Day Sixteen: A Supernatural Thriller

By Tammie Painter

It's not paranoia if it's real.

• "If you want a thrilling read with some solid creepy elements, this book is for you!" --Jonathan Pongratz, author of Reaper
• '...the storyline had me on the edge of my seat -- really hard to put down. You need to read it!" --Bookbub Reviewer
• "...keeps the reader engaged wanting to see where this will lead. But still...not wanting it to end." --Bookbub Reviewer

At first, Moire's sleepwalking incidents don't faze her. She's never had them before, so surely they'll pass. 

 

When further troubling events and coincidences begin plaguing Moire's sleeping and waking world, her paranoia mounts. Paranoia her husband Neil insists is a clear sign that Moire needs help.

 

Moire struggles to get a grip, telling herself what she believes is too crazy to be true.

 

But when people close to her start disappearing, she realizes what's been happening is more disturbing than she could have ever imagined. And that she's in a fight for her mind and her body. 

 

If you're captivated by The X-Files and The Handmaid's Tale, if you enjoy peeling back the layers of an otherworldly mystery, or if you've ever doubted what you've been told is true, you'll find yourself gripped by Day Sixteen, a modern day thriller with light supernatural elements.

 

Grab your copy of Day Sixteen today to discover what happens when everything they told you was crazy, turns out to be true.

 

Note on trigger warnings: This book doesn't have explicit sex scenes, but there is mention of forced sex. There is also a small amount of cursing and talk of abortion. If you feel any of this will upset or offend you, this may not be the book for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tammie Painter
• Release date: May 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215007181

Tammie Painter

Short Version:  I turn wickedly strong tea into historical fantasy fiction in which the gods, heroes, and myths of Ancient Greece come to life as you've never seen them before. When I'm not creating worlds or killing off characters, I wrangle honeybees to add a little adventure into my non-writing life.  Long Version:  Tammie Painter grew up in the creative world of Portland, Oregon, and she continues to call the City of Roses home. Although she spent years working as a chemist in a behavioral neuroscience research lab, she could never quite tame her passion for writing. Tammie has a knack for delving into and bringing life to history and mythology in her novels. Her fascination for myths, history, and how they interweave inspired the Osteria Chronicles series.  The current titles in the six-book series include *The Trials of Hercules *The Voyage *The Maze *The Bonds of Osteria (coming soon) When she isn't (but probably should be) writing, Tammie can be found digging in her garden, planning her next travel adventure, creating art, or persuading her hive of backyard bees to share some of their honey with her. Find out more about Tammie on her website at TammiePainter.com

Book preview

Day Sixteen

A Supernatural Thriller

by

Tammie Painter

EARLY PRAISE FOR DAY SIXTEEN

...the storyline had me on the edge of my seat -- really hard to put down. You need to read it!

--Bookbub Reviewer

If you want a thrilling read with some solid creepy moments along the way, this book is for you!

—Jonathan Pongratz, Author of The BEK Curse

...keeps the reader engaged wanting to see where this will lead. But still...not wanting it to end.

--Bookbub Reviewer

If you're a fan of creepy books with a bit of a paranormal twist, you'll enjoy this!

--T.M. Baumgartner, author of The Chaos Job

A Note Before We Begin...

While the main goal of this story is to tell an intriguing tale, it does cover some sensitive topics, such as abortion and the description of a violent attack.

In addition, it covers a woman fretting over her mental state, and as she does so, she uses words that would be considered extremely insensitive, words that perpetuate the stigma of mental health when used in the real world.

These terms (such as crazy, loony, nuts) are used by the character as her way of coping with what is happening to her, first as a way of being flippant, then as a way of being defiant.

When speaking about mental health, these are problematic terms, and are only used here to demonstrate a character’s reaction and fears.

Mental health is a serious issue that is often difficult to discuss. If you are experiencing a mental health crisis, or simply need to talk through your troubles, here are a few websites that will help guide you to someone you can speak to...

