The Night Sister

Jason took a step back toward the doorway. The wild, mischievous look in the woman’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. She was bonkers. Maybe Amy had been, too. Hereditary delusional thinking. Madness in the family.

“Nice seeing you again, Mrs. Slater.” He tipped his hat in that way that older people seemed to like, and started to back out of the room.

“Miss,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I never married. Amy’s father, he was nothing. A no one. Not worth the time of day, much less a lifetime commitment. ‘Slater’ is my maiden name. It’s Miss Slater.”

“Yes, ma’am. I apologize.”

“Do you know anything about my granddaughter, Jason? Where they’ve put her?”

“She’s fine,” Jason said. “She’s safe.”

“Safe!” Rose repeated incredulously.

“I just stopped in to say hello,” Jason said. “Gotta get to work. You take care, now.”

He turned his back to her, started to leave.

“Jason,” she called when he got to the door and was about to make his escape back down the hallway, past the nurses’ station, out the front doors, and into the fresh air. God, he couldn’t wait to breathe that air. He half-thought of pretending he didn’t hear her. How easy it would be to just keep on walking, quickly, with purpose; he’d have to concentrate on not letting it turn into an I’m-getting-the-hell-out-of-here jog.

“Yes?” He turned, caving. His mother had raised him to respect his elders, to be polite, always: the sadder the shape someone was in, the more compassion they deserved. Besides, this wasn’t just any senile old lady. This was Amy’s mother. She deserved more than a brush-off, crazy as a loon or not.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I know what ‘29 Rooms’ means?”

The photo with the message hadn’t been released to the media. No one was supposed to know about it but the cops working the case.

He looked intently into her eyes, black like pools of ink. “Do you?”

She grinned. “Do you believe in monsters, Jason?”

“No, ma’am,” he told her.

“Neither did my daughter,” Rose said, cocking an eyebrow. “And look what happened to her.”





1955





Mr. Alfred Hitchcock Paramount Studios Hollywood, California September 9, 1955

Dear Mr. Hitchcock, It’s me again: Sylvia Slater from London, Vermont. I hope you’ve been getting my letters.

I don’t think I’ve told you yet, but I can hypnotize people. I actually started with hypnotizing chickens (they’re pretty easy) and now I practice on my sister Rose. She’s more difficult, but I think I’m making progress.

My uncle Fenton gave me a book last Christmas, Mastering the Art and Science of Hypnotism, and I’ve studied it from cover to cover.

To be good a good hypnotist, you must project self-confidence. You must have a strong will and a belief that you will succeed. Self-doubt will bring failure. I think this is true not just with hypnosis, but with anything you try, even acting or making movies. Don’t you agree?

My book says that once you’ve mastered the art of hypnosis, you can make a good-hearted man do something truly evil, or make a cruel person perform an act of kindness.

I have been testing this out with Rose, trying to make her a little more friendly with me, a little more agreeable in general. But the thing is, she has a stronger will than I thought. I will keep trying.

Sincerely yours,

Miss Sylvia A. Slater The Tower Motel





328 Route 6


London, Vermont





Rose


Rose was excited to be out after dark, past bedtime on a Friday night. She and Sylvie were walking down Main Street in Barre with Uncle Fenton, who was doing his best James Dean impression, catching the eye of every teenage girl they passed. He had bought them both chocolate malted milk shakes in waxy paper cups.

It was raining. Rose and Sylvie shared an umbrella, while Fenton let the rain fall on him, small beads collecting on his freshly oiled hair and leather jacket. Main Street was crowded, thick with people of all sorts; they’d had to park the old Chevy pickup truck on the other side of town and walk in.