Sleep No More: The Lost Night Files, Book 1
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Synopsis
Seven months ago, Pallas Llewellyn, Talia March, and Amelia Rivers were strangers, until their fateful stay at the Lucent Springs Hotel. An earthquake and a fire partially destroyed the hotel, but the women have no memory of their time there. Now close friends, the three women co-host a podcast called the Lost Night Files, where they investigate cold cases and hope to connect with others who may have had a similar experience to theirs—an experience that has somehow enhanced the psychic abilities already present in each woman.
After receiving a tip for their podcast, Pallas travels to the small college town of Carnelian, California, to explore an abandoned asylum. Shaken by the dark energy she feels in the building, she is rushing out when she’s stopped by a dark figure—who turns out to be the women's mysterious tipster.
Ambrose Drake is certain he’s a witness to a murder, but without a body, everyone thinks he’s having delusions caused by extreme sleep deprivation. But Ambrose is positive something terrible happened at the Carnelian Sleep Institute the night he was there. Unable to find proof on his own, he approaches Pallas for help, only for her to realize that Ambrose, too, has a lost night that he can’t remember—one that may be connected to Pallas. Pallas and Ambrose conduct their investigation using the podcast as a cover, and while the townsfolk are eager to share what they know, it turns out there are others who are not so happy about their questions—and someone is willing to kill to keep the truth from coming out.
Release date: January 3, 2023
Publisher: Berkley
Print pages: 332
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Sleep No More: The Lost Night Files, Book 1
Jayne Ann Krentz
CHAPTER ONE
Carnelian, California . . .
Blood dripped from the bottom of the laundry cart.
Ambrose Drake flattened one hand against the wall to keep himself on his feet. He was back in the underwater world. That meant he was dreaming again. He struggled to focus on the glary aura of the figure pushing the cart toward the swinging doors at the far end of the corridor. Was that what a ghost looked like?
“What’s going on?” he said.
The words came out in a slurred, raspy jumble that he knew probably made no sense, assuming he had managed to say them aloud. It was hard to talk underwater. He thought he had been getting better at navigating the strange atmosphere down here below the surface, but either he had been fooling himself or he had regressed, because tonight he was having trouble just staying upright.
And what the hell was he doing on his feet? He was supposed to be in bed.
Shit. Was he sleepwalking again? That was not good. It meant the nightmares and hallucinations were getting worse. But did you know if you were sleepwalking? That didn’t sound logical. If you were aware that you were walking in your sleep it meant you were awake. Didn’t it?
Or did it mean you had slipped over the edge of sanity and fallen into the abyss? Maybe his worst nightmare had finally become his new reality.
The rattle of rubber wheels on the tiled floor distracted him. The glowing figure propelling the cart was leaning into the task now, picking up speed. Seconds later cart and ghost vanished through the swinging doors.
That seemed to indicate the figure had heard the question and had reacted by leaving the scene as quickly as possible—which led to another disturbing conclusion. Maybe the ghost with the laundry cart leaving a trail of blood drops on the floor was real. You could never be sure when you were in this deep.
“Am I awake or asleep?” he mumbled. “Only one way to find out.”
He took his hand off the wall, pushed aside the hallucinations, and managed another couple of steps forward. His progress was complicated by the fact that the corridor was drenched in underwater shadows. He finally realized what was wrong. The window in his mind was open. That explained why he had seen a glowing ghost pushing a laundry cart.
“I really do not need this.”
It took some doing, but he succeeded in shutting down his aura-reading vision. He was back in his normal senses now. The eerie, murky shadows disappeared. The hallway was abruptly illuminated in the light of the overhead fixtures.
Okay, he was not dreaming and the window was closed, but something was very wrong. He did not have overhead fixtures in his bedroom.
A whisper of horror sent a jolt of panic across his senses. He had walked out the front door of his house and into an unknown building. The damned sleepwalking was going to get him killed. Another terrible thought struck—was he in his underwear? Please don’t let me be strolling through some strange place in my underwear.
He made himself look down and was overwhelmingly relieved to discover he had on a pair of pajama bottoms. Or was he still dreaming?
“Shit. Wake up. Wake up.”
