Prologue: Such Dark Things - Vilma Iris | Lifestyle Blogger

A HORRIFIC RECURRING NIGHTMARE IS THREATENING TO STEAL HER SANITYโ€ฆ

Dr. Corinne Cabot is living the American dream. Sheโ€™s a successful ER physician in Chicago whoโ€™s married to a handsome husband. Together they live in a charming house in the suburbs. But appearances can be deceivingโ€”and what no one can see is Corinneโ€™s dark past. Troubling gaps in her memory mean she recalls little about a haunting event in her life years ago that changed everything.

She remembers only being in the house the night two people were found murdered. Her father was there, too. Now her father is in prison; she hasnโ€™t been in contact in years. Repressing that terrifying memory has caused Corinne moments of paranoia and panic. Sometimes she thinks she sees things that arenโ€™t there, hears words that havenโ€™t been spoken. Or have they? She fears she may be losing her mind, unable to determine whatโ€™s real and whatโ€™s not.

So when she senses her husbandโ€™s growing distance, she thinks sheโ€™s imagining things. She writes her suspicions off to fatigue, overwork, anything to explain what she canโ€™t acceptโ€”that her life reallyย isnโ€™tย what it seems.

Book Type:

Psychological Suspense

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Prologue: Such Dark Things
By Courtney Evan Tate

Prologue: Such Dark Things

SUCH DARK THINGS by Courtney Evan Tate, whom you may know as Courtney Cole, expresses her darker side in a fast-moving psychological suspense about a woman with a fracturing sanity. 35-year-old Corinne Cabot feels a growing distance from her husband and is troubled by the double murder she witnessed years ago, resulting in the incarceration of her father. She’s blocked the terrible memory, but now, she thinks she sees things, hears things… or could it all be real?

I’m so excited to share an excerpt from the novel, out March 20th.

My skin is sticky with blood.

My waistband is wet with it, and I can taste it on my lips. Itโ€™s splattered on my face, and it tastes like metal that has been rotting in the sun and rain for a hundred years. The night makes me shiver, the cool breeze rustling my hair, and for a split second, Iโ€™m back there in that house, standing in that blood. My bare toes feel the warmth of the liquid turn cool as the minutes tick past.

Goose bumps raise on my neck, and a knot that I canโ€™t swallow is lodged in my throat. My feet are frozen frozen frozen on the ground, and I canโ€™t move.

Their eyes are open and lifeless, although they stare at me.

They see me.

Yet they see nothing.

I canโ€™t breathe.

My lips are ice, just like theirs.

My heart is pounding and racing and stuttering, and I canโ€™t breathe I canโ€™t breathe I canโ€™t breathe.

โ€œCorinne. Youโ€™re safe here. Corinne.โ€

And just like that, Iโ€™m not there.

Iโ€™m here.

โ€œThere was blood all over me.โ€ My words are stilted and fragile, like glass.

I stare at my hand, and even though itโ€™s clean now, I see it as it was seventeen years ago, covered in the blood of two soulsโ€ฆsouls that were living and that arenโ€™t anymore. Itโ€™s hard to wrap my mind around. First they were breathing, and then they werenโ€™t. It happened in a split second. I inhale shakily.

โ€œThink about that moment,โ€ the doctor instructs. โ€œWho can you see?โ€

I think on that. โ€œMelanie is next to me on the floor. Her head is bleeding into a pool. There is so much blood that it looks black.โ€ I close my eyes, because it had been the first time Iโ€™d seen blood like that, and it terrified me. โ€œJoe is on the bed. His blood is splattered all over the wall. Both of them have their eyes open.โ€

Staring at me.

The emotions welling up in me are like a wave, swelling, swelling, swellingโ€ฆuntil I canโ€™t handle it anymore. The horror and the guilt and the pain are just too much.

โ€œI canโ€™t do this,โ€ I blurt out. โ€œIโ€™m done for the day.โ€

Dr. Phillips looks at me, and heโ€™s calm and detached.

โ€œCorinne, why are you here?โ€

I pause. What a stupid question. โ€œYou know why Iโ€™m here.โ€

I hate it when they treat me with such condescension.

โ€œHumor me,โ€ he tells me. โ€œWhy are you here?โ€

I grit my teeth and look away.

He waits.

โ€œYouโ€™re saying that I tried to hurt myself. But I wouldnโ€™t do that.โ€

I look at him now, and heโ€™s so fucking emotionless. I look down at my left wrist, at the bandage covering up the stiches.

โ€œI wouldnโ€™t,โ€ I insist again. โ€œIโ€™m a fucking physician. I wouldnโ€™t have cut my wrist horizontally. If I really wanted to hurt myself, I wouldโ€™ve known to cut vertically along the vein.โ€

I finger the gauze. Beneath it, the cut throbs, evidence of something I donโ€™t remember doing.

โ€œIโ€™m not crazy,โ€ I add. And I donโ€™t know if Iโ€™m trying to convince Dr. Phillips, or myself.

โ€œYouโ€™re not crazy.โ€ He nods. โ€œBut youโ€™ve experienced a mental break. Youโ€™re here because you need to deal with the causal underlying issue so that it wonโ€™t happen again. Right?โ€

Heโ€™s a fucking asshole.

