Chapter 25

I felt myself being pulled back from the brink of madness, back to the world of the living. As I opened my eyes, I saw Brice standing over me, his face filled with concern. "Ry, are you okay? Can you hear me?" he questioned, his voice firm but gentle.

With a slow nod, I sat up, my mind foggy and disoriented. The voice of the psychopath was gone, but the memory of his words still lingered in my mind. Shaking my head, I tried clearing it of the muddle within, then blurted for God only knew what reason. "The...the killer called me Analise." My confusion was evident in my voice, and frowning, I tried making sense of the situation. Why had he called me Analise? Who the hell was Analise?

I looked over at Brice, who was watching me with concern, and I knew he was trying to understand what was going on. But I couldn't bring myself to tell him everything. Not yet. Taking a deep breath, I tried to focus on the present, not get lost in the memories of moments earlier. But it was hard to do so when everything was so confusing.

Reaching out, I took the hand Brice offered and standing, I dusted off the seat of my jeans as I peered around the room, taking in my surroundings. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The walls were the same beige color as when I had entered, the dresser was the same sturdy oak, and sat against the same wall, but nothing was right.

"Did you move me?" I softly questioned Brice, my eyes searching his face.

He shook his head, confusion etched on his features. "No, why would I move you?"

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the racing thoughts in my head. "This room, it's not right," I breathed. "I... It should be... older."

Brice frowned at me, his brow furrowed in concern. "What do you mean, older?"

I shrugged, trying to explain. "You know, older. Like, from a different time. A different era."

Brice looked at me like I was crazy, and I realized that maybe I was, but I continued anyway. “The bedroom was...” I started but my voice faltered as a vivid image of a much older bedroom materialized in my mind. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a small, flickering candle that sat atop a weathered nightstand. The walls were adorned with yellowed wallpaper, peeling at the corners, and the furniture was worn and creaky, as if it had been passed down through generations. In the center of the room, a large, four-poster bed loomed, its curtains billowing like ghostly apparitions from an open window. The bed was covered in a patchwork quilt, stitched with intricate patterns and faded colors. The once-white sheets were now yellowed and stained, and the pillows were flat and lumpy. An armoire sat in the corner, but it was in bad condition, its top sagged under the weight of years of neglect. The once-plush carpet was now frayed and stained, and the room showed signs of mold and decay. Large windows sat on the west side of the room, and overlooked a field that held skeletal stalks of corn long dead. To the side of the corn field was a barn, its roof caving in at one corner and its doors creaking in the wind. The once-red paint was now peeling and faded, revealing the weathered wood beneath. The overall appearance of everything, was that of abandonment.

I knew somehow, the room was still occupied by a child; a little girl, no more than six or seven-years-old, with a mop of curly brown hair and eyes that were a mixture of a grayish blue, and her name was Analise.

After we had wrapped things up at the mansion, there was nothing left for us to do in Newton, so we headed home. Now, as I sat in Brice’s spare room, I found myself pensive and thoughtful. I didn’t know how any of this tied together, the Specter and Analise, but it did. Somehow, the little girl was the key to everything. I knew the Specter had been killing for her. But why? That was still something I had to figure out. It was almost like he was doing it to gain her acceptance. But how could he think he could ever gain anything from her when she had passed centuries ago? 

As I sat, staring at the stack of files and photographs on the bed, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were missing something. The Specter case had been open for months, and we had been working tirelessly to piece together the evidence and find a lead, but it seemed at every turn, we had struck out.

At a slight knock on the door, I pushed off the mattress, and going to the door, I opened it. Brice stood on the other side of it, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and husky. "Can I come in?"

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do, but then I stepped aside.

"So, what's up?" I asked, crossing my arms and trying to play it cool.

Brice shrugged, his eyes never leaving mine. "Just wanted to see you. To make sure you are really okay after Newton. You never really said much about what happened."

I shrugged. “I'm good, and there isn’t much to tell."

He stepped closer. "You sure about that?”

I shrugged again. The Specter got in my head again, that’s all."

I tried to brush it off, but Brice's eyes seemed to see right through me. He knew I was hiding something, and it was starting to make me feel uncomfortable. I shifted my weight and looked away, hoping to break the intense gaze. But Brice just kept looking at me, his eyes never leaving mine.

"What's going on, Ry?" he asked, his voice low and probing. "You've been acting strange ever since Newton. Is it just the Specter, or is there something else going on?"