Over the next week, the unraveling became impossible to hide.
Dory stayed close, watching Jenna with the clinical, hyper-vigilant attention of a nurse. She noticed things Jenna didn't realize she was doing: Jenna would stop in the middle of a sentence, her eyes fixing on a blank patch of wall, nodding as if answering a silent question.
During an AP Chemistry lab, Jenna had suddenly screamed at Mr. Henderson, accusing him of whispering Elias's name under his breath while demonstrating a titration. Mr. Henderson had dropped his pipette, staring at her in complete bewilderment; he hadn't spoken a word for ten minutes.
"Are you sleeping at all?" Dory asked as they sat on the bleachers behind the tennis courts that afternoon.
"Sometimes," Jenna lied, staring down at her scuffed sneakers.
"How much, Jenna? An hour? Two?"
"I don't know," she said, her chest tightening.
"We're going to the clinic," Dory said firmly, standing up. "Not your parents. My mom's doctor is in town. We're going to get an EEG. We're going to get blood work. We're going to find out what's happening to your head."
Jenna didn't fight her. She was too tired.
At the regional medical center, a neurologist named Dr. Chen conducted a comprehensive physical and neurological exam.
Jenna explained the chronic headaches. The profound insomnia. The temporal lapses where hours vanished. The visual flickers at the edge of her vision.
She did not mention the boy in the mirror. She did not mention the locked room. She did not mention the duplicate of herself. She was terrified of what would happen if they thought she was insane.
Dr. Chen ordered a high-resolution MRI of her brain, an EEG, and extensive toxicology panels.
They waited three days for the results.
On Friday, Dr. Chen called them into his office.
"The scans are entirely clear," he said, sliding the dark film sheets across his illuminated light box. "No evidence of structural lesions, vascular malformations, tumors, or localized epileptic foci. Blood work shows mild dehydration and elevated cortisol, consistent with severe, prolonged stress and sleep deprivation, but no toxins or metabolic abnormalities."
Jenna felt a sudden, massive wave of relief break over her chest.
"See?" she turned to Dory, a triumphant smile breaking across her face. "I'm not crazy! There's nothing wrong with my brain! It's the house, Dory! It's the house!"
Dory sat quietly in the plastic chair, her hands folded in her lap. She didn't look relieved.
"Dr. Chen," Dory asked quietly, "does an MRI rule out psychiatric illness?"
Dr. Chen took off his glasses. "No. An MRI only rules out structural and gross neurological pathology. It does not assess psychiatric or perceptual disorders."
The smile died on Jenna's face.
That night, she woke at precisely 3:17 A.M.
Sitting on the wooden chair beside her bed was Elias. He was leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, watching her with a calm, patient gaze.
Jenna reached out, her fingers trembling, and flicked the switch on her bedside lamp.
"Elias?" she whispered.
The boy smiled. "You finally understand."
The lamp flared to life.
The chair was empty.
But written across the yellowed wallpaper above her desk, scrawled in thick, black grease pencil, were ten words:
THE DEAD ARE EASIER TO TRUST THAN THE LIVING.
Jenna stared at the handwriting.
The grease pencil lay on her desk, uncapped. The tip was blunted and smeared with fresh black wax.
She looked down at her right hand.
Her fingertips were black with wax.