I stare at the wall. At the whiteness, at the sterility.

โ€œYou need some plants in here,โ€ I tell him, avoiding the question. โ€œGreenery puts patients at ease. All this blanknessโ€ฆitโ€™s maddening.โ€

โ€œIโ€™ll keep that in mind,โ€ he says wryly. โ€œCorinneโ€ฆโ€

I interrupt. โ€œDr. Cabot,โ€ I tell him. โ€œIโ€™ve earned it.โ€

โ€œDr. Cabot,โ€ he corrects himself. โ€œYouโ€™re right. Youโ€™ve earned it. You worked a long time to finish medical school and your residency. Youโ€™re a top ER physician. You have a life envied by everyone around you. Youโ€™ve got to take care of yourself, so you can protect this life youโ€™ve built.โ€

I close my eyes. Behind my eyelids, itโ€™s dark and safe. Itโ€™s black and warm.

โ€œProtect it from what?โ€ I whisper.

โ€œYou tell me,โ€ he answers. โ€œYouโ€™ve got something inside of you that is triggered now, something that creates panic and a fight-or-flight response. We know what your father did so long ago. What we donโ€™t know is whyโ€ฆor what damage it has caused in you, damage that seems to be affecting you now.โ€

โ€œI donโ€™t know either,โ€ I say helplessly, my eyes opening to the white walls again. โ€œI canโ€™t remember. I never could. You know that.โ€

โ€œI know.โ€ Dr. Phillips nods again, and he tries to be so fucking comforting. โ€œYou have a history of dissociative behavior. You blocked out what your father did so long ago, and it stands to reason that your brain has developed that as a defense mechanism. Itโ€™s doing it again now. If we donโ€™t get to the bottom of why your memories are being triggered now, after all of these yearsโ€ฆyouโ€™ll never have peace. Do we agree on that?โ€

Reluctantly, I nod.

โ€œSo we have to start at the beginning. You have to stay here and focus.โ€

Anger flares in me, red and hot, and I stare him down. He doesnโ€™t blink and neither do I.

โ€œFocus?โ€ I ask him, and my words are sharp and I wish they would cut him. โ€œYou think itโ€™s as simple as sitting down and focusing? How dare you sit there and tell me what to do, when you have no idea what itโ€™s like?โ€

I stand up to leave, but the psychiatristโ€™s next sentence holds me in my place, freezing me.

โ€œCorinne, you promised Jude youโ€™d try.โ€

Jude.

My beautiful, understanding Jude.

I swallow hard. I did promise. And I have to follow through, even though the pain it causes me is immeasurable. I owe it to him. Iโ€™ll do it for him. Not for this psychiatrist, but for Jude.

My body folds back into the seat, and I finger the medical bracelet circling my right wrist. Corinne Elizabeth Cabot, Female. Itโ€™s me, condensed into one stark sentence, yet Iโ€™m a stranger to myself right now. Thatโ€™s why Iโ€™m here. I donโ€™t know myself or my thoughts. My memories are foreign, blocked, nightmarish, out of control.

โ€œFine.โ€ Thereโ€™s nothing else I can say.

Dr. Phillips is quietly triumphant. โ€œLetโ€™s begin again. Take a deep breath and close your eyes.โ€

I do, drawing the cool air in a rush over my teeth, expanding my lungs and holding it, before I let it slowly exhale. I do it again, then again.

โ€œThink back to that night, Dr. Cabot. Stand in that room. Tell me where your father is.โ€

I envision it, I see it in my mind like it was yesterday. My father in his bloody steel-toed boots. โ€œHeโ€™s on the porch, waiting for the police to come.โ€

โ€œHe left you alone in the house with two dead bodies?โ€

โ€œYes.โ€

โ€œHe didnโ€™t try to run?โ€

โ€œNo.โ€

โ€œOkay. What did you do then?โ€ my doctor asks me calmly, unfazed by the ugliness of my story.

โ€œI was stunned. I think I was in shock. My hand was bleeding.โ€

Dr. Phillips looks at my hand, because Iโ€™m stroking the scar now, an unconscious nervous tic that I often do when Iโ€™m anxious. โ€œWhat happened to your hand?โ€

โ€œI donโ€™t remember.โ€

โ€œIs there a lot that you donโ€™t remember from that night?โ€

โ€œYes. You know that.โ€

โ€œYes, I do,โ€ he acknowledges. โ€œSo youโ€™re standing in the middle of a bloody crime scene because your father left you alone. What did you do then, Corinne?โ€

โ€œI looked out the window,โ€ I tell him. โ€œI was frozen. I couldnโ€™t move. My feet felt like concrete and I was afraid if I moved, my heart would explode. So I took deep breaths. I watched the trick-or-treaters walking by. I looked at the blood on my shoe. I looked at the jack-oโ€™-lanterns that were lit on porches, and the ghosts hanging in the trees. There was a full moon. There was light on my shoulders.โ€

โ€œAnything else?โ€

โ€œI stared at the street sign on the corner. All Hallows Lane.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s ironic,โ€ the doctor points out needlessly.

โ€œYes.โ€

โ€œHow long did you stand there?โ€ His question is quiet.

โ€œUntil they came and took me away.โ€

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