Personal Demons (2 page)

“K
evin?”

The man sitting on the tan leather couch looked up. “Dr. Chase?”

She nodded and extended her hand. “Call me Megan.”

Kevin was a pleasant-looking man, with light brown hair cut short and a round, innocent face. Average height, average build, just one of the many people one sees on the streets every day and doesn't remember two minutes later.

So Megan didn't understand why she started feeling sick as soon as her skin touched his.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Chase—I mean, Megan.” Kevin let go of her hand. Megan gasped as the nausea eased off. It didn't disappear, it stayed lurking in her stomach and making her mouth water, but it did ease. “I just…. I had to talk to someone.”

Megan swallowed and forced a smile. “That's why I'm here. What would you like to talk about?” She made her way to her chair and sat down harder than she planned.

Kevin had quite a few troubles to talk about. He was lonely, he was depressed, he had low self-esteem and worked in a dead-end job at a bank. Kevin was afraid of heights and small spaces, snakes and spiders and bugs.
In all, Kevin was basically just like everyone else whose life hadn't turned out exactly as they'd hoped or expected it would.

Megan tried not to let her mind wander, but she couldn't seem to focus. Her memory of Regina's pale face and the deformed feet and the twisting tension in her stomach when Kevin touched her hand all pointed to a problem she'd never faced before, not like this.

Anyone with psychic abilities dealt with their share of what Megan called “the shivers.” Some people just didn't “feel” right. Maybe they liked kicking puppies, or swindling old ladies, or occasionally something even more violent and horrible. She'd met such people, of course. But Kevin made her feel like she was the problem, as if whatever threat existed came from deep inside herself.

“How long did you attend—” she checked the file and forced herself not to roll her eyes—“Fearbusters?”

“Six months,” Kevin said. “And it's a good program and everything, but lately…I'd rather see how I do on my own, you know?”

“Of course.” She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes left in this session. “Is there something in particular you'd like to focus on today in the time we have left?”

“I had a nightmare last night,” he said. “A bad one.” For the first time she noticed something other than sadness and loneliness in his eyes. Fear lurked in the depths like a wasp in a flower bouquet.

“Tell me about it.”

Kevin lay back on the soft leather couch, resting his head on the armrest, and closed his eyes. He smiled faintly, clearly enjoying this part of the session. It was a relief to talk to someone who listened.

Megan tensed. At this point in a session she started tuning in, seeing what the patient saw, noticing what they
mentioned or omitted and asking careful questions to find out why.

She had to steel her nerves to do it for Kevin.

She saw the room he walked across as he described it to her, and sighed with relief. No nausea, no fear.

The cavernous room seemed to stretch into nothingness, with a ceiling so high only the fuzzy variations of color let her know something decorated it. The walls weren't walls at all, but cupboards, with hundreds of doors in them, each two or three feet tall. It was like being in an enormous library card catalog, but lights came from under the small closed doors.

“Was it an empty room, Kevin? Or was there furniture? Doors to other rooms?”

“There were doors. A lot of doors.”

“What's behind them?”

In the dream memory Kevin paused and looked at the thin line of light on the floor. “I don't know. Weapons?”

Megan noted that answer on her pad. “Did you think you needed a weapon, Kevin?”

“I didn't think,” he said. “I just tried to get to the end of the room. There was something waiting for me there, something that wanted me to see it.”

“What was it?”

“I didn't know. I just knew I needed to get there.”

Another note. “What happened when you did?”

At the end of the room another door loomed, larger than the others, with ornate carvings in the dark wood. She felt sweat rolling down her face—Kevin's face. Was there a fire behind the door? Fire was a pretty common fear.

Kevin's voice changed now, growing higher and faint. Whatever hid beyond that door must not be pleasant. She braced herself as he reached for it. His hand closed over the ornate brass knob. Flesh sizzled.

Kevin screamed. Something slammed into Megan with enough force to knock her out of her chair. She cried out, her head hitting the floor with a painful thud. The door still loomed in front of her, even as she saw Kevin jerking and convulsing on the couch, his mouth open, his eyes wide. Desperately Megan tried to put her shields back up, to break her connection with Kevin's dream, but she could not. Something had grabbed hold of her mind and refused to let go.

She tried to cry out for Lucy the receptionist, for anyone, but no sound escaped her constricted throat. She reached up, her fingers scrabbling for what felt like a cord squeezing her neck, but she scratched at empty air.

Kevin fell off the couch, smashing into the glass-top table in the middle of the floor. His body still twisted and writhed, horrible gagging noises coming from his open mouth.