The National Alliance on Mental Health https://www.nami.org/help

The American Psychological Association Hotlines & Resources https://www.apa.org/topics/crisis-hotlines

NHS (UK) Where to get help for mental health https://www.nhs.uk/nhs-services/mental-health-services/where-to-get-urgent-help-for-mental-health/

International Mental Health Helplines (large list of countries and specific issues) https://www.helpguide.org/find-help.htm

Mind Your Mind (Canada) https://mindyourmind.ca/help/where-call

Lifeline (Australia) https://www.lifeline.org.au

Mental Health Foundation (New Zealand) https://mentalhealth.org.nz/help

Mental Health Ireland Helplines https://www.mentalhealthireland.ie/get-support/

DAY

SIXTEEN

To anyone who ever got the chills while watching the X-Files.

PROLOGUE - THE TEST

SHE EYED THE empty glass as he lowered it to the table.

The wet mark where his mouth met the rim. Would it be enough?

Moire Anders stood up from the table, taking her half-finished lunch to the sink. Food held little appeal with the thoughts running laps through her mind — the thoughts they’d told her not to think anymore.

Should she take the risk? She could leave well enough alone, ignore the warnings in her head, and live as she had done for the past several years. Safely. Freely.

You aren’t safe, and you most definitely aren’t free.

She didn’t want to be taken back to the Ward, but neither could she deny the certainty of what was going on, of what had been done to her. If she could prove it, though…

Then what? Who would believe her? There were times she didn’t believe it herself.

Done with this? she asked, placing her hand well below the lip shadow at the rim of the glass with as much care as if preparing to pick up an injured fledgling.

Neil flicked his gaze from the newspaper to the tumbler, gave a sharp nod of his head, then returned his attention to his reading.

The glass shook as Moire lifted it from the table. She told herself it was stupid to be nervous. He drank a glass of water with every meal. She’d have plenty of chances to do this. But, she reminded herself, not many when Xavier would be sound asleep instead of under her feet asking what she was doing and why she was doing it with every movement.

No, it had to be this lunch, this glass.

Her and Xavier’s samples waited in the envelope for Neil’s to join them. She only needed to swab the rim, seal up the packet, then mail off the paternity test kit.

Angled to keep Neil in her field of vision, tensed and ready to toss the test swab under a kitchen towel if he got up, Moire’s hands trembled. She should drop this madness. It wasn’t too late. Just toss the kit into the trash and move on with her life.

No, Moire. The swab. Just hold the swab, swirl the cotton tip over the saliva on the glass. You deserve to—

Neil flicked his newspaper to straighten it. Moire bit her lip to stop herself from crying out in fright at the unexpected crinkling snap that blared like an alarm through the kitchen.

She darted a glance at her husband. Still seated. Still reading. The swab quivered in her hand.

I can’t do this. I can’t. Just pack up the kit and toss it in the trash. Don’t ask questions if you can’t handle all possible answers.

Moire then remembered her sister. She remembered where they had been confined for five months.

And who had signed the papers to put them there.

The anger stirred by the memory steadied her hands.

1 - THE FIRST TIME

FOUR YEARS PREVIOUS

The first time Moire woke in Portland’s Westmoreland Park, her name was still Moire Kelly and she had been living with her boyfriend Neil Anders for three months. It had happened the night the argument over whose turn it was to do the dishes had gotten stupidly out of hand.

The final angry words that came an hour after the bickering began, had nothing to do with dishes and more to do with Neil’s working hours, the lack of spontaneity in their love life, and, well, Moire couldn’t even recall what else. It was as if the dishes had been a hydra of disharmony, with seven new squabbles sprouting for each complaint that was chopped away.

Too angry to stay in the same room with Neil, at half-past eight, Moire marched up to their bedroom where she planned to have a pleasantly grumpy sulk. She expected her mind to dwell on the harsh words they’d just hurled at each other. Okay, if she was being honest, it had mostly been her doing the hurling while Neil gently lobbed rational responses back at her like a worn out tennis ball.

Unspoken questions roared at Moire as she scoured the toothbrush against her teeth. Mainly questions of whether Neil might be right. Could it really be her own insecurity that was behind the majority of their disagreements? That was ridiculous. He was the one who didn’t want to do the dishes when it had clearly been his turn.

