Read The Girl from the Well for Free Online Page B

“Sandra, where is this prison?”
    Bright green eyes look back at her. “Mister Tarquin,” the girl says. “Mister Tarquin’s the prison.”
    â€¢ • •
    â€œLet’s talk a little bit about when you were younger, Tarquin,” the therapist says. “What do you remember about your childhood?”
    â€œNot a lot. Dad used to tell me stories about when I was little, though. Like I once nearly fell into a manhole, and I used to have a pet dog named Scruffy. But I don’t remember anything. It’s like the stories happened to someone else, not to me. You’d think I would have at least remembered the dog.”
    â€œWhat is the earliest memory you can recall?”
    Another pause. “My mother,” the boy says, and his voice is quiet and vulnerable. “I remember that she used to sing to me before I went to sleep.”
    â€œWas it a lullaby?”
    â€œI don’t know the song’s name.” The boy hums a little, and the melody is a strange, haunting one. One hundred and forty-three, one hundred and forty-four.
    â€œI’m afraid I’m not quite familiar with that song,” says the woman who specializes in caring for children and knows exactly one hundred and thirty different lullabies in her head.
    â€œIt’s the first thing that I really remember,” the boy said. “And then my mom had to… Well, she went bonkers, excuse the political correctness. Dad had her checked into Remney’s. And shortly after they took her away, I started seeing that…that.”
    â€œI see,” the therapist says. This, too, is a lie; she does not truly see.
    â€œYour son is an exceptionally bright boy,” she tells his father later, once the session is over. The boy is leafing through a small stack of magazines while the man and the therapist conduct a hushed conversation behind the door. “Much more intelligent than an average teenager his age, but he tends to express this through sarcasm and self-deprecation. It’s a better outlet than other forms of rebelling I know of, but still not something I would like to encourage. He also suffers from a very deep-seated psychosis, very similar to post-traumatic stress disorder.”
    â€œWas it because of the McKinley boy’s death?” his father asks, troubled.
    â€œIt doesn’t seem likely. His hallucinations have nothing to do with any kind of flashbacks from the incident, which I find puzzling. I believe this may stem from feelings of abandonment caused by his mother leaving, though his symptoms are still quite peculiar. He exhibits no aggressive behaviors, as far as I can determine.”
    â€œWill he be all right?” the man asks.
    â€œI’m not comfortable with administering strong antidepressants to someone so young. I suggest that he comes back for several more sessions so I can monitor his progress and let you know of any improvements. I recommend not putting him in any more stressful situations than he’s already in.”
    â€œWe’re going to be visiting his mother in an hour’s time.”
    The therapist frowns. “I’m not sure that would be healthy at this stage, Mr. Halloway, especially after the last time…”
    â€œHis mother’s been asking for him,” the father insists. “And I know that whatever he says, he misses his mother and wants to see her, too. We’re taking very careful steps this time. Nothing is going to happen.”
    The therapist looks reluctant, but the father is resolute. The boy abandons the magazines, staring instead at a lone mirror on the wall.
    â€¢ • •
    â€œWhat about the other woman you mentioned?”
    â€œShe wears a white dress, not like the lady in black. It’s really dirty, but that isn’t her fault. Not really.”
    â€œDoes she stand behind Tarquin, too?”
    â€œNope. She likes to stand upside down on the ceiling