Stacia Kane - Personal Demons

"No."

"It's just a voice in your head, Hanna."

"No!"

Megan leaned forward, trying to understand why Art was arguing with the poor girl and why she was fighting back. "It's a whisper in my ear. Sometimes I feel its breath."

"I hear them, too," Grant said. "Just like that."

"No, you don't," snapped Joe. Megan had been right about his nerves and dislike of the group. "You say whatever Hanna says, you always do."

"I don't!" Grant said.

"Okay, guys," Art said. "Let's not argue. Let's get back to Hanna. It's her turn. Hanna, what does the voice tell you?"

Megan's discomfort grew as Hanna continued speaking.

"It tells me I'm a terrible person. Or that other people are terrible and I should hurt them. Like the other day at work it told me to erase one of my boss's files when he wasn't looking."

Bob laughed. "That's your own subconscious anger."

"Bob," Art said. He sounded ... pleased. Like this was what he wanted to hear. "Remember who the therapist is here. You're not a mentor yet."

"I want to hear more from Hanna," Grant said. At least, Megan thought it was Grant. It was difficult to know exactly who was talking. Her eyes didn't seem to be adjusting to the light anymore. In fact, the room seemed to be getting darker, even though she could still see the candles burning.

"That's all," Hanna said. "I'm cursed. I hear the voice, and it's like I have to believe it and do what it says or it won't stop talking. It won't leave me alone."

Regina's voice echoed in Megan's head. "They won't go away, they won't go away..."

"Hanna," Megan said, not knowing or caring if she was committing a sin by interrupting the session, "do you hear the voice when other people are around?"

If Hanna was surprised, her voice didn't reflect it. "No. Just when I'm alone. And not here. Never here, in this building."

"That's because you know this is a place of healing," Art said. "Your subconscious voice does not speak to you here because you know this is where you get better."

Megan wished he would shut up. If there was some kind of connection between Regina and what Hanna was experiencing—and what Grant apparently felt too—she might see it if she tuned in to Hanna. This was no time to be afraid. This was her job.

She exhaled and reached out with her mind, finding the shape on the floor that was Hanna and feeling it, touching it. Steeling herself for whatever grisly images might come, she probed inside.

A little house, decorated with old-fashioned furniture, down home ginghams, and country quaintness. Three cats snuggled on the flowered couch next to Megan—next to Hanna—and watched what looked like a Lifetime movie.

Other than that, nothing.

Megan tried harder. Now she saw an office interior. People liked Hanna, although they found her a little dull. She was reliable and friendly. Her boss depended on her. It was all very nice, but there was still no grinning face, no blood, no horrible feet. Nothing she saw made Megan think Hanna and Regina were suffering the same problem.

Then why were their stories so similar? Most people had similar anxieties, but Megan had never heard of two people who didn't read as organically disturbed having the exact same kind of delusions.

She read Grant next. His home life was nowhere near as happy as Hanna's, but just as lonely. Adults—Megan assumed they were his parents—flitted around like moths around a flame, but ignored him. They were there, but they didn't pay attention. His sister smelled of alcohol and laughed when Grant said something about it. The kids at school ignored him, too. It didn't paint a pretty or happy picture, but there was nothing to be scared of in the way Megan had been scared by Regina.

Another voice spoke. Bob. "My voice tells me to burn things."

"Mine tells me to kill people," Joe retorted.

Ah. The group members were playing off each other, trying to one-up each others’ illnesses or disturbances. In the hands of a good therapist such things did not happen. Art was not a good therapist. The whole thing distressed and disheartened her.

The conversation continued, but Megan tuned it out. No wonder Kevin had tried to leave. This was dangerous, a mockery of what therapy was supposed to be, and Art Bellingham was enjoying it. She heard it in his voice, the sort of rich happiness that comes from a job well done. Whatever cheap thrills he got by playing Svengali were going to end, though. Tomorrow she would start making calls to the proper people. This could not be allowed to continue.

The room was almost completely dark. Megan couldn't understand why the candles were no longer providing light or why the temperature seemed to be dropping. The exercise mat whispered softly as the people on it moved, presumably crowding closer together—whether for comfort or warmth she did not know. The energy in the room was changing, becoming more alive. Voices merged together into something like a chant, but Megan couldn't understand what they were saying.

Their energy melded too. Their emotions swirled around her, combining into one, separating again.

She floated in the darkness, her arms outstretched, facing upwards. Far below her were the voices and the sadness, the fear. She felt it, but it felt ... good. Right, somehow. It clung to her skin like syrup and she licked it off, savoring the piquancy. Why do this job if you couldn't gain something from taking the fear into yourself?

The vision shifted abruptly. She stood in the kitchen of her childhood home, holding her schoolbooks. She was sixteen years old, just come home from school to an empty house. What could be more exciting?

Megan threw the books down and headed upstairs to her room. The Ouija board waited under her bed. Ever since she'd realized she knew things about other people, that she could somehow see into their heads, she'd wanted to try this. Maybe she could talk to ghosts. Maybe they could make Todd Gentry fall in love with her, or force that bitch Tara Coleman to leave her alone.

She pulled the box out from under her bed. The conscious, adult Megan tried to fight, tried to scream. This would lead to no good, she knew it, she felt it ... Megan screamed in her head, screamed as loudly as she could.

The lights went on. Megan blinked as her eyes started watering from the sudden illumination. On the floor beside her chair, some of the others squinted or rubbed their eyes; some yawned and stretched. The session was over.

What the hell had happened?

Everyone headed for a small table by the door, covered with paper cups and bottles of juice, cookies, and other snacks. Art smiled at Megan.

"We always have something to eat afterwards," he said. "After working this hard, we need something to keep our strength up, right guys?"

The others murmured noises of assent, but they were too busy eating and drinking to speak. They'd fallen on the food like a pack of hungry baby wolves.

Art handed her a cup of warm Coke and a cookie before pulling her into a corner. His hand clung to her sleeve like a horrible insect she couldn't brush off. "What did you think? Interesting?"

"Um, yes." The Coke was flat, too. "Definitely interesting." When could she leave? Would it be rude to leave now?

Art watched her. Again the light caught his glasses and obscured his eyes. She was beginning to think he did it on purpose. "How did you like the affirmations at the end? I wrote them myself."

Affirmations? Oh ... the chanting. She hoped. "Great. You'll have to give me a copy."

Art wagged his finger at her. "Oh, no. If you want access to them you have to come work with us again."

"Gee, Art, I'd love to," she lied, "but as I said before I'm just too busy these days. It sure is a great program, though." As unobtrusively as possible, she glanced at the clock. It was quarter to nine. She'd called Dante and told him to meet her outside at nine, but she thought she would scream if she had to talk to Art for fifteen more minutes.