As she undressed and settled in under the cool sheets, the sound of dishes being put away came from downstairs. Neil’s words kicked around her head. She loved him, of course she did. He was kind, smart, and stable. And, she always teased, he had the best table manners of any man she’d ever met.

Fine, maybe it had been her turn to do the dishes, but that didn’t explain why he showed so little interest in doing anything between the very sheets that had already warmed around her.

They’d been together for two years and, mainly due to his work hours and research projects, had slipped into a Thursday night ritual. Thursday at nine. Like a television program. Moire could probably set her watch to the moment he would place his clumsy kiss on her cheek and ask her if she was ready for bed. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was something wrong with him, but whenever she asked him about it he would say, with a good amount of sincerity, that it had nothing to do with her. He simply didn’t think that much about sex.

What man doesn’t constantly think about it? Moire pondered as she squirmed to get the pillow just right under her head.

Especially a man who’s a fertility doctor and researcher. Shouldn’t he be thinking about it a billion times more than other people?

She supposed it was a petty problem. One that wasn’t worth fighting about. Neil was a great guy in every other aspect, and she couldn’t imagine not being with him. As long as she kept the batteries charged for the personal item she kept stashed in her underwear drawer, she could accept the weekly arrangement. Accepting the situation, however, didn’t stop her from wondering if Neil wasn’t in some way dissatisfied with her.

These worries had roamed around Moire’s head, but like Neil puttering around downstairs, they didn’t stomp, stampede, or stir up enough of a ruckus to keep her awake. By a quarter past nine, she’d fallen asleep.

When she stirred some time in the night, her feet were freezing. Groggily, she shifted her legs, trying to kick the blanket back over her toes, but her shuffling feet found no blanket. Had it fallen off the bed? Or had Neil taken it off? He never liked the bed to be too warm.

Stirring more into the realm of consciousness, Moire noticed a tickle of wind brushing over her face. Neil must have opened the window. Her damn feet. They were so cold. She’d have to get up and get the blanket. And maybe some socks while she was at it.

Deciding her sleep had been fully disturbed, Moire opened her eyes. Wait, why was she standing? Why was she looking at maple trees and a basketball court instead of her dresser and floor lamp? She curled her toes. They pinched the wet grass she stood on.

She knew she should have been scared, or at least trying to convince herself it was just a dream. But would there be a garbage can nearly overflowing with McDonald’s wrappers and Starbucks cups in a dream? Probably not.

Moire was now fully awake, and rather than being afraid, she was mostly in awe that she’d had the foresight to put on a robe before she went sleepwalking. What if she hadn’t? What would Mr. Byrd, the old fart who lived across the street from them, think?

The image of the geezer’s shocked face was too funny to allow Moire to fret over her sudden desire to go roaming around in her sleep. After all, she’d never done it before. Surely it wouldn’t happen again.

Moire walked home on numb feet, mumbling an array of curses each time she stepped on a pebble. The front door was locked when she returned to the house, but the side gate stood open. Slipping into the back garden, she crossed the patio.

When she tugged on the sliding glass door, it opened with a swish that sounded as loud as a stormy ocean. The stick that was normally put in place as an extra security measure had been set aside. Again, she marveled at her nocturnal lucidity without remembering any of it. After tiptoeing upstairs, she wiped off her feet in the bathroom as Neil snored softly. That man could sleep through anything.

——-

Neil had already left to start his clinic hours by the time Moire’s alarm went off, so they hadn’t been able to mend things between them before Moire climbed onto her bike to ride to work.

Although she needed to file a stack of student records from the previous semester, Moire sat at her desk and did an Internet search for sleepwalking. After closing out a dozen pop-up ads for sleep aids and foam pillows, she finally found a reliable medical website that addressed the condition by saying an episode could be induced by stress, whether or not the patient had a history of somnambulism.

There you have it, she thought. It was just the argument. Nothing to worry about. She swore to do more relaxation exercises, to try to tame her temper, and not to bother Neil with what had happened to her the night before.