This time he was sure he had spoken aloud. The sound of his own voice was reassuring. It drew him back toward the surface. He rubbed his eyes and tried to make sense of the white walls of the hallway and the cold white tiles underfoot.
Sleep clinic.
A murky memory swept back, bringing in the tide of semi-reassuring reality. He was spending the night in the Carnelian Sleep Institute in an effort to get control of the nightmares. He should be in a bed. There ought to be a lot of wires attached to him. What the hell was he doing out here in the hallway?
The scream.
He had heard a woman scream. That’s why he was standing barefoot in the hall. The answer to the mystery was in the laundry cart. He had to find it and look inside.
He lurched forward a few more steps and nearly lost his balance. The problem with staying upright was a new one. He had always taken his fast reflexes and excellent coordination for granted. After the spell of amnesia eight months ago, both had actually improved. His sleeping habits had gone to hell, but he was faster and quicker than he had ever been. Tonight, though, it was all he could do to keep his feet under him.
He steadied himself, but the sudden change of position caused him to look down again. This time he saw a crimson rivulet trickling under the closed door of a patient room. Maybe he was still dreaming. Still sleepwalking.
To test the theory, he leaned down to take a closer look at the blood.
“Mr. Drake, what are you doing out of bed?”
The stern masculine voice was familiar. Dr. Conrad Fenner, the director of the Institute. He sounded seriously agitated. Alarmed. Furious.
Startled, Ambrose lost his balance altogether and pitched forward. He would have fallen flat on his face if his reflexes hadn’t finally kicked in. About time.
He landed on one palm and a knee and instinctively started to get back on his feet. His fingers skidded through the little river of blood.
“Get up, Mr. Drake,” Fenner ordered. “You should not be out here. We must get you back to your room.”
“Something’s wrong,” Ambrose said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “I heard a woman scream.”
“No, you did not,” Fenner said. “You are dreaming. Sleepwalking. Here, let me assist you.”
Ambrose started to tell him about the blood on the floor but was interrupted by a sharp stinging sensation in the curve of his shoulder.
“What?” he mumbled.
He wanted to ask another question, but he was going back down into the depths, and this time there were no shadows. No light at all. A great weakness was overtaking his senses. He was vaguely aware of Fenner urging him to his feet and steering him back to his own room.
“Hurry,” Fenner snapped. “I can’t carry you.”
The next thing Ambrose knew he was slumped in a chair. Fenner was leaning over him, working swiftly to clean his hand, the one that had slipped into the crimson stream.
“Blood on the floor,” Ambrose said. He stared at his fingers but he could no longer see the red stain.
“There was no blood,” Fenner said. His authoritative tone was infused with anger and anxiety. “It was just a dream, Mr. Drake. Trust me, you won’t remember it in the morning.”
When he was finished, he helped Ambrose get out of the chair and stumble onto the bed.
The darkness was closing in fast, but Ambrose managed to open the window in his mind one more time. Fenner’s aura pulsed in a way that indicated he was telling the truth. He was certain that Ambrose would not remember what had happened tonight.
“A woman screamed,” Ambrose said, not because he believed he could convince Fenner of that fact but because he hoped repetition would anchor the memory in his brain. “A woman screamed. A woman screamed.”
“It was just a dream,” Fenner insisted. “You experienced a brief sleepwalking episode. Nothing more. You won’t remember a woman screaming.”
The last thing Ambrose saw before he fell into the oceanic trench was the small indicator light on the camera that was aimed at the bed. It glowed bloodred. That was good, he thought. In the morning the video recording would tell him the truth.
If he woke up.
CHAPTER TWO
Carnelian, California. Six weeks later . . .
The snakes spilled down the old staircase, coiling, unfurling, seeking prey. Pallas Llewellyn’s fingers flew across the page of her sketchbook. She had to work quickly. She could not risk remaining in the trance too long. It was like dropping into a dream—in this case, a nightmare—an interesting place to visit, but you would not want to live there. Her greatest fear these days was that she would slip into her other vision and get trapped.
And yet there were too many times now when she could not resist the temptation to slide into her enhanced vision. She needed to see the images concealed in the small storms of energy that she frequently stumbled into.
