Authors: Margo Kelly
“Swallow this.” The man handed me something small. I set it on my tongue and swallowed.
“Sit on the bed.” His deep voice was familiar.
I perched on the edge of the bed and stared straight ahead. He moved toward me with a large paper sack in one hand. He set it on the floor and knelt in front of me. He spoke, but his words were inaudible.
Plug increased the volume on the laptop and rewound the playback. We leaned closer and strained to hear what the man said, but he faced the other direction and spoke too softly.
The man stroked my shoulder and then my face. I remained still, not responding to him verbally or physically. He sat back on his heels and pulled on leather gloves. Then he opened the sack and lifted out a small red gasoline can, a sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and a pair of my tennis shoes that I hadn't seen in months.
He asked me a question.
“Yes,” I said.
He rose and glided toward the door. Shadows drifted along the wall. He kept his back to the camera, but when he neared the computer his words were clear. “Do not answer the phone if it rings. Do not answer the doorbell. After you return to your bed, remain there until someone physically wakens you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Avoid contact with the police at all costs. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I will count backward to one. When I reach one, you will follow the instructions I've given you without hesitation.” He paused at the door. “Three, two, one.” He left.
I pulled the jeans over my yoga pants and slipped the sweatshirt over my head. I walked to my dresser, pulled out socks, and then tugged them onto my feet. I laced up the tennis shoes. Then I picked up the gas can and left.
Plug fast-forwarded the video. According the time marker on the video, I was gone for over an hour, between 11:15
P.M.
and 12:30
A.M.
I walked to the bed, lifted the covers, and climbed in, muddy shoes and all. I reached up and switched off the bedside lamp. The room went dark.
Plug fast-forwarded again.
The sunrise brightened the room, but I hadn't moved a millimeter the entire time I'd slept in the bed. The alarm went off, and it didn't faze me. I continued sleeping, dead to the world. The alarm blared for five minutes before falling silent. My cell phone chimed with multiple texts, but I did not move. My cell rang, but it still resulted in no response from me.
Plug entered the room.
“Hannah.” He moved to the bed and touched my shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “Hannah?” No response. He grabbed my shoulder and shook me. “Hannah!”
I jolted upright in bed.
Plug clicked stop on the video.
“Why would you wake up to the phone call that came late at night from that guy, but not my phone call this morning?” Plug asked.
“Dude, she was hypnotized,” Nick said. “He told her to only wake up when someone woke her physically.” Nick tilted his chair forward, propped it on two feet, and waited for us to say something, but when no one did, he continued, “Think about it. He hypnotized you, gave you some sort of drug, and then instructed you to set fire to the Santos house. He wanted you to stay asleep up until your mom or someone else shook you awake. You most likely left the gas can at the scene with your prints all over it.”
My breathing increased. My hands trembled. And my gut clenched. I lurched forward and threw up. Most of the puke landed on the concrete floor.
“Oh!” Kyla yelled and covered her mouth.
“So. Not. Cool.” Nick popped out of his chair. Vomit had splattered his
6 OUT OF 7 DWARVES ARE NOT HAPPY
T-shirt. He pulled it over his head and walked away from the kitchen.
Plug snatched a towel from the counter and handed it to me. Then he went to the sink and dampened a cloth and returned to wipe my face.
“I thought it wasn't possible for you to smell any worse,” Plug whispered to me and winked with his good eye. He swiped the excess puke off my shoes and scooted my chair away from the mess.
Nick returned with one of Plug's gray V-neck T-shirts halfway on. He shoved his arms into the sleeves and said, “The CIA has used mind control for decades.”
“You're talking fiction,” Plug said. “
The Bourne Identity.
I saw the movie like everyone else.” Plug mopped the mess off the floor.
Nick tapped Plug's head. “I'm serious. This crap happens. There are documented cases all over the Internet of people who've been inducted against their will. They're called Monarch slaves. They're programmed with triggers, given drugs, and then told to do things that they'd normally consider wrong.”
