Sanctum

  DEDICATION

  For my family,

  who never fail to amaze with their belief,

  support, and love. If there are better people

  on earth, I haven’t met them.

  EPIGRAPH

  “Reality denied comes back to haunt.”

  —PHILIP K. DICK

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgments

  Image Credits

  About the Author

  Credits

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  It was a fantasy of lights and sounds and smells, crooked candy-striped tents, and laughter that burst like cannon fire out of the winding paths. Curiosities lurked around every corner. A man belched flames from a podium. The scent of fried cakes and popcorn hung sweet and heavy on the air, tantalizing until it became sickening. And in the very last tent was a man with a long beard—a man who didn’t promise riches or oddities or even a glimpse into the future. No. The man in the last tent promised the one thing the little boy wanted most of all.

  Control.

  You guys are not even going to believe this, Dan typed, shaking his head at the computer screen. A “memory manipulation expert”? Is that even a real thing? Anyway, just watch the video, and let me know what you think!

  His cursor hovered over that last line—it sounded so desperate. But whatever, Dan was starting to get desperate here. His last three messages had gone unanswered, and he wasn’t even sure if Abby and Jordan were still reading them.

  He hit send.

  Dan leaned away from his laptop, rolling his neck and listening to the soft pops of his spine adjusting. Then he closed the thing—maybe a little too sharply—and stood up, shoving the computer into his book bag between loose papers and folders. The bell rang just as he finished packing, and he filed out of the library into the hall.

  The students in the wide corridor surged forward in one long column. Dan spotted a few kids from his third-period calculus class, and they waved at him as he approached their bank of lockers. Missy, a short brunette with freckles splattered across her nose, had decorated the door of her locker with just about every Doctor Who sticker and postcard she could get her hands on. A tall, gangly boy named Tariq was grabbing books from the locker next to hers, and beside him stood the shortest guy in twelfth grade, Beckett.

  “Hey, Dan,” Missy greeted him. “We missed you at lunch. Where’d you run off to?”

  “Oh, I was in the library,” Dan said. “I just had to finish something for AP Lit.”

  “Man, you guys have to do so much work for that class,” Beckett said. “I’m glad I stuck with regular English.”

  “So, Dan, we were just talking about Macbeth when you walked up. Were you planning on going?”

  “Yeah, I heard the set is amazing,” Tariq said, shutting his locker with a clang.

  “I didn’t even know we were doing Macbeth,” Dan said. “Is it like a drama club thing?”

  “Yes, and Annie Si is in it. That’s reason enough to go right there.” Beckett shot the boys a mischievous smile, one Dan only barely returned, and then the group started down the hallway. Dan couldn’t remember what classes the rest of them had next, but even if he hadn’t been doing any work in the library, he really was headed to the second floor for AP Lit. It wasn’t his favorite class, but Abby had read most of the books on the syllabus and had promised to give him a rundown at some point, which made it better.

  “We should check it out,” Tariq said. He was wearing a sweater three times too big for him and skinny pants. It made him look a little like a bobblehead. “And, Dan, you should join us. I might be able to get us free tickets. I know the lead techie.”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never really liked Macbeth. It hits too close to home for OCD people like me,” Dan deadpanned, rubbing furiously at an invisible stain on his sleeve.

  Both Missy and Tariq stared back at him blankly.

  “You know?” He chuckled weakly. “‘Out, damned spot’?”

  “Oh, is that from the play?” Tariq asked.

  “Yeah, it’s . . . It’s like one of the most famous lines.” He frowned. Abby and Jordan would’ve gotten it. Didn’t everyone have to read Macbeth for school? “Anyway, I’ll see you guys later.”

  Dan peeled off from the group and headed upstairs. He pulled out his phone and sent off a quick text to both Jordan and Abby: “Nobody here gets my sense of humor. Help!” Twenty minutes later, when he was sitting bored in class, Jordan still hadn’t texted back and Abby had sent a lukewarm “LOL.”

  What was wrong? Where had his friends gone? It wasn’t like they were that busy. . . . Just last week, Jordan had been telling him on Facebook chat how insanely tedious his classes were. Nothing was challenging, he’d said, after the classes at the New Hampshire College Prep program. Dan sympathized, but honestly, the classes were the last thing he remembered from their summer in New Hampshire. What he couldn’t stop thinking about was what had happened in their dorm, Brookline—formerly an insane asylum run by a twisted warden, Daniel Crawford.

  When he wasn’t thinking about that small detail, though, he was thinking about Jordan and Abby. When they’d first returned from the college campus, he’d gotten texts and emails from them constantly, but now they hardly talked. Missy, Tariq, and Beckett were okay, he supposed, but Jordan and Abby were different. Jordan knew how to push his buttons, but it was always good-natured and made the three of them laugh. And if Jordan pushed a little too hard, Abby was there to call him out and restore the balance. Really, she was the linchpin that held their group together—a group that in Dan’s mind seemed worth keeping up.

  So why were his friends ignoring him?

