The Cure for Dreaming(48)

Father’s eyes narrowed. “Have you two spoken with each other since the hypnotism on Thursday?”

“No, sir,” said Henry.

“N-n-no, sir,” I agreed. “I just—”

“How did you become privy to his family troubles, then, Olivia? Why on earth do you have the intimate details of this stranger’s personal life?”

“Father . . . please, don’t get upset. The point is, his sister needs help, and I thought—”

Father grabbed Henry’s wrist. “Come with me. Do not say a word— No!” He raised a finger with a nail sharp and black. His eyes burned scarlet, and his cheeks sank into the skull of his graying face. “Don’t even open your mouth and think of hypnotizing me into giving you extra money.”

“I’m not asking for extra money, sir.” Henry pulled back and tried to wrench his arm out of Father’s grip. “I didn’t ask her to say anything about my sister—I swear to God!”

“That’s true!” I said. “He didn’t ask that at all.”

“Quiet! Both of you!”

An awful buzzing rang in my ears. I pushed my hands over them and let out a cry of shock as Father paled even further and sprouted fur on the backs of his hands—part wolf, part corpse, part red-eyed demon.

“If you want me to pay you for your services, boy”—he yanked Henry down the hallway, toward his home office, which he used for drinking and for nighttime emergency treatments—“then shut your damned mouth.”

Henry’s feet skidded and tripped across the rugs and the floorboards.

“Don’t hurt him!” I chased after them. “Please—I didn’t mean any harm. I just thought you should know in case you could help . . .” I followed them into the office and braced my hands on the door frame. “His sister isn’t even yet sixteen. What would you do if I were the one dying of cancer?”

“You’re not dying of cancer, Olivia. Don’t be so melodramatic,” said Father, but he was no longer anything like my actual father. A clawed devil with spiked teeth and a sharp, hairy chin slapped Henry down into the office’s wooden dental chair and buckled his left wrist to an armrest.

“Let me go!” Henry pushed at the creature with his free hand, but Father managed to pin down and shackle his other wrist, too.

“Stop!” I rubbed my eyes, but Father refused to look normal. “Are you really forcing him into that chair? Am I really seeing this?”

“I’ve offered you a large sum of money, Mr. Reverie.” With one hand planted on Henry’s chest, not far from his throat, the horrific version of the man with whom I lived squeaked open a cabinet door. On the shelves gleamed his home collection of dental tools—forceps, clockwork drills, pelicans, chisels, tooth keys. He pulled out a Whitehead gag, a beastly contraption that resembled a bear trap with leather straps. “If you truly do have a sick sister, then I assume more than anything that you’d like me to pay you that money.”

“Father! Let him out of that chair!”

“Yes, sir, b-b-but . . .” Henry bent his legs and hovered over the seat, not quite landing his posterior on it. His knees wobbled everywhere, while his wrists stayed strapped to the wood.

“Relax.” Father pushed on his knees. “Sit back.” He shoved him down by his collarbone, which made Henry’s feet pop up on the footrest. “There’s no need to panic. I’m just going to fit this gag into your mouth”—he shoved the metal trap between Henry’s lips with terrible scraping sounds—“to make sure you aren’t verbally manipulating my mind while I give my instructions to you.” He yanked the straps around Henry’s head, stretching his jaw both vertically and horizontally until Henry groaned in wide-eyed terror.

“Stop it!” I pulled on Father’s shoulder and arm. “This is terrible. What type of monster have you become? Just look at yourself.”

Father elbowed me away. “Get out of here, Olivia. You’re not supposed to be able to argue with me.”

“But—”

“Silence!” He pushed me so hard, I banged my lower back against his desk. “Tell me the God’s honest truth,” he said over Henry, “have you and my daughter spoken since Thursday’s hypnosis?”

Henry panted and glanced my way. I nodded, so Henry did the same. He managed a “Yes” that sounded like gargling.

“Is she trying to persuade you to reverse the hypnosis?” asked Father.

Henry nodded again.

Father tipped the dental chair back, raising Henry’s feet as high as his hips. “My Olivia isn’t the greatest beauty in the world, I admit, but she can break your heart a little, can’t she?”

Henry’s chest contracted with each shallow breath.

“But, despite feminine wiles,” said Father, “we gentlemen must be strong. We must protect the women from their own foolishness. They’re fragile and ignorant and need our constant care. I think, if you stuck by my side and ignored my daughter’s passionate pleas”—he bent down close to Henry’s face with bared yellowed fangs that hung down to his chin— “we could show the world that hypnosis is the key to keeping these modern young women in their proper places. No man will lose a sweet loved one ever again.”