Megan's vision started going black around the edges, black as the dream door that screeched on huge brass hinges…

Just before she saw what lurked behind it, the door to her office burst open. Lucy's terrified face was the last thing Megan saw before darkness overtook her.

 

“I'
M FINE
.” Megan sat up on the bed and swung her legs over the side. “I just want to go home.”

“The doctor hasn't released you,” the nurse replied, in the weary tones of a woman used to being ignored and treated badly by the people she tried to help.

“Can you call her for me, please? I'm fine.” It was a lie. She was not fine, but the hospital couldn't do anything for her.

Twice in two days now she'd had an unusual reaction when tuning in to someone. Three times, if you included her inability to read anything from the lawyer on her
doorstep. Was it possible for psychic abilities to suddenly become uncontrollable? Or was it a coincidence, some odd alignment of the planets? Maybe Kevin was epileptic or had an organic brain dysfunction?

She had no way to find out, no one she could ask. In her youth Megan had looked for a mentor, someone else who could do what she did. Once she'd realized her parents couldn't help, she'd tried making appointments with Tarot readers and psychics. None of them were able to do anything for her, with the exception of the Tarot reader who'd advised her to let go of her anger. Megan liked her anger and ignored the advice.

Through trial and error, not to mention desperation, she'd found a way to shield herself, but she'd never advanced beyond that.

The nurse looked her up and down. “Are you the kind of person who ignores doctor's orders?”

Megan smiled. “No. I'm not an idiot.”

“You don't look like an idiot,” the nurse said, returning the smile. “I'll get her.” She turned and headed for the busy nurse's station in the middle of the Emergency Care area, her jogging shoes making little squeaks on the polished tile floor. Megan bit her fingernails and waited.

“You know, we have a snack machine,” the doctor said, entering Megan's little curtained cubicle. “In case those nails don't fill you up.”

Megan blushed. “Nervous habit. Oral fixation.”

“Mmm-hmm. You're a counselor, right? PhD?” The doctor—Janet Hunter, according to her ID badge—cocked an eyebrow and grinned.

“Physician, heal thyself?”

“Something like that. I suppose it could be worse. You could smoke.”

“No smoking. Just clean, non-lethal nasty habits.”

“Great. Lisa tells me you're feeling fine, and I don't see any reason to keep you here, but try to take it easy for the next few days, okay? And call your regular doctor if you have any dizziness or pain that can't be treated with a couple of Tylenol.”

Megan nodded.

“Dr. Chase?”

A man in a plaid shirt and a pair of brown corduroy jeans that had seen better days stood in the entryway to Megan's room. Large glasses dominated his smiling face. “I'm sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I wanted to catch you before they discharge you.”

“I'm done with her, Art. Signing her discharge now, you're just in time.”

“Excellent.” The man stepped further into the room while Megan thanked Dr. Hunter. “I'm Arthur Bellingham.” He held out his hand. Megan shook it. It was warm and limp. “I'm head of the Fearbusters program here at the hospital.”

“Right,” Megan looked at him with new interest. “Kevin's therapist.”

“Yes, Kevin's therapist.” Something about the way he said it made Megan itch to tune into him, but she refrained. She wasn't about to take a chance of something else going wrong when she was so close to freedom from the hospital. “That's why I wanted to talk to you. What happened to Kevin?”

“It looked like a seizure, but you'd have to ask Dr. Hunter if it was.”

“I will,” Bellingham replied. “I'm glad neither of you were seriously injured.”

“Me too.” What did he want? He was clearly building up to something, and Megan wished he would just come out with it so she could leave.

“I suppose things could have gone very badly if your receptionist hadn't come and found you.”

How did he know that? Had he been peeking at her triage forms? Not worth arguing about. It wasn't like there was any information there he couldn't get elsewhere anyway. “I suppose,” she said. “I'd rather not think about it.”

“Oh, come now, Dr. Chase. We're psychologists. It's our job to face fear.”

“It's our job to help our patients face their fears.”

“You say potato. Actually, it's just that kind of thing I was hoping to discuss with you. Fears, I mean, not potatoes!” He chuckled at his own joke.

Megan smiled with her mouth closed. “What about them?”

“Well.” He thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned against the EKG monitor, only to stumble and nearly fall when the monitor on its wheeled cart rolled away. Megan tightened her lips to keep from laughing as he pulled it back into place. He looked back at her, with the guilty expression of a child who expected to be beaten for his clumsiness.

“Stupid wheels,” Megan said. “Whose idea were they, anyway?”

He gave a nervous little giggle. “Yes. Right. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about Fearbusters.”

“The program Kevin was in?”

“The program Kevin
is
in. He hasn't officially left.”

