Chapter 9: The Isolation Chamber_The Scarlet Jane Files

I am not called in for training the following morning, or even during the afternoon. Left alone to do nothing but sulk or sleep, I prepare what I consider to be a meal of champions by microwaving two instant sandwiches, and contemplate what might come next as I eat in silence.

 Will they crush me, I wonder, with visions of the past, with prophecies of the future? 

 Will they look into my heart and see if I am truly ready?

 A part of me is terrified that I will fail this final quest—that, somehow, someway, a part of me might not want this. A small segment of my mind longs for normalcy—for walks in the park, for shopping with friends, to threading my fingers through outlet racks as I dream of a future that does not involve killing monsters.

 I know, however, that is not meant to be.

 Knowing that I cannot dwell on the matter any further, I carry my plate of food to the window and sit on the broad sill while I eat.

 From my place within the Agency’s pyramid, which seems so dystopian that I could only begin to imagine it, I watch the world go by as it normally does—safe in the ignorance and knowledge that nothing horrible could happen. The people below are like ants, making their way from one building to another, across one street and then the other. Upon their backs they carry the weights of their worlds—personal sorrows, their trials and tribulations. They will eventually return to their nests, where they will eat their food, live their lives, sleep in their beds.

 Unlike me.

 Me.

 Scarlet Jane—who, homeless now that my mother is gone, now exists in a fortress of solitude, in the United States Agency for Supernatural Affiliations.

 Where I train to fight monsters, I tell myself, and make right things that are wrong.

 I have just finished my two sandwiches and have risen to return my plate to the kitchenette sink when a knock comes at the door, startling me. I only just mange to catch the plate before it falls to the floor.

 “Hello?” I ask, almost convinced that I imagined the sound. “Is someone there?”

 “Miss Brown?” a familiar voice asks.

 Amelia Vanderoof? I think. What could she want?

 With a troubled yet nervous sigh, I set the plate beside the microwave and approach the door and open it to reveal the strange, black-eyed woman dressed entirely in white.

 “Miss Brown,” Amelia says. “I’m glad you answered. We have much discuss.”

 “About what?” I ask, unsure whether to invite the woman in or step into the hall and follow her.

 “About your situation as a whole.” Amelia steps forward. “Do you have a moment?”

 I nod and step aside so Amelia can enter.

 The woman spins to face me as I close the door and says, “The board has reviewed your request for initiation.”

 My request? I think. What does she—

 Then it hits me.

 “What?” I ask. “You mean, you’ve—”

 “Reviewed your case. Yes. We have.” The woman examines me for several long moments, likely gauging a potential response. She then says: “We have decided, based on your deceased parents and the socioeconomic factors that lie within your extended family, to allow you to remain within the Agency for the time being.”

 I gasp and inhale a deep breath of air.

 “However,” the woman continues, “there is a caveat that I must address. In order to remain integrated within our program, you will be required, by Agency law, to dedicate yourself to a nondisclosure agreement that states you will never speak of anything you see within these walls or anything you may have seen outside of them.”

 “I’ve already said that I saw what I thought was a monster. The police—”

 “Are being dealt with as we speak.” Amelia pauses. “Now—there comes the matter of your initiation as a Hunter. Have you decided what you want to do?”

 “I want to do it,” I say. “I want to avenge my mother.”

 “You do understand that the life of a Hunter is very lonely? You will have few friends and even fewer liberties, but the allies you will align yourself with will guarantee your survival for the rest of your life.”

 “I understand, Miss Vanderoof.”

 “Good.” Amelia withdraws a single folder from the lining of her jacket, within which is a single parchment of paper. She then pulls an object that resembles a pen with many ridges from her breast pocket and extends it to me. “You will feel a prick once you touch this scribing tool. This will draw blood from a small incision within your palm and transfer it into the device. You will then sign your name upon this sheet of paper.”

 “You’re making me sign in blood?” I ask.

 Amelia nods.

 “Does this mean I get to be a Hunter then?”

 Amelia laughs. “Child. You will only be deemed capable of joining the Hunters when you have proven yourself to the Guild.”

 I try to refrain from showing emotion, if only so I don’t be seen as weak or crass, maybe even foolish. I am, however, unable to suppress my frown.

 Just do as she asks, I tell myself. This is the only way you’re going to get what you want.

 With a nod, I reach for the scribing pen, swallow a lump in my throat, and prepare myself for the worst.

 I tighten my hand around the pen. Grimace as something pricks my finger. Gasp as blood runs freely down my palm and into the pen.

 Amelia, parchment in hand, unfurls it and gestures to a single line.

