The Dark Somnium - "My job is Watching a Woman Trapped in a Room" Creepypasta | Scary Stories from Nosleep

Episode Date: January 14, 2022

This Creepypasta scary story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by Verastahl, make sure to check out the original story and support the author! "My job is watching a woman trapped in a room." https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/brco33/my_job_is_watching_a_woman_trapped_in_a_room/--- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/darksomnium/message Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Three years ago, I was looking at the local job classifieds online when one of the ads caught my eye. Not because of what it said, but because it said so little. Best I remember, the ad just read, job available, good pay, no benefits, discretion required. It then listed an email address, and that was all. At the time, I was managing a music store, but I had already started hearing rumors we would be shutting down within the next year, and the likelihood of a transfer to another store was slim. I had been morosely looking at job listings for the last few days, but this was the first one that stood out,

if only because I was bored and it was weird. So I sent an email. Half an hour later, I had a response, telling me to go to a particular office building in an upscale part of the city at a precise time for my screening. I went, and after waiting for a few minutes in the lobby, I was taken into an office where I was given a series of forms and questionnaires to fill out. They collected them and told me they would be in touch.

I had almost forgotten about the whole thing until a month later I got a call saying I had moved on to the second stage of the hiring process. I was again given an address in time, and when I arrived, this time it was a different, nice office park 20 miles away from the first one. I was met by a man who introduced himself as Mr. Solomon. He escorted me into a large room that contained a chair and a desk. On the desk were two large monitors, a keyboard, mouse, and a bolted-down metal box with two oversized buttons on it, one red and one green. He told me this room was a model for the place I would be working if I got the job.

He described the job as follows. I would be working seven shifts of six hours every week. My job would be simple. I would arrive at work ten minutes early and enter an outer area that was like a locker room. I would have my own personal locker. I would store all my belongings in the locker and change into the provided work clothes. I was never, under any circumstances, to carry any item of my own into the surveillance room. I was never, under any circumstances, to take any item with me from the surveillance room.

As for what I was to do in the surveillance room, I was told that the monitor was, on the left would constantly show a live stream from a high-definition camera in a remote location. My job was simply to watch the camera. Once an hour, I would get on to the computer attached to the right monitor and enter a brief log, describing anything interesting that occurred in the last hour. I would have no pens or pencils or paper, and I should never try to take any kind of written notes about the work. As for the red and green buttons, the red button was only to be used if there was an emergency

This meant something on the video or in my workplace that required outside help. The green button was to be hit if I saw something on the video feed that was particularly noteworthy. It would tell other people somewhere that, at least in my opinion, something interesting was going on. Solomon stressed that while I was given discretion on when to use the button, I should err on the side of only using it if and when something of real significance occurred. He pointed out the camera on the ceiling of the room we were in.

He said the real room would be the same. My work would be observed, and other people were watching the room on the video feed as well. He said I was only a redundancy in case other systems failed. He then smirked and asked if I knew what he meant by redundancy. I nodded, trying not to show my irritation. I don't talk that good to people, so sometimes they think I'm dumb. That's okay. Let him think that if he paid me good enough.

The pay was very good, $35 an hour. This worried me. I was already thinking this was some kind of psych experiment or secret government job, which I was okay with, but that kind of money to sit and watch a screen? My mom always told me that if something good seems too good to be true, it probably is, and this was seeming too good to be true. I asked if I was doing anything illegal. Solomon laughed and said no.

I asked him if anyone was going to get hurt. Again, he shook his head. No. He said the reason they were paying me so much was because they needed employees that were motivated to be professional and discreet. The work they were doing was important, and for various reasons it couldn't be discussed. If I took the job, I would have to sign papers promising I would never discuss my work there or I could be sued or locked up.

I'm only breaking that now because of everything that's happened. So, I took the job, and because they wanted me to start right away, I had to quit the store with no notice. I felt bad about that, but I was excited about the new job, too. It was a lot of money, and it seemed like easy enough work, if a bit boring. I was nervous that there was something more to it, but I told myself I would just have to see. No point in chickening out and wasting a good chance because I let my imagination go crazy.

I was given the location of the job itself, and when I went there, I was amazed that it really was just like the model room I'd been shown with only a few differences. There was a locker room you had to pass through to enter the surveillance room, and there was a small bathroom attached to the real surveillance room also. The real room had a small water cooler in the corner, but because I wasn't allowed to bring anything with me, I had to eat before or after every shift. The biggest difference, of course, was that the monitors were turned on. The right monitor was just a black and white terminal like you see in movies sometimes.

I could type in my logs, but no internet to look at or anything like that. The left monitor. It was video from a room. You could call it a bedroom, I guess, because it had a bed in it, but it had a lot of other stuff too. A TV, sofa, and chairs, a couple of tables, and plenty of empty spaces. in between. The camera must be high up in a corner because I could see pretty much everything, except for the far sides of furniture. At first, though, I didn't notice any of that stuff.

All I saw was her. She looked to be a little older than me and was very pretty. When I first saw her, she was laying on her side on the sofa. That was the part of the room farthest from the camera, but the picture was very clear, and I could tell she was sleeping. I found myself leaning into the monitor more so I could see her better, and then I thought about what I was doing and felt embarrassed. It's like I was spying on her, a peeping Tom, my mom used to call it. I didn't want to be a peeping Tom, but I didn't want to be silly either. I needed to think about it slow.

It was a good job, and I wasn't doing anything wrong, right? I wasn't hurting anybody. The woman looked fine, and the room was nice. She probably agreed to be there, and it's all some experiment. or something, I was just overreacting. I sat down in the chair and began my work. It didn't take long before I understood more. The woman, I took to calling her Rachel, wasn't there of her free will.

I never saw her hurt, but it was clear that she never left that room except to go into what I think is a bathroom area that my camera couldn't see. Well, she never left the room on her own. Periodically, usually a couple times a week during my shifts, men and women in strange-looking outfits would come in and take her from the room. Sometimes she would struggle, but usually she would just go along with her head hung low. They would always bring her back, though the times when she wasn't brought back during my shift were always the worst for me.

I would worry about her until I got to work the next day and saw her in the room watching TV or painting. She never looked hurt, or even that upset, except for when they took her. And even when she fought, they were always gentle with her. Still, I knew something was wrong. I considered quitting the job, or hitting the red button and getting someone to come so I could get some answers, or calling the police and showing them what the camera was showing me.

Except I was scared, scared of losing my job, and scared of what these people might do to me if I quit, were told on them. Solomon had told me when I took the job that part of being discreet was not asking questions. I would never be asked to do more than I had already been told, but I can never tell anyone what I did or saw, and I can never ask questions about what I was doing or why. So I made excuses. It was all an experiment. She was crazy or sick, and they were trying to help her.

She was doing a job just like I was, or if she really was a prisoner somewhere, at least I was watching to make sure that she was okay. If they ever tried to hurt her, or I saw that she really didn't want to be there for sure, I could get help then. In a way, I told myself I was helping to protect her by watching. I don't expect you to think much of my excuses. I don't think much of them myself, especially now. But in my defense, when things changed,

I didn't ignore it, or try to explain it away. I knew something had to be done. Rachel would usually paint for an hour or two every day, and it seemed to always be during my afternoon shifts. The room had no windows as far as I could tell, but I guess she either used a clock or her own body's time to keep to a kind of schedule. I always liked to watch her paint. The thing she was painting was always facing the wrong way for me to see, but I could see

her face as she worked. She always looked peaceful and happy when she was painting, and seeing her that way, smiling serenely from time to time as she got something the way she wanted it, always made my day. I first noticed something was wrong when she started painting more frequently a few weeks ago. Her expression was more focused and serious, and there was attention to her movements that I wasn't used to seeing. At first, I thought she was just really trying to work hard on something, and I wanted to tell her not to worry. Every few weeks, the others would come in and take the old paintings out anyway, bringing in a new stack of, I think the word is canvas. But it was more than her being focused. Something was wrong. She didn't look happy,

and she was going for hours at a time. In the span of three days, she had finished four paintings. I had been growing more and more worried watching her work, and And when she finished the fourth, I found myself telling her to just stop and rest a while. I had grown accustomed to talking to the monitor, talking to her in my own way, but she didn't stop. Instead, she began moving the paintings, arranging them on the back and sea of the long sofa at the far end of the room. This was the first time I'd gotten to see any of the paintings.

