Sustained respiration…
Neurological implications…
I stumbled back from the desk, bile hot and sticky in my throat, the acidic tang filling my nose.
The ghost drifted toward the door, uncaring of my plight, but I could not move. I could only stare down at the woman on the page, at the vine tucked into her throat. The entire greenhouse seemed to pulse around me, keeping in time with the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Scriiiiiitch
I turned slowly at the sound.
Dr. Ambrose’s wife stood in front of the door, one hand lifted, her nails scraping down the surface. Once. Twice.Then again. The movement was almost idle at first, then it quickened. Her hand moved faster, the scratching frantic.
She lifted her other hand and clawed at the door with both, fingers crooked, shoulders heaving with panic. The sound tore through the greenhouse—nails catching in the grain of the wood, bending and splitting, dragging downward in uneven lines.
“Nicholas, please!” she begged. “Help me! I can not get out!”
The greenhouse lurched, tunneling and spinning until I was forced to close my eyes or be sick. The air swirled around me and my body was dragged outside itself.
I opened my eyes and found I was no longer standing at the desk.
I was at the door.
My hands were against the wood.
The realization came with a terror so profound I tried to scream. I was inside her, or she was inside me, or the boundary between us had dissolved so suddenly that I was no longer able to tell which body held the panic and which merely witnessed it.
The door loomed inches from my face. The greenhouse behind me was too bright, too hot, filled with that sickly green glow. My throat burned and pulsed with a deep, crawling agony, as though something alive had been threaded beneath the skin and was now crawling through my body. It shifted when I swallowed. It dragged against the raw interior of my throat. It pressed upward, seeking passage, seeking air, seeking root.
Blood filled my mouth. It was thick and metallic, coating my tongue, slipping down the back of my throat until I choked on it. I tried to scream again, but the sound came out wet and muffled. My chest heaved. My breath caught. Something moved in my neck, a slow serpentine pressure that made my vision white at the edges.
I clawed at the door.
My nails bent backward with the force of it, splitting and tearing. Pain flashed through my fingers, but panic consumed it almost at once. I scratched harder, dragging my hands down the wood until the tips of my fingers slipped in blood and the torn nails caught in the grooves.
“Nicholas!” I heard myself scream, though the name broke apart in my throat and came out as a strangled, gurgling plea. “Please!”
No one answered.
I struck the door with the heel of my hand, then clawed again, desperate to find purchase. My fingers were slick. Blood ran down my wrists, warm and obscene, turning the handle into something impossible to grip. I seized it anyway. The iron was cold beneath my palm, but my hand slid off at once, leaving a dark smear behind.
I tried again.
My fingers slipped.
Again.
The handle turned a fraction, then jerked back as my grip failed.
A sob tore through me, wet and choking. I could not breathe properly. The vine moved beneath my skin, pressingat the wound, shifting with each frantic pull of muscle. It moved inside my throat and under my jaw, anchoring somewhere too deep to reach. My body had become fertile soil, and it was already rooting itself.
I slammed my shoulder into the door, pain exploding down my arm. The handle blurred before me through tears and blood and terror. I tried it again, wrapping both hands around the iron, but my palms were too slick, and the harder I grasped, the more the blood betrayed me.
Behind me, something rustled.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Leaves swirled up from the stone floor and vines reached their skeletal fingers toward me.
