The Other Ring.

Fear

                         THURSDAY 1:30 P.M.

From the second they entered the first hospital on their list, Jane wanted to pivot on her heel and walk out as quickly as possible. The large, spacious building felt like a prison, the white-clad doctors and nurses who were rushing about seeming more like jailors and tormentors than healers.

She felt a horrible premonition that at any second they would take hold of her and lock her in a small, barren room where they could work their tortures at their leisure. But she forced herself to place one foot in front of the other; she was starting to question whether such strange sensations and urges belonged to her, or whether they emanated from the enigmatic presence she now felt continuously looking over her shoulder.

She took satisfaction in allowing none of her anxiety to show as she questioned nurse receptionists in building after building, to see if they had any patients matching the description of her brother.

After a couple of futile stops, the questioning had finally borne fruit. The woman at the reception desk had informed her that they indeed had just this morning brought in a John Doe matching Wind's description, found unconscious in the alley next to a seedy downtown bar, his wallet and ID already lifted. Jane, as a possible relative, had been allowed in to see the man, though

Daria had to wait in the entrance room; now, she was walking down a long highway, a friendly nurse leading the way. The woman's expressions of concern for Jane's brother fell on nearly deaf ears, however, as Jane could not drag her awareness away from the fact that she was burrowing ever further into the warren of persecutors.

At every door they passed, Jane found herself wondering what horrors lay behind it, what poor soul they had imprisoned therein; these insane fears would respond to no reason she could command.

Her own fears of losing herself to this interloping spirit, as she already seemed to be losing her art, were only an extra layer to add to her apprehension.

Though the corridor looked to stretch on into eternity, eventually the nurse stopped at one open door and gestured Jane inside. There, lying on a bed, was a man, in his early thirties, with blonde hair down to his shoulders.

Tubes in both his arms connected him to IV bags, while his heartrate was monitored through several electrodes attached to his chest. The steady "beep, beep, beep" of the EKG reminded Jane of every movie and television show she had ever seen that was based in a hospital.

The man, though bearing a superficial resemblance, was clearly not Wind, but Jane did not tell the nurse this; instead, she walked slowly up to the patient's side, staring not at his face, but at his chest. The tiny white circles connected to his skin fascinated her; of their own accord, her hands reached out to touch them, to trace their circumferences and feel the slick plastic against her fingers.

Then, suddenly, fascination turned to rage, and with an explosion of fury she yanked every one of them from his body in a single jerk. The machines went haywire with alarms and protests, reading only that the heartbeat they had been detecting was no longer there, certain that the man in their care was now near death.

Jane felt herself seized from behind, but the restraint was no longer necessary; she was once again in her own mind, her body under her control, the outburst now nothing but a memory.

Nurse: Young lady! (Sounding more shocked than angry) What do you think you're doing?"

Jane: I'm . . . I'm sorry.

Jane replied, and then stopped cold. What could she possibly say to explain this? What possible rational reason could she give that anyone would accept? How could she say that the actions were not hers, that some thing had been operating through her, using her arms as though she was nothing more than a marionette for its amusement?

In the end, she said the only thing she could think of that would not make the situation infinitely worse.

Jane:!This isn't my brother. I'll go now.

She stumbled backwards, for a few seconds unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of the nurse rapidly reattaching the monitors she had so rudely removed, then she turned and ran, out the door and down the corridor, as fast as she could without toppling over the denizens of the hospital that walked or rolled up and down the hall. When she reached the entranceway, where

Daria was waiting, she didn't even stop for explanations, but simply grabbed her friend's arm and propelled her outside.

Daria bore this odd behavior for a few seconds, then shook her off and demanded to know what the hell was going on.

Jane: Something happened to me inside there. Up until now, I've made some weird sketches, including some that I didn't want to make, and I've had some weird feelings, but it still always seemed like me who was doing it. But I just did something in there that wasn't me at all; it was working through me. Whatever it is, it hates hospitals and doctors and maybe machines, I'm not sure. But for a few seconds in there, there wasn't a separation between what I was feeling and what it was feeling. It was like an out-of-body experience. I don't think I've been more terrified in my life.

For a few seconds, Daria didn't respond, just stared into Jane's eyes as if trying to read her soul.

Jane: Daria, it's still me, I promise, (Desperately) For now, at least.

Daria: I know that. I recognized the red blur. But when you said that, I had to wonder if I wasn't hearing my own voice instead.

Jane: Daria, what's going to happen to us?

She had no response. But one thing was clear. They both had the feeling of fear in their hearts. Something bad is going to happen.