Even when the others were taking them out, they always seemed to be turned away from the camera. I was still worried about her, but I was also happy to see. finally see something she had worked on, happy and amazed. They were beautiful. One was a beautiful green forest. Another was an old stone wall. A third was a house sitting alone on a small island. The last was an old-fashioned-looking movie theater. All of them looked like something out of a dream, with trailing lines of color mixing in the air around them like leaves caught in the wind. It was only when I looked close that I realized the lines of color weren't random. They were words.

Easy to miss if you weren't looking close, and by themselves they didn't seem to mean much. Just the ghost of a word somewhere in each of the paintings, easy to lose in anything else that was being shown. I leaned into the monitor and squinted, trying to read the words. Then my heart started budding as I made them out, blinking and rubbing my eyes, and I looked again, reading them out loud in order, left to right, top pair, and bottom. Please help me, Thomas. I pushed back from the monitor, my hand over my mouth. I didn't know what to do.

I didn't know how any of this could be happening. It wasn't just that she was asking for help, though that was a big part of it. It was that my name is Thomas. I thought about the camera above me and took my hand over me. away from my face. I rolled back to the desk and sat there, trying to stop from shaking, trying to make myself take a breath, think about it slow. The first thing was, should I hit a button? The red button was for an emergency. If she was a prisoner or something and she was trying to escape, they might think that was an emergency, but no one had been hurt that I knew of,

and I think Mr. Solomon meant save that for something that was like a police or ambulance emergency, Not something like this, but what about the green button? That was definitely something noteworthy, not only that she was asking for help, but that she was asking me for help. I made myself stop for a moment. I couldn't know for sure she was asking me. I had gone to school with several boys named Thomas, it was a common name, but the chances of her painting that name when I was working there?

I didn't want to be silly, but I wasn't trying to be too... What's the word? Mom used to say it when she read her angel books. Skeptics? I didn't want to be a skeptic either. I had to believe it was probably meant for me, and that was something they would want to know. But should I hit the green button?

My hands were drifting toward the metal box on the desk, but I hesitated. I didn't like breaking rules, and I was scared of what would happen if I broke these. If they really were holding her prisoner, then they were probably very bad people. I didn't know that. Maybe they were good and she was bad, but I just... I looked back at the monitor for the first time since reading the words. Rachel was already moving the paintings back off the sofa, as though she knew the message had been received.

The canvas in each hand, she glanced up at the camera as she moved across the room, and it felt like she was looking right at me. My chest tightened as my hands moved away from the buttons. No. I didn't think she was bad. I had watched her for years. I felt like I knew her. Would know if she was bad.

Strange as it seemed, in a way, she was my friend. I was going to help her. The only people I had actually met connected to this job were a couple of people when I filled out the papers, and then Mr. Solomon when he showed me the model room and told me the job. I had no way of contacting any of them except through the buttons. My checks were deposited electronically, and I'd never run into anyone else who worked at the surveillance room. That thought made me stop a second.

I'd always thought it was weird that I never ran into someone when I was coming or going, the person I was taking over for, or the person who was taking over for me. I'd always figured there must be other people, other surveillance rooms even, and they just scheduled us so we didn't run into each other, and I still thought there were others. of why I thought that was because it seemed like I wasn't the only person who used my surveillance room. The water cooler, the toilet paper, the soap, they all seemed to go down faster than I think I was using it by myself.

If that was true, maybe I could figure out who they were, and maybe they would be safer to talk to than whoever it was I worked for. I got off work at 8 that night, and instead of grabbing some food and going home, I drove my car around the block and then parked down the street from the building where I worked. Nothing had changed while I drove around for a minute, no new cars had parked or anything, and if I was right, they didn't send anyone to replace me until they were sure I was gone anyhow. So I sat and waited. I was tired, and the street was pretty empty and boring, but I was too excited and scared

to fall asleep. Every time a car passed or someone walked down the sidewalk, I tensed. I kept imagining a SUV or van pulling up behind me, men getting out of the side of the sidewalk. out and pulling me from my car, taking me somewhere like where they had Rachel to kill or torture me. Half a dozen times I almost cranked up and drove away. But every time I would think of her alone in that room, she had no one but me to help her, and I had to try.

Two hours later, a fat balding man parked and started heading for the building. As soon as I saw he was able to unlock the door and enter, I opened my car to go and talk with him. Then I stopped. I needed to be smart. I didn't know where they were, but I was sure they were hidden cameras in the locker room and outside the building. If I go running in there and confront the guy, they'll know for sure that I'm up to something.

Sying in frustration, I shut the door and waited until his shift was over. I considered tailing him like in the movies, but I was scared I would just lose him or he would call someone for help. So I waited until he was walking back to his car after a six-hour shift. Hopefully, far enough away that the cameras wouldn't see. And then I met the man I came to know as Charles Jeffries. Hey, ah, hey, man, can I talk to you for a minute? His back was to me, and he just waved his hand absently without looking up.

Sorry, I don't have any money. Have a good... He froze as he glanced back at me while talking. Oh God, no, no, you need to get out of here, kid. We aren't allowed to talk. I could tell he was scared, but I couldn't risk letting him go. yet, not after all this. I stepped up and pushed the door back shut as he was trying to get into his car.

So you know who I am? I tried not to sound mean, but I could hear how mad I was in my voice. He yanked at the door again, but I was still holding it, and I was stronger than he was. After a second, weaker tug, he turned around, his face strained and tired looking. Yeah, I know who you are. You work here just like me. I'm telling you, we aren't supposed to be talking. We aren't supposed to meet, ever.

I frowned. Mr. Solomon never told me that. He never said it was one of the rules. The man shook his head. Mr. Solomon, yeah, well, there are plenty of rules they don't tell you. I bet they didn't tell you what you were going to be watching before you started, did they? When I just lowered my eyes, he went on. Yeah, me either.

I've been at this job for ten years. I've seen other people come and go, usually because they've been. broke one of the rules they never mentioned. The only reason I'm still here is because I keep my head down and my mouth shut. He wagged a finger at me. You should do the same. If it's not already too late. I felt my stomach curling into a cold knot.

Too late. The man rubbed his face. Kid, do you think they don't know we're talking? Do you think anything happens that they don't know about? He looked back toward the building, a look of sadness and fear in his eyes. Hell, for all I know, you've already killed us. Both, shaking his head. He pushed me back and started opening the door.

Either way, I'm done risking it. You need to stop asking questions and just do your job. It's a lot healthier. With that, he got into his car and shut the door. I didn't try to stop him this time, even though I had already been worried about what he was telling me. Hearing it confirmed was paralyzing. What exactly was my plan?

He probably didn't know any more than I did, and even if he did, what can I do with anything he told me. I walked back to my car with a heavy heart. I was still afraid, but more than that, I was sad and ashamed. I wanted to help Rachel, but I wasn't sure how. I wasn't giving up. But as I drove back to my apartment, I couldn't think of what I should do next. This wasn't a movie, I wasn't a hero, and the only ideas I had left were to either go

to the police who might be controlled by whoever I worked for, or try to get proof of her being held prisoner myself. As I parked my car and walked into my apartment building, I made a decision, unless I thought of something overnight, I would do both ideas. Tomorrow I would break the rule about carrying anything in. I'd use my phone to record a video of the surveillance room, of Rachel and how she was trapped somewhere, and of me telling everything else I knew. I would email it to every newspaper, website, and internet channel I could think of.

I'd then go to the police and give them a copy. too, if I could make it that long without getting caught. Maybe if I did all that, even if they got me, someone would help Rachel. I was filled with worry and dread at the idea of being hurt or killed. A part of me kept saying I should just do as I was told and hope that it all went away. But I couldn't live with myself if I did that. Even if I messed up, I felt like I had to try. I was so preoccupied that I didn't hear the person coming up behind me as I unlocked my

apartment door. Thomas? I turned around and felt my legs weakened as I stumbled back against my door. I had to be dreaming or crazy. I grabbed the door knob for support as I looked at the woman in front of me. It couldn't be her, but somehow it was. Rachel? She hesitated a moment before breaking into a smile.

