Chapter 2 - The Lab of Lies
Dinner was a slow-motion performance of domestic normalcy. Noah made jokes about his boss, ate the potatoes I’d spent hours preparing, and kept his gaze firmly fixed on his wine glass. The ghost remained in the living room, hovering just at the edge of the dining room archway. He was pacing now, a frantic, repetitive motion that mirrored the way Noah used to walk when he was deep in thought.
Every time Noah moved, the ghost moved with him. When Noah took a drink, the ghost mimicked the motion, his hand passing through the air where a glass would be. It was a mirror image, a shadow that had been disconnected from its source.
I barely ate. My attention was divided between the man who had supposedly spent his day at the lab and the silent, suffering specter who seemed to be the real Noah.
"Noah," I said, breaking a long silence. "Why did you say 'I told you' earlier? About not looking at them?"
Noah wiped his mouth with a napkin, his eyes never meeting mine. "I've been reading about these... occurrences. Neurological triggers. If you focus on them, your brain starts to manufacture the imagery. It’s a feedback loop. I just want you to be healthy."
"It’s not a feedback loop," I said, standing up. "The man in the living room—the one who looks like you—he’s hurt. He’s dying. He’s in a hospital gown. That isn't a neurological trigger, Noah. That’s a tragedy."
Noah stood up abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. "I am not having this conversation. I work in a lab that deals with cognitive mapping. I know what the human mind is capable of creating. You are seeing what you fear, Claire. You’re afraid of losing me, so you’re manifesting a dead version of me."
"Then why are you shaking?" I pointed at his hand.
He clutched his hand into a fist and shoved it into his pocket. "Because you're scaring me. You're acting like you’re having a breakdown."
"I’m the only one here who is seeing clearly!"
I ran toward the living room, intent on confronting the ghost, on touching him, on seeing if I could prove to Noah that this was real. As I approached, the ghost stopped pacing. He looked at me, his eyes wide and pleading. He lifted his hand—the one that had been holding the bookcase—and pointed toward the basement door.
I stopped. The ghost wasn't pointing at me. He was pointing at the heavy, reinforced steel door that led to the small, underground room Noah used for his "private research."
Noah’s footsteps sounded behind me. He wasn't walking anymore; he was stalking.
"Claire, don't," he said, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register. "Don't go near that door."
"What's in there, Noah?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
The ghost screamed. It was a silent, soundless explosion of energy that made the candles on the table flicker and die. The temperature in the room plummeted, the air turning thick with the smell of ozone and sterile hospital chemicals. The ghost fell to his knees, his hands clawing at his chest as if he couldn't breathe.
Noah grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. "I told you to stop looking!"
I swung my arm, breaking his grip, and bolted for the basement door. I didn't care about the stairs. I didn't care about the darkness. I just knew that the man in the corner—the real Noah—was trying to show me the truth.
I reached the door, my heart hammering against my ribs, and grabbed the handle. It was locked.
"Noah, open it!"
Noah was behind me now, his chest heaving. He didn't reach for the handle. He reached for his keys, his face a mask of resigned malice.
"You were always too curious, Claire," he said, his hand hovering over the keyhole. "I wanted this to be a happy anniversary. I really did."
May you like
He turned the key.
The door swung open, and the smell that hit me wasn't cedar soap or burnt coffee. It was the smell of a morgue.