The night before. Guilt flooded over Moire. She’d given Neil the wicked witch of tongue lashings. A crappy way to behave when she knew he was already dealing with a disgruntled and increasingly impatient research committee.

She considered crossing from her office in the neuroscience department to Neil’s clinic on the other side of the medical school’s campus to see how he was doing, but not knowing how she’d be received (and not wanting the catty guy who worked in the clinic’s reception area to pick up on the trouble-in-paradise vibe), Moire opted to text Neil and ask if he wanted to meet for lunch.

His reply came in record speed.

Not a lot of time. Got to go to research meeting @ 12:30 can’t be late — bigwigs attending — but glad to meet if U can eat quickly. CU there. XO

Another meeting with the higher ups. Moire rolled her eyes. What more did they expect Neil to do? In addition to his clinic hours, he was already devoting most of his waking time to this research.

She hated the project, not only because Neil was frustrated that it wasn’t progressing, but also because she felt left out of what was going on. Due to patient privacy, Neil couldn’t share details with her, but from his cautiously worded complaints and the brief snatches of telephone conversations she’d caught, she gathered these browbeating bigwigs expected results faster than Neil’s team could possibly deliver them.

——-

This project just seems a little overboard, Moire said when she and Neil stood in the cafeteria line a couple hours later. Sheepish apologies had been made and accepted, and Neil had mentioned again it would be a rushed lunch. You’ve never had to work this hard, and I don’t get what more they expect from you. I don’t know, maybe it’s just because I never wanted kids, but I just don’t get all of this. I mean, if you can’t have kids, why not just adopt? Why put yourself through all the stress and cost of fertility treatment?

Because adoption doesn’t pay our mortgage. Moire’s heart jumped at the word our. Silly, she knew. She was financially independent, and she’d owned her own home when she met Neil. But that our…it gave her a true sense that all would be right between them. Neil grabbed an orange from the bowl of fruit on the counter as they waited to pay for their orders.

Still, I do try to make sure bringing a child into their lives is what they want, he continued once they’d found a table. Neil positioned himself so he could keep an eye on the clock.

That probably doesn’t go over well with the higher ups.

Neil shrugged as he took a sip of water, then said, I don’t exactly tell them about that part of the consultation. So many people have kids for the wrong reason. I’ve seen too many clients trying to save a bad marriage by having a child, as if an infant will distract from the fact that they just aren’t compatible. I’ve fought back telling a few of them that, instead of a fertility doctor, maybe they need a marriage counselor. Or a divorce lawyer.

So why not just tell them the truth?

Because no one wants to hear their marriage should end.

No, they’d rather force their terrible relationship on a kid, Moire said, then took a bite of her black bean burger. Neil nodded and stole one of her fries.

Believe me, I’ve seen exactly that when we’ve done follow-up studies on some clients. Not all, of course, but some pretend all is well, tiptoe around one another, and end up in a competition over who can dote on Junior more. All the while failing to realize that by age twelve or so, Junior is going to be a spoiled rotten brat who doesn’t want attention from either of them because his friends are way more fun than the two people who smother him instead of speaking to each other.

Harboring some feelings you want to talk about, Neil? Moire teased.

No, I wish.

Oh, god, I’m such a jerk.

No, don’t worry about it. I was too young when my parents died for me to really miss them. I just mean that I wish I could have been around my parents as a teenager. Then I’d remember what it’s like, and I could warn these people what they’re in for. Neil glanced at the clock as he started in on the second half of his veggie wrap. So, what’s it like?

What’s what like?

Being a teenager around your parents.

Oh, come on, I know for a fact you had to be around adults at that age.

Hadn’t he? Neil told her early on in their relationship that he’d been sent off to some type of boarding school, rarely coming home to the people who had taken charge of his care when his parents had been killed in an auto accident. Moire still didn’t quite understand who these people had been. Distant relatives? Foster parents? Neil had only said he spent little time with them. The school had essentially been his home.

The only adults were teachers and janitors. Neil paused, a grin warmed his angular face. Who we tormented, now that I think of it.

You? A trouble maker?

Oh sure. Stupid pranks. Back talk. Misbehaving.

