The Evaluation
Dr. Sterling sat across from Iris on the metal bench, her posture relaxed, her hands folded in her lap. She was younger than Iris had expected — maybe late thirties — with sharp cheekbones and eyes that seemed to see more than they should. She didn’t carry a notebook or a recorder. She just watched.
“What do you want to know?” Iris asked again.
Dr. Sterling smiled. It was a gentle smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I want to know about the white room.”
Iris’s blood went cold.
“How do you know about the white room?”
“Detective Walsh found your journal. The one you’ve been writing in for years. You describe it in detail. A white room. Endless light. No doors. No windows. A voice that speaks to you.”
Iris shook her head. “That’s not my journal. I’ve never written in a journal.”
“The handwriting matched yours. Forensics confirmed it.”
“It’s not mine.”
“Then who wrote it?”
Iris opened her mouth to answer. But the voice was there, clawing at the edges of her thoughts, trying to push through.
Don’t tell her.
Why not?
Because she’s not what she seems.
Who is she?
She’s one of us.
Iris’s heart pounded.
“What did you say?” she asked.
Dr. Sterling tilted her head. “I didn’t say anything. I was waiting for you to answer.”
Iris looked at the woman’s face. Her smile. Her eyes. There was something familiar about her — something Iris couldn’t place.
“Have we met before?” Iris asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“You look familiar.”
“I get that a lot.”
Iris studied her. The way she held herself. The way she spoke. The way she watched.
She’s lying, the voice whispered.
About what?
About everything.
“Dr. Sterling,” Iris said, “where did you go to medical school?”
The woman’s smile flickered.
“Harvard.”
“What year did you graduate?”
“2008.”
“What was your dissertation on?”
The smile faded.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Indulge me.”
Dr. Sterling leaned back. Her eyes were cold now.
“Trauma-induced dissociative identity disorder. The fragmentation of the self in response to extreme stress.”
Iris nodded. “Interesting. Because I looked you up. While I was in the holding cell. There’s no record of a Dr. Sterling working for the police department. No record of a Dr. Sterling in any hospital in the state. No record of a Dr. Sterling at all.”
The woman’s expression didn’t change.
“Who are you?” Iris whispered.
The lights flickered.
The door to the cell slammed shut.
Dr. Sterling stood up. Her posture changed — shoulders back, chin raised, eyes blazing.
“I’m the one who’s been with you since the beginning,” she said. Her voice was different now. Deeper. Older. Familiar.
“I’m the one who locked you in the basement.”
Iris’s blood ran cold.
“I’m the one who watched you cry.”
The woman’s face began to shift — features melting, reforming. The dark hair lightened. The sharp cheekbones softened. The eyes darkened.
“I’m the one who killed those twelve people.”
The woman was no longer a stranger.
She was Iris’s father.
Iris screamed.
The sound echoed off the concrete walls, bounced down the hallway, faded into nothing.
Her father stood before her — the same face she had seen in old photographs, the same eyes she had seen in nightmares, the same hands that had locked her in the basement and left her in the dark.
“Hello, Iris,” he said. “Did you miss me?”
“You’re dead. I killed you.”
“You tried. But you only killed the body. The rest of me has been here all along. Inside you. Waiting.”
“No.”
“Yes. Every time you blacked out, it was me. Every time you woke up with blood on your hands, it was me. Every time you heard a voice in your head, it was me.”
Iris pressed herself against the wall.
“Why? Why are you doing this?”
Her father stepped closer.
“Because you took everything from me. My life. My freedom. My future. So I took yours.”
The lights flickered again.
The cell was gone.
They were in the white room.
Endless light. Heavy silence. No doors. No windows.
Her father stood in the center, smiling.
“This is where I live now,” he said. “Inside your head. Inside your nightmares. Inside the space you can never escape.”
“I can escape.”
“How?”
“I can wake up.”
“You’re already awake.”
“I can tell someone.”
“Who will believe you?”
Iris looked at her hands. Clean. No blood. No dirt. No evidence.
“You’re not real,” she said. “You’re a hallucination. A manifestation of my trauma. You’re not my father. My father is dead.”
Her father laughed.
“Am I? Then why can you see me? Why can you hear me? Why can you feel my hands on your throat?”
Iris’s breath caught.
She couldn’t feel his hands.
But she could feel something.
Cold. Tight. Squeezing.
She gasped.
She was in the cell again.
Dr. Sterling was kneeling beside her, her hand on Iris’s shoulder, her face concerned.
“Iris? Iris, can you hear me? You were screaming. I had to restrain you.”
Iris looked at the woman’s face. Normal. Human. No shifting features. No melting skin.
“Who are you?” Iris whispered.
“My name is Dr. Sterling. I’m a psychiatrist. I’m here to help you.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Prove it.”
Dr. Sterling reached into her pocket and pulled out a badge. A real badge. With her name. Her photo. Her credentials.
“Iris, I know you’re scared. I know you’re confused. But I need you to trust me.”
“I can’t trust anyone.”
“You can trust me.”
“Why?”
Dr. Sterling leaned closer.
“Because I’ve been where you are. I’ve heard the voice. I’ve seen the white room. I’ve felt the thing inside me trying to take over.”
Iris stared at her.
“How?”
“Because the thing inside you — it’s not just in you. It’s in me too. It’s in all of us. The children of the basement. The survivors of the dark.”