She had gotten much better at controlling the automatic drawing trances; at least, she told herself she had more control. She saw things when she was in this other vision, sometimes terrifying things—snakes falling down a staircase, for example. But there were answers to be found here, too. It was the promise of discovering the secrets concealed in the visions that was irresistible.
The snakes were closer now, reaching for her. If she had any sense she would get out while the getting was good. Her intuition was shrieking at her.
As if detecting her presence, two of the snakes stretched out to grasp her and draw her deeper into the trance. She could have sworn she heard them hissing. That was new. In the past the visions had never had an audio component.
“Okay, okay, I’m gone,” she gasped.
With an effort of will she came out of the trance, riding a senses-disorienting wave of panic charged with a giddy thrill. She had done it. She had once again leaped into the abyss and made it safely back to the surface.
The triumphant elation receded swiftly but the panic did not. It was growing stronger. She realized she was too close to the scene. She needed to put some distance between herself and the now-invisible snakes spilling down the staircase.
She snapped the sketchbook shut and tossed it and the pencil into the well-worn messenger bag. Later there would be time to try to interpret whatever the episode of automatic drawing had revealed. The answers might elude her, though. They often did. Her intuition told her there were truths to be found in the pictures she created while she was in her other vision, but she was still learning how to see those truths. She had discovered she needed context in order to figure out what she was looking at.
Her pulse was still beating too rapidly. She cradled the messenger bag in both hands, holding it as if it were a shield, and headed for the front door of the abandoned asylum. Her instinct was to run, not walk, to the nearest exit, but running was not a good idea. There were too many obstacles in her path, and she had never been the most coordinated person on the planet.
She had always been easily startled. For as long as she could remember, the tiniest flicker of light or the slightest sense of movement at the edge of her vision had been enough to make her flinch and send her veering off-balance. The unfortunate tendency to overreact to the slightest surprise had gotten markedly worse after the amnesia episode seven months ago. She had learned to compensate by moving slowly and deliberately whenever she was in unfamiliar surroundings. The ruins of the old asylum definitely qualified as unfamiliar. The hidden storms of bad energy were scattered everywhere.
The bones of the Carnelian Psychiatric Hospital for the Insane still stood, surrounding her on all sides. The four-story structure had been constructed of stone and stout timber, but the interior, now sunk in an eternal gloom, had been slowly crumbling for decades. She was forced to scramble through a minefield of broken chairs, rusted bedsprings, sagging doors, shards of broken glass, and the discarded medical equipment of another era.
The scene came straight out of her nightmares. At least this time the place wasn’t on fire. She probably ought to see another therapist about her little obsession with scary old buildings, but she craved answers, and she had concluded no therapist could provide them. She also knew she would not be able to let go of her morbid fascination until she got the answers she needed.
She was halfway through the rubble of the hospital lobby when a figure detached itself from the shadows and came toward her, blocking the path to the door.
Focused on escape, her senses still in an adrenaline overload, she yelped in alarm, swerved to the side, and tried to change course. Her intention was to steer a path around the stranger, but the sudden move caused her to stumble into a three-legged table. It toppled under her weight. Of course it did. Sometimes she wondered if every stick of furniture in the world was out to get her.
She knew she was going down. She thought about the jagged chunks of glass that littered the floor. This was going to be a bad fall. She could only hope the messenger bag would protect her from the worst-case scenario.
The man who had been in her path was suddenly at her side. A strong hand gripped her forearm, steadying her.
She was shocked by the speed with which he had moved. It was as if he had known she was going to change course and run into the table.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
The physical contact sent an electrifying jolt of intense, intimate awareness across her senses. Maybe she was still in the automatic drawing trance. Maybe this time she really had stayed under too long.
“Let me go,” she screamed.
She was amazed and reassured when the earsplitting cry escaped her throat and echoed through the ruins. In her dreams she was always voiceless.
“Shit.” The stranger released her, clamped his hands over his ears, and took several steps back. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
Freed, she headed for the front door again. She reached into the messenger bag, groping for the Taser she had carried religiously since Lucent Springs.