Is that what you call me? I like it. My name is actually Melanie, though. I felt my face reddening. Of course, her name wasn't actually. Rachel, that was just something I made up in my head. Still, my embarrassment couldn't keep up with my confusion and joy. Is it really you? She nodded. Yeah, it's me. Rachel, or Melanie, grunted as I stepped forward and started hugging her. Laughing, she hugged me back for a moment, but then she

whispered in my ear. Thomas, we need to talk. And not out here. Can we go inside? I broke away and nodded, wiping at my eyes as I tried to finish unlocking the door with a shaking hand. My heart was pounding, and I still felt like I was in a strange and wonderful dream. But when we had gotten inside and sat down on my living room sofa, I forced myself to focus on the biggest question I had. How? Melanie had still been smiling as we sat down, but now she looked worried and sad. Thomas, that's what I'm here to tell you.

Things aren't like you think they are. they never have been. I frowned, a new line of fear cutting through my happy haze. What do you mean? She held the bridge of her nose for a moment, looking down like she was trying to figure out how to say, whatever it was she had to say. Thomas, you're part of a psychological experiment.

I've been a part of it for longer than you have as one of the actors, and I still don't know all the details. I'm pretty sure it's run by some government agency, and I know they're investing a lot of money and time into it. But for what reasons that I'm not so sure? I realized I was wringing my hands. No, that wasn't right. It couldn't be right.

This was some kind of trick. Melanie went on. What I do know is that you're being watched as a long-term subject. They have constructed this whole scenario where you do a secret job watching someone, me, who looks like they might be tracked. They give you instructions and a way of making choices. You've got buttons or something you can choose between, right?

I nodded weakly, my tongue thick in my throat. Yeah, a red one and a green one. She sighed and nodded. I think they're testing how much you'll obey. What choices you'll make based off your morals, your intelligence, and your fear. It's interesting, or at least I thought so, when I first joined up six years ago. They've never officially given me many details, just the overall gist, but people talk. The other actors in me, sometimes we hear things and we gossip.

That's what caused me to start feeling bad. I interrupted. Other actors. Melanie's eyes widened. Oh, shit. Yeah. Sorry. I think they still call him Mr. Solomon, and there are others too.

When I just stared at her, she went on. Anyway, for a long time, it was just the normal job, right? I spend six hours a day acting like I'm this trapped girl, mainly faking painting or watching TV, you know, boring stuff. I couldn't help but interrupt again, hating the hurt trembling in my voice. You fake the painting? You aren't really painting those wonderful pictures? Now, Melanie looked embarrassed. No, sorry, I can't paint a bit.

I'm a pretty good singer, though. She tried to smile, but faltered. Reaching forward, she touched my own. That's why they always have the paintings turned where you can't see them. They're already done beforehand. All you ever see is some blank canvases and, well, when they want me to show you something. Her expression darkened as she went on. That's why I had to break the rules and contact you.

When they started doing this hidden message mind game bullshit, I got worried, worried you would take it too serious, that you could get hurt or even hurt yourself. As soon as you left your shift tonight, I talked to one of the guys in the video department. He told me about how you had reacted, showed me how you were still parked down the street from the building. I drove over. The bedroom set is in a building outside of town. I saw you sitting in your car, and I almost approached you then. but I was scared of getting caught and fired. So I parked and waited until I could follow you somewhere else

and let you know I was okay. She blinked back tears. I am ashamed to say I almost left a couple of times. I don't want to lose this job, and I tried to tell myself you would be okay after a day or two. I could get them to change the script enough that you felt like I was okay and wouldn't worry too much. I felt an angry heat growing in my chest.

Well, that's nice of you. She looked up, her eyes red. I know. I'm a shit. I'm so sorry. I was being selfish and cowardly, but I didn't actually leave. And then when I saw Charlie leaving the building, saw you running over to talk to him,

I knew they were escalating it even further. Charlie, Melanie rolled her eyes in frustration. Shit, yeah, sorry. Charlie Jeffries, he's another actor, and an earlier version of the experiment he actually played Mr. Solomon. But they decided he wasn't scary enough, so now he's usually one of the suits. He's actually done that for your version a lot. You just can't recognize him under all that get-up they wear.

I was curling and uncurling my hand on my lap. It was all too much. I felt like a pinball going between anger and relief and embarrassment and confusion. So all that stuff he told me, that was all just to scare me? See how I'd react? She nodded as she sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Yes. I'm sorry.

That's why I knew I couldn't wait any longer to tell you. I could see how worried and scared you were going back to your car. I pulled my arm back from her touch. Well, thanks, I guess. At least you stopped me before I went to the police and looked like a joke in front of them too. I just wanted her gone, her sympathetic, pitying eyes off of me. Thanks for stopping me. by and letting me in on it.

I tried to make my voice sound hard and unfeeling, but it came out watery instead. Standing up, I turned away from her, so she couldn't see as I started to cry. If you don't mind, I need time to think about everything. It's a lot. A moment passed, and then her hand was on my shoulder. Thomas, you don't have anything to be embarrassed about.

They are very good at what they do. All you did was what you thought was right. Because you're a good man. I shrugged. I thought that you were in trouble, and I wanted to help. She gently turned me toward her, and when I looked up, she smiled and sniffed again. You need to realize most people wouldn't have tried to help. Not when it meant giving up their job or risking themselves like that.

Not for a stranger. I wiped at my face as I looked away. Well, I still feel dumb, but I'm glad it's not real. I'm glad you're okay. But we both are. I paused and caught her eye again. We are, aren't we? Safe, I mean?

She hesitated before nodding. Yeah, I think so. Like I said, they have a lot invested in whatever this is, and the fact that they're willing to go as far as they have with you makes me wonder. But I've never seen any signs of anyone getting hurt. I think the worst that could happen is one or both of us gets fired. I felt my face getting red again. Oh, don't worry about that.

I'm going to quit tomorrow. I'll finally get to hit their damn buttons. Maybe both of them. I started to smile, but then I saw the look on Melanie's face. Thomas, please don't do that. I don't think they would hurt us, but if you up and quit, they'll figure out I've talked to you. I don't think they watch us all the time, but I don't know what they can find out. You know, tracking cell phones, spy satellites, whatever.

I'm taking a big risk just being here, and I don't want them catching on. I took a step back from her. So you want to keep getting paid to trick people like me. She reached out and grabbed my right hand. I had been clenching it unconsciously, and it relaxed at her touch. No, I don't want to. But I wasn't expecting this, how the experiment has changed, getting to actually meet you. I can't do it long term, but another month or two to save up money,

now that you're in on it and won't be scared or hurt by it anymore. That I can do. That we can both do. We can keep going on like normal, take some more of their money, and then one of us can quit. The next month, the other one can. How does that sound? I shrugged uncertainly. It made some sense, and once I'd calmed down, it would probably make more.

She gave my hand to squeeze. And when this is all over, I want to get to know you better. I know I've been playing a role, but for the most part, that's been me you've been wanting. watching all this time. I think it's only fair I get to see more of you, too, assuming you're interested in that. I felt my hand growing clammy in hers as my stomach fluttered. Well, I mean, yeah, I would really like that. Swallowing, I added.

How long do we have to wait to see each other again? Melanie grinned at me. Work another month or so, save what you can, and then quit. I'll wait another two or three weeks, and then I'll do the same. Then— She looked up at the ceiling as she pondered it for a moment, and I was struck again by how beautiful she was, even if she was a little different in person than I had imagined. Three months from tonight, we'll meet right here.

I'll come over and we can start getting to know each other better. How's that sound? Returning her smile, I nodded. That sounds great. When she left a couple of minutes later, part of me hated to see her go, but another part was relieved. I was so exhausted, and while I was so happy she was okay and we had finally met, I felt like the burned-up wire in an old light ball.

