The Psychic

Chapter 1

I stumbled on a rock as I ran, my breath catching in my throat. Behind me, three masked men sprinted from the black van that had appeared out of nowhere, its doors left wide open across the street. My shoes skidded against the gravel. I cried out and fell hard, scraping my hands as I crawled backward, but they were already closing in.

One of them grabbed my wrist, rough and unyielding. I screamed and twisted away, my nails scratching his arm, but it was like hitting stone. My chest heaved, and I tried to push myself off the ground, to run again, but they were too fast. They dragged me up and shoved me toward the van. My heart pounded so loud I couldn’t hear anything else. I kicked, hit, tried to pull free, but it was useless. Every instinct screamed to run, to fight, to scream a name. Anything. But the moment stretched, and the world narrowed to their hands on me.

One of them pressed something cold against my arm, and for a second, panic spiked, sharp and biting. My legs went heavy. My lungs felt like they were filling with stone. I tried to shout, “Stop! Someone help me!” but my voice cracked and died in my throat. I struggled, twisting, thrashing, every movement met with a grip that felt like iron. And then, like a switch, my vision blurred. My body felt like it was sinking into itself, weightless and heavy at the same time. Darkness swallowed me.

When I woke, the air smelled like rust and rain. The van was still, and through the window, I saw the outline of a decaying building: LakeHill Hospital. The paint was chipped, the sign half-fallen, the windows cracked and boarded. My pulse quickened. A brief flash of confusion cut through me: Where was I? I'd never even heard of LakeHill Hospital. Why me? Had someone been following me earlier? Had I seen them before? I shook my head, trying to push the thought away, but the panic was lodged in my chest.

The doors opened. Hands grabbed me again, pulling me out. I tried to kick, to twist, to wrench free. But my legs barely moved, weak from whatever they’d given me. My fingers clawed at air, at the edge of the van, at their sleeves. One hand gripped my jaw, tilting my head back. I fought against the helplessness, anger and fear burning through me. My mind flashed: I had to do something. My phone… my voice… someone had to know. I tried to reach for my pocket, but they tightened their hold.

They dragged me through broken doors and into a hallway that reeked of mildew and chemicals. The floor creaked beneath us, each step echoing like a drumbeat of dread. I tried to pull away, twisting against their arms, my nails scraping fabric and skin. A glimpse of something on one man’s wrist caught my eye... a faint, dark mark, almost like a tattoo. My mind registered it, and a flicker of unease shot through me. What was that? Did I recognise it? But there was no time to think.

We stopped in front of an elevator. One of them pressed a button. It groaned before sliding open, revealing an old metal interior that hummed faintly. They shoved me inside, and I watched the numbers climb. 3, 7, 9, 10... until it stopped at 11. Every bump in the floor made me flinch. I pushed, I kicked. My hands brushed against the metal walls. Someone had to see me. Someone had to hear me.

When the doors opened, the air changed. The room beyond was filled with machines. Rows of them, blinking with red and green lights. The walls were lined with wires and cables that snaked across the floor. It was cold, unnaturally so. I shivered, and the fear twisted into something sharper, dread mixed with confusion. I’d seen this before. Hadn’t I?

They laid me down on a metal bed, strapping my wrists and ankles. The leather burned against my skin. My heart pounded in my ears. I thrashed against the restraints, testing their strength, willing them to give, willing something to break free. My mind flashed with fragmented images: A man tied to a bed. A voice whispering, not mine, not fully present. I closed my eyes, shaking. Was I losing it?

A woman stepped out from behind a machine. She looked kind. Too kind. “It’s all right,” she said softly, her voice calm, almost soothing. “This will help you.”

I didn’t believe her.

She gave a small nod, and the men moved closer. One of them placed two metal discs against my temples. Small, circular electrodes that felt like ice. I heard a low hum, then a sharp increase in pitch as the woman adjusted something on the control panel.

The pain hit instantly.

It ripped through me like fire, starting in my head and spreading through every nerve in my body. My back arched, and I screamed until my throat felt raw. I thrashed against the straps, my hands clawing at the bed, at the metal, at nothing. The sound of the machine whined higher, matching my cries. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. The room spun. Red lights flashing, the woman’s calm face blurred... and then everything disappeared.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in my room.

My sheets were tangled around my legs like restraints, drenched in sweat. My breaths came fast and shallow. My heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest. The air tasted metallic, and for a moment, I swore I could still hear the faint hum of that machine.

I pressed a hand to my head. My temples throbbed, and my vision flickered at the edges. I told myself it had been a dream. A horrible, twisted nightmare... but my body didn’t believe it. It couldn't. The pain felt too real.

I pushed myself out of bed, my legs trembling as I stood. The floor was cold beneath my feet, grounding me in a world that didn’t feel real anymore. I took deep breaths, the way my mom had taught me when panic tried to take over. In, out. In, out. But this wasn’t panic. It was something heavier.

I walked to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and froze at the mirror.

There was a mark on my temple. Faint, but visible. A small red circle, exactly where the electrode had been in my dream. I touched it. It stung.

No. That was impossible.

I blinked, rubbed at it again, but it didn’t fade. My heart dropped into my stomach. I hadn’t hit my head. I hadn’t fallen. I hadn’t been anywhere that could leave a mark like that.

So how was it there?

I leaned against the sink, gripping it to stop my hands from shaking. My reflection stared back, pale and terrified. I questioned my sanity. Checked my phone... nothing. The clock... normal. The window... the van wasn’t out there. But it all felt wrong, like I’d crossed a threshold I couldn’t come back from.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. But then, faintly, through the wall, I heard voices. My parents’. Their room was across the hall. Their whispers were low, urgent.

“Again? She’s still dreaming about this,” my dad asked, voice tight.

“She’s not ready,” my mom replied, sharp and certain. “It’s too soon.”

I froze. The hallway light flickered once. My heart raced.

“She’s waking up,” Dad said after a pause. “It’s happening whether we’re ready or not, Anna.”

“I told you this would happen if we didn’t suppress it properly,” Mom snapped. “She’s already dreaming of LakeHill.”

My stomach twisted. LakeHill. They knew. They always knew.

This wasn’t the first time either. Every time I told them about a nightmare, they acted like they’d already seen it coming, like my dreams were some movie they’d watched before. When I was younger, I thought it was just a parent thing, that they were guessing. But now… I didn’t think it was guessing anymore. They actually knew.

I stepped closer to their door, my heartbeat loud in my ears. I could make out the sound of papers rustling, a drawer sliding shut. My mom’s voice dropped lower. “If she remembers anything-”

“She won’t,” my dad interrupted. “She never does.”

The floor creaked under my foot, and their voices stopped instantly.

For a long moment, the house held its breath. Then I heard movement. The sound of someone approaching the door. I panicked and slipped back into my room, shutting my door just as quietly as I could. I pressed my back against it, breathing fast.

In the mirror, my reflection watched me. The mark on my temple glowed faintly under the moonlight leaking through the window, pulsing like a heartbeat.

I pressed my fingers against it and whispered to myself, “What are you not telling me?”

I sat on the edge of my bed, letting the silence settle. My mind replayed every strange dream I’d ever had. Every fragment of memory, every flash of a face I couldn’t fully see, every voice that wasn’t mine. It all swirled together. This one had felt too real. Like something inside me… was being unlocked.

The silence answered nothing. But somehow, I already knew. They had been hiding something about me all along. Something about my dreams. About me. And if this hadn’t been just a dream… I didn’t want to know what would happen the next time I closed my eyes.