Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The office smelled like Pine-Sol. That was probably the first thing I noticed. Pine-Sol and feet. It wasn’t a comforting scent. Behind the counter was an older, long nailed receptionist, who looked like Botox injections had gifted her with a permanent sour expression. There was also a shelf of self-help books next to an ugly brown, foot perfumed couch that my mother was perched on. Her eyes explored the room until she met my glance and gave me a weak, apologetic smile.

This had been her idea. She said that I was depressed, that I needed someone to vent to that could be objective. So she drug me to this smelly little office to sit awkwardly in the waiting room and listen to the receptionist clack her nails on the counter. After a sufficient amount of that, I assumed, I would follow a little man in a white coat to his office, where he would poke and prod my brain with his stupid questions and determine whether or not I was suicidal.

That’s a long process.

She could have just asked me. She would have loved my answer.

Before long, a short, balding man with glasses and a white coat opened a door, leading a tall brunette woman out by her arm. Her eyes were puffy from crying. She thanked him profusely and he smiled politely, as psychiatrists are wont to do. I flashed a quick look at my mom, who averted her eyes. Just as I had bet my mom, he looked like a big square. She owed me five dollars. The doctor watched the woman leave and then saw me.

“Miss Jensen?” he asked, opening the door so I could enter in front of him. I rolled my eyes and stood up, throwing my backpack over my shoulder as I walked through it. He gestured down a long hallway towards a door at the end, and then spoke to the secretary while I made myself comfortable. When he finally sat at his desk, he stared at some papers on a clipboard for a long time. When he looked up, a fake grin was plastered on the doughy little face. I immediately hated him.

“My name is Doctor Peterson. It looks like I‘ll be seeing you about once a week for a couple of months.”

“I guess,” I whispered. My throat was dry.

“Well then, let’s begin.” He shuffled a pile of papers to the side. “Let’s talk about why you’re here.” He made it sound like my choice.

“Let’s,” I agreed, crossing my legs and leaning back in my seat. He waited for me to speak and I waited for his hair to grow back. Neither one happened.

“Miss Jensen,” he broke the silence, “do you know why you’re here?”

“Sure I do,” I said. Stupid question number one. More silence.

“Would you care to tell me?” he tried again. He thought I was dense, that much was obvious.

“Not really,” I admitted. I wasn’t trying to be difficult, it just came naturally.

He removed his glasses, rubbing his watery little eyes.

“You don’t want to be here,” he assessed. Very astute of him. I was proud. It only took years of medical school for him to realize that he wasn’t pro at cracking teenagers.

“No,” I agreed, smiling.

“I‘m here to help you, Miss Jensen. But I can only help you if you are willing to help yourself.”

“I don‘t need help. I‘m fine.”

“Your mother tells me your grades have been slipping. You‘ve been having problems with some of your friends. And you’ve been having nightmares.”

The nightmares. That was my only problem. Sometimes I would even wake up screaming from them.

It was always the same dream: I would awake alone and cold in a dark room. The only door was locked. I would yell for help and, at first, no one would hear me. Then people would appear, usually two or three, but they weren’t there to help me. I usually woke up when they entered the room.

“Everyone has nightmares,” I concluded, a little defensively.

“Let me be frank,” he started, replacing his glasses and lacing his hands together, “you have a history of depression in your family. More importantly, you have a history of suicide.”

My brother, Jake. My Aunt, Susan. My goldfish, Ferdinand.

“And now,” he continued, “your mother has expressed concern for you. It is my professional obligation to offer you any possible help. Do you understand?”

I could only nod. I hadn’t thought it was possible for me to want to be there any less. Apparently, I had been wrong, and he could tell. The clock ticked.

“We‘ll end early today. If you need me…” he handed me a card, “my phone is always on. I’ll see you next week.” He stood and took a few strides around his desk to help me awkwardly out of my chair, then ushered my briskly to the door. My mom stood when I entered the waiting room.

“How did it go, kiddo?”

I walked right past her, out the front entrance, and sat in the car. She followed shortly after and got in next to me, silent. I stared out of the window as we cruised through the city, watching the trees and houses become a blur. Once or twice I heard her start to speak, but she reconsidered. Soon we were parked in front of my favorite Chinese restaurant, and my mom ran in, then out, tossing three bags in the back seat.

“Let’s talk.” She was about to cry, I could tell. I could always tell.

“What about?” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“Anything.” Code for ‘the appointment.’

“I don’t want to go back there.”

“Honey, it‘s only once a week.”

“I don’t need it once a week. I don’t need it once a month.”

“Sweetie, can‘t you just give it a try? It wouldn’t kill you.”

“Neither would forgetting about it.”

“Forgetting about it won’t get you a car, though.”

I was shocked into silence for a moment. Then, “You’re giving me a car!?”

“If you go, without complaint, for three months, and actually try. After your birthday, you’re free as a bird.”

I started to think about it but there really wasn’t much to think about. “Fine. I’ll go. But the day I turn 18 I’m finished.”

“Alright.” She pulled into a small parking lot.

“What are we doing?” I looked around. I didn’t recognize this part of town.

“I‘m getting you a present for being a good sport.” She pointed to a sign that hung above the door of a shabby looking brick building.

She knew me too well. I loved antiques and old-fashioned things, so she had driven us to an antique store. We went inside and I found what I wanted almost immediately. It was a music box made of a dark wood that played a slow, comforting song. I instantly fell in love with it. The checker said it was from Europe, from the early to mid 1800’s.