“Most therapy clients don't officially leave, do they, Mr. Bellingham? I mean, there's no graduation ceremony for feeling better. They just stop making appointments.”

Bellingham shrugged, but the lines of his face tensed. “Fearbusters is…different. Special. We do have a ceremony of sorts, and our clients sign up for a set period
of time. If they feel better before that time is up, they help mentor those who aren't as strong yet. It's a wonderful program.”

It may be wonderful, but it also sounded unethical. “And they pay for the sessions where they're acting as mentors?”

He nodded. “We reduce the fee, but our theory—and our clients agree—is that they're still learning new coping mechanisms while helping others to cope. Often they decide to stay, even after they've had their Leaving Ceremony.”

“I see.”

He narrowed his eyes. “If they really want to leave, they can. They just have to tell us. But in the two years we've been running the program, only one person has.”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you. Let me cut to the chase, Dr. Chase.” He smiled. Megan smiled back, just as if she hadn't heard that joke a million times. “I'd love to have you on board. I heard you on the radio last night, dealing with the woman who heard voices. You were great. Most of our clients have issues like hers, hence our name. I think you'd be a great asset to our team.”

Was there a person in the city who hadn't been listening? In her worst nightmares she'd never imagined Richard's stupid publicity campaign being this effective.

“I'm flattered,” she began. “But with my own practice and the show, I'm working six days a week. I just don't see how I can fit it in.”

“Maybe you could come down one evening and sit in on a session? We meet here at seven every weeknight, Conference Room B in the Outpatient Center. We'd love to have you.”

“I'll try.”

Bellingham brightened. “Great. Here's my card.” The card was much flimsier than the one her mysterious visitor had presented her last night. “Please call me anytime if you have the chance to come in.”

“I will.” Megan hopped off the bed and landed with a thud on her feet. The bed was a little higher than she'd thought. She grabbed her purse. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Bellingham.”

“Call me Art.” He gave her another limp handshake. It was like holding hands with an uncooked chicken cutlet. Megan suppressed a shudder. “Megan,” she said.

“Megan, then. I hope you'll call.”

She waited until he was gone to wipe her hand on her skirt.

C
afé Neus was part of the “new millennium” rebuilding project the city counselors had gone into paroxysms of glee over a few years back. Megan hated it. All the old buildings that used to give downtown character were gone, replaced by gleaming storefronts and chi-chi restaurants that looked like a strong wind would blow them over.

But she had to admit, it certainly had made the area more popular. Megan hunted for fifteen minutes before finding a place to park her little Focus, seven blocks from her destination. By the time she entered the cool, leafy interior of the restaurant she was grumpy, her feet hurt, and she wished she could go back in time and slap herself for agreeing to do the stupid radio show at all.

Don Tremblay wasn't so bad, was he? So what if he loathed Megan as much as she disliked him, especially after she'd lost her temper a year before at a conference they'd both attended and told him she'd recommend Hannibal Lecter as a therapist before she'd recommend him? So what if he'd told at least one client to grow up and stop whining so much, then charged the client double for the session saying it was because he hated her? Could she herself honestly say she'd never been tempted to do the same? It was hypocritical of her to judge poor Don, who'd
been a therapist for years, poor Don whose wife had left him three years ago, poor Don, who was…heading right for her.

“Megan.” He smiled his artificial smile and grabbed her hand in both of his. She focused all her energy into her shields as he trapped her between the fake bamboo hostess stand and his pudgy body and forced his wet lips to her cheek. “It's nice to see you. I heard your show. What a sweet little effort.”

“Sweet little effort?”

“Of course.” He clasped his hands together in front of his chest and grinned at her. The effect was not what she thought he intended. He looked like a mad scientist about to cut up some dead bodies and make amusing shapes with their cold innards. “When Richard Randall told me you'd agreed to do it, I thought you were both a little crazy, but after listening…” He picked up her hand again and kissed it. “
Magnifique
. A word of warning, though. There are some in our illustrious profession who may not take kindly to your sudden fame.”

Like you, she thought, but did not say. Tremblay's eyes were cold and watchful, and he was not afraid to make a scene. She didn't want to make things worse, especially when there was a reporter somewhere in the room ready to write about her. F
AME
-H
UNGRY
C
OUNSELOR
S
TABBED
B
ACKS FOR
R
ADIO
S
HOW
was not a headline she cared to read. At least, not on a story about herself.

“Thanks for the warning. I'll keep that in mind.”

“I'm always happy to help a young lady unschooled in making the right impressions.” Good old Don, always ready to patronize. “In fact, seeing as how you're dining alone again, perhaps you'd care to join me and my friends?”