 This is it, I think. Now or never.

 I could turn back now and be Wiped forever, forgetting my mother, my friends, my hopes and dreams and aspirations—

 Or I could sign this sheet of paper and dedicate myself to it all.

 Knowing that I cannot turn back, I reach forward, take hold of the parchment with my unbloodied hand, then scrawl my name as neatly as possible with the pen.

 A moment later, the signature disappears, melting into the parchment as if it had never existed.

 “What—” I start.

 “It is done,” Amelia says. “By signing this sacred pact, you have agreed to forever protect the Supernatural world and all its secrets—to defend its honor, to uphold its good, and to combat any evils you may come across. Failure to abide by these terms will result in your immediate execution.”Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

 I swallow the lump in my throat.

 Amelia tucks the parchment into the folder, then slides it into her white coat. She retrieves the blood pen from her grasp not long after and turns toward the doorway. “If you would please come with me.”

 “Where are we going?” I ask.

 “You will see soon enough.”

 * * *

 The secrecy surrounding our destination is enough to raise the flesh on my arms. Unable to refrain from shivering, I try my hardest to keep from showing any emotion but find myself unable to do so.

 Where is she taking me? I think.

 We are obviously descending deeper into the Agency, though where we are going I cannot be sure. So far, I’ve only seen three chambers, and none of them appear to hold anything relevant to someone such as Amelia Vanderoof.

 The elevator comes to a stop at the bottom of the chute. The doors open, and we make our way through the Induction Chamber until we stand in the training quarters.

 I believe, mistakenly, that we are going to head to the viewing chamber. However, Amelia takes a slight set of stairs that runs alongside the weaponry on the wall and steps toward a door that I had assumed might be inconsequential in nature.

 “Are you coming?” Amelia asks.

 “Yes,” I reply and take the stairs.

 The Archivist begins to key in a complex strand of numbers into the pad before the doorway.

 Where is she taking me? I ask myself. And why is it locked behind a keypad?

 Is this where I will face my destiny? Or my spirit? My unfathomable soul? If so: what tests will they perform to deem me suitable?

 Trembling, now, more than ever, I step up alongside Amelia just as the keypad turns green, and a lock audibly disengages. “You are about to enter the Isolation Chamber,” the woman says.

 “Isolation Chamber?” I ask.

 “Within is a sensory deprivation tank. You will strip down to your underwear, insert yourself into it, and place a respirator over your mouth and nose so you will be able to breathe. You will then face whatever your subconscious commands you to.”

 “I—” I start to say. “I’m not—”

 Amelia narrows her eyes at me.

 You knew you were going to be uncomfortable going into this, I tell myself.

 Still, the idea of being in a sensory deprivation tank doesn’t exactly appeal to me. I’ve never liked tight spaces—never have, probably never will.

 Despite the blossoming discomfort, I force a nod and wait for Amelia to open the door before stepping in behind her.

 Within is a single, white, seed-shaped pod, which glows with blue light. Hovering from its open ceiling is a respirator.

 “Please undress,” Amelia says.

 I do as asked—first stripping out of my jacket, then my shirt, socks, and shoes. When I finally stand in my underwear, shivering as though I stand in the frigid arctic of the North Pole, I turn to face Amelia, who gestures to the pod.

 “I’m not sure I can do this,” I say and cannot help the nervous laughter that follows. “I’m scared of tight spaces.”

 “You can’t be scared of anything when you’re a Hunter,” Amelia says. “Now, go. Into the pod.”

 At the entrance to the pod, I reach in, brush my hand across the water’s warm surface, then lift my head and step inside.

 See? I tell myself. This isn’t so bad. It’s just like a bath.

 Still, the idea of being trapped within it, as comfortable as the water happens to be, does not sit well with me. As a result, I hesitate as I consider the oxygen respirator above me.

 “Take the respirator,” Amelia says, “and lace it over your head.”

 I do as asked—

 Only for the finality to hit me.

 Stay calm, I tell myself, taking slow, deep breaths through the respirator fastened over my mouth and nose. Everything’s going to be just fine.

 I sink deeper into the water upon Amelia’s instruction.

 “Wait!” I cry, pushing forward as she starts to close the pod. “Don’t—”

 But she does it anyway.

 Darkness consumes me.

 Panic tightens my muscles, my being.

 Desperation fuels my hyperventilated breathing as I struggle to adapt to the darkness. Warm within the water, but frigid with fear, I try, with little success, to acclimate to the sensations assaulting my brain.

 Everything is so dark, so quiet. The only thing I can hear is the water entering my ears—and soon, even that is gone.

