The Girl from the Well by Rin Chupeco Page B

her as a
    ruined
    horror; now she sees me as a girl; young, my hair coiled up around my head like I often wore it, with brown eyes and skin a pale white from the absence of sun rather than a mark of the long dead. I look at her looking back at the girl I once was, and the ghosts of the little dead children, freed from the Smiling Man’s taint, gather around me glowing.
    The young woman faints.
    She recalls very little of what happens in the interim, only rousing herself when she hears shouts and cries from outside the room. She holds her breath at first, fearful, and knows no greater relief than when the voices become more distinct, drumming down the stairs.
    â€œTarquin Halloway! Callie Starr! This is the police! Can you hear us? Call out to us if you can!”
    â€œI’m here!” the young woman screams, voice hoarse. “I’m here! Help us! Please, help us!”
    For a moment, she is afraid that her pleas will go unheard, but after several more minutes, the door to the basement opens, and beams of light stream into the room.
    â€œMiss Callie Starr? Stay calm, miss, we’re going to help you. Are you hurt anywhere?”
    â€œMy hand…” the teacher’s assistant whispers. “And Tarquin…”
    â€œDon’t worry about it, ma’am. The medics are here. We’re going to get you out as soon as we can.”
    â€œHe’s okay.” Another of the men reports, checking the fallen teenager. “Pulse is normal, no signs of injury on him.”
    The young woman feels like laughing, and she does, startling her rescuers. No signs of injury on Tarquin! And yet the tattoos on his arms! The seals thriving like little creatures, feasting on his skin!
    â€œOh my God,” she hears another of the men say. They shine their light on the other bed, revealing the Smiling Man, except his head is now missing. Shuddering, she turns away.
    Just before her strength fails again, she imagines she can see me as before, the woman in white with long hair and an ashen face, now standing in a darker corner of the room. I am surrounded by strange little lights, bobbing up and down as if they sit on an unseen river that flows around my frame. One by one, they move against the air, like shooting stars that rise up instead of falling down. I say nothing, only watching as they float into the refuge of darkness.
    Callie Starr closes her eyes and does not open them again for some time.

CHAPTER NINE
Dolls
    The teacher’s assistant has never been here before, although it is every bit as frightening as she had imagined it to be. People in loose robes (sixteen) stare coldly at her as she walks past, suspicious of how she is free to leave this place whenever she wishes to, when they cannot. Some people ignore her completely, bursting into shrill, hysterical laughter at voices no one else can hear (twelve). Others prefer the company of their closets or their potted plants, conducting animated conversations with the imaginary things that live within (ten).
    People call this place the Remney Psychiatric Institute.
    The teacher’s assistant looks tired. The bruises marring her face are lighter than two weeks ago, enough that they are easily hidden under a thin layer of makeup. The little finger on her right hand remains heavily bandaged, and she moves her arm with stiffness that suggests a midpoint between hurting and recovery. While sensitive to the touch, the small wound on the side of her head no longer requires dressing. She is pale, and the bright fluorescent lights overhead do nothing to hide her pain.
    She has been released from the hospital with her doctor’s permission, avoiding the well-wishes and well-intentioned worry of visitors and friends as she did. But she cannot rest, not just yet. There is something else she must do first.
    The White Shirt is nervous, and understandably so. He has agreed with extreme reluctance to allow the young assistant visiting rights, despite