The Dead House

John and Kaitlyn sit on the mattress, facing each other. He is a tall, broad-shouldered youth with a thin beard and long hair tied back. He wears a Metallica T-shirt and a leather jacket. They sit in silence for a long time, Kaitlyn furtively glancing at John every few seconds.

“What?” he asks at last, grinning.

“You… you look so different. A beard?”

“Even more Viking now, right?” He rubs his face, smiling. “You look different too.”

“How?” Her eyes are bright with anticipation, and she leans forward.

“You look thin, and…”

“What?”

He laughs, throws up his hands, then slumps. “Well, look how you’re living.”

Kaitlyn looks around, her expression difficult to read. “It’s not that bad, really.”

“You’re sleeping on a moist mattress on the floor of a basement.”

“It’s okay. The mattress is good.”

“God’s sake, DH, you know what I mean. You’re going to catch your death.”

It is true that Kaitlyn looks drawn and pale.

She nods. “Yeah. It’s not forever, though. Just until Lansing and the cops stop focusing on the school. Stop looking for me.”

“They say you had something to do with a girl going missing.”

“It’s a lie. I was passed out when she decided to walk home. Naida was with me the whole time. So how could I have done anything to her?”

“This is… this is messed up, Kaitie. Maybe… maybe you should—”

Her body tenses. “What? Go back to Claydon?”

John looks at her, mute.

“Are you… are you joking?” She jumps to her feet. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Calm down.”

“No! No, I won’t calm down! You’re telling me I should go back to a nuthouse! You told me I didn’t belong there—on the phone, you told me! You were lying?”

Kaitlyn’s words become shrill, yet there is something more, because suddenly she turns away and half-collapses against the wall, her palms pressed against the dark surface to keep herself erect as she gasps for breath.

John hurries to her side and pulls her into a tight embrace, but she begins to gasp deeply and scream with every exhale.

“Shh, Kaitie, it’s okay. Shh…”

Kaitlyn’s screams turn into cries and then her cries become sobs.

“I’m sorry,” John says. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. Shit.”

Kaitlyn’s arms fall to her side, and she seems calm. “I have to go,” she says, her voice empty. “Let me go.”

John releases her and steps back. “I’m sorry, Kait.”

She doesn’t look at him. “I have to go now.”

John steps aside and she stalks past him like a zombie. He stands staring after her for a few seconds, then he turns and punches the wall.

“Damn it!”

[END OF CLIP]





87


14 days until the incident




Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson


Wednesday, 19 January 2005, 11:12 pm Basement

Naida’s bind no longer holds.

The Dead House is upon me once again.

It’s

A

Trickster.

It’s a thief.


Thought I saw Carly. Just for a second. She was standing at the end of a long hall. Could I put my joy into words, even though it lasted only a moment? Probably not. But it doesn’t matter, because when I ran forward, the house bent around her and she was gone. I could hear the walls laughing at me.

Strange.

Stranger still, when I opened my eyes, I could still feel the house. Feel its solidity, feel its putrescence, feel its floors, walls, and roof. Smell the decay of it. I could feel the awareness of it, the hunger. Until I realized that it wasn’t the Dead House I was feeling at all.

It’s the school.





88


23 days after the incident




Extract from the statement of Annabeth Lansing



Friday, 25 February 2005



Patients do construct mental settings that can help them escape their reality. When those settings become more real than reality, or bleed into reality, we have psychosis. Thoughts and emotions become so warped and impaired that external reality can no longer be accessed. It is a discontinuation in the belief of the person’s own reality. That is psychosis.





Diary of Kaitlyn Johnson


Monday, 24 January 2005, 2:52 am

Attic

So here I am. Naida said she wanted to talk to me. That it was important to do it up here, and she was right. I finally understand. I think I do. I recorded the conversation like I did before, so take it in, Dee. I could use your opinion.

“This isn’t Carly’s handwriting,” Naida said. She was standing at the farthest wall, right by that big stain, her hand on the wood.

“You don’t know that—”

“I know my best friend’s handwriting, Kaitlyn.” She turned to look at me, and I couldn’t decide whether to slap her or run from her. Before I could decide, she whispered, “Write something for me.”

“This is stupid.”

She stepped towards me, holding out a marker. “Write for me. Here, on the wall.”

“No.”