Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller by Jeff Menapace Page A

me, please?”
    The motel manager sighed. “Ma’am, please just go back to your room and sleep it off—I don’t want any trouble.”
    I nearly stuttered. “ What? Did you hear me? I am no longer asking but ordering you to open this door for me— Now. ”
    The manager gave another sigh and started towards Morris’ door.
    “ Thank you ,” I said condescendingly. It was all I could do to keep from punching him in the throat.
    The manager slid his master key into the lock and opened Morris’ door. I stepped inside the dark room and immediately patted the wall for the lights. The room lit up and my mouth fell open.
    The bed was made, the room was tidy. Maid -tidy. As if no one had ever been there.
    “Happy?” the motel manager said behind me.
    My head was spinning.
    Dreaming…I’m dreaming again.
    “No,” I whispered to myself. “No, I’m not.”
    Wrong room? Yes—had to be.
    I spun and checked the open door. Its digits read room 316.
    “What?” I said, tapping a finger against the number. “This is wrong.”
    “Ma’am, there’s no one currently occupying this room.”
    I shook my head. “No, no this room number it—Morris is in 12, I’m in 11…”
    The manager looked on the verge of raising his voice. “Ma’am, please just go and—”
    “ 316? ” I blurted. “How many rooms do you have here?” I shoved the manager aside and all but ran back to my room. The room number on my door was 914. “What the hell ?”
    I turned back to the manager. He was gone.
    “ Hello!? ”
    I went back to Morris’ room. The door was closed. The room number was 12 again.
    I went back to my room. The room number was 11 again.
    “I’m dreaming,” I whispered to myself again. “I have to be.”
    Why were the room numbers 316 and 914? Why so random?
    And then like a cold
    ( dead )
    finger tracing the length of my spine:
    Christopher died March 16th.
    Mike died September 14th.
    “I want to wake up, I want to wake up, I want to wake up—”
    Something in my peripheral vision again. East again. By the road again.
    I don’t want to look.
    You have to.
    I turned and looked. The silhouette of a man again. Next to him was the silhouette of a boy. They were holding hands, looking to cross the road and journey into the field beyond together.
    I know who they are.
    So follow them.
    I’m scared.
    You? Scared?
    Yes.
    The man and boy both glanced back towards me, their faces still shrouded in shadows. But I knew who they were.
    I know who they are.
    The man and boy crossed the road and started into the field.
    Go after them. Maybe they have something to show you.

CHAPTER 15
    Go after them.
    They’re not real. I know I’m dreaming.
    Go after them, they want to show you something.
    I just want to wake up.
    I started after them, stunned but not stunned by my actions. Fever dreams are like being a part of a puppet where only the head is yours. And this is all the more cruel. The head is yours to bear witness and absorb and digest and relive fear and anguish without the hazy, surreal quality of a typical dream. A nightmare in the waking world. You are helpless to some unseen force that takes you places you would never dare go, makes you see things you never want to see, and for the one sinister exception to the puppet rule, feelthings you don’t want to feel.
    And so I went after them. What choice did I have? I ran to keep up. They were already halfway through the field when I called to them. I did not use their names. I was too afraid to use their names. What if it was Mike and Christopher? I didn’t want to see them. Not like this. I was afraid to see them like this.
    How else would you see them, Maggie?
    No…this will be bad. This will be bad…
    Still I followed without giving my legs permission. I was in the field now, maybe fifteen yards behind them. I called to them again, still refusing to use their names. My shouts were monosyllabic commands and pleas. “ Stop! Wait! Please! ”
    The field dropped suddenly