I needed time alone, time to think and calm down, and most of all, time to rest. I didn't even really remember falling asleep, and when I woke up, I realized my alarm had been buzzing for over 30 minutes. I jumped up and raced to get to my shift at work. As she had been leaving, Melanie had stretched. How we needed to act completely the same. That meant not freaking out, but it also meant not acting like everything was okay either. If I suddenly showed no signs of being worried about her, that would tip them off too.

I promised, and she left after a brief hug and kiss. Remembering that now, through the haze of my tiredness the night before, it felt like a dream. Still, I went into the surveillance room with a much lighter heart. I didn't have to worry or feel guilty anymore about not helping her, and there was some satisfaction in finally pulling one over on the people who had tricked me for so long. Besides, in three months I would be done with this place, and I'd get to see Ray, or Melanie again, in person, at least. Because I got to watch her on the video feed as soon as I came into work, she was asleep

when I first got there, and I found myself wondering if she was as tired as I still felt. When she woke up later and started reading a book, I found myself beginning to smile and had to stop myself. I should still be worried acting, not smiling like I had a crush. I had to do better so Melanie didn't get in trouble. An hour or so later, she started working on another of her paintings. Watching her work, I was amazed at how real it all looked. It was hard to see everything from my angle, but I would have sworn she had paint on those

brushes and was really painting whatever was on the canvas. I found myself feeling proud of her. She really was a great actress. Not only did I see her not giving any clues that we had met or talked, but she really did seem different in the room than she had in my apartment. I suppose that was what she meant by playing a role. I was almost at the end of my shift, and while I hated to leave her, I had to admit that I was ready for some more sleep, trying to guard.

my reactions all day had been exhausting, and I was dreading the next few weeks, but then I realized she was done painting. I expected her to just go and do something else, but instead she picked up the canvas at its edges and carefully walked over to the sofa. Her body was blocking it at first, but then she stepped aside. It was a painting of a massive tree. The bark was dark and red, with a huge twisting trunk that broke off into a dozen branches. Those branches were covered in leaves that were so deep green that they almost reminded me of storm clouds more than the top of a tree.

Like all the paintings, I felt touched by it, even now that Melanie had told me she didn't paint them. The images themselves, combined with the colors and small details, they really were amazing. Just like this one, if you looked close enough, you could see that there were several small blackbirds in the branches of the tree. It was funny, but they almost looked like they were... It almost looked like they were made out of words. I felt my heart start to hammer, and I forced myself to stay calm. No point in being silly. I knew it was all a game now, and I just had to play my part a little while longer.

Still, the worried me would want to know what the words said, so I might as well try to read them. I squinted, following the birds right to left, and top to bottom. That girl isn't. Me. I looked away from the painting to see Rachel staring up at me. She looked terrified. Oh no.

I had to do something, and I had to do it right now. If Melanie was somehow a fake, that meant they must have sent her. And if they sent her, that meant they know. They knew about the messages in her painting. They knew about me asking questions. and they knew I didn't hit a button during any of it. I felt panic and fear crawling up my chest, making it hard to breathe. Standing up, I started pacing periodically, glancing back at the monitor to see if Rachel

could help me, tell me what I needed to do next. But she had laid down on her bed. It was hard to tell for sure with her back to the camera, but I think she was crying. No, I needed to fix this. Get her out of there. And if I didn't have a better plan, I'd just have to go with the one I already had. Feeling the hard eye of the ceiling camera on me, I went to the door and stepped back into the locker room.

My phone was in my locker, and after messing up the combination the first time, I got the door open and got it out. Gripping it tightly, I tried to hold it by my side casually, but I knew there was little point. If they knew everything, I wasn't going to be able to hide anything. I just had to try and be fast, get some kind of message out to people that could help Rachel before they got to me. I opened the camera on the phone, and as I re-entered the surveillance room and hit record,

it made a small beeping noise, and once I was sure it was recording, I turned the camera on myself. My name, my name is Tommy, Thomas Calhoun, and my job is watching a woman trapped in a room. This is not a joke or a movie or whatever. This is real. For three years, my job is to sit in this. room. I moved the camera slowly around the room, taking in the door to the bathroom, the water cooler, the desk with the monitors, keyboards, and button box.

And watch a video feed of a woman locked up in a bedroom somewhere. I stepped closer to the desk and made sure the monitor showing Rachel was clear and in focus. I didn't know this woman was a prisoner at first, or I tricked myself into thinking she wasn't because the money was good. Either way, I know she is now. She is in danger and so am I. lingering on video of her for a few more seconds to make sure every detail could be seen, I turned the camera back to myself.

I had to hurry, or the video might be too long to send quickly. I was trying to stay calm, but I felt myself tearing up as I went on, and did my best to keep my words clear. Please help her. I don't know where she is. I don't know who has her, because I don't know who I really work for, but they are bad people, and she is not safe. All I know is that I work at a building right outside of San Antonio.

Antonio, I only know the names of two other people connected to this place. The man who hired me, Mr. Solomon, and a man who might have a job like mine, Charlie Jeffers. No, Jeffries, I think. I don't know if they're real people. Well, I mean, I don't know if that's their real names. Please, I'm not crazy. I know how this sounds. Just come here, see the room, figure out where she is and help her.

I heard the muffled sound of the outer door opening into the lock. locker room and I frantically fumbled with the phone to stop the recording. How do I send? Oh, no. How do I... There it is. I hit the button to share and felt a new panic rising. Who should I send it to?

I only had a handful of contacts and I just selected them all. Maybe at least one of them would take it seriously and get help. As I heard the door to the surveillance room opening behind me, I hit send. Not connected to data service or Wi-Fi. Please send again when connected. What? No! No! No! No! No!

I turned to see Mr. Solomon entering the room. He was flanked by two large men in dark suits that looked like bodyguards or something, raising a finger. He wagged it at me. No service in here, Thomas. But then you should never need service in here, so long as you followed the rules. They took me easily. I tried to make it to the bathroom and close the door, but the two guards stopped me and pulled me down. They put the—what do you call them?

Sit ties on my wrists and feet and pulled a black bag over my head. Then I was being carried out of the room, and it felt like they must have put me in the back of a van that was pulled right up to the building. I was laying on what felt like thin, weird-smelling carpet that covered a hard metal layer underneath. I heard someone get into the van with me, and I asked where we were going, if they would just take me and let Rachel go. There was a short laugh overhead, and then, Missed.

Mr. Solomon's voice, as he told me that he would explain everything when we got to where we were going. For now, he said, I needed to relax. It's a long drive, and I would need the rest. I went to say more, but then felt a sharp pain in my neck. They had stabbed me, or no, they injected me with something. I was feeling so strange now, but I had to stay awake. I had to try and get away.

I had to... ...go again, Thomas? I blinked as I began looking around. My mouth was dry, and my head hurt, but otherwise I felt okay. I wasn't tied up anymore. Instead, I was laying on a padded table like I'd seen when I went to the doctor. But this wasn't a doctor's office. The room was large, and aside from the padded table, it held a small desk, a desk

with a computer monitor on it, and a couple chairs. Sitting in one of those chairs was Mr. Solomon. I raised up slowly, blinking at him. Where is she? Is Rachel okay? The man smiled. You really are something, Thomas. Trying to be the hero, even if you don't quite know how.

I respect that. Licking his lips, he leaned forward slightly. In fact, I respect that so much that I've decided to start our new relationship with as much honesty as I'm allowed. Some of my colleagues disagree with this approach. But you know what? Fuck them. This is my project, and I think you deserve to know what's going on. Looking more serious, he stood up, lifting the gun he had been holding casually in his lap. But before we get into details, would you like to see Rachel?

I slid off the table and nodded as I caught myself from falling. My legs were still wobbly from whatever they had given me, but I barely noticed. Yes, yes, please. Let me see her. The real her. Mr. Solomon gave a small laugh and gestured toward a nearby door. Yes, reality is always best. She's just in the next room. I stumbled my way forward. My legs getting better as I walked.

When I grabbed the doorknob, it turned easily. I expected the door to lead to her bedroom, but instead it opened into another room a lot like the one I'd been in, though the stuff in it was different. Strange machines filled the walls, and in the back of the room, was a large aquarium? I don't know. It was a big cylinder, taller than I was, and it was filled with some kind of gray liquid. There was a shape in that liquid.

