All names, locations, buildings and any others identifying features have been fictionalised in order to respect confidentiality.
I've worked as a mental health nurse for two years now specialising, primarily, in cases involving children and adolescents. I've seen a lot of things that have seriously shaken my spirit and left me horrified and often disgusted with the world. Needless to say, there isn't much left that can spook me. At least, that's what I thought before I met Sam.
Sam (10 years old) has been on my caseload for a good few months now being introduced, initially, as a routine referral via her family doctor. It’s a standard practice in the clinic I work for and while the referral detailed Sam's behaviour as, “an unpredictable hurricane of aggression and distress” I didn't expect that there would be much to it. I guess I'm still pretty new to this field, still honing my intuition skills, because Sam’s case has turned out to be one of the most troubling experiences of my life…and now I'm terrified of what kind of world I might have gotten myself involved in.
I don't want to go into too much detail about my past with Sam at this point. It's a long story with a lot of missing details and some pretty upsetting stuff. Sam's life has been one big mystery from the get go and, in the time she's been known to me, Sam has gone through some pretty disturbing things involving ritualistic killings, acts of chilling, cold-blooded aggression and an incident during which Sam just disappeared for a whole week, returning with no explanation for her absence, where she had been the entire time or, indeed, any insight into the event at all. I guess if people are interested after reading this it might help for me write about some of these incidents in other posts but for now I want to talk about my most recent session with Sam and the spiral my life has gone down since then.
Our sessions most always take place at Sam's school in her hometown, something that was in agreement amongst her foster parents, my own clinical practice and the school authorities. On Tuesday's, Wednesday's and Thursday’s Sam would spend a two hour session with me after school hours during which we'd try and cover some of the reasons behind her behaviour. See, Sam is a master of manipulation, a trait I believe she practiced intensely in her younger childhood years. I'll admit that she had me pretty convinced in our early meetings that her behaviours were simply a result of a mildly disruptive childhood but the more time you spend with Sam the more you realise that there's more than meets the eye. My particular interests lay in the mystery surrounding Sam's early childhood. Being fostered at eight years old straight from a ward at the children's hospital is a difficult transition for any child but consider that along with the fact that no one seemed to know anything about Sam's past. Who were her real parents? Where were they now? Where had she come from? It seems impossible that a kid could just appear out of nowhere but that's the only way to describe what happened with Sam. On a chilly September evening, Sam was spotted by a truck driver walking, unsteadily, along the side of a bridge heading into the city. When the driver stopped to ask if she was alright Sam wouldn't say anything but willingly climbed into the cabin when instructed with no hesitation. The driver took her to a nearby gas station to get some food into her painfully skinny, underdressed body and to call the police. Whilst the driver explained the situation to the cashier, Sam wandered, dreamily, towards the drinks refrigerators, smashed a bottle of Cola against the floor, and began raking the razor sharp pieces of glass along the skin of her arms all before the truck driver and cashier could stop her. Sam's never spoken these events or the life she had prior to them. It took the hospital staff several days to earn a name from Sam but even that was doubtful. Meanwhile no missing child reports matching Sam's description were ever filed and no one ever stepped forward to claim responsibility for the child. It was during our last Wednesday session that I gave Sam my biggest most encouraging smile and informed that “today, we're gonna talk about growing up. I'd like to know more about the baby Sam. About where she came from-” “No,” already, Sam was closing up. Her arms went rigid at her sides and her mouth set in a stubborn line. “I know you find it difficult to talk about it,” I conceded moving around the classroom, pulling closed the curtains. “But today we're gonna try. This is a safe place and it's ok to be afraid or sad in our safe place.” I had closed all the curtains by this point and the only source of light in the room came from a small lamp with a soothingly orange halogen bulb that I had attached in an effort to simulate a more relaxing environment. Sam looked disgusted. “Do my parents know I'm here?” she asked. “Sure they do, Sam. Your parents know you come here every Wednesday, right?” “They probably won't like me being here much right now,” she sighed, picking at the soft skin on her fingertips. “They wouldn't like you to ask me questions about that stuff.” “Oh I think they wouldn't mind so much,” I assured. “Your parents want you to feel a little happier. Not so angry or scared. I think a big reason why you feel that way sometimes is because you're keeping all these feelings closed up inside. Sometimes when something bad happens to us we feel like we can't tell other people about it. Like, maybe if we don't talk about it it'll be like it never happened. Sometimes people make us promise not to tell. They say that bad things will happen to you or other people if you do. That's all wrong.” Sam looked at me with big, brown eyes, shining and reflecting the artificial glow of the lamp. “It's all wrong?”, she repeated. “Yup.” “You mean...if I tell you...if I remember, that is...nothing bad will happen? To me or...or to you or anyone?” “I promise honey,” I soothed. So Sam spoke, slowly and hesitantly at first but then with some prompting from me and an increase in her confidence soon there was no stopping her. My initial doubt of her validity based on her sudden willingness to discuss a subject she had stubbornly avoided for so long soon began to waver as the obvious relief that broke across her face with each word she spoke was so palpable that I, too, felt as if a great weight was being lifted from my chest. It was a brief feeling of achievement that did not last for long.
