with blackness.
Then she begins to hum.
Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson
Sunday, 2 January 2005, 10:00 pm
Basement
They’ve cleared it all away. All the stuff from our dorm room. Everything we wore, used, owned. Everything she touched. Naida came to tell me. But she salvaged the box under the bed, the most important thing. I’m so glad she brought it to me, but I don’t feel like I thought I would. One box, and it holds a whole life of love—almost every letter Carly and I have ever exchanged. Seeing it here, all together, three big bundles of paper… is that all we were? Dying pages, fading ink?
[Kaitlyn has pasted several letters into her diary over the following pages, allowing us a unique insight into her relationship with Carly.]
Kaitlyn to Carly, 3 October 1997
Carly, there’s something at the window! There’s a big storm. I’m scared! What do I do if it’s a monster?
Carly to Kaitlyn, 4 October 1997
Monsters can’t get inside the house, because I planted magic stones outside. It’s the wind blowing on the window probably! So don’t be scared! The storm is gone now.
Carly to Kaitlyn, Undated
Happy birthday to us!
Happy birthday to us!
Happy birthday, CarlyandKaitieeeeeeee…
Happy birthday to us!!
(Look under the bed.
I hope you like it!
Happy 14th birthday, Kaybear!)
xxx
Kaitlyn to Carly, 28 August 2003, Claydon
In London, we’ll have our own place. It’ll have huge windows to let in the sun for you, moon for me. We’ll have our own rooms, our own wardrobes, our own food. We’ll be able to choose where we go, who we talk to, and I’ll be able to go shopping and see movies and go to a West End show. You’ll be able to go to university and buy books from shops, and everything will be the way we want it. Exactly as we want it. I can’t wait. This will end, Carlybean. It will end.