Go ahead, Thomas. Feel free to go have a good look. You've earned it. I felt my stomach clenching tighter at Mr. Solomon's words and the meanness in them. My legs felt heavy again now, but it wasn't from the drugs this time. Shuffling forward, I could see the shape was a person. person, oh no, or at least a body, because it was clear from just looking at it that the person was dead.

It was very well preserved, but I could see how the skin hung wrong and looked bloated in spots. Oh, God, no, no, no. Its hair, which had been floating like seaweed in front of its face, drifted away as I reached the glass. I could see Rachel staring out at me. Murderer! I turned on Solomon and started to see. to run toward him when he shot me. Suddenly I was on the ground convulsing as he stepped closer.

Don't worry, Thomas. It won't kill you. Just make you unable to move for a bit. I heard more footsteps as my body began to still. Get him up. Take him back in the other room. I could barely feel anything as I was carried back to the padded table and propped up into a sitting position. This time I was strapped down, but I guessed it was more so I didn't fall off because I couldn't move anything other than my head, and even that, just a little. I could hardly see it all for crying, but I recognized the blurry shape of Solomon sitting back down in front of me. Before you ask, well, when you're able to ask anything again, yes, that is Rachel. Not a fake Rachel, not a dummy, and not some kind of trick.

As I said, the time for tricks is past. Now is the time for truth. slightly, he went on. Thomas, I understand that showing you that, showing you her body that way, might seem very cruel. You may hate me for it right now. I would understand if you did. But you called me a murderer. And at least in this specific context, I think that is unfair, because I didn't kill Rachel.

In truth, I've been with this aspect of the project for only seven years. He gestured back to the door behind him. And Rachel has been dead for over eight. I felt my eyes widen as though they belonged to someone else's body. It was more lies, more tricks, all of it. Oh God, it had to be. Do you know what remote viewing is? He rolled his eyes.

Sorry, right. You can't talk right now. I'll just assume you don't. remote viewing is a broad term for the ability to see things that are far away from you physically to know things you shouldn't be able to know through your normal five senses some describe it as a psychic ability though there are several schools of thought as to how and why it works his eyes fixed on mine intently because it does work thomas various governments and private organizations have studied it for a very long time. And while publicly, it is always ridiculed as pseudoscience and foolish superstition,

the reality is that some people have the innate ability. That means it comes naturally. To somehow see other places. Rachel was one of those people. She came into the program when she was 17, having been identified via a front-facing screening process that was ran as a psychological test that paid subjects well at a time when Rachel was looking to make some money.

Three months after being identified as a good candidate, she was taken, and after the initial adjustment period, she became a largely compliant asset that quickly rose to the top of our talent pool. Solomon folded his hands on his knee. I know you cared for her, Thomas, so I think this is worth sharing. Rachel was never treated badly. other than her confinement and the occasional test that was mildly unpleasant. No, we all treasured her.

She was enormously talented, not just as a remote viewer, but as an artist. That's how she would convey what she saw, you understand. She would enter into an almost trans-like state when she painted, and when she was done, she would have given us a painting of images and words that provided, well, it was very valuable information. If you ever wondered, that's why there was always such care that the paintings were never shown to the camera.

Picking at his pants, he went on. Rachel was so talented that she was selected for a new program that we thought might greatly enhance or alter her ability. We introduced something foreign into her body. If anything, the accuracy

of her remote viewing was declining, which was a problem for us and for her. But then we realized that we were reading the new paintings wrong. She was able to see more clearly than ever. She was just no longer bound to only current events. Now her sight transcended time. He paused, and I realized he was enjoying telling the story.

The bastard was having a good time, pausing to make it more dramatic. I would fucking kill him. Well, this made some of her paintings list, immediately useful, they became much more valuable as we were able to decipher them. For a time, it looked as though everything was working better than we had ever hoped. His lips thinned. And then, one day, she showed a painting to the camera. It said, please help me, Thomas.

This immediately sent up all kinds of red flags. She knew not to show paintings to the camera, and now she was trying to communicate with someone. We didn't disrupt her routine, but an intensive investigation began into who she was talking to. Was it one of her handlers? One of the technicians? Someone from her past life, but nothing checked out. Leaning back in his chair, a look of pride grew on Solomon's face as he continued. I was the one that first suggested the idea that she was intentionally or not, knowingly or not,

seeing and talking to someone from the future. I was still an outside consultant at the time, but by that point we had more strange behaviors from her, including the second message painting. That girl isn't me. My theory made some sense, but it very quickly ran into a greater obstacle. The introduction of the foreign material

had not been as seamless as we had hoped, despite her having been stable for almost three years since it was implanted. Whether it was due to her increasing emotional upset and stress, or simply the passage of time, she suddenly began to deteriorate. Her work became more erratic and hard to understand as her body began to decline. We were monitoring her health closely, but it didn't matter. Five days after she painted, that girl isn't me. She suddenly went into cardiac arrest and died. somewhat inexplicably we were unable to resuscitate her this was a great loss and it required adjustments of my theory based on everything we knew it still made sense that she was talking to someone someone with access to the camera feed and very likely someone named thomas if thomas was viewing that camera footage in the future as i believed then he must be working for us in the future in the future

He gave me a thin smile. And whether you believe that future is set in stone or not, I'm all forgiving at a helping hand. Seven years ago, I began the Thomas Project. Over the course of that time, I have overseen the screening and hiring of 43 men named Thomas at several different sites, all with one very specific job. To watch the videos of Rachel from just before the implant to the time of her death, I tried to speak, but my mouth still wouldn't work. I wanted to say he was lying, that it was another trick,

but I think I wanted to hear it for myself, because I didn't think he was lying. I didn't think it was a trick, and I thought I was starting to understand. The point wasn't really them watching the videos, of course. It was how they reacted to watching the videos. What they did and how that matched up with what Rachel had done in response in the past.

13% quit after the first day. 38% hit either the red or the green button after the first message asking for help and saying their name. 22% attempted to contact the authorities before reaching the stage where Melanie was introduced. He shook his head slightly. I wish I could take credit for her introduction, but it wasn't my suggestion. We assumed from the, that girl isn't me, message, that there was a double of Rachel introduced to you at some point. Perhaps to kill you or dissuade you or find out what you knew.

But it took a few tries until we felt it was well refined. And as I've pointed out, only 27% made it that far. And all of them failed the next test. He pointed at me. Her name. You see, the girl you've been watching, that talented, wonderful girl whose body is preserved in the next room. Her name was Rachel Donovan.

I had always wondered if Rachel was merely seeing you, or if there was some kind of connection between the two of you. When you called Melanie Rachel, I knew that we had finally found the right Thomas, the distant point of light that our Rachel was looking at across space and time. I swallowed thickly and found I could feel my tongue, if only a little. Slurring badly, I pushed out a single word. Why?

Solomon looked surprised. I'd have thought that'd be clear by now. You're our only remaining link to one of our greatest treasures. Perhaps you have a similar ability. Or it may be that she forged the link purely through her own talent and will. But either way, you are important, and you have more work to do. He stood up and moved over to the table where he turned on the monitor. As it came to life, I saw it was a frozen image of Rachel's room.

A tape paused where I'd left off watching. Turning back to me, the man looked solemn. You have to watch the rest of it, because Rachel painted you more pictures before she died, and we have to know what they mean. I spent the next five days watching Rachel die. From the outside, just watching the monitor, it didn't seem that different than what I'd just been watching for the past three years. Rachel slept.

She watched TV. She read and she painted. But there were signs if you were looking for them. She seemed tired and tense, and she had taken to sleeping more. And occasionally, just every once in a while, she would glance up at the camera, at me. It was then that I could see the fear and sadness in her eyes. Inside, well, inside I felt like a burned out house collapsing in on itself. At first, I refused to watch, to do anything.

anything they wanted me to do. Solomon didn't get mad at me, but just shrugged. He said while cooperation was preferred and could go a long way toward making my stay with them more comfortable, it wasn't required. If he was right, Solomon had said with a thin smile, things would play out as they were meant to, regardless of what I wanted or thought I chose. Either way, he said the video was about to start again and would not stop for another five days, Whether I wanted to spend that time getting to see her again was entirely up to me.