She managed to grab the electroshock weapon, but in her frenzy she dropped it. The stranger scooped up the device. Simultaneously he used his free hand to keep her from tripping over a door that had come off its hinges and was now on the floor.
Another flash of breathtaking intimacy rattled her nerves. She had never experienced anything like it. She froze, frantically trying to figure out what was happening. Before she could recover from the shock, the stranger released her and stepped back.
“We’re getting off on the wrong foot here,” he said. He held the Taser just out of reach. “If you’ll give me a minute, I can explain.”
He was still between her and the door. She launched herself at him, hoping the head-on attack would catch him by surprise.
He didn’t appear surprised, but he moved out of the way.
“Don’t touch me again,” she said. “You’ll be sorry.”
Clutching the messenger bag, she rushed past him. Miraculously, she did not stumble this time.
“I’m the reason you’re here,” he called after her. “Ambrose Drake. I sent the email about the asylum to The Lost Night Files.”
She shot through the doorway, out of the ruins, and into the foggy daylight of the rugged Northern California coast. His words began to sink in. They did not register fully until she was a few feet away from her car.
The mention of the podcast made her scramble to a halt. She recognized his name, too. She was here today because of a listener named Ambrose Drake.
She realized there was one other vehicle parked in front of the asylum. Drake’s car, no doubt. She should have heard him arrive. The asylum stood on an isolated cliff above a cove, connected to the main road by a long, narrow, graveled lane.
Yes, she ought to have heard his car, but she had been so deep into the trance that she had been oblivious to the warning sounds of gravel under tires and footsteps on the creaking, groaning floorboards of the asylum.
The realization of just how vulnerable she had been while in her other vision was unnerving. In the old days—before Lucent Springs—she had never gone so deeply into the drawing trance.
She retreated a few more steps and flattened a hand on the side of her car to steady herself. Drake was on the front steps now. He had the Taser in his hand but made no attempt to pursue her.
He didn’t need to chase her to make her nervous. His slick, fast reaction ability aside, he looked like he had barely survived a shipwreck, followed by a long stretch of time lost at sea on a life raft. He still had some muscle on him—the line of his shoulders beneath the windbreaker was strong and sleek—but it was obvious he had lost too much weight in the recent past. The fierce planes and angles of a face that at one time had probably qualified as interesting, even intriguing, could only be described as haggard now. He had the eyes of a man who was haunted by ghosts.
“You’re Ambrose Drake?” she said, trying to process the swiftly moving events.
“Yes. I didn’t mean to scare you. I apologize. I’m the one who suggested this old hospital would make a good series for the Lost Night Files podcast.”
She opened the car door and positioned herself behind it, prepared to leap into the driver’s seat and lock herself inside the vehicle. Logic told her she ought to drive straight back to the hotel, pack her bag, and leave town. Ambrose Drake might look like he was down-and-out, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. She hated the idea of leaving her Taser behind but it wasn’t worth the risk of trying to get it back. She could buy another one.
Still, she was a woman who was looking for answers, and these days there was no knowing where they would come from. She had to stay open to all possibilities.
“What is this about?” she asked. “Why did you sneak up on me?”
His jaw tightened. “I didn’t sneak up on you. If I had wanted to do that I would have waited until . . . never mind.” He stopped. “You saw something inside the asylum, didn’t you? That’s why you came running out in a panic. I need to know what you sensed in there. Please.”
It was the grim desperation in his words that stopped her. She paused, one foot inside the car. “What do you mean?”
“You and those other two women who do the Lost Night Filespodcast claim you investigate cold cases and mysterious disappearances that have a paranormal angle.”
“So?”
Ambrose glanced briefly back into the shadows of the hospital. “I think someone was murdered in there about two weeks ago. I need help proving it.”
She froze, remembering the snakes on the staircase. “What makes you believe there was a murder inside the asylum?”
“I was supposed to meet someone here. He never showed. At first I assumed he had changed his mind. But I found something near the stairs that I think indicates he was murdered.”
She tightened her grip on the car door. “What is it?”
“Meet me tonight for a real conversation and I’ll show you.”
“If you think you can dangle that kind of bait and get away with it—”
“Not bait,” Ambrose said. “Bribery. Here’s my problem: I don’t know who I can trust, so until I’m sure you’re going to get involved in a serious investigation, I can’t take the risk of giving you any more information than necessary.”
