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Rachel hadn't been sleeping. None of them had. How could they when Allison was - was, Rachel couldn't say it. It went against her every instinct, every rationale in her mind. It was utterly unscientific.
And yet, when Allison was tied to a bed in the lab. Not sleeping either. Sometimes she fell unconscious for hours, still far beyond what should be humanly possible. Even with the monitors beeping around her it was hard to believe she was alive. This was where Rachel was now, eyes flitting between the monitor and the younger woman on the bed, as if nothing could go wrong while Rachel watched.
Maybe if she had watched this closely before it wouldn't have gotten this far. She should have paid more attention, noticed the signs, the way Allison had stopped sleeping and eating and talking, become erratic. But Allison had, as much as it pained Rachel to admit it, never had the most stable mind, only grown more and more paranoid with age.
With the life they led, it was no miracle. The occasional frantic muttering, the sleepless nights, the flinching, the counting, it had all long since been a part of their routine. Even Rachel had found herself noting down more memories than necessary, tapping the back of her head where the devices sat. This work, it came with ghosts. That was all she'd thought it was.
Until one late evening, Allison had seized. The panic, the utter certainty that this was how she'd lose Allison, not by a stray bullet or a big explosion or a sacrifice but just by a random bit of her brain misfiring, maybe damaged years ago, on a night like any other, no one but her to even see, no chance to say goodbye, it had broken something in Rachel. She should have seen it.
After, Rachel had run every test she could imagine, finally removed the horrible metal in Allison's skull, even though it showed no sign of malfunction. Her own she'd opted to keep, if only to have a second data point in case these had caused it. But no neuroscientist she called in favours from could explain the symptoms, no linguist understood the tongues Allison spoke in, even if they agreed it was language and not the ramblings of a broken mind, no psychiatrist knew of a condition that fit.
Yes, there was damage to Allison's brain, and she experienced depression and trauma and mood disturbances and if Rachel thought of all the broken parts her friend had been carrying around for too long, the ones she could not fix because science did not work like that, her eyes stung. She shook her head. There was no one to see her now, alone in the lab, only Allison, dead to the world, for company, but she could not cry. She needed to fix this.
But how can you fix something if you do not know what is wrong? Because none of the colleagues of colleagues, no leading mind in Britain had been able to explain to hand shaped bruises on Allison's arms appearing with no hands touching her, explain her ripping off the restraints they'd had to start using, how her heart rate went higher than humanly possible, explain how it seemed like Allison wasn't there at all.
It made Rachel think of those horrible months when Allison couldn't remember anything at all, feeling sick to her stomach just thinking of it. They'd exhausted every option. But the worst moments were the ones where Allison was there, almost like normal, laughing with them, teasing them. And then flinched, as if watched, breaking down crying, too terrified for words.
It had been in one of those fits in the middle of the night, when it had been just Rachel watching her - they'd been taking turns, making sure there was always a friendly face around - that Allison had muttered a name that might help.
Anne Reynolds. Doctor of paranormal research of the University of Edinburgh, involved with some kind of secret government institution. Rachel had scoffed at the idea. Secret government groups she knew, she was part of one after all, but the paranormal? Everything had a scientific explanation, even if it was extraterrestrial. There was no such thing as ghosts or demons.
Still, there was something about the woman. From everything Rachel had been able to discover - not much, even Toby had trouble pulling those strings - Anne Reynolds was a scientist, a strong upstarting mind. Not dissimilar to how Allison had been once.
And then there were Allison's notes. Ian had found them, while helping Rachel collect clothes and essentials for Allison while they monitored her in the lab. He'd not read them, clearly far too embarrassed to have stumbled upon Allison's even more private belongings, but he'd handed them to her with a red face, mumbling something about how she might be able to use them.
Rachel knew Allison kept precise notes of everything they did. They spent most of their days together, they shared a house, of course she did. But the extent of them - that had astonished Rachel. Chronicling every little detail of her days, everything she ate, counting the steps, describing every colleague, even Rachel and Ian and Toby, over and over again, every change monitored, every spike of panic or headache on Allison's recorded. Everything to make certain that she would never ever be tampered with. And the utter panic when she had - the drugs on that cruise, and most recently the mushroom king - the certainty that Allison would never be herself again.
Rachel had needed several bottles of wine to make it through the reports. And then there had been the theories, all the things they'd tried, yes, but also deeper ones. Curses and ghosts and demons. Punishment by some higher power, a force out of this world. Possessions happened to the weak-minded, to ones already belonging to the devil, as Allison had clearly surmised. Rachel had had to skip the pages upon pages of rambling self-hatred. She couldn't take it.
Yet, Allison had looked for solutions, not just causes, and found Dr Reynolds. Clever girl, nothing ever kept her down forever. Icy dread filled Rachel's stomach - what if this was the one time that wasn't true? No, there had to be a way. There always was. Even if it meant going beyond the explainable, beyond the scientific.
Rachel looked at Allison again. On first sight, one might think she was just sleeping peacefully, but she was far too pale, far too still. Only the beeping monitor betrayed the life still in her body.
There was no other option. Slowly, Rachel began typing a message to Anne Reynolds, Doctor of the paranormal.