After wiping off the drool from her floor—where she'd passed out after throwing up her guts in the toilet—Jessamine got to bed and didn't wake again until sometime in the middle of the night. She was shivering, goosebumps prickling along her skin, her clothes clinging to her. Remnants of her nightmarish visions vibrated through her; so incessant, her head throbbed with every pulse of her heart.

She'd been talking with that blue-faced thing she'd seen in the picture on her phone, and though she still couldn't understand what it was saying, the emotions it conveyed—panic, fear—shattered through Jessamine with such ferocity that she'd woken with a scream curling out her mouth. It resonated within her, crashing up and down her bones. As she hugged herself and slithered back under the covers, she prayed to the gods she didn't believe in to help her through this.

She vowed to not to look at those pictures or watch those videos again anytime soon. Not until Avery came back to her with answers, and with the assistance she needed.

But days passed, and there was no sign of Avery. The nightmares didn't stop, though Jessamine steered clear of anything involving the house, or anything stimulating in general. Still, the visions intensified every night, becoming more vivid, more real. She had flashes of herself in the house—or so she imagined, since she had no notion what this house's interior looked like—conversing with the blue being, walking from room to room while dragging her feet, zombie-like, her throat burning, aching for water.

The third night after seeing all her footage, she dreamt of blood. Splashed on dusty, dirty floors, splattered over walls with peeled wallpaper, dripping from door-frames, caking onto rusty banisters. She had no idea if it was her blood or someone else's, but she was startled by screams screeching into her ears, and that clinking sound of chains being tugged along the floor. When she woke from this nightmare, she checked herself, on instinct, for any weird wounds and shined her phone's flashlight onto the ground to make sure there was no blood.

Then came the bright red door glowing in the dark, whispering at her to open it. The growls emanating from the other side, freakishly enticing as they almost seemed to say her name. Like little devils dancing on her shoulder and urging her towards the doorknob, desperate for her to twist it, to descend into whatever danger lurked behind.

With the darkening circles growing under her eyes, Jessamine deduced that with how strong these nightmares were, she likely wasn't sleeping much at all.

She couldn't focus on simple tasks. Her coworkers had taken her off coffee-making duty after the second day, when she couldn't seem to find the right button to even turn the machine on. She fidgeted, fighting fatigue with pronounced yawns and suppressing sudden chills. She was cold; not her outside body temperature, but inside, too, as if her heart had iced over and there was no way to thaw it. Even the hottest of showers did nothing to shake her funk, and no amount of running on the foldable treadmill her mom had gifted her would help her wake up, snap out of it.

It was the problem—this creepy, crawling feeling that something wasn't right within her. Avery had mentioned it, but slowly, small things started to nudge her towards, thinking he'd been right. Her regular patrons pointed out her distress, and when they pointed out that she needed a vacation, she waved them off with a grunt or rolled her eyes or told them to take it up with Chad. The aggression others had noticed before was growing, making a comfortable home inside her gut, swelling whenever any interaction irritated her. And nearly everything irritated her.

Her dance class that week was chaotic, too. All her steps were flimsy. She fumbled too many times to count, and she had no doubt several of the girls would report to their parents that she'd been drunk and shouldn't have been teaching at all.

She wasn't eating properly, as she woke from her nightmares so nauseated that she worried she couldn't keep anything down. She nibbled on snacks at the shop, and drank boat-loads of coffee that kept her jittery—but the jittering kept her awake long enough to somewhat do her job.

When Mrs. Spencer came for their weekly coffee-date, it took every ounce of Jessamine's tiny reserve of energy to pretend like she was fine. She gritted her teeth through their conversations, trying not to drown in the depths of her mug to avoid looking at her mom, who could usually read through her with a simple glance.

Mrs. Spencer mentioned having spoken to the emergency room doctor who'd cared for Jessamine three years ago, and he was setting up a referral for a specialist. It'd take some time, but sooner or later, Jessamine would be in contact with someone who had experience with deep memory loss and recovery situations. And though Avery had said she didn't need a doctor, she didn't decline her mother's help.

