Chapter 8 - The Prison That Looked Like a HospitalThe facility stood beyond a line of dead trees, forty minutes north of Chicago.
Its windows were dark, its sign removed, and weeds covered the cracked driveway. The building had once been a private neurological clinic. Now it appeared abandoned.
Vincent parked the car beyond the main gate.
Three black SUVs sat near the side entrance.
One was the same model that had appeared in the mansion's security footage.
We had six people with us: Vincent, my mother, Anna, two trusted guards, and me. The doctor had remained at the mansion to monitor Vincent's condition and prepare for a possible medical emergency.
Before entering the building, my mother gave us a small device.
“It can interfere with the old transmitters,” she explained. “But if Vale has upgraded the system, it may only work for a few minutes.”
Vincent examined the device.
He couldn't hear the faint electrical hum it produced.
I slipped it into my pocket.
We entered through a service door.
Inside, the corridors were spotless.
That was the first thing that frightened me.
An abandoned hospital should smell of dust, decay, and forgotten medicine. This place smelled freshly cleaned. Motion sensors activated the lights as we walked. New security cameras tracked our movements.
Someone was expecting us.
We passed examination rooms filled with modern equipment, then reached a corridor marked PEDIATRIC NEUROLOGY.
Anna stopped.
Her breathing became shallow.
I took her hand.
“Do you remember this place?”
She nodded.
She pointed to a door with a blue star painted beside its number.
Room 17.
My mother closed her eyes.
“I thought they'd destroyed it.”
Inside stood a small bed, a desk, and a shelf filled with children's books. Colorful drawings covered the walls.
One showed a family of four holding hands beneath a yellow sun.
The names were written underneath.
MAMA.
EMILY.
ANNA.
DADDY.
I picked up the paper.
The handwriting belonged to Anna.
She had drawn it when she was eight.
Behind the desk, a wall panel contained dozens of small buttons. Each represented a memory experiment, according to the labels beneath them.
My mother inspected the equipment.
“They used sensory cues to confuse patients during the recording process,” she whispered. “They could associate certain sounds, images, or signals with emotional responses.”
“Were you involved in this?”
She lowered her eyes.
“I designed parts of the original equipment before I understood what they intended to do with it.”
Anna began typing on my phone.
THEY MADE ME FORGET YOUR FACE.
She showed me another line.
THEY SAID YOU HAD ABANDONED ME.
I pulled her into my arms.
She had been a little girl, trapped in a sterile room while strangers manipulated her memories and told her that her sister had forgotten her.
My father had allowed it.
The man who tucked me into bed when I was sick had signed the papers that sent my sister into this place.
I could barely look at the drawings.
A security alarm suddenly flashed.
The doors locked.
Vincent motioned for everyone to move back.
A voice emerged from the ceiling.
“Welcome home, Emily.”
Dr. Vale.
The lights changed from white to red.
A panel opened in the far wall, revealing a narrow passage leading downward.
“Your mother always said you were the clever one,” Vale continued. “She believed you could solve problems that other people couldn't.”
My mother raised the interference device.
Vale laughed through the speakers.
“Do you really think that will stop me?”
Every monitor in the room flickered.
Then an image appeared.
My father stood in the same room, years younger, beside Dr. Vale.
He was holding Anna's hand.
The date on the recording was eleven years earlier.
My father crouched in front of my sister and spoke gently.
“Be brave, sweetheart. This is going to help your family.”
Anna covered her mouth.
The recording continued.
Vale placed a medical file on the desk.
Inside was a photograph of me sleeping.
My father signed the consent form.
Then he kissed Anna's forehead.
“I'll come back for you,” he promised.
He never did.
The recording stopped.
Anna collapsed against the wall.
I held her while my own tears fell onto her hair.
Vincent stood beside us, his face rigid with anger.
Then another door opened.
A man stepped into the corridor.
He wore a dark overcoat and carried a silver cane.
He was older, heavier, and his hair had turned almost entirely white.
But I recognized him instantly.
My father.
Robert Carter.
He looked directly at me.
“Emily,” he said softly. “I can explain everything.”
Vincent drew his pistol.
My father didn't flinch.
Instead, he lifted his cane and pressed a hidden button.
The floor beneath us began to descend.
May you like
The entire room was an elevator.
And we were going underground.
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