“I don't remember from when I was really little. Like, being a baby or anything,” she began. “But I can remember some stuff. I didn't live here, you know? Like, not in this place. I think it was an island maybe? Or just, maybe, really far away...anyway, it was a smaller place. Only, like, five people lived there. I mean, no, not only five but only a little. Five families maybe. And John Senior. He was the main one. Like, the guy in charge. Anyway, my parents were there and so was my brother. He was smaller than me. I was in school but he was only a baby still.” She paused. I waited for it to draw out before prompting her about what her parents were like. “I'm remembering still,” she moaned. “You gotta let me remember. So...yeah...so my parents were there and mum didn't like it but my daddy said we had to stay cause...I think he did something wrong maybe? He was a doctor. That's it. I remember now that my daddy was a doctor. He worked all the time and Connor, that was my little brother, Connor used to always cry cause he didn't want my daddy to go to work so much. I don't think he understood why he was crying, even,” Sam rolled her eyes. “Anyway, so one day my parents have to go to this meeting in the big church building. No, it wasn't the church. It was like a school, like, that's where I used to go to school but they used it for other stuff, too. But, yeah, so, my parents had to go there but my mum didn't want us to have to be alone in the house. Connor always thought there was ghosts there, I think. He cried loads and he always said there was men. But he was only a baby so...I dunno..” Another pause. I asked her if she thought there was ghosts in the house too which earned me a scathing look. “Pur-lease,” Sam sneered. “Ghosts are for babies. Only a baby would think there was ghosts. That's why we couldn't stay in the house that time cause my mum didn't want Connor to be scared of ghosts. So we went to the playpark instead. My parents let us go there and they went to the meeting.” “On your own?” I asked, skeptical. “You were both only little. Why didn't your parents get babysitters?” “Oh, I remember now, my parents had to leave us there cause all the grown ups had to go to the meeting. So we'd be ok, see, cause everyone was in the big important building. Anyway, let me tell you, ok? So Connor was all crying cause he wanted my parents to come back and I was trying to tell him that we had to wait but then I saw there was those big machines that let you buy sweets and stuff across the street and I though Connor would stop crying if he some sweets so I told him to stay on the swing and I'd get him something good. I had pocket money, you know? So I went across and bought him a chocolate bar and when I came back he was gone.” I waited and so did Sam, both of us apparently looking for a reaction in the other. As usual, I broke first. “Where did he go?” I asked. “He was gone.” “Yes, but where? Did he run away maybe?” “He was gone. It was his turn.” “His turn with what?” “He was gone.” I hesitated, perplexed. Clearly there was something she expected me to understand in this explanation. Sam was far from unintelligent and was more than capable of giving a full, detailed explanation on most subjects. “Well...what did you do then?” I asked. “Connor was gone. So I waited at the park and ate the chocolate bar until my parents came back. My mum was crying cause Connor was gone and my daddy let me sleep in their big bed that night. I think he wanted me to stay, you know? He didn't want me to be gone, too but it didn't matter. Like, when it's your turn to be gone it's your turn. I knew I'd have to go, too, pretty soon cause Connor was gone. I didn't want it to be like him though so I guess I ran away.” Sam paused again gouging at the skin on her fingertips again. She glanced up at me through her eyelashes but offered no reaction to my bemused expression. “I...what happened next? You ran away?” I asked, weakly. “I don't remember, I guess,” Sam replied, equally as weak. “I'm afraid I don't understand quite well enough, hon,” I tried, desperately to gain some control. “You said Connor was gone and that it was 'his turn’, right? Sam stopped picking at her fingers. She was watching me now, carefully. “I don't understand what you mean by that,” I went on. “Can you maybe try and explain it again and I'll try and listen more carefully?” I realised it was useless before I had even finished. Sam shook her head, sighing heavily. “You don't understand,” she repeated, apparently disappointed. “You don't understand and now I've told you...you know they'll know? They know lots of stuff...and when they find out that I'm not gone they'll come get me...and then they'll have to come and get you.” Sam pushed herself out of her chair, her eyes flickered up to the plastic clock hanging above the board behind us, and then back to me. “You must be shitting yourself, huh?”, she said.
I said goodbye to Sam at the end of that day, unsure what to think, how to feel. On the one hand I was very doubtful of Sam's story. There was so many details missed out, so much conjecture and, not to mention, how easy it appeared to be for her to tap into memories that she had been suppressing for years. On the other hand...it was so convincing. If you had seen her throughout, the way she recited her tale with little hesitation and virtually no deliberation of what details she did explain. If it was made up it was done very well and must have been prepared some time before our session to be delivered with such natural flow. Knowing what I knew about Sam's intelligence and her unnerving ability to manipulate I decided that more sessions delving into more details of her past would be needed before I could decipher what truth, if any, lay in her story.