“You're saying some evil government entity has recruited Hannah to set fire to Manny's house.” Plug chucked the puke-soaked rag into the trash. Then he washed his hands in the sink.
“No.” Nick rubbed his smooth scalp and paced the room. “I'm saying it's possible some jerk-off has manipulated Hannah against her will.”
“Not just any jerk-off.” Kyla pulled a stack of papers out of her bag. She thumbed through them, singled out one, and pointed at the names. “I researched the hypnotist from the fair. Master Gira is also known as Harry Hurricane, also known asâ”
“John Harrison,” I whispered.
“And is also known as,” Kyla said without missing a beat, “Chelsea Harrison's dad.”
“What?” Plug said.
Chills ran along my spine.
“Yes,” Kyla said, “and before that, he attended Princeton. The official report said he was expelled from the psychology program for cheating, but the chatter around campus said he was booted for experimenting with demonic rituals in the basement of the psych building.” She locked eyes with me. “Isn't Princeton your dream school?”
I nodded.
“Strange coincidence,” Kyla said.
“Not a coincidence,” I said. “Harrison was in the same graduate program as my dad. Apparently my parents knew him. And he auditioned at the hotel yesterday when I was with my mom.”
“And you didn't recognize him then?” Nick asked.
“My instincts have been a bit unreliable lately. Plus, his hair was different. And so much has happened since the fair.”
Nick turned to Kyla and asked, “Does your dad know you used his computer for these searches?”
“No.”
I needed to tell Mom about Harrison, but before I could do anything, my phone rang.
“Ignore it,” Plug said.
I read the caller ID. “It's the same number as before.”
Plug snatched the phone from me.
I tried to grab it back from him, but he was faster. He tapped the reject button and then scrolled through my phone log.
“The same number called you last night. It's the only number in your phone log that doesn't have a name attached to it.” He scrolled more. “He's been calling you since Sunday.”
“I don't know who it is,” I said.
“Seems obvious,” Kyla said. “It's the hypnotist.”
Plug set my phone next to Nick at the laptop. Nick pulled up the Internet and typed the number into a reverse directory. “Nothing.”
“It's probably a disposable,” Kyla said. “I have an idea.” She leaned in closer and typed the same number into her cell.
“What are you going to say?” I asked, but she shushed me.
My heart raced, and the seconds ticked by. Finally, she ended the call.
“No answer. No voice mail,” she said.
“Why wouldn't he answer?” I asked.
“Worse yet,” Plug said, “now he can do a reverse search on your number.”
“Doesn't matter,” Kyla said. “The phone is registered to my dad's work. They have gazillions of cell phones. This guy will never know we had anything to do with the call.”
“Let's see if these other videos captured anything,” Nick said.
“Wait,” I said. “I want to know what else Kyla found out. I've known Chelsea for a year. She would've said something if her dad was a freaking hypnotistâ”
My cell rang.
Nick held my phone. “Same number.”
“Let me answer it.” I reached for the phone, but Nick kept it. “I've had enough of this. Let's answer it.” I thrust my hand at Nick.
“Put it on speaker,” Plug said and began fiddling with my laptop.
Nick set the phone on the table. I sat down and pressed the green button.
⢠⢠â¢
I fumbled with the phone and ended the call.
“It was just a wrong number,” I said. My friends stared at me with open mouths.
“Oh no,” I said. “What happened?”
Plug and Nick moved over to the laptop.
“Did you get it?” Kyla asked.
“Yes.” Plug clicked play on yet another video.
I drummed my hands against the table. The screen showed Plug's kitchen, and my heart raced. Plug clicked the mute button.
“Watch,” he said.
The video showed Nick setting the phone on the table.
“Turn up the volume,” I said.
“Not yet.” Plug let his finger hover over the button.
“What are you hiding from me?” I asked, but they ignored me. The images played out on the computer screen. After I had slumped in the chair, Plug increased the volume.
“Are you alone?” a man's voice asked from the phone's speaker.