 Sensory deprivation, I think.

 Was this what I am meant to face? This soul-crushing insanity, in the darkest and quietest parts of my mind?

 But how is that a test of my spirit? I wonder. How is that—

 An image begins to materialize on the surface of my eyelids, silencing me before I can think further.

 At first, I believe I will see my mother’s death, and as a result, I try to shake the vision away. But when a portrait of my family appears that includes me, my mother, and my father sitting together, I stop to consider.

 Three years old, I think. I was three years old the year he died.

 It’d been on Christmas Eve—a night which should have been joyous but instead had turned into a nightmare. Though too young to physically remember the events of that night in 1989, I can still hear the distinct sound of my mother’s wails as the police announced my father’s untimely death.

 “Not Michael!” she cries. “Not Michael James!”

 Her cries are harsh, stark, and filled with emotion that slices through my being, causing the darkest of thoughts to arise.

 As a child, my mother’s despair had caused me to cry.

 Now, in the present, her lamentations cut through my consciousness like knives in virgin flesh and threaten to drive me mad with grief.

 I see, briefly, my father—handsome, happy, and driving home in the early evening on December 24th—before everything goes to hell.

 It happens too quickly for him to comprehend.

 One moment, he’s passing through an intersection.

 The next, a car runs a red light, T-boning him on the driver’s side.

 The screeching metal and squealing tires rend the night.

 As the vehicles come to a halt, my father thinks of only one thing before he dies.

 Scarlet.

 Scarlet.

 “Scarlet.”

 I jolt, stunned from the vision by the sound of his voice, and see an image of my father before me.

 Duh… Daddy? I think.

 My baby girl, my father says. You’ve grown up so much.

 Are you… Are you real? I ask.

 I cannot comprehend what I am seeing.

 He can’t be real, I want to keep telling myself. He can’t be.

 Yet, here he hovers before me, in the quiet of my subconscious, in the space before my eyelids, looking on at me as if he is my greatest fantasy, my ultimate salvation.

 My father smiles, revealing the dimples my mother said she’d loved so much.

 I want to smile as well—to reach out and hug him—and try to do just that. Struggling to wade through the dark waters, I find myself unable to do so—because trapped against the respirator, I am unable to move, unable to make my way toward the man I loved more than anyone else in the world.

 Scarlet, my father says.

 Daddy? I reply.

 He reaches for me, as if ready to take my hand.

 I, foolishly, reach back—

 Only to see him vanish into the dark.

 I want to scream. To cry. To rage, foolishly, against this disastrous concept of a dream.

 But I can’t, because my father was never truly there at all.

 While trying my hardest not to sob into the respirator, I am assaulted by another vision.

 My mother is standing in the living room with the front door open to allow the fresh breeze into her home. She is humming a tune, and the crash of the garden gnome being knocked off the porch causes her to lift her head. It is here that she peers into the darkness, and here that the creature launches itself from the shadows.

 There was little my mother could do.

 It ripped her hands across her blouse. Sunk its claws into her shoulders. Dragged her to the floor, and struggled to keep her down. My mother—who I knew by heart would have done anything to fight back—smacked and slapped and kicked and tried to holler—but there was nothing she could do. She, Serena Jane Brown, was thinking only of survival: of a daughter who would soon come home to the sight that she could never unsee.

 Even in death’s embrace her love for me is astronomical. I feel it in the way the Heavens flow over the Earth, in the way the waters are intrinsically moved by the moon.

 As the creature tears into my mother’s throat, she thinks only one word.

 Scarlet.

 Mama! I try to cry. Mama! Mama!

 Again, I struggle against the respirator; and again, I do not succeed.

 The image shifts to show me on the front porch—to reveal the moment I saw the creature as it savaged my mother’s body, all teeth and fangs and clawed hands.

 Then I watch as I turned.

 And ran.

 And came to fall in the middle of the street, where I screamed, whereupon lights erupted from nearby houses like supernovas in distant galaxies.

 What’s going on? my kindly neighbor had asked.

 My mother! I screamed. It killed my mother!

 There was the sound of sirens, of a police cruiser rising, of voices as they discussed what happened.

 Then there is darkness.

 Darkness.

 True, everlasting darkness—darkness that does nothing to describe the emptiness in my soul.

 As the pod above me opens—and as I open my eyes to view the world outside my consciousness—I take in everything that is wrong with my surroundings and begin to cry.

 “You survived sane of mind,” Amelia Vanderoof says. “Congratulations, Scarlet Jane. You have passed your second test.”

 I cannot prevent the scream that follows.

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Chapter 9: The Isolation Chamber