Stacia Kane - Personal Demons

The shadowy form lacked definition but as Megan watched she caught a flash of what looked like dark green before the color disappeared. The shadow stayed, rippling at the edges but hovering in place.

The woman didn't notice, but Megan stared transfixed. Blurry edges of darkness reached out and passed over the woman's face, then slipped back into the semi-solid mass.

The image made her gorge rise, but she kept staring, unable to move or blink. If she looked away, would it disappear? Or would it move, leaping to one of the other diners, as if trying to gain entry to someone's body? It felt so wrong, so ... evil. Her skin prickled and itched.

While the woman laughed and ate her food, the blurry form twisted and darted around, staying in the same space but writhing as if trying to burst through some kind of membrane.

Megan's stomach gave up the battle. She leapt from her chair, knocking it over in the process, and ran for the ladies’ room. She barely made it in time.

"I'll walk you to your car, if you won't let me call a cab." Dante faked concern pretty well.

"I'd rather walk." She was tempted to tell him she didn't need his company, but it was after dark in the city and she wasn't stupid. Why walk alone when she could have a man she trusted—okay, a man she was fairly certain wouldn't attack her—to walk with her?

"What exactly do you want, Mr. Dante?"

"Call me Grey." His footsteps fell in time with hers as they passed groups of revelers still out, most of whom looked like professional partiers. Megan, with her pallid face and businesslike suit, felt out of place, a grandma trying to hang out with teenagers. Which was ridiculous. At thirty-one she was still in the age range the stores and clubs catered to, but she didn't think she could ever go to them. It simply wasn't her scene, aside from how difficult it was to keep her shields tightly closed after spending hours in a hot room and having a few drinks.

"Megan?"

"What?"

"What happened back there in the restaurant?"

"What do you mean?"

"Before you ran off, you were staring at a woman behind me. I got the feeling something about her disturbed you."

Megan forced herself not to gag. She didn't even want to think about what she'd seen, that squirming mass, the sense of malevolence radiating from it. She certainly wouldn't discuss it with Greyson.

"I wasn't feeling well, that's all. I've been feeling off all day."

"Before you went to the hospital?"

"Yes, I—" She stopped short and swung to face him. "How the hell do you know that? Are you following me? Who the hell are you, anyway?"

Greyson raised his hands and stepped back. "Hey, hold on. It's not necessarily—"

"Don't tell me what it necessarily is or isn't. You tell me how you know all this about me. Who are you, Mr. Dante, and what do you want from me?"

If she'd hoped to disarm him, it didn't work. His face went carefully blank and he put his hands back in his pockets. "I just want you to listen to my—client's offer. That's all."

"Why are you following me? And you're either a moron, or you've been going out of your way to let me know you're following me. Why? What are you up to?"

"I want to help you."

"Help me what?"

"Sudden fame can be very difficult. You could attract some ... unwanted elements."

"Stop lying to me!"

"I'm not lying. Stalkers—"

"Stalkers? Like, for example, you ?"

"I'm not a stalker."

"Oh? Let's see. What does a stalker do? Follows someone around, tries to insinuate his or her way into the target's life, maybe drops some vague hints and threats along the way? Sound familiar? Are you going to start telling the press you're my secret husband next?"

His face darkened. "Megan, if you would just listen—"

"Fuck you." She turned and started walking away. "Leave me alone, Mr. Dante," she called over her shoulder. "You might be a lawyer, but that doesn't mean I can't still have you arrested."

"I never said I was a lawyer," he called after her.

Don't take the bait, don't take the bait, don't take the bait...

She turned around when she reached the end of the block. He was gone.

A big red blinking "2" on her answering machine welcomed her home. Someone wanted to sell her aluminum siding, she guessed, and perhaps the other call would be a hang-up for variety. She'd been getting a few of those lately.

Hearing Brian Stone's voice checking her well-being made her smile. Brian wasn't as bad as she'd thought. At least he didn't wear a fedora with a press card tucked in the band or talk out the side of his mouth or try to bribe people for information about her. At least she assumed he wouldn't.

The second message erased the smile. Kevin Walford's voice quavered out of the machine. "Um, Dr. Chase, I hope it's okay for me to call you at home, I mean, I'm sorry if it bothers you, but I wanted to thank you for earlier? For taking me to the hospital and all? I was hoping you could meet me there tomorrow, well, I was hoping maybe you'd meet me at Fearbusters, and Mr. Art said he'd talked to you about coming there anyway, and we thought maybe you would come down tomorrow because I wanted to thank you in person." He finally took a breath. "So, um, call me if you can, or call Mr. Art, okay? And thank you." He finished by reciting his phone number three times.

"Mr. Art" must be Art Bellingham. Why did that man want her to meet his group so badly? For a second she imagined he wanted her to lend her newfound fame to the program, but she managed to stop herself before the thought fully formed. It was only a little Sunday-night radio show in a mediocre radio market. So why was it suddenly so important for her to get to Fearbusters?

She'd left Bellingham's card on a little bronze tray on a table near the front door with her mail. The cheap paper stock felt slick and flimsy in her fingers, which reminded her of Dante's elegant, obviously expensive card. She fished that one out too.

Two men, each with some hidden agenda, each of whom seemed to want her to do something for them.

Either she was suddenly the most popular girl in town, or something was going on. Tomorrow she'd start finding out exactly what.

The Outpatient Center was tucked behind the main hospital building and accessed by a tidy little path through landscaped lawns. Even the small, brightly illuminated parking lot had the incredibly clean and even look of a child's playset, the ones with gas stations and helicopter pads right next to each other on a smooth plastic street.

Megan parked and crossed the lot, shivering in the early autumn breeze. They were due for a cold snap, the first of the season, and she wished she'd brought a jacket. As it was she was dressed down, in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, with her favorite tennis shoes. She did not want to look like she was here for professional reasons. Neat, adult, and competent, yes. Ready to join the group and start working with clients, no.

Not that she couldn't use the work. The partners she worked with had certainly made their feelings clear, in a meeting that morning. Megan's show and its attendant publicity damaged their practices. Any further problems and she'd be out. For now, in order to protect their patients from further invasions of privacy, she was to hire her own receptionist and arrange additional soundproofing for the offices. They'd hired a locum to take her patients until she complied. She was officially on leave.

The doors were locked and the receptionist's desk was empty. Megan hit the after-hours buzzer.

"Yes?"

"I'm Megan Chase," she said into the tiny grill of the microphone. "I'm here to see—"

"Megan!" It was Art. "I'm glad you could come."

The lock gave a low hum and a click. Megan opened the door and entered the building.