“No,” I said.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“In the kitchenâ”
Plug reached for the phone, but Kyla grabbed his hand.
“Is anyone watching you or listening to you?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat these words: You have the wrong number.”
“You have the wrong number.”
“Okay, when I count to three, you will wake and feel more anxious and fearful than you have in days. You will not remember any of our conversation. You will believe the call was simply a wrong number. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“One, two, three.” He disconnected the call.
I fumbled with the phone and ended the call.
“It was just a wrong number,” I said. “Oh no. What happened?”
“That was the hypnotist's voice.” I knew beyond any doubt, and panic welled up from the pit of my stomach. “Am I still hypnotized?”
“No,” Nick said, “but he left lingering posthypnotic suggestions. He told you to be anxious and fearful.”
“I'm losing myself.” I swallowed hard and shook out my hands. I paced the perimeter of the room. “He has total power over my mind, my feelings, and my body. I can't fight him. I was angry and determined before the phone call, and now I'm totally weak and scared.”
“He used a trigger to rapidly induce you.”
“How do you know so much?” I asked Nick.
“Because while Plug studies the occult, I study conspiracies,” Nick said. “Governments and secret societies have been brainwashing and hypnotizing people for generations. This isn't new, Hannah.”
Plug clutched my hands and stopped my pacing. “He recited a rhyming phrase, a couplet, when you answered the phone. When you heard the words, you went right into a trance.”
“What was the phrase?” I asked.
“Can't tell you,” Plug said. “You could slip under again. We have to research and figure out how to reverse his influence over you.”
“You need to be deprogrammed by a professional,” Nick said.
“We have to go to the police,” Kyla said.
“No!” I had to avoid the police at all costs.
“Hannahâ”
“They'll arrest me,” I said.
“We have proofâ”
“We do not,” I said. “We have a video of me letting a man into my room. We have a video of me with the gasoline can. We have a video of me talking on the freaking phone to someone. We can't prove any of this was John Harrison. Can we even prove he's Chelsea's father?” I grabbed Kyla's research from the table and waved it in the air.
“Hannah, even if it's not solid enough to take to the police, it's still enough to prove that you are not schizophrenic.”
I dropped Kyla's papers back onto the table. I rubbed my eyes and tried to erase the image of Mom when she had to admit to me that Dad killed himself. The worry lines on her face revealed that she feared I'd do the same thing. She needed to know I wasn't mentally ill like Dad.
Plug set his hand on my shoulder. “Things will get betterâ”
“Does this look like she's crazy?” Nick tapped the computer screen. He'd already started another video.
Dark shadows swirled across the ceiling of my bedroom.
“That's when the book got ripped,” Plug said.
“This is the one you watched?” I asked.
“I watched it Wednesday when you were in the bathroom,” Plug said.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“When was a good time? And how would it have helped?” Plug asked. I folded my arms, and we watched the recording.
I tossed back and forth in bed while shadows swirled around me. The bedcovers lifted and an unseen force thrust them against the wall. I jerked upright in bed. My eyes were wide open, but they were dark. Not green. A black mist seeped from my parted lips.
The video pixelated and flickered across the screen. We all tensed. But after a few seconds the image stabilized.
I rose and walked so smoothly, it appeared I floated an inch above the carpet. At the desk, my face lowered right into the camera lens of the computer. My eyes were brown. Not my own. Another fine mist of darkness escaped my lips. I hovered and tugged the art book in front of me, bumping the laptop in the process. The camera angle shifted slightly. I clutched several pages of the book and tore them from the binding. I let them fall to the floor. Then I ripped more pages. Again. And again.
When I finished, I drifted like a leaf back over to the edge of the bed. My spine arched backward, and my arms flung out to the sides. All at the same moment, the sheets were stripped from my mattress, dresser drawers flew open, clothes were strewn about the room, and the torn art pages swirled about as though they were in the funnel of a tornado.
A spiral of blackness shot from my mouth. Everything flying about the room fell to the floor.