Chapter 2 - The Diagnosis of Ignorance
“Where does it hurt?” Dr. Andrews repeated, his voice dropping into that soothing, rhythmic cadence designed to extract secrets from frightened children.
Lily did not answer immediately. Her small, thin fingers traced the stiff blue ribbon tied around the neck of the golden-brown teddy bear sitting between them on the quilted comforter. The bear looked entirely ordinary—commercially manufactured, soft-furred, with black plastic button eyes that caught the pale morning light streaming through the high windows. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, the silence in the room grew heavy, charged with an inexplicable tension.
“It hurts right here,” Rose whispered finally, her tiny hand rising to point vaguely toward the center of her forehead, just above her brow. “Like a bee is buzzing inside my skull. And it won't fly out.”
Dr. Andrews straightened up, exchanging a practiced, sympathetic glance with the two junior physicians standing behind him. It was the look of men who believed they had already diagnosed the textbook before turning past the first page. He turned his attention toward Rory, who stood near the foot of the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the hardwood floor.
“Mr. Starks, may I speak with you in the corridor for a moment?” the doctor asked, pitching his voice to the careful, neutral tone reserved for difficult relatives.
Rory’s jaw tightened. He didn't move for a long beat, his dark, calculating eyes fixed on the doctor’s polished leather shoes before rising to meet his gaze.
“Say it here,” Rory said. His voice was low, flat, and carried an undercurrent of raw violence that made the junior physicians step back instinctively. “My daughters have nothing to hide from me.”
Dr. Andrews cleared his throat, adjusting the gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
“Very well. From a purely neurological and psychological standpoint, the symptoms described by the girls—specifically the synchronized waking, the localized auditory complaints, and the heightened nocturnal distress—point toward a classic case of shared reactive psychosis brought on by acute environmental stress and prolonged grief.”
The room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Rory took two slow steps forward, closing the distance between them until he towered over the physician.
“Are you standing in my home, in front of my children, telling me they are losing their minds?” Rory’s voice didn't rise; it dropped into a dangerous, gravelly register that made the windowpanes vibrate.
“I am saying that trauma manifests in complex ways, Mr. Starks,” Dr. Andrews countered, holding his ground with professional stubbornness. “Their mother passed away three years ago during a critical developmental window. You are a man whose professional life exposes you to high levels of volatility and threat. Children absorb that ambient tension. They have constructed an internal narrative—a ‘monster’—as a coping mechanism for an unstable sense of safety. I recommend immediate in-patient evaluation at our Easton facility, coupled with a regimen of pediatric anxiolytics and complete separation from this environment.”
“Separation,” Rory repeated, the word tasting like poison on his tongue. “You want to lock my six-year-old daughters in a clinical ward because you’re too incompetent to read an MRI or find a physical cause for what’s waking them up at three in the morning?”
“Mr. Starks, medical science—”
“Medical science is what you charge five thousand dollars an hour to recite while my girls scratch their skin raw,” Rory interrupted, his hand shooting out to grip the heavy oak door handle. He pulled it wide open, the gesture absolute and uncompromising. “Get out of my house. Now.”
Dr. Andrews flushed, his professional facade cracking under the weight of public humiliation. He gathered his leather case with stiff, jerky movements.
“You are making a grave mistake, Mr. Starks. Pride will not cure your children.”
“My name isn't pride,” Rory said, his eyes burning with cold fury as he watched the doctor and his associates retreat into the hallway. “And if I ever see you near my estate again, you won't need a medical license because you won't have hands to hold a stethoscope.”
The heavy oak door clicked shut.
In the sudden quiet that followed, the nursery felt smaller, suffocating under the weight of another failed diagnosis. Lily and Rose hadn't moved. They sat frozen on the edge of the mattress, their small shoulders touching, their eyes wide and hollow.
Rory exhaled slowly, forcing the violent rage back down into the dark corners of his chest where it lived. He walked over to the bed, dropping to one knee so he was eye-level with his daughters. He reached out, his large, calloused hand—marked by the faint scars of a life built on blood, concrete, and leverage—gentling as it brushed a stray lock of hair from Lily’s forehead.
“The doctor was wrong, babies,” Rory said, his voice softening into a warmth he reserved exclusively for them. “Daddy is going to figure this out. I promise you.”
Rose looked down at the golden-brown teddy bear sitting between them. Her lower lip quivered.
“Daddy... make Mr. Honey go away,” she whispered, her voice cracking with exhaustion. “He looks nice when the sun is up. But when the dark comes... his eyes feel heavy.”
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Rory looked at the bear. It sat innocently on the quilt, the blue ribbon tied neatly around its neck.
For the first time since the fifty-six nights of terror began, a cold, jagged shard of suspicion pierced through Rory’s grief. He reached out and picked up the bear, turning it over in his hands, staring down at the soft fur that hid a secret he was determined to rip open.