Once again the memory of the vision of snakes uncoiling down the stairs sent a chill across her nerves. She grabbed a small straw of common sense that was floating past and reminded herself that the podcast attracted its share of card-carrying members of the Tin Foil Helmet crowd.
“You’ve got to admit your story is pretty bizarre,” she said.
“You picked up some bad vibes in there, didn’t you? On my way here I told myself you were probably a fraud like all the others, but now I think you just might be the real deal.”
“Were you testing me?” Outrage crackled through her, flushing out a lot of her fear and unease. “Is that what this is all about?”
“Can you blame me? Most people who claim to be able to investigate psychic phenomena are either frauds or flat-out delusional.”
“Yes, I blame you,” she shot back. “What you did is worse than an insult. It’s an invasion of my privacy. Or something. I don’t appreciate being set up. My friends and I run into this sort of nonsense a lot, and we don’t like it.”
“Are you talking about what happened in Saltwood?”
She stared at him. “You know about Saltwood?”
“Sure. I’m a dedicated subscriber to your podcast,” he said. “A psycho lured you and your friends to Saltwood to investigate a missing persons case that appeared to have paranormal elements. Turned out the psycho was the killer and he wanted to play a game with you.”
“He thought he could prove we were frauds.”
“But you found the body. You tried to convince the police that they had a homicide on their hands. They blew off your evidence, so you kept digging. The psycho was furious. He grabbed you. He was about to slit your throat when he had some sort of seizure and collapsed.”
“Right.” Pallas cleared her throat. “A seizure.”
“We’re in this together until we get answers.”
The easy way he recited the Lost Night Files signature introduction and sign-off threw her for a beat. She recovered quickly. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, the stunt you just pulled is reason enough for The Lost Night Files to reject your so-called investigation. Go find yourself a genuine fraud.”
“A genuine fraud?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, no, not exactly,” he said. “But I think I get the underlying subtext. You’re pissed.”
“Very.”
“Look, I understand why you resent being tested. I apologize. Again. But I need your help. I’m out of options.”
“That is not an acceptable excuse.”
“Just tell me what you saw inside the asylum.” Ambrose paused, evidently forced to grope for the next words. “I’ve got to get some answers.”
This was getting weirder by the minute. It was tantalizing to think he really did have reason to believe someone had been murdered on the asylum staircase and wanted her to help him prove it. His certainty went a long way toward validating her vision. She needed the reassurance, because every time she went into a trance she wondered if she was hallucinating.
There was, however, another, extremely chilling possibility. Perhaps this was a version of the Saltwood disaster. Maybe Ambrose Drake knew someone had died on the asylum staircase because he was the one who had committed the murder.
Ice touched the back of her neck. She started to get into the front seat.
“No,” Ambrose said, sounding exhausted. “I didn’t kill the man who died on those stairs.”
It was as if he had read her thoughts.
“Are you sure it was a man who was murdered in there?” she asked.
“As sure as I can be without proof.”
“If you’re so certain, why not go to the police?” she said.
He gave her a cold smile. “For the same reason you won’t be going straight to the cops. You don’t have any evidence to back up your story. You know as well as I do the authorities will assume you’re out to get some free publicity for The Lost Night Files, just like they did in Saltwood.”
“You seem to know a lot about me and the podcast.”
“I’ve been listening to the program for a while now,” he said. “Downloaded the archives. I even went to the cold case crime scenes you investigated. I wanted to be as sure as possible that you and the others were legit before I sent that email suggesting you come here.”
“You mean before you ran your annoying little experiment on me.”
“Do you have any idea how many fakes, frauds, and cons I had to sort through to get to you?” he said.
She gave him a steely smile. “Trust me, I know exactly how you feel.”
“You do?”
“Ever since we fired up the podcast, my colleagues and I have had to deal with the same crowd of fakes, frauds, and cons, to say nothing of the truly delusional people who contact us. So, yes, I’ve got a pretty good idea how many people are running around claiming to solve paranormal mysteries. But we’ve discovered that the real problem is the other group. ...
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