If only it had been that simple.
On the Thursday evening after my session with Sam, I was cleaning up after a very hurried and unsatisfying spaghetti dinner when I heard a knock at my door. Wondering who would call round without prior warning at this hour, I carefully peered through my peephole before opening the door to an empty porch. Suspecting kids, I gave an exaggerated “tut” before slamming the door closed, turning the lock and continuing with my cleaning. This went on four more times. Each time I peered through the peephole there was no one there and not a childish snigger or the sounds of rapid fleeing to be heard. I, finally climbed into bed around midnight, assuming that the little brats would be rushing back home to keep within curfew by now. I enjoyed twenty minutes of peace before the sound of my door opening and closing again broke me, most abruptly, from my creeping sleep. I sat up in bed, clapping the covers to me and straining for the sounds of footsteps in the hall, of rummaging through drawers. I had never had a burglar before, much less when I was still in the house. The idea of being involved on a home invasion sent spasms of sickening fear across my body. I reached out for the phone on my bedside table and realised with jolt of panic that I must have left it in the kitchen, my mind distracted by the constant door knocking from before. I was trapped. I don't know how long I sat in my bed, shivering from a mixture of terrifying anticipation and surging adrenaline. My ears began to pick up the smallest, inconsequential sounds but nothing that indicated there was someone else in my house with me. It took a great amount of courage for me to, finally, climb out of bed and peer into the darkened hallway beyond. More unnerved than assured by the continuous silence, I crept along the hall to the kitchen which attached to my living room. Every shadow remained determinedly still in my presence and the sound of silence was pounding in my ears. I reached for my phone with trembling hands and as soon as I felt the cold, hard, reassuring plastic in my hands I turned and scrambled for the door, fumbling with the locks and spilling out onto my front path, getting all the way to my neighbours house and sitting, shaking in front of my bleary-eyed neighbours in their bright living room before I realised that I had fumbled. I had fumbled with the locks. The door had been locked. I omitted this detail when, after finally calming down enough to speak, I explained what had happened. Mr Crawford, bless him, personally searched my property armed with nothing more than a baseball bat and the courage of elderly Scotsman. He found no evidence of intruders but suggested that I sleep on their couch that night. I declined, feeling somewhat foolish at my apparent overreaction to sounds I could have heard in a dream. However, I did step over my doorway with increasing terror and when I finally climbed back into bed, with every light in every room left burning on, I could not sleep and remained that way until I distinctly heard my front door open and then purposefully close again.
I haven't been back to my place since, as you can, no doubt, imagine. Nor have I attended any further sessions with Sam, advising her foster parents that I was too ill to see her that week. The police have investigated and can find no evidence of a break in which suggests to them that, assuming I hadn't completely made up the entire incident in my head, whoever the intruder was they must have had a key. Two days after I fled my house for the second time I was returning to a friends flat, with whom I'm currently staying, as I climbed the stairs to her door on the third floor and reached the landing I heard the sudden burst of footsteps, slapping, running across the tiled floor, coming from the floors below, getting increasingly closer. All I could do was stumble backward against my friends door as I waited for whatever horror was going to appear over the staircase, when the door opened behind me and I fell, backwards, into the apartment, into the arms of my friend. I scrambled out of her arms and slammed the door closed snapping the locks shut and hurrying to the peephole. Complete blackness stared back at me, the well lit hallway and the door beyond not visible in the slightest in the darkness. My breathing increased, rapidly as I realised someone was there. Someone was at the other side of the door, covering the lens. I turned to inform my friend of this when the sound of her doorbell cut across my words, making me jump back from the wood as if electrocuted. Before I could tell her to stop, my friend undid that locks and pulled the door wide to reveal her own neighbour from downstairs, a rather grumpy woman with more cats than teeth who demanded that we keep the racket in the hallway to a minimum.
I'm not sure what to make of this but the thought of Sam's story of her family and little brother's disappearance keeps playing on me. All I can think to do while I try to occupy my mind at my friends house, messing around on her PC is ask if anyone out there has heard of such a small community, containing a church/school type building and being run by a “John Senior”. Right now I feel like I'm going crazy, investing so much mental energy to a story which is, more than likely a work of fiction devised by a highly devious child. But then my mind returns to Sam's words to me in that stuffy classroom, sending chills down my spine and tingles in my finger tips: “...when they find out I'm not gone they'll come get me...and then they'll have to come and get you.” I have to admit she's right. I am shitting myself.
Submitted July 29, 2016 at 03:44AM by LarleneLumpkin http://ift.tt/2ayo0aH nosleep
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