“I'm sorry, I can't. I'm meeting someone.”

“Blind date? It's hard for a girl like you to meet people these days, isn't it?”

Some people made her want to gouge out their eyes with a grapefruit spoon. Don was one of them. With effort, she refrained. “Yes, my enormous sexual appetite tends to scare men away. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find my dinner date.”

She left him standing next to the gaping hostess.

 

“H
ERE'S HOW IT WORKS.
” Brian Stone, reporter for
Hot Spot,
rummaged around in his large backpack and set a mini-recorder on the table between them. His eyes sparkled. Megan envied his enjoyment of his job. “I ask questions, you answer. It's simple, but the tricky part is not sounding self-conscious. I want this to be a good article. I'm not planning a hatchet job, don't worry. If we do it right, it turns into a conversation and we both forget the recorder. We're going to be together all week, so it's best if we get the uncomfortable part out of the way fast, okay, Dr. Chase?”

He had an easy, quick way of talking as he gave this little speech. His light brown hair was short and tidy, his smile wide and welcoming. Everything about him was designed to be reassuring and encourage confidences. Megan refused to be won over.

“I'll certainly give it a try.”

“But you don't want to.”

“What?”

“You don't want to be interviewed, I can tell. It's okay. I mean…it's not okay, because it makes my job harder…but I understand you feeling that way. A lot of people do.”

“But you push them anyway.”

“Don't you?” His blue eyes looked directly into hers, pinning her to her chair. She looked away.

“I don't think of it that way. They pay me to ask questions, to find out what's at the heart of their problems. Sometimes to do that you have to force people to confront things they'd rather not face.”

“Is that your theory, then? That your job is forcing your patients to look into all the nasty corners of their minds?”

“They are not necessarily ‘nasty corners' and I don't ‘force' anyone, Mr. Stone. Nor do I think confronting the truth in order to deal with problems is theory. It's the truth. If you go to the doctor with pains in your stomach, but refuse to allow an examination, you've wasted a trip to the doctor. Same with a counselor.”

She hadn't expected the interview to be fun, but she hadn't expected to react with gut-clenching rage, either. Her Coke sat on the table next to her as yet untouched salad. She wished she'd ordered something stronger.

“It's not the same, though, is it? What you don't tell a real doctor can kill you. What you—”

“Hold it right there, Mr. Stone. I may not be a medical doctor, but I earned a doctorate in Counseling Psychology. I'm a highly qualified, licensed counselor, I'm not doing this as a lark.”

“I know.”

“Furthermore, I—what? What do you mean, you know?”

Stone smiled. “Of course I know your qualifications. You have an excellent reputation, and it's certainly not everyone who can earn a Master's and a Doctorate in eight years. But I've gotten you to loosen up a bit. You're ready to talk now, right? More than you were earlier? And to call me Brian?”

“The only thing I'm ready to do now is dump my salad on your head.”

“Please don't. It takes forever to get the dressing out.”

In spite of herself, she laughed. “Okay, Brian. I admit I'm not as nervous as I was. That doesn't mean I approve of your methods.”

“I can only do my best,” he said, taking a bite of his own salad. “You should eat.”

“Desperate to take a photo of me with spinach in my teeth?”

“No, but I will if you aren't nice to me.”

Megan smiled in acknowledgment and took a sip of her Coke, scanning the restaurant over the top of her glass. Her gaze stopped on two tables at the back. At one sat Don Tremblay with Jeff Howard—one of the partners in her co-practice who'd been vocally opposed to her joining—and a woman she didn't recognize. So Tremblay was friendly with Howard. She'd never known that, but it certainly made sense.

The other table was more worrisome. As the giggling waitress stepped away from it, Greyson Dante held up his wineglass in her direction. She ignored him.

“So,” Brian said, after thanking the waitress for his entree, “I'd like to be in your office by ten every morning. That way our photographer can get some good shots, and I can interview some of your patients.”

“You can't interview my patients. They have a right to confidentiality.”

Brian shrugged. “Some of them will probably want to keep that privacy intact but still speak anonymously. But I'm sure a few of them would love to have their picture in our magazine, so everyone knows they get to see Dr. Demon Slayer on a regular basis.”

Megan almost choked on her steak. “The who?”

“The demon slayer. That's what the station specified we were to call you. Part of the theme of the show.”

“Oh, god.” Megan buried her face in her hands. The dull throbbing ache in her head promised to get worse as this hell continued.

“I was thinking we could get a picture of you holding a pitchfork or something. Maybe a big wooden cross? Sound good?”