A true rebel, Moire chided. Still, that’s pretty much how it would have been if you’d grown up with your parents. You’d have fits of explosive emotion. You’d demand your independence, and at the same time, you’d pester them to drive you everywhere you needed to go. Oh, and the absolute worst is when they’d insist on doing things with you. I mean, being caught in public with a parent? Pretty much a social death sentence.

Can I quote you on that? I think it might work nicely in a frame on the clinic’s wall. Neil’s eyes went again to the clock. The smile fell from his face.

This research, Moire said, placing her hand on his, you seem so beat down by it. Can’t you just say you don’t want to do it? The clinic must make plenty of money for the hospital as it is.

It’s more than the money. It’s kind of a prestige thing and the person running it wants to push it faster than I feel we should. I just don’t think we’ll get good results if we rush it. The study subject we have…

Neil’s words trailed off. A sudden cramp clawed against Moire’s pelvic area. Neil missed her grimace as he placed their empty plates and cups on his tray, carefully separating and arranging the garbage, the recycling, and the items for the dishwasher. The cramp passed just as quickly as it came.

Even so, when Neil returned his attention to her, concern darkened his face. You okay? You look a little pale. He placed the back of his hand to her forehead.

Just gas. She pointed at her empty dish. Beans, beans, the magical fruit, and all that. But you should tell them what you just said, about the rushing. Is anyone else doing the same study who could help? she asked as she walked with Neil over to the dirty dish station.

No, I doubt anyone has even imagined what we’re doing. Plus, I’m under the impression the person behind the study has pressures himself.

So it’s like a chain letter of stress? Moire joked.

Pretty much. Look, I’ve got to go. You’re sure you’re okay?

Right as rain. Now, get to your meeting. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. And give ‘em hell, she called out as he strode away.

2 - THE QUESTION

ONE MONTH LATER

The second time Moire woke in Westmoreland Park threw her into a state of near panic. There’d been no slow stirring this time. Just as if she’d dreamt about falling out of bed, her body jerked and her mind snapped alert, sending her heart pounding. A wave of dizziness hit her. She squatted down on her haunches, dropped her face into her hands, and cried.

Stress. It was only supposed to be a one-time incident caused by stress. She and Neil hadn’t argued. In fact, they’d spent a cozy evening watching a comedy. Work was simple to the point of boredom now that the onslaught of new grad students had wrapped up a couple weeks ago. There was nothing to be stressed about and no reason for her to sleepwalk if stress was indeed the cause.

Taking in the trees with their nearly-bare branches, the basketball court, the eerily-still playground, she feared not only for her mental state, but her physical one as well. It was now October, and while Portland’s daytime temperatures were still fairly mild, the first frost had arrived, covering windshields, jack-o’-lanterns, and rooftops with glittering crystals. As with the first time, Moire was barefoot, but this time the ice-crusted grass bit into her toes with every step as she crossed the park.

What if this happened when it got even colder? What if she got frostbite? Hell, what if she wandered into the street and got hit by a car? What if, what if, what if paraded through her head. There were plenty of scary things that could happen to a person — specifically to a woman — at night. Especially one stalking around with no coherence and no pants. Frostbite should have been the least of her worries, but she despised being cold and it blocked out other, more worrisome fears.

Moire stumbled home on frozen feet, sobbing with self-pity at each step. Once through the sliding door, she washed her feet under the kitchen sink’s hot water tap, her toes raging as the blood flow returned. She refused to go back to bed for fear of where she might wake up.

——-

What are you doing up already? Neil asked when he came down to the kitchen at six the next morning.

I couldn’t sleep. The exhaustion took hold, and tears welled up in Moire’s eyes.

Neil stepped over and pulled her into a hug. Oh, sweetie, what’s the matter?

Moire hadn’t told Neil about the first time, and she’d considered not telling him about this latest episode. She cringed at the word. It was how that medical site had termed it. Episode. Clinical. Impersonal. Distant. To her ears episode sounded like something that should be preceded by psychotic. She didn’t want to admit something might be wrong with her. But Neil was a doctor. He should have been the first person she went to for advice, not some stupid website.