  Dan glanced at the clock, groaning. Two more hours until the end of the day. Two more hours until he could dash home and get online to see if his friends wanted to chat.

  He sighed and scooted down into his seat, reluctantly putting his phone away.

  Strange to think that a place as dangerous as Brookline had brought them together, and normal life was pulling them apart.

  A half-eaten peanut butter sandwich sat on the plate next to his laptop. At his feet, his AP History textbook collected leaves. The crisp fall air normally helped him focus, but instead of doing homework, like he really ought to, he was busy going through the file he had made about Brookline. After the prep program ended, Dan had made sure to organize the notes he’d made, the research he’d done, and the photographs he’d collected, and turn it into one neat file.

  He found himself returning to browse through it more than he should. Even with all these original documents, so much of the warden’s history was still missing. And after learning that he might actually be related to the warden through his birth parents—that this horrible man m
ight be his great-uncle and even his namesake—Dan felt like this was a hole in his personal history, a mystery that he very much needed to solve.

  At the moment, though, the file was just a distracting way to pass the time while he waited for Jordan and Abby to log on. What was that phrase his dad always liked to use? Hurry up and wait. . . .

  “Could I be any more pathetic?” Dan muttered, pushing both hands into his dark, messy hair.

  “I think you’re just fine, sweetheart.”

  Right. Better to keep the gloomy asides silent in the future. Dan looked up to see his mom, Sandy, standing on the porch, smiling at him. She was holding a steaming cup of cocoa, one he hoped was for him.

  “Hard at work?” she asked, nodding to the forgotten textbook on the floor at his feet.

  “I’m almost done,” he replied with a shrug, taking the cocoa from her with cupped hands, his sweater sleeves pulled over his fingers. “I think I’m allowed a break every once in a while.”

  “True,” Sandy said, offering him an apologetic half smile. “It’s just . . . well, a few months ago, you seemed so excited about applying early decision to Penn, but here we are in October and that deadline’s coming up fast.”

  “I’ve got plenty of time,” Dan said unconvincingly.

  “Maybe for the essay, but don’t you think the admissions people will find it odd that you stopped doing all your extracurriculars your senior year? Couldn’t you get an internship? Even if it was just one day on the weekends, I think it would make a big difference. And maybe you should visit some other campuses, too—you know, early decision isn’t the best choice for everyone.”

  “I don’t need more extracurriculars as long as I keep my four point oh. And besides, NHCP will look great on my apps.”

  Sandy’s pale brow furrowed, a chilly wind ruffling her shoulder-length hair as she looked away from him, staring out at the trees surrounding the porch. She hugged herself and shook her head. This was how she always reacted when NHCP came up; unlike Jordan and Abby, who had been able to spin and massage the truth for their parents when it came to Brookline, Dan’s parents more or less knew the whole story. They had been there when the police questioned Dan; they had listened as he recounted being attacked, pinned to the ground. . . . Just mentioning that place in their presence was like whispering a curse.

  “But sure,” Dan said, blowing on the hot chocolate, “I could look for an internship or something. No sweat.”

  Sandy’s face relaxed and her arms dropped to her sides. “Would you? That would really be amazing, kiddo.”

  Dan nodded, going so far as to open a new browser window on his laptop and Google something. He typed in “zookeeper internship” and tilted the laptop slightly away from her.

  “Thanks for the cocoa,” he added.

  “Of course.” She ruffled his hair, and Dan breathed a sigh of relief. “You haven’t gone out much lately. Doesn’t Missy have a birthday coming up soon? I remember you going to her party around Halloween last year.”

  “Probably,” he said with a shrug.

  “Or your other . . . your other friends?” She stumbled over the word friends. “Abby, was it? And the boy?”

  She always did that, asking about Abby as if she didn’t remember exactly what her name was. It was like she couldn’t believe or accept that he had actually gotten a sort-of girlfriend. To be fair, Dan could hardly believe it sometimes himself.

  “Yeah,” he said with a noncommittal grunt. “They’re busy, though, you know . . . school and work and stuff.”

  Dynamite job, Dan. Your Oscar’s in the mail.

  “Work? So they have jobs?”

  “Subtle, Mom,” he muttered. “I can take the hint. . . .”

  “I’m sure you can, sweetheart. Oh, before I forget—the mail came. There was something in there for you. . . .”

  That was unusual. He never got snail mail. Sandy flicked through the various envelopes that had been tucked in her jacket pocket before dropping one in his lap. The letter looked like it had gotten run through a washing machine and then dragged through the dirt. Dan checked the return address and a cold pain shot through his stomach.

  Sandy hovered.

  “It’s probably junk mail,” Dan said lightly, tossing the envelope onto his books. She took the hint, giving him a thin-lipped smile before turning away. He hardly heard the door close as Sandy disappeared back into the house. Dan scrambled for the letter.

