Part 1 (1/2)

AFTERLIFE.

by Douglas Clegg.

Prologue.

1.

In the testing room, the boy stared at the others from behind the gla.s.s. He raised his fists and began hitting the thick pane. His cries for help were unheard by the others. The flames shot up in the booth around him, moving rapidly up the boy's back as he pounded harder, his mouth open impossibly wide. He shut his eyes as if trying to block it all out or to send his mind to another, safer place.

The others watched, safe on the opposite side of the triple-thick fireproof gla.s.s, and waited as the fire burned away the boy's s.h.i.+rt. They each held hands, and one of the girls said, ”Look at how scared he is.”

”We need to get out,” a teenager said. ”Now.”

And then the fire shattered the gla.s.s, moving beyond the booth, beyond the testing room, as if the air itself burned out of control.

2.

In the 1970s, rumor went that a small, privately funded school in Manhattan existed where young children with special talents were being observed and tested for what were then labeled ”PSI” abilities. Little is known about the school, other than what remained enshrouded in the urban legends of the city. The conspiracy theory was that the government or several governments funded the school and used it to learn more about the human mind, about child development with extra-sensory ability, and perhaps how to use those abilities in some covert way. Another story was that it was simply formed by a group who believed that these so-called ”special children” should have a safe place to develop their talents. Still another suggestion had been that this was one of the city's many small private schools that didn't contain a trace of the psychic or the occult, but that some of the former students themselves spread that rumor as a joke to discredit the school.

One of the rumors had to do with a little boy who had precipitated the closing of the secret school when he somehow was responsible for the death of another child.

Other than hints in Rolling Stone Rolling Stone, in the Village Voice Village Voice, in New York Underground News New York Underground News-and even now, in an occasional mention of the school on the Internet-nothing substantiated this tale, which some thought had grown out of the drug culture and the increasing interest in the paranormal during the '60s and '70s.

The school was supposed to have existed somewhere near the Chelsea District of New York City, although its exact location was anyone's guess.

The school was called Daylight.

Part One

NOW.

Chapter One.

1.

She opened her eyes to darkness. Her breathing: slow, warm, but too shallow. Something was wrong. Blindfolded? Not sure. She pressed her eyes closed and then open again. Nothing but a claustrophobic night. Her breath came back at her-an enclosed s.p.a.ce. A dizziness, and pins-and-needles feelings in her toes and fingers. Paralyzed?

Buried. Buried alive.

Throat dry. A thudding-her heartbeat? No light at all. Not even cracks through the box. Coffin? A large trunk? She was squeezed in, and her limbs felt numb.

Dear G.o.d. Dear G.o.d.

Slow, deep breath. Hammering in her head. Wetness along her neck.

You won't get anywhere if you panic.

This crawls.p.a.ce. This...casket.

Blurred images came to her: the white room, the feeling of being laid gently down on some bed, twine wrapped around his hands as he reached for her...

Your hands. Move. Reach.

Her hands were bound in front of her. Thick twine connected her wrists, and as she tugged as hard as she could-barely able to move-she remembered how he'd spoken gently to her. She had been drugged, after all. He had incapacitated her in some way she didn't understand.

Blocked. No matter how hard she tried to roam with her mind, something blocked her.

Her lips, parched. She opened them, but only a ragged whisper of a sigh came out. Help me. Please, Help me. Please, she wanted to say. she wanted to say. No, there must be a way out. Must be. This may be a test. It may be another test. It may not be what it seems. It's just a test. Surely. Please dear G.o.d. No, there must be a way out. Must be. This may be a test. It may be another test. It may not be what it seems. It's just a test. Surely. Please dear G.o.d.

Please, she tried to say. Someone. Someone.

Then, she heard the voice, barely a whisper. He must be pressing his face near the sealed lid of the box. ”Don't be afraid, Gina. Don't be afraid. Just let it happen.”

His words had the opposite effect on her. She felt as if she had begun hyperventilating. She fought back tears.

And then she felt the heaviness of her breathing-it hurt her lungs. She tried to take in too much air, and there wasn't enough.

Please, somebody, help me.

A sound above her. Just above her face.

On the other side of the box.

And then, she gasped, because the air was running out too fast.

2.

Miles from the city, in the wilds of northern New Jersey, out along the lakes beneath the great and small houses rising up among dense woods, spring has only just awakened. The ice only just melted weeks before, the new gra.s.s exploding with bright green, with the lavender and yellow of crocus and wildflowers.

Someone's hunting.