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But instead, I saw the little girl's ghost-white complexion turn even, well, whiter.
"What if you weren't imagining it?"
I scowled. "If you're thinking of pranking me again—-"
"No, listen. The other ghosts have been saying that they've been feeling rather odd and nervous lately—-"
"And you never saw fit to tell me?"
"I'm telling you now," she said defensively.
I gnawed on my lip, not wanting to jump into conclusions. "Maybe they're being paranoid, too—-"
"Or maybe all of you..."
"All of us...what?"
Mary Priscilla swallowed hard. "What if it's the Man in Black?"
Oh.
Well.
Shit.
I had a hard time sleeping that night, but because I could also sense Mary Priscilla's growing anxiety, I did my best to hide my own fears and sought to distract her by renting The Nun for the night.
Horror movies had never been my thing, but ever since Mary Priscilla started living with me, I had forced myself to tolerate the bloody things, even if they still scared the bejeezus out of me. Movies like this were basically her version of Skillshare, with the little girl always on the lookout for new ways to haunt unsuspecting humans.
Not exactly nice of her, I know, and one of these days I supposed I needed to play the adult and set some ground rules, but....
Mary Priscilla chortled in childish delight as she watched Valak zoom across the screen.
Ghost etiquette lessons could wait, I decided privately.
For now, I was just glad that seeing a habit-wearing-demon go on a killing spree was enough to make the little girl forget about the Man in Black.
Who couldn't be possibly...truly...stalking me.
Right?
I fell asleep trying to convince myself of this, and I woke up feeling less apprehensive the next day. Must've imagined it, I told myself yet again. But even so, I couldn't help looking over my shoulder every few minutes as I got off the bus and walked the rest of the way to the clinic.
If you're thinking overkill, I'd have to agree, since by the time I made it to TEC my neck was already hurting like hell.
The door sign to Dr. Harris' consultation room was already flipped to Session in Progress when I took my place behind the counter. Things were busy almost right away, with phone calls and emails to be answered in between making regular trips to the pantry so I could keep serving coffee and tea. It was a far cry from my old job, but I was surprised to find every minute of it rather enjoyable.
After the horrors of job hunting and being repeatedly made to feel worthless, I guess it just felt nice to be in a place where I was needed and appreciated.
Dinner break was at seven-thirty, and one of the many perks for working for Dr. Harris was that he had given me a charge account at a family-run restaurant nearby. Tonight, I had opted for fish and chips, which I unfortunately managed to demolish in a matter of minutes.
I tried looking for something to eat in the pantry, but the cupboards were empty, and although I did find a small refrigerator, it was locked and labeled Chemicals. It smelled odd, too, and it wasn't a clinical kind of stink, if you know what I mean.
Whatever.
Not my problem, not going to worry about it.
But just as I turned away to walk out, I sensed it again-—
Eyes following me.
I whipped around, hoping to catch something - a ghost, a rat, anything but the Man in Black.
But there was none.
Paranoid, I told myself. You're just being paranoid.
Even so, I worked extra hard at keeping myself busy once I was back behind the counter. Patients were still coming in nonstop, all of them wanting to take advantage of Dr. Harris' limited-time "sale" for his services. Book ten sessions in advance, get them at fifty off!
Since I had never worked at a clinic like Dr. Harris' before, it had surprised me at first, seeing how I would be escorting patients in but never see them coming out. Apparently, all therapists had a back door patients could use, in case they didn't want to be seen by other people.
By nine-thirty, the reception was empty while Dr. Harris remained in session with his last patient for the night. To keep myself from nodding off, I switched the TV on and channel-surfed until I came across a local news program.
Another female corpse had been found, the reporter disclosed grimly. The fifth one in the past seven weeks, and like the other previous victims, her tongue had been cut out and portions of her torso torn off by hand.
This, the authorities reluctantly confirmed, showed all the signs of a serial killer on the loose, even if the five victims were of varying age, race, and background.
I quickly switched the TV off as a shiver ran down my spine. Maine was one of the safest places in America. Serial killers and Portland could never be used in the same sentence. They just didn't go together, like water and oil.