I held it all the way home and only stopped playing it when my mom looked annoyed. When we got home, I ran to my room and placed it in the perfect spot; in the middle of my dresser, right next to a picture of my brother and I.

I picked up the old photo. Jake stood leaning against the maple tree in our front yard, while I sat against it at his feet with the dog. We had never looked much alike. His light hair contrasted with my dark auburn, and our smiles were completely different. His was lopsided, large and genuine, while mine resembled my mother’s pin-up girl look. He appeared much older than me, although we were just barely in the same grade. Our eyes were similar, though: different colors but the same shape.

I put the picture back down, positioning it slightly behind the music box. I ate the Chinese food with my mom and then did some homework. When I finally couldn’t keep my eyes open, I let the music from my new treasure play me to sleep.


When I woke up, I was freezing. I reached for a blanket and found one by my feet, pulling it over myself. I tried falling back asleep, but it was still so cold, and the blanket smelled funny. I sniffed it with purpose and realized that it reeked of must. It was even slightly damp. Come to that, there was a dripping sound from the corner. I opened my eyes, concerned with what I would find.

A stone wall had sprung up right next to my face sometime in the night. It took a moment, but recognition swept through me and I sat up quickly, turning around to see the rest of the small room. One locked door. A leak in the ceiling.

How did I get here? I stood and ran across the room, my bare feet pounding the concrete floor. My toes scraped something loose on the ground and I tripped, falling forward but catching myself with my right hand. I pushed myself back up and looked down to see what I had tripped over.

Oh. My music box.

Wait. What was that doing here? I sat up and pulled it into my lap, inspecting it, opening it. The song played, my song, bouncing off of the stone walls and back at me. It was definitely my music box but… there was something different about it. Nonetheless, I let the song comfort me a little before I ventured towards the door again. I rapped my knuckles against it, hoping someone would hear me.

“Hello?” My call was weak and scratchy. “Is anyone there?” I raised my voice, “Can someone let me out?”

No answer. I heard nothing but distant yells and some low mumbles nearby. I tried again, trying to force my dry throat to give a little.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” The mumbles got louder, closer. “Can you hear me? Please, I need out!” The mumbles reached outside of the door, but didn’t move past it. I placed my ear to the rough wood and tried to decipher what they were saying. I strained to hear them but could make nothing out, save for broken sentences.

“Interesting case…”

“…interesting about it?”

“…nothing works…delusions…”

“…memories…try to determine…”

“Hard to tell…harmless.”

I couldn’t make sense of any of it. I wanted to hear more, but the mumbles were getting farther away. I panicked and began pounding on the door frantically.

“No…wait, please don’t leave me in here, please….come back!”

I heard them stop, and then I heard their footsteps get closer again as I continued to hit the door, ignoring my bleeding knuckles. I heard the lock click and the door was thrown open, pushing me backwards. I fell with a satisfying thud, and looked up into the faces of my captors.

It was my mother.

Wait. My mom? The voices on the other side of the door had been male. I looked around. Turquoise walls met with a hardwood floor, matching my brown and turquoise bed set. My room. And my mom, in a bathrobe and hovering over me looking worried. I was home.

I slid so that I was lying down, letting the cool floor keep me from overheating, breathing hard. It was just a dream. Not a dream, the dream. But it had been different. My music box…I turned my head to see it resting near my face.

“Natalie!” My mother’s voice grabbed my attention. “Answer me!”

“What?”

“What is going on in here?”

“I just had a bad dream, that’s all. I was sleepwalking. Was I yelling?” She didn’t answer me, only stared. I stretched my neck and arms and, in doing so, felt a sharp pain in my hand. The pain opened my eyes in alarm, and that’s when I caught sight of my door, which had swung shut behind my mom. There were two large patches of bloody handprints and scratches running down the length of the panel. Shocked, I inspected my hands to find the skin torn in various places, as if I had run them repeatedly across sheets of sandpaper in every direction. Apart from that there were several large splinters protruding from my knuckles.

“What…” I started, but I didn’t know what to ask. I didn’t need to know what had happened. I had sleepwalked a lot when I was younger, but it had been years. And the fact that I had hit my door hard enough to cause damage and not woken up by it was cause for concern.

My mom had left the room unnoticed but returned momentarily with a first-aid kit. Without a word she sat next to me, cleaning my wounds and pulling out splinters. When she was done, my gauze covered fingers reminded me of my seven-year-old mummy costume for Halloween, but the stinging wasn’t as bad.

“So what was it this time, kiddo?” she finally asked, tossing some tissue in the trash across the room.

“Just the same old dream,” I assured her. I left out the part about the music box. She would take it away for sure.

“You‘ve never been so hard to wake up before. Your music box woke me up, and then you started yelling. I tried to wake you up, but you just started hitting the door. I had to pick the lock.”

“I had a long day. I was out.” I pulled myself up, sitting on my bed and hugging my knees.

My mom took a deep breath by the exit, thinking. Finally she grabbed the handle and started to leave, but not before she saw the damage to my door. She stopped. She looked…helpless, shoulders hunched and eyes wandering across the wood. I’d only ever seen that look once before; one year earlier, when she had answered a late night ring of the doorbell to find the police standing there with grim faces. It had been March 18th. They hadn’t even said anything, just took off their hats in that cliché I’m-sorry-we-just-found-your-child-dead sort of way. She had looked just like this then.

She turned back to me, shaking me out of my stupor, “Leave the door unlocked,” she whispered, a silent please tailing it with her eyes, and left.