  Lydia & Newton Sheridan

  Sheridan? As in Felix Sheridan? As in his former roommate, the one who had tried to kill him over the summer, either because he went crazy or because he was, what, possessed? When he closed his eyes Dan could still see Felix’s maniacal grin. Possessed or not, Felix had absolutely believed he was the Sculptor reincarnated.

  Dan’s hands shook as he tore open the envelope. Maybe it was just an apology, he thought—it was entirely possible that Felix’s parents wanted to reach out to him and say they were sorry for all the trouble their son had caused him.

  Dan drew in a deep breath and double-checked to make sure he was alone. Through the half-open window he could hear Sandy washing the dishes in the kitchen.

  Dear Daniel,

  You’re probably surprised to hear from me, and I’d hoped to avoid sending this letter, but it’s become clear that this is the only option.

  I really have no right to ask this of you, but please give me a call as soon as you receive this letter. If you don’t get in touch . . . Well, I can’t say I would blame you.

  603-555-2212

  Please call.

  Regards,

  Lydia Sheridan

  Dan couldn’t decide whether to chuck the letter in the garbage or dial the number right away. Inside, he could still hear the quiet clinking of his mother washing and drying the dishes. He read the letter over again, tapping the paper against his knuckles as he weighed his options.

  On the one hand, he would be perfectly happy to forget Felix altogether. On the other . . .

  On the other hand, it would be a lie to say that he wasn’t curious about his old roomie’s condition. They had left everything so unresolved. The cold sensation in his stomach refused to go away.

  Felix probably needs your help. You needed help, too. Is it really fair to say that anyone is a lost cause?

  He looked to the window on his right. His mother was humming now, and the music of it drifted softly out to where he was sitting. A few leaves floated down from the maple tree that lorded over the porch. No matter how many times Paul cut back the branches on it, it kept reaching for the house. But that didn’t stop his dad from trying.

  Dan picked up his mobile and dialed Lydia Sheridan’s number before he could think of an excuse not to.

  It rang and rang, and for a moment he was certain she wouldn’t pick up. He almost hoped she wouldn’t.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Lydia? I mean, Mrs. Sheridan?” His own voice sounded high and strange to his ears.

  “That’s me. . . . Who is this? I don’t recognize the number.”

  She had Felix’s same soft-spoken manner, but hers was a more relaxed and more feminine version of the voice he could still recall.

  “This is Dan Crawford. You sent me a letter asking to get in touch. So . . . Well, I’m getting in touch.”

  The line went quiet for what felt like a lifetime. Finally, he could hear Felix’s mother drawing in ragged breaths on the other end.

  “Thank you,” she said, sounding like she was on the edge of tears. “We’re just . . . We don’t know what to do anymore. It seemed like he was getting better. The doctors treating him really thought he was improving. But now it’s like he’s hit a wall. All he does is ask for you, day in and day out—Daniel Crawford, Daniel Crawford.”

  This news was more than a little unnerving.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not sure what you want me to do about it,” Dan said. Maybe that was cold, but what was he supposed to do? He wasn’t a doctor. “It’ll prob
ably pass. I bet it will just take time.”

  “What about for you?” Lydia demanded.

  Dan jerked his head back, startled by the sudden chill in her voice.

  “Has it passed?” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m . . . I’m not sleeping. I’m just so worried about him. I really hate asking this of you . . .”

  “But?” Dan prompted. He didn’t need to. He saw the question coming from a mile away.

  “If you could just go to Morthwaite. See him. See . . . I don’t know. I’m begging at this point, do you understand? Begging. I just want him to get better. I just want this to be over.” Dan could hear the tears cracking through in her voice again. “It’s not over for him, Dan. Is it over for you?”

  He had to laugh. Did it feel over? No, not by a long shot. The dreams persisted, as terrifying as ever, often featuring the warden himself. It wasn’t over, and as twisted as he knew it was, Dan felt a little relieved to hear that he wasn’t the only one for whom that was true.

  “This might not work,” Dan said slowly. “It could make him worse. You realize that, right?” I don’t want that on my head. I can’t have that on my head.

  He felt guilty enough for having dragged Abby and Jordan into the mess at Brookline. At least with Felix, he’d been able to tell himself that he was blameless—that that two-faced Professor Reyes had all but admitted to luring Felix down to the basement, where his mind—well, where his mind had stayed, is what it sounded like.

  “But you’ll go?” Mrs. Sheridan sounded so happy. So hopeful. “Oh, thank you, please, I just . . . Thank you.”

  “So where exactly am I going?” Dan asked, his stomach still one giant knot of dull fear. “And how am I getting there?”

  The following Saturday, Dan found himself sitting in the passenger seat of Lydia Sheridan’s charcoal Prius. Tall and willowy, she hunched over the steering wheel as she clung to it. Tight brown ringlets kept escaping from a tortoiseshell butterfly clip that struggled to keep a grip on her hair. Thin-rimmed spectacles crept down the steep slope of her nose.

  “Are you sure your parents are all right with this?” Mrs. Sheridan had asked when Dan walked up to her car that afternoon.