"I am done with you now. Anything more I take from you will be pointless. Remember my words, my puzzle. You will not hear anymore of them again. Farewell."
"Connor, talk to me."
Ingrid had been trying for over an hour now. She was sat on the sofa beside Connor, who had his head in his hands. He had burst into the apartment all flustered and without saying a word had sat down and had not moved since.
For the past few months there had been noticeable changes in Connor. He was more anxious than before, and he had started having panic attacks. Ingrid had tried so hard to convince herself that it was just temporary and that it was just a lasting effect of Carrie's machine. But it wasn't getting any better. With each day she could feel Connor slipping further away from her, and she didn't know how to pull him back. Tears pricked Ingrid's eyes and she took Connor's hands in hers, revealing his horror-struck face. He wouldn't look at her, even now.
"Connor, please. I want to help you, but I don't know what's going on! Talk to me."
Her voice cracked with emotion, and for a moment Connor's trance broke. He glanced at her, but that moment was short-lived. Whatever was weighing on his mind so heavily took him back, and he stared blankly at the floor. Ingrid broke down in tears, almost able to feel the world crumbling around her. She felt hopeless.
Unable to take it any more, Ingrid stood up and left the apartment. She waited outside for a moment, hoping that Connor would come after her, but her hope was pointless. She made for the stairs. She wanted fresh air, even though she knew it wouldn't solve her problems.
When she was outside, Ingrid stood on the edge of the pavement, watching the cars drive past her. They were all going somewhere. Ingrid wished that she had somewhere to go. But her life was here, and nowhere else.
But where do you go when your life is ruined?
No, it was wrong to think like that. She would find a way to help Connor. She had to!
With a sigh, Ingrid turned to go back inside. She was nearly at the door of the complex when she heard someone call her name. She stopped, wondering if it was her imagination. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw a dull grey car parked on the curb. The window was rolled down and a middle-aged man with greying hair was leaning out. His lined face was void of emotion, and it took Ingrid a while to recognise who he was because of this.
"Mr Cartman?"
The man stepped out of the car and made his way to stand in front of Ingrid. Tucked under his arm was a folder. He opened it and removed a laminated picture, handing it to her. Ingrid took it, studying it carefully. It was the painting of Connor that she had sold to him months ago. Confused, she looked up at him.
"You're wondering why I'm giving you this?" he guessed, reading her expression perfectly.
"Yes, I am."
"Well, Ingrid. I'm giving you this because I want a refund. I've changed my mind about having your painting in my museum."
Ingrid stared at him.
"What? I thought you said that you liked the atmosphere it gave? The fact that it holds emotion?"
Mr Cartman shook his head slowly.
"Maybe then. But since I've taken some time away from work with my family, I've had some time to rethink our bargain. I want the money repaid by next month."
Ingrid took a step back from Mr Cartman. She couldn't help but feel cautious of him; his blue eyes were dull and lifeless-looking. He looked like a shadow of himself.
"Are you feeling okay, Mr Cartman?" she asked warily.
Suddenly his face distorted into a furious frown and he threw his folder to the ground. He took a step forward, leaning close to Ingrid.
"I want the money back by next month, Ingrid. I'll have your painting returned when I am paid back. Do I make myself clear?" he hissed.
"Yes, but-"
"Great. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to."
He turned to leave.
"Wait! Could I submit another piece to you? I'm sure I could paint something better, if you'll let me. What kind of art do you want for your museum?" cried Ingrid.
Mr Cartman laughed, but it was not the light-hearted laugh that Ingrid had once heard. It was empty and emotionless.
"I don't want art. I'm selling my museum."
"What? Why? I thought you had a passion for art!"
He didn't reply. Slowly he climbed into his car and pulled away onto the road. The sound of the engine faded away, and Ingrid was left in stunned silence. As if her world hadn't already been turned upside down!
She turned away from the road to see Connor standing in the door of the complex. The look of terror had not gone from his face, but only gotten worse. Ingrid approached him, reaching out and taking his hand.
"Connor? Are you okay?" she asked him, only half expecting him to actually reply.
Connor turned to her, a look of guilt in his eyes.
"Ingrid, I need to tell you something. Something I should've told you a while ago."
YOU ARE READING
The Memory Machine 2
Horror*Sequel to The Memory Machine***** It has been months since Connor regained his memory, and it seems like Carrie's threats were nothing but a bluff. But as the days go by, Connor can't help but notice that something isn't right. His friends act like...
