Was it you, Dee? I can’t be sure, but if not, surely it must be Carly? It has to be one of you! All I know is that she seemed trapped. Trapped in the churning shadows. Tried to call her. Quite calmly, I thought, but next thing I knew, the ward nurses came crashing in and carried me away, and I got an injection for my trouble.

But it’s okay, because I now have a plan to find a real mirror, not a silly child’s imitation. And then? Then, you’ll see.

50

The Johnson Claydon Diaries

Eighth Entry

It’s a dead place, and I call it the Dead House. It might have looked nice once… painted white, blue-shuttered and perky. Now the white paint is gray, curling away from the wood like dandruff or moth wings, and the shutters, if any remain, hang from hinges rusted and comatose. The door looms before me… I can see it, Dee. It invites me inside. I don’t want to go, and I do…

Unrelated words pop into my head

Teeth. Rust. Sleep. Corn flour.

As I stand there, I realize I’m hungry.

So is the house.

Ninth Entry

I’m learning to like dreaming. They keep the lights on in my room—therapy—but they can’t force light into the Dead House. No. The Dead House is old and worn, dim and dusty, and the perfect hiding place. How ironic that I’ve found it in my mind, where they can’t get at me.

I sleep for hours. I’m getting good.

They have to shake me to rouse me, or they pull me out of bed, but I sleep on, and they don’t know it.

The rooms inside the Dead House are endless. The corridors go on and on. The darkness deepens, thickens, grows denser and heavier the farther I explore. And, Dee, I am beginning to feel it. The house itself. As though it were a part of me that had just awakened.

I seek solace in that dark hiding place, and I know they will never find me if I choose to stay. I laugh in their faces.

So screw you, Lansing. You can’t get me in here.

I can hear the dead ocean.

Tenth Entry

I haven’t found a mirror yet, but I see her in the window sometimes, behind me. It’s the most peculiar thing, Dee, because I’m sure she’s trying to reach out to me, fighting with those pesky shadows—for I only see her at night. I hope it’s her. I hope it’s Carly.

Eleventh Entry

Why do you come inside?

To get dry. To feel cold.

Do you smell the air?

Yes, I do. And the mold, and the mildew, and the silence.

Do you hear the Dead Sea?

Crashing and smashing and waiting below.

Will you stay a little longer?

On and on, I will stay forever.

You are mine.

I am nothing. I am nowhere. Hide me.

Twelfth Entry

Dead House. I love you. I need you. Thank you for staying with me—please never fade away. I sat on the floor of one of the dead rooms, and I asked it to stay. Don’t leave me all alone, don’t leave me behind—I can’t survive all by myself.

I am here, it said—the very timber of the walls seemed to speak to me from some omniscient place that was all around me but also inside me. I can almost feel Carly in there with me. Strange.

You belong here too.

Thirteenth Entry:

The Dead House talks to me; on and on, around we go. It whispers in my ear so I don’t hear the doctors; it tells me things, and it makes me smile. I sleep and I sleep and I won’t ever wake. Soon they won’t be able to find me at all.

Fourteenth Entry

I might have made a mistake. There is something else here in the house with me.

Carly?

Fifteenth Entry

Where are you going?

I am going home.

This is your home.

I am going home.

Blood in the walls is the blood in your veins.

I will come again. Thank you, good (?) day (?).

You belong to me.

I am nothing.

You cannot leave.

I am going.

Dee, Dee, where are you? Why did you stop talking to me? The Dead House tried to keep me, to trap me, and I’m so afraid. I couldn’t wake up. I couldn’t open my eyes! It wouldn’t let go of me. It was tricking me. I thought I could feel Carly with me in there, but I was wrong. It’s something else. I don’t know. I tried to leave, but the doors were all locked. My haven is a Venus flytrap. I can hear it calling to me even now while I’m awake. I can feel the walls, the damp, the rot—I can hear the churning Dead Sea. Sleep is the realm of the Dead Things, who want me. I must not sleep. I must not sleep.

I’m so alone.

I. Must. Not. Sleep.

51

The following entry is difficult to decipher because of the large amounts of blood spatter and smearing.

The Johnson Claydon Diaries

Sixteenth Entry

I found a mirror! Such triumph! And it’s in Lansing’s own little bathroom—the one off to the side of her office. I broke in during quiet hour, knowing she’d be in group session, and I set the girl free! She isn’t Carly, but that’s okay; she was trapped in shadows just like me, and now she is free! I am ebullient! Hahahahaha!

Inpatient Therapy Notes

Dr. Annabeth Lansing

Patient File [Johnson-C-0399524], Session #62

Friday, 3 December 2004

Carly Johnson now refuses to sleep and has been self-harming to prevent it. She has broken the mirror in my personal bathroom and lacerated both arms up to her elbows, which needed fifty-seven stitches. She is now under careful observation. I am considering sedation therapy, but reluctantly, as it may trigger another catatonic episode. I must admit that I am unsure of the next course of action. I will write to Dr. Sparrow for a consult. I was hoping to avoid permanent readmittance—or worse: removal to the B Ward—but unless I see some signs of improvement, that may be the only course of action.

52

The Johnson Claydon Diaries

Seventeenth Entry

For a little while, or so they tell me, I was catatonic. A while, they say. Shock, they say. Denial, they say. A bump, they say. A bump before I continue on my road to recovery.

At first, I refused to believe, but then… the dates don’t match up in my head. And Jaime was here. They showed me the CCTV footage. The way she looked at me, curled herself into my lap… the way her mouth opened wide before she began to sob her little tears—tears that no child should ever produce, but which seemed so familiar to me… the way Mrs. Bailey said, “This is sick! I refuse to allow Jaime to suffer like this!”

And I didn’t stir. I didn’t move. Jaime sat sobbing in my lap, clinging to my hospital gown, and I didn’t even blink. Jaime… I’m so sorry—

I’ve looked at my arms.