I tried not to watch, but a part of me knew from the start I was going to. Maybe I would find some clue that they were lying about her being dead, or Rachel could give me some advice or warning about what I needed to do next. I didn't know. What I did know was that I couldn't miss the chance to see her again, and despite knowing in my heart that she was dead and everything on the video had happened a long time ago, I still felt that by watching, I was with her somehow. She had been taken away from everything she knew when she was barely grown, trapped for years

for just being special, experimented on, treated like property, kept from ever having friends or family or a life, and yet through all of that, she was still beautiful, not just on the outside, but on the inside too. I had spent years watching her, getting to know her in a thousand tiny ways. that so few people ever truly know each other. I had seen her kindness and the grace and her actions, even when she was fighting against the people holding her. I had watched her strength when she woke up day after day in her prison and never gave

up, and I watched the beauty of her soul and her paintings, full of swirling colors and—what was the word? Wonder. She was able to paint these things she saw with such care and love. despite living in a world that had abandoned her so completely. Well, I wasn't abandoning her. I would watch every bit of the video I could manage, try to burn into my memory every frame of her I saw,

not for them and their stupid project, but for me and for her. I may not have much to do in my life before they lock me away somewhere or kill me, but I could do this one last thing. Rachel wouldn't die alone. I watched nearly all of it, stopping only to eat quickly and use the bathroom until the last two days. I would ask the guards to pause it, but they would only shake their heads and say Solomon said it had to play normally until it finished.

By the fourth day, I was in a stupor. I had already dozed some of the first three days, but when I woke up on the fourth day, I could tell a few hours had passed. There were two trays of food on the bed, one breakfast and another lunch. I looked back at the screen in a panic, worrying I had missed something, but Rachel seemed to be just waking up too. I noticed her putting her hand on her stomach as she got out of bed and felt my own stomach twist. She was already hurting.

Rachel glanced at the camera and tried to smile before moving to set up a new canvas for painting. This was the second of three paintings she did in those last days. The first had been on the inside of an old-fashioned movie theater from the viewpoint of someone sitting in a back row. On the movie screen was just the image of a sledgehammer propped against a brick wall. I didn't understand what it meant, and I found myself scanning the picture for some message or other clue.

Eventually, I found what it might be, though I didn't understand it either. Rachel must have come to understand that they knew what she was doing with the paintings and didn't want to stop her, because these last three she set up much closer to the camera. I was still squinting and studying the painting closely when I realized the flipped-up seats in the next row up had brass number plates along the front edge of the seats. Though they were upside down from the viewpoint of the painting, the angle was good enough that once I noticed them I was able to read them. 43, 26, 89.

I didn't understand any of it, but I committed it all to memory, focusing all my attention on the painting until she finally took it away. Even that early on, I could tell painting was taking a lot out of her now. And like I had for so long, I found myself talking to her, telling her to go rest before I remembered her body in the next room. I almost stopped then. No. Maybe she couldn't tell if I was talking to her, or maybe she could. Either way, me talking to her couldn't hurt, and it made me feel a little less lonely and sad as I watched her. The second

painting, the one she started after I woke up from falling asleep for a few hours, was stranger than the rest. It looked like it was in a room with curved walls made of tree roots, and in the center of the room was a little table made out of the same stuff. Some of the roots around the room were a deep red, but other parts, including the table thing, looked burnt and black. I looked closer and saw that I could see a person's shadow over the table, hands holding some long, oval-shaped bundle. I studied it for a long time, going over it again and again in my mind after she took it away. I couldn't make sense of it, of any of it. I wasn't smart enough, and I was failing her.

Rachel slept for a long time after that painting. Then she got up on the fifth day, her last day, and immediately started working again. This time she was painting faster, and while I saw her wince occasionally, she never lost her look of determination as she slashed lines and colors across the canvas. When she was done, Rachel picked up the painting and turned it toward the camera, giving me a small, tired smile as she was blocked from view. It was looking out from the front porch of a house somewhere. It was out in the country, and the morning view of the yard and the land beyond were wonderful,

but closer up, the painting was of two hands, holding on to each other tightly. Their interlocked fingers seemed to glow red and orange in the light of the rising sun. I found myself crying as I looked at it. Part of it was because I didn't know what it meant, and I felt a growing sense of desperation at the thought that Rachel's last works might be wasted on me. Part was because I knew it had been five days, and I could sense I was close to the end, to her end. But there was something more than all that, too.

The last painting, even with everything else in my head and my heart pulling me down, gave me hope. I didn't know why. But I started to think that maybe the only message Rachel had for me in that last painting was that somehow, somewhere, everything would be okay. Outside the edge of the painting, I could see motion in the room, people hurriedly coming in with some kind of medical equipment, and then the monitor went black. You've done well, Thomas.

Very, very well. For the last five days of video, we had charted 1,047 microvariations in Rachel's behavior that we believed might correspond to your behavior, your reactions, and your emotional states while watching the video. Like before, the two of you remained in sync, as though you were in the same room. It really is remarkable. I sat staring at Solomon. I listened to what he said, but I didn't care.

I just wanted it over. Whatever this was, I just wanted it over. Clearing his throat, he went on. That's why we've decided to move the implant from Rachel's body to your own. That's one of the many reasons we've preserved her so. The foreign body was still showing signs of life all this time, but just barely. And we were afraid to attempt removal. Our hope is that, given your connection to Rachel, it will accept you,

perhaps even thrive in you more than it ever did, our girl. I was suddenly on my feet, and it was only the raising of Solomon's gun that stopped me from attacking him. Don't you fucking talk about her like that. Like any of you gave a shit about her. I'll fucking kill you. Solomon's face darkened slightly as his lips thin. No, you won't. But if idle threats make you feel better, go ahead.

It will only make things harder, not easier. Feeling a stab of panicked fear, I sat back down. What is this thing you're going to put in me? The man looked at me for several seconds before responding. I'm tempted not to tell you after you're stupid. and frankly hurtful outburst. Letting out a small sigh, he went on. Thomas, somewhere there is a tree, a very special tree.

We suspect it is the same tree Rachel painted for you that time, though we cannot say for sure, as we have never been able to find it. It is either hidden away very well, or it is able to hide itself from those it wishes. I just looked at him, trying to kill him by just wanting it to be so. In any case, we have the next. best thing, an ancient clipping from the tree, secured at great cost and sacrifice, and studied for a long time without much success. We have, however, in recent years, been given advice that this clipping could be grown in the right soil. We thought that soil was Rachel,

but while it did develop further inside of her, she died before the necessary growth was finished. Leaning forward, he smiled at me. We have it on fairly good authority, however, that you might succeed where she failed. I fought them when they came, but it didn't matter. I woke up sometime later with a dull ache in my chest and a small, already healing scar on my upper stomach. I didn't really feel that different other than the little bit of pain, but I knew that would change with time.

I had more time than Rachel, or maybe I had less. It didn't matter. I just... Wait, what was that? There was some kind of soft voice coming from where. It wasn't in the room. It was in my head. It felt like a thrill of excitement.

Maybe this was Rachel's voice. Had she somehow stayed in the tree thing they had put inside me? But no, I had never heard Rachel's voice. But I sensed this wasn't it. This voice was too delicate to really be heard or unheard. and it reminded me of music coming from a distant room that you felt in the back of your mind without realizing it. It was a melody, a kind of song, but it wasn't Rachel's song.

I realized with a shiver that it was the song of the thing inside of me. At first I was afraid, but that didn't last long. It wasn't trying to hurt me. It was trapped here just like I was, but it started to sing. It was time for us to be free. I stood up and walked to the door. As I did so, the lights went out. The door in front of me clicked, and when I reached out and turned the knob in the dark,

it opened easily. How was this possible? And if it could do this, why hadn't it helped Rachel get out? There was no answer, but there was also no time. I could already hear boots around the corner as the glow from flashlights began to light up the far end of the hall. They would drag me back in there, chain me up, or take this thing back out of me before we could get away. If I was ever going to get out, it had to be now. The voice was singing again, pushing me to go further into the dark, to run until we were safe.

