Phantom Universe

CHAPTER 47: MINDY

  16 years old

  Dreams are an odd thing, that’s for sure. Summer swears that she’s been taken by a hoard of people in red cloaks, but it’s clearly a dream because her nose tells her otherwise. The musky smell of books greets her like a friend as she opens her eyes. Overly bright lights make her squint and automatically reach up to shade herself. Except . . . she’s been tied down—she knows this immediately from other “encounters” in her life. Ones she prefers to forget forever. Now she’s not so sure it was all a dream after all. Maybe she really has been taken. Her eyes adjust and continue to dart around as she tries to determine her whereabouts; she quickly figures out where the book smell’s coming from. There’s a shelf close to her full of books, though she’s too far away to read them.

  A soft, tentative voice breaks her frantic eye and neck movements (since that seems to be the only part of her she’s able to move). “Hello Summer.” The woman has a light British accent. “Please don’t panic.”

  Too late, Summer thinks wryly.

  The face of a woman hovers over her, and Summer freezes. Not just her movements, but her heart, her breath . . . everything. Light, brown hair (almost blonde it’s so light) frames the face of a woman who looks to be in her late thirties. Her blue eyes sparkle with unspoken knowledge, but these things are all superficial compared to what makes Summer freeze. It’s the face of someone she knows—someone she thinks about every day—someone she knew before her abduction all those years ago. It’s the only face that could possibly soothe her in a moment like this. It’s her mother . . . her mum. She tries to reach up to touch the face of this woman, but her wrists meet the resistance of her already forgotten restraints.

  It’s not possible. Is it? After all these years, could she possibly stumble upon her mother in such strange and odd (and absolutely terrifying) circumstances? Words bubble to her lips but, even now, they fail to escape. Maybe she’s just not capable of speech anymore. Maybe it’s just been so long now that it’s impossible.

  “Summer,” whispers Mindy quietly. There’s a long pause as they stare at each other and absorb each other’s presence. Then she adds, “I’m sorry.” Mindy’s eyes pool with tears that cascade down her smooth cheeks. She brushes Summer’s hair away from her face and sticks a needle in Summer’s arm. It stings, but she’s still in shock from seeing her mother.

  The world falls away like rocks tumbling down a mountainside. As the darkness consumes and devours her senses, there’s one thing that continues to work and function: her mind. There’s one memory that surfaces like an intense tide, pulling her into the realm of something sinister. It’s one of those moments in time that really has no relevance until you relive the memory and realize just how important it truly is. And how spine-chilling.

  As a small child, Summer Waverly saw doctors often. She was so used to it that it became a routine thing—nothing out of the ordinary. On one of those occasions, Summer overhears something that meant nothing to her then, but now makes her heart flutter uncontrollably.

  “Everything’s looking well. She’s ahead of schedule—far ahead of Julian,” says one of the male doctors as he pulls the stethoscope from his ears and absentmindedly hands Summer a red lollipop. “It’s been ten years—every step the Hourglass Project makes seems to only throw us back several more. If she’s ahead and he’s behind . . . perhaps if we have to terminate we can find a middle ground between the data from both our subjects?” says the male doctor, obviously frustrated.

  “Yes. This worries me,” says another female doctor while sticking a pencil behind her ear and clutching her clipboard with white knuckles. “Do you think we’ve miscalculated . . .” she trails off and gives a sidelong glance at Summer who’s only three and happily sucking on her red lollipop. She looks oblivious, but she’s ever the studious observer, constantly soaking up everything around her.

  “Perhaps we should take this conversation somewhere else?” suggests the male doctor. “We shouldn’t talk about Jul—our other subject in front of—”

  They exchange a worried glance before moving out of Summer’s hearing range. There’s a curtain pulled between her and another silent patient silhouetted on a bed, sitting upright. The patient’s small, probably close to my age, she guesses. In the corner of the large, white room, her mother whispers lowly to the doctors and constantly glances between Summer and the mysterious patient on the other side of the curtain with an anxious expression. Summer’s understanding of the situation wasn’t as well developed, but now that she’s older, she appreciates that her observant nature has always been a part of her.

  Maybe she isn’t the only one in this predicament. Perhaps this other “subject,” Julian, is in her shoes too. Who is he? Is he like her? Was he the silent patient on the other side of that curtain? And why, of all people, is her mum working with the Secret Clock Society to capture her when her mum once ran from them? There are too many questions floating around in Summer’s mind. Soon her memories fade away like wisps of smoke in the air, and all she has left is the blackness. And time. Too much time.

  Alone.

  Again.