What if Avery was wrong? He wasn't there to dissuade her, to shove his supernatural beliefs into her face. No, he'd run off with his tail between his legs, and hadn't contacted her once to let her know he was working on things. He'd gone radio-silent, and though Jessamine had forgiven his outbursts and his semi-assault on her, she wouldn't forgive him disappearing with her private information.

Sure, she could have texted him, called him. But she also didn't want to come off as that clingy weirdo who kept checking in on his progress, a shadow looming over his shoulder, putting pressure on him. For all she knew, he'd thought her insane and had gone to report her to the police instead. Why not? What she'd given him—the pictures, the videos—could be considered proof that she knew the area where Amy was last seen. And Avery, charming as he was, might easily convince anyone that she was involved in the vanishing.

And then there was always the possibility that he'd use all her footage for his own show, right? He'd reached one million subscribers; surely he'd want more, and the stuff Jessamine had given him was intriguing, spooky, and tied to his search for Amy.

"Asshole," Jessamine said under her breath, heading to the EMPLOYEES ONLY area for a quick break after a rush of patrons.

She clutched her phone tight as she pulled up his YouTube page, scouring through the videos to make sure he hadn't posted anything new. Then she verified Amy's page—just in case. Luckily, Avery hadn't put anything up recently, not since his last video pleading anyone with information on Amy's whereabouts to contact him or Jamie. Amy's page was inactive, of course; but Jessamine wondered if maybe someone else—ahem, Avery—had taken over its management in the meantime.

From that day on, she made it a ritual to pull up his page and assure herself that he hadn't used her intimate information as a story to gain more followers. She'd not gotten that vibe from him—selfish, using others for fame—but one never knew what lower-level celebrities could do for stardom, in these parts. She'd heard of or witnessed B-level actors going above and way too beyond to get roles. Some of them had stopped into Common Grounds and had lengthy, loud conversations with agents that Jessamine had eavesdropped on. Who was to say Avery wouldn't stoop that low, too? Who was to say he wasn't the type to use others to climb to the top?

A week of restless, sleepless nights, of complaints from customers, of raging headaches, discomforting stomachaches, and a brewing aggression, had put Jessamine on the verge of seeking medical attention on her own.

She was hunched over, cleaning out one of the coffee-machines, grumbling about the grains getting stuck in places they shouldn't have, when the doorbell rang, signaling a customer. It was late—nine p.m., last she checked—and she'd been getting ready to shut down.

Wiping her hands with a rag, she straightened up. "Machines are off for the night, but I have some leftover pastries—"

When she sighted the arrival, she gobbled the rest of her words and swallowed, blinking at the man walking up to the counter.

"A pastry would be nice," said Avery, with a wink. He smiled at her, but it wasn't the most heartfelt smile she'd ever seen; it was painful, a tad forced, more like a polite greeting to a stranger.

But they weren't strangers, not anymore. She'd poured all her secrets out to him, and though she knew little about him, weren't they more than acquaintances, at this point?

He'd reverted to his long-sleeved shirts; this one covered up the obscure tattoos Jessamine had been so fascinated by. His eyes were tired, too, though likely not as tired as hers. No dark smears under his lower lashes, and he wasn't slouching or twitchy in the way a person fighting sleep would be. Best of all—he'd come alone. No cops, no investigators, no one to take Jessamine away for having withheld precious knowledge for too long.

"You're back," she said, setting the rag down and feeling self-conscious about her appearance. She'd barely thrown her hair into a bun, hadn't put on any make-up, and sensed a flush rising from her neck.

"I'm back," he said, tapping his fingers on the machine that separated them. "And you look..." He cocked his head, squinting at her. "Not good. You okay?"

How to tell him—without yelling—that she was an utter disaster? That watching those videos, seeing those pictures, getting entangled in all this paranormal bullshit she didn't believe in was turning her into a person she didn't recognize? Into a monster? That she hadn't had a full night's sleep in way too long and was rude to customers and had more and more thoughts of physically harming her sexist, sniveling boss?