So I listened, and I ran. Every door unlocked for me, every turn kept me barely out of sight. The people looking for me were barking orders over a radio, asking someone what was the hold-up on the generator kicking on. Whatever the response, the hallway stayed dark as I drifted through them, blind but not falling, lost but not being found. When I reached the final door, I opened it into a bright afternoon. My lungs burned a little at the first fresh, unrecycled air I had breathed in a week. Blinking, I waited for the voice to tell me where to go, but it had had fallen silent. I closed the door as panic began to rise in my chest. All this and I would get caught because I didn't know where to go. I was outside a plain brown building in the middle

of nowhere. There was a road going off to the right, and to the left there was Rachel's forest from her first painting to me. I knew it was the same forest immediately, and not just because it was matching the painting so closely. I had some strange sense that felt like a kind of magnetism or how birds know which way to fly. Looking around for a second, I felt like I was being pulled when I looked again at those woods. This was right. Somehow I knew this was the way I needed to go.

So I went. I had made it to the edge of the forest when I heard the noise of men coming outside the building. I thought about hiding, but I knew that was a bad idea. They would just catch me, and I felt a drive to go deeper into the woods. I plunged ahead.

running at close to a reckless speed, but never tripping or stumbling as I went. I would occasionally hear a noise behind me as they spread out to search, but the sounds grew fainter as I ran. I almost thought I had lost them for good when I heard a short cough that was muffled off to my left. Someone had gotten close without me knowing it. Panicking, I looked for any place I could hide. There were only bushes and trees, and over there.

A well. Not just a well, but Rachel's well, with the same worn, grey stone walls capped with a weathered wooden lid. I felt a moment of happy recognition, but then it faded away. How did that help? They'd check the well if they found it. And I didn't have any way to get down it without getting hurt or stuck. Then an idea struck me.

Crouching low and staying to the bush, I moved to the well and gingerly pushed on the lid. At first it resisted, but when I pushed a bit harder, the wooden circle slid aside enough that you could clearly see someone moved it. Glancing around, I eased back into the bushes as I heard soft footfalls approaching. We need to check this out. You think he went down the well? Better hope not. He probably broke his neck if he did, and then it's our asses.

I could see the two men approaching, both of them wearing dark body armor and carrying assault rifles. The older of the two shrugged back at the other one. Better that than he's hiding in there and we didn't check. Looking irritated, the younger man nodded. I'll look. He went over to the well and shoved the wooden lid aside, causing it to clatter to the ground. Hitting a button on his rifle, a flashlight sprang to life on the barrel.

He started to shine it down into the well as the other continued to look in every direction. I was worried he would see me if I moved, but I couldn't wait. I just had to stay calm. Think slow and move fast. I kept expecting to hear them yell or feel something or someone strike me in the back, but nothing came. As the afternoon light began to dim, I saw the trees thinning ahead. I was approaching a road. It looked like a normal public road, too, with several cars passing one way or the other

as I walked out of the forest and up the hill to the asphalt. The idea of hitchhiking, especially this close to where they held me, was frightening, but I saw a little choice. I was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt they had given me in my own shoes, but I had no money or ID or phone. My only chance was to get far enough away that I could try and get help. I jumped slightly at the hiss of hydraulic brakes as a large semi rolled to a stop next to me. The passenger window rolled down, and an older man with white hair and a graying mustache leaned over and peered down at me. You look lost, son, you need a ride."

I looked down at the door of the truck. It had a logo that said, Martinez and Sons, construction and hauling. Below it was a cartoon man hitting a wall with a sledgehammer. Looking back up, I smiled at him. Yes, sir, I do. I woke up five hours later as we pulled into a truck stop somewhere in Nevada. I had planned on staying awake the entire trip, but that had only lasted a few minutes before exhaustion overtook me. I glanced over at Oliver Martinez, and he gave me a toothy grin.

I'm tired, but you were plum-tuckered out. I've got a fuel up, shower, and get some grub. I'm going on to California after that. If you want to ride further, just be back here in an hour. Sound good? I nodded and thanked him again for the ride as I got out. I felt groggy from sleeping, but otherwise okay. I just needed to decide whether this was a good spot to ask for help, or if I should ride with Martinez further. He seemed like a very nice guy, and he would probably try to help if he could, but I wanted to avoid putting more people in danger if I could help it. Looking around, I saw we were in a fairly nice little town. I decided I would go look around for a few minutes and then decide what to do. I was only three blocks down the street when I saw the flickering of lights in the distance.

It was a movie theater. As I got closer, I felt my chest tightening. It was the the one from Rachel's painting. Hey there, welcome to Phoenix. The guy standing at the counterbar of the movie theater looked a little younger than me, and while he seemed friendly enough, he also looked slightly concerned. If you're here for the horror double feature, I'm afraid the second movie is about 30 minutes in. I can give you a half-off rate if you want to see it, though. I shook my head and tried not to look as strange and crazy as I felt.

No, that's okay. I, well, I recognize this place from a picture of... friend of mine painted, so I came in to ask if you knew anything about her. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Okay, weird. He smiled and added. Weird, but interesting. Who is she? I swallowed. Her name is, well, it was, Rachel Donovan. I expected him to look surprised, or excited, or angry, but I could see right away the name meant nothing to him. Shaking his head, he shrugged again. Sorry, it doesn't ring a bell. I'd say you could ask the owner, but he's on vacation this week.

nodding. I searched my mind for something else to ask, some way to make this place matter the way her other paintings had. Is there anything unique about this place then? It's history or something? The man grinned. But he clearly not from here. This place is super boring.

Not just the theater, but the whole town. Frowning in thought, he added. The only thing I know about the history of this place is that there used to be a house here that burned down. This was like in the 1920s or 30s when this wasn't even a part of the town. Couldn't tell you the first thing about it beyond that, but I still bet it's the most interesting thing that's ever happened here. I let out a disappointed sigh. Okay, well, thanks.

I turned to leave when the guy called out again. Hey, man, I'm sorry I couldn't help more. If you come back, I'll get your discount on a movie. half off. If I'm not working, tell them Marshall said it's okay. I waved and tried to smile as I headed for the door with a heavy heart. Why did you lead me here, Rachel? What's here that will help? I was outside again, staring up at the theater's bright blinking signs as though they were going to give me some kind of secret signal when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. There was an alley that ran alongside the theater and went behind it to something.

Whatever was back there, the light of a distant security lamp cast shadows along the wall of the alley, and those shadows were moving. Instead of feeling afraid, I felt excited as I started down the alley. Rachel had led me here, and I just had to trust that there was a reason for it. I kept moving until I... The shadows were made by leaves, blood. flowing in some wind I couldn't feel. As I got to the far end of the alley, I saw there was a small backyard behind the theater

surrounded by a chain-link fence, and on the other side of that fence was the tree from Rachel's painting, with its deep, red twisting bark and foam of green leaves waving to and fro in the night air. I felt a surge of warmth in my chest as the distant singing began again. This was the place. the special tree that could not be found unless it wanted you to find it. It sat at the edge of a small, overgrown lot surrounded on all sides by buildings and yards, somehow forgotten when whatever land of this had once been was divided up, and despite its location,

I had a strong sense that I was the first to see it in a very long time. Climbing the fence, I felt a jagged wire dig into my leg and rip my pants as I fell over the top. I was bleeding a little, but I hardly noticed. I could smell the tree now, and it was a rich, good smell unlike any I had smelled before. Reaching out to it, I felt the singing grow louder as I touched it. I felt stronger and less afraid then. And when I saw the light opening up at its roots, I didn't tremble. I smiled. There was a hidden tunnel under the tree, a tunnel filled with sweet-smelling air that was like the tree-smelling air. smell, but also different.