She stared at him. He lifted his hands and leaned back in his seat, as if he was afraid she might start spitting on him. “Hey, only joking.”

“Very funny.”

“Oh, I do love jokes.” Greyson Dante stood by her side.

“Hello, Mr. Dante. I'm afraid this is a private conversation, so you will, of course, be going now.”

His grin widened. Was there no way to insult the man? “Why, Dr. Chase, if I didn't know better I'd think you didn't want to see me.”

“What makes you think you know better?”

“I always do.”

Brian looked from one of them to the other. “Don't you want to introduce me to your friend, Megan?”

Dante still stood there smiling, his wineglass in one hand, looking like Cary Grant on a luxurious cruise. She hadn't been wrong in her first moonlight impression; he really was handsome, with dark hair and eyes and smooth, lightly tanned skin. She'd always liked dark-haired men, probably to contrast with her own blond paleness. Megan often thought she looked like a ghost. A dark man seemed to anchor her to earth, somehow, or perhaps it was just her obsessive childhood crush on Burt Reynolds.

Before she could disavow friendship with Dante and say
no
, Mr. Tall Dark Handsome and Annoying was shaking hands with the reporter.

“Dante. Greyson Dante.”

Brian smiled. “Mr. Dante, then. Sit down. I'd love to talk to some of Megan's friends. Get some more personal information, you know?”

“I'd be glad to share what I know.” Greyson grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table—without asking the table's occupants, Megan noticed—and pulled it to theirs.

“Which isn't much,” she said under her breath.

Brian glanced at her. “What?”

Dante grinned. Megan wanted to stab him in the hand with her fork. Of course he was grinning. She couldn't say anything to him. She couldn't yell, or claim he was a crazy stranger, or be nasty to him. Brian was a reporter, a man with the power to make or break her reputation. R
ADIO
C
OUNSELOR
C
AN'T
R
EMEMBER
N
AMES OF
C
ASUAL
O
NE
-N
IGHT
S
TANDS
…P
OWER
-M
AD
R
ADIO
H
OST
T
URNS
H
ER
B
ACK ON
F
RIENDS
N
OW
T
HAT
S
HE'S A
S
UCCESS
…F
AME
D
RIVES
R
ADIO
C
OUNSELOR
I
NSANE
…

“And how do you two know each other?” Brian was either trying to figure out what was wrong between them or, innocently unaware, was just trying to make conversation. Megan hoped it was the latter. She opened her mouth to speak, but Greyson got there first.

“I'm a counselor, too. From out of state. We met at a conference last year.”

Megan would have bet her car that the closest Greyson ever came to counseling was recommending it for his clients in the hopes they would get larger damages in court.

If
he was a lawyer. Which she had to admit she wasn't certain about. It was just a feeling she had, but without being able to read him she couldn't be sure.

“Our methods are very different,” Megan started, but Dante cut her off.

“But we both love helping people. I think ‘help' is Dr. Chase's favorite word.”

“And what's yours? ‘Malpractice'?”

“Oh, no.” He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “
Sin
is my favorite word, Dr. Chase. Sin.”

His eyes caught hers, held. She leaned forward before she realized she was doing it, and sat back so quickly she knocked her knife onto the floor.

Dante tsked and picked it up, nodding to his pet waitress, who leapt to their table as if they were the only customers in the restaurant. Megan calmed herself and started studying the room, trying to avoid even looking at him.

Perhaps it was fallout from earlier, but the steak that had looked appetizing now made her throat close, and she made no move to use her new knife. She thought if someone made a loud noise she would jump right out of her skin, and it wasn't just the tension of the last day or so catching up with her.

The men continued chatting, unaware of her lapse into silence. “Oh, Megan is highly respected,” Dante said. “She's a real counselor's counselor.”

A
counselor's counselor
? Where was he getting that shit?

Trying to soothe her churning stomach, Megan reached for her Coke and took a long swallow.

Something hovered in the air over the right shoulder of the woman at the next table.

The shadowy form lacked definition but as Megan watched she caught a flash of what looked like dark green before the color disappeared. The shadow stayed, rippling at the edges but hovering in place.

The woman didn't notice, but Megan stared transfixed. Blurry edges of darkness reached out and passed over
the woman's face, then slipped back into the semi-solid mass.

The image made her gorge rise, but she kept staring, unable to move or blink. If she looked away, would it disappear? Or would it move, leaping to one of the other diners, as if trying to gain entry to someone's body? It felt so wrong, so…evil. Her skin prickled and itched.

While the woman laughed and ate her food, the blurry form twisted and darted around, staying in the same space but writhing as if trying to burst through some kind of membrane.