"That would be because I'm not good," she said, holding in a growl that had begun to bloom in her throat. She walked around the counter, fists tightening as she removed her apron and threw it next to the register.

"Hm, aggressive again?" Avery folded his arms, almost as if to protect his chest, as if Jessamine were about to claw into it.

"Again? It hasn't stopped." Jessamine unfastened her bun and shook her hair out. She stormed up to the door, switching the OPEN sign to CLOSED. She flipped the lock and switched to Avery. "And it keeps getting worse. It's worsening now, with you here, for some reason." Sure enough, as if to confirm her internal dilemmas, her stomach groaned and something tightened within her.

Avery kept his distance, but she saw him suck in his lips, press them together, then release them and take a heavy breath. "You're pissed I was gone so long."

"Yeah?" Jessamine threw her arms up as she stomped back towards him; but she realized how menacing she appeared, and slowed her pace, calmed her steps. It would do no good to attack him like he'd attacked her, the other day. "You could have messaged me, told me how long this would take! I'm a fucking mess, Avery. I can't do this anymore."

"I'm sorry," said Avery, motioning at the table and chairs closest to him. Jessamine nodded, and he sat, wincing at her as she sat opposite him. "I'm usually able to get my contacts to review footage faster, but this..." He got his phone out and put it on the table, keeping his hand over the screen. "This stuff spooked them. Your videos, Amy's video... they all agree, it's the same place, the same house."

"Great," Jessamine snickered, "and what now? It's been proven, so what's the next step? Curing me? Please?"

"Not... not quite." Avery flinched as Jessamine bared her teeth at him. He raised his hands. "I mean we can't cure you, but we need to get your memories back. Because I think only you can get us to that forest, that house. To Amy. And by going there, I believe that in some weird way... it'll help you, too."

Jessamine slammed a fist to the table and shot up from her seat. "How am I supposed to get you there? To remember? All I have are violent flashes and painful nightmares and fuck, they're internally tearing me apart! I don't sleep, I can't sleep, I can't eat, I'm sick to my stomach all the time and my head won't," she hit the table again, "stop," once more, "throbbing."

Her heartbeat was racing out of control. She took a step back, gawking at the area where she'd banged her fist, shaking her head in disbelief. That wasn't her—growling, hitting, repressing the urge to punch something. Craving violence, craving blood to be drawn.

What the fuck? Why am I not in control of this?

Avery, remaining calm in the face of Jessamine's attitude shift, again raised his hands, carefully lifting from his chair, as if preparing to sneak up and capture a wild, frenzied animal. "We're going to take you to a professional. A medium."

Jessamine sneered, sensing her teeth grinding in her mouth as ripples of chills undulated up her spine. "No. You said that the other day, but... no. A medium? No! That's a load of—"

"—bullshit, yes, I know how you feel about that stuff. But..." Avery moved closer to her, hands still up in the air as he took cautious steps, as if a single wrong move might cause her to explode. And with how she felt inside—overheating, on the brink of throwing up—she feared she just might do that. "She's legit. She works with the FBI—they endorse her, they pay her, okay? The real deal. And she knows Amy and I well, she's helped us with other cases and she's a genius."

"A medium." Jessamine wrinkled her nostrils. "Is that really the way to go about this?" The hostility in her hadn't diminished, but she jammed her teeth together, clenched her jaw, held on tight to any sense of reality. She fixed her gaze on Avery, and the vision of him was somehow anchoring, soothing to her despite the rage his presence stirred up in her gut. It was an eerie, contradictory feeling; like he'd wake a fire in her, yet be the only one to know how to tame it, stop it.

"She'll help unlock your memories without hurting you." Avery stopped his advance and lowered his arms. "I've seen her do it—she's skilled. This is important, Jessamine. If you want to help me, if you want me to help you, this is the way to go."

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