And the tunnel wasn't dark. No, not at all. It glowed with its own golden light that called to me, urged me forward. Rain was beginning to fall as I looked around the dark lot. I had the thought that I was leaving this world behind, and I found that I didn't mind that much at all. The tunnel had continued to grow, slanting down gently and tall enough that I walked in without stooping. The roots of the tree went on and on, woven through the dirt walls as I went deeper. I looked

back and saw the tunnel had closed behind me, but I wasn't surprised. The way forward was the only way that mattered. I walked for what might have been hours, but I never felt tired or hungry, and I never worried I was lost, though I had no idea where I was or where I was going. Still, I felt a surge of happiness and excitement when I turned a corner and saw something in the tunnel ahead. As I got closer, I realized it was a brick wall, but just as I began to think I found a dead end, the wall faded away, revealing a dark room. I paused at the edge of the tunnel, looking out at the floor of what looked like a basement. It was empty, but in the light from the tree I could make out something scratched into

the floor. It was the number two. I felt my pulse quicken as I thought back to Rachel's painting with the theater seats, and then I stepped out into the room. It was the empty basement of a house, and as I went up the stairs and opened the door, I saw that the rest of the house was empty as well. No lights were on, but bright sunlight poured in through every window, and in the distance I could hear what sounded like small waves crashing on a beach.

I wanted to go out and see where I was. was, but I forced myself to check the house first for any people or clues, but there was none. The house was utterly bare of any sign of people other than the numbers scratched into the floor below. My nose tingled with salty air as I stepped outside. The house was near the beach on what I soon figured out was a small, deserted island. I realized, with little surprise, that I recognized the house from Rachel's painting. As I stepped off the place. porch, I saw no signs of people, but I wasn't entirely alone, because sitting some distance from the house was the tree.

I knew it couldn't be the same tree as in the abandoned lot, but at the same time I knew that it was, or at least a different part of the same tree that made the tunnels and appeared in my old world and whatever place this was. Because I had started having that thought as soon as I stepped out of the house, I didn't think this was my world. Not exactly. I could see a larger island some distance away, and it might have people on it, hotels and cars and planes, or it might not, as those things might not exist here. Either way, my newfound intuition was growing stronger, and I could tell that the, what was it called? The con... No, no. The texture of things was different somehow.

if only a little. Not bad, more scary, just different. Still, after a couple of hours of exploring the island and checking the house, I began to feel terribly lonely, even with the tree nearby. I decided to go back into the tunnel and keep going. The basement wall faded away as I walked up to it and I entered the tunnels again. It was only a short time later that I found my second version of the house. Much like the first, the wall faded away into a basement, but this one was far from empty. It was a workshop of some kind, full of tools I wasn't familiar with. I glanced down and saw 43 scratched onto the floor.

Who was doing that, and why? I was going to explore the house more carefully this time, as it looked like there were people here, but then I froze. Hoped against the brick wall, next to a small stack of boards, was a sledgehammer. Trying to be quiet, I crept over and picked it up before heading back into the tunnel. When I was little, before Dad died, he had loved to hunt. I never went with him and didn't remember much of what he hunted, but I do know he had an old hound he'd had since before I was born.

The dog had only loved him. Well, him and being on the trail of something. His name was Rockefeller, got a scent. It was like he was in a trance. He would go and go, this way and that, and to look at him, it looked like he was having a fit, both lost and certain at the same time. But whatever Rocker knew or didn't know, he always found what he was looking for. I felt like Rocker now.

I was moving faster and faster as I went down this turn and that. I felt like I was on the trail of something or traveling on memories I didn't have. Ripping the sledgehammer tightly, I could hear the rising hum of the distant music in my head as I turned the last corner, and then it fell silent. There was another brick wall, and as I approached, it fell away. It was another basement room, but this one was much smaller. It contained a table, a clothes chest, and an old metal bed that had been broken apart. At the far brick wall, a woman was using one of the metal legs from the bed to attack the wall and whatever lay behind it.

I felt my head began to swim as I looked at her from behind, and as she turned to look at me, eyes wide with surprise and fear, I felt the sledgehammer slipped from my grip as I stumbled back against the now solid wall. I could barely breathe at all, but I managed to get out a single word. Rachel? The woman looked at me. her expression less fearful but still guarded. Yeah, do I know you?

She had the bedleg partially raised in warning. It was her, but it wasn't, much like the tree on the island. This Rachel looked a few years older, and while she looked stressed and confused at that moment, her eyes didn't seem weighted down by the same quiet sadness I had come to recognize watching the other Rachel for all that time. Still, I didn't know how to answer her question and not sound creepy or crazy. I stared at her for a second, floundering when she asked another. You came out of the tree tunnel, right?

I nodded, grateful for something I could answer easily. Studying me, she said. Where did you come from? Before the tunnel, I mean. I flushed as I tried to think of the right words. Um, well, I came from Texas originally. She grinned at me for a second before came. catching herself and trying to look serious.

Yeah, okay. But like, do you know how the tree works? How did you find out about the tunnel? How did you get here? Sighing, I rubbed my head and just stared into it. Look, I know this will sound crazy, but I had a job watching a woman trapped in a room, and that woman was you, or another version of you, and she asked me for help, and I couldn't help her, and I found out she had been dead for a long time but could see me in the future,

and then they put something from the tree in me that had been in her that had killed her, and then I escaped, and then I figured out where to go to find the tree from things she had painted, and I somehow knew how to go into the tunnels to find different spots, and I'm pretty sure the tunnels lead to different worlds, and I got this sludge hammer, and then I... Hold up! God damn! Take a breath! You're going to pass out! She was smiling again, and this time she didn't try to hide it. She looked over what was left of the bed to where the sledgehammer was laying on the floor. And did you say sledgehammer?

So yeah, I believe you. I've been in those tunnels, too. My ex-boyfriend tricked me into moving here so he could tie me to the tree in his place. Well, not. Tie me to the tree, literally. Take his place as, uh, what, the tree's buddy or something? I don't really know, but it's all pretty fucked up, and I don't understand all of it. But what I do understand is that the fucker walled me up in here.

At first, I thought I could just pry loose some bricks over time, but nope, he put a layer of concrete on the outside this time. Good old Phil, or Justin, or whatever, I mainly think of him as fuckface now. This is taking forever. I stepped up and put my hand on the sledgehammer. Let me do it for a bit. We can take turns. We had cleared away even more brick than she had already managed, but the concrete wall was only starting to show small cracks.

I wanted to just keep looking at her, have her talk to me, but I knew she was tired. She nodded reluctantly and let go of the hammer. Before I swung, I looked back at her. How long have you been in here like this? Rachel scowled. It's hard to say for sure, but I think about eight months. I let the hammer drop again as my eyes widened. How did you survive all that time?

Her scowl deepened. It's the tree. It won't let me die. I just dip into the tunnel every day for a bit and I never get that hungry or thirsty. A thought occurred to me then. Why didn't you just escape through the tunnels? She quickly shook her head. No, thank you.

I've had enough of seeing other worlds. Some of them aren't so nice, and I don't want to be more tied to this tree than I already am. I just went out of here, into my own world, and then I can try and figure out how to get free of my connection to the tree for good. She shrugged. I would have done it eventually with the stupid bed parts. But who knows how long it would have taken.

She smiled again. I'm very happy you came to help and brought a sledgehammer with you. Returning her smile, I nodded as I lifted the hand. hammer again. Me too. We were both ringing with sweat when we crawled through the hole we'd made in the outer wall. Rachel told me that she thought her ex-boyfriend was long gone, but she couldn't be sure, so we had to be careful. Grabbing the sledgehammer from inside the room, we made our way towards the stairs. The house was decorated but quiet, and we saw no sign of anyone as we walked to the front door and opened it. Outside, the sun was coming up

on a new day, and as we walked out onto the porch, I jumped a little as Rachel took my hand and gave it a squeeze. I looked over at her. I hadn't been able to help the other Rachel, but maybe that had never been the point at all, because I thought now she had been able to see more than just other places or the future. She'd been able to see into other worlds and possibilities, like this one, where another version of her was trapped and needed help. place where I wouldn't be hunted and she could be free.

In the end, even when she knew she was dying, Rachel had been determined to help us be together and happy. The morning sun painted beautiful colors on Rachel's face, and, looking into her eyes, I saw how much she was like the woman I had watched and cared about and tried to save, the woman who, in the end, had saved me instead. I wanted to tell Rachel so many things. Ask her so many questions, but all that could come later. Squeezing her hand back, I walked with her away from the house.

For now, this was enough.