I’ve been sleepwalking. Neil jerked and involuntarily tensed his arms. Already overly sensitive from fatigue, Moire took it to be him holding back a laugh. She pushed out of his embrace, failing to notice there was no hint of a smile on his face. It’s not funny. It’s only the second time, but it scares me. I thought you’d understand.

I do, and I’m sure it does.

Desperate for reassurance, for information, Moire blurted, Do you know anything about it? Like what causes it?

Neil’s eyes darted away and he rubbed at the back of his neck before saying, I know you don’t want to hear this, but maybe you’re taking too much exercise.

Moire rolled her eyes and flicked on the electric kettle. She needed caffeine at least forty-five minutes ago.

You say that about anything that happens to me. I get a cold. Too much exercise. I have a stomachache. Too much exercise.

Well, you are on the bike six days a week. Then there’s the running and the pilates classes several days a week. You’re getting over two hours of intense exercise a day.

Exactly. I should be sleeping like a baby.

I’m just saying that maybe your body is so used to being active, perhaps it can’t fully shut down at night. He eyed the canister of coffee in her hand. There’s also that.

Moire defiantly scooped a heaping tablespoon of dark roast into the French press, annoyed at how damn logical Neil could be at such an early hour. She did have a habit of drinking coffee well past sunset. So you don’t think it could be stress?

He brushed her hair out of her eyes and held her again.

Now, what would you have to be stressed about?

I don’t know, maybe the arguing.

Which is perfectly normal. But which of us is going to do the dishes or sweep the driveway isn’t anything to stress yourself over.

I know. It’s just we never fought before we moved in together, and work has been beyond dull, so I thought maybe the two added together might be making my mind a muddle.

Well, he said, a nervous wobble in his voice Moire had never heard before. He cleared his throat, held her out to arm’s length, then dropped his hands to hold hers while looking directly into her eyes. Once we’re married, you don’t have to work. If you don’t want to. Or, I mean, you can work, I’m not saying…

Moire stared at him, understanding the words but unable to come up with a response to his rambling. Neil stopped babbling, looked away, and slipped his hands into the pockets of his robe.

Um, Moire, I— He fumbled with something in his left pocket, his cheeks flaring to nearly the same color as the French press’s red top. I just kind of asked you to marry me.

Yeah, I guess you did. A laugh escaped Moire’s lips. But damn, Neil, it wasn’t very romantic. It wasn’t even a question.

Sorry, I know. I just, I’ve been thinking about it. I was going to take you out to dinner tonight. You know, that Indian place you like so much. And then I was thinking of having the ring placed between the slices of naan, but, well, I guess I ruined it. He dug deeper into his robe’s pocket, then fished out a slim gold band with a single diamond in it. He reached for her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

Moire held out her hand, smiling more at Neil’s bungled proposal than the gleam of the jewel. The kettle clicked off as the water boiled, but she didn’t notice.

Well? he asked.

Well, what? You haven’t asked me anything, she teased and got far too much enjoyment out of Neil’s face turning even redder with embarrassment. Then a cramp struck her lower belly. The shock of pain left as quickly as it had come, and she was glad Neil had missed her grimace. He’d been too busy going down on one knee.

Moire Kelly, he said, looking up and taking her hand, will you marry me?

She sighed, pretending she wasn’t really sure, pretending she needed to mull it over until it looked like Neil might burst.

Okay, sure. Why not?

Neil let out the breath he’d been holding.

We still get to go to the Indian place, right? Moire asked as she poured the hot water into the press. Did the coffee smell fresher this morning? Was that fall sunrise just a little brighter? She couldn’t stop grinning. The sleepwalking, the cramp, anything negative skipped off to the back of her mind.

Anything for my fiancée. He kissed the back of her neck, sending goosebumps down her arms as she poured two cups of the black brew.

Are you serious about me not working?

It’s up to you. You could leave now, if you like. Take some time off, then decide if there’s something you’d rather do. Or not. We’ve got more than enough money, so a single salary would be no hardship for us.

No, she thought to herself, it wouldn’t. Neil brought in more than she could make in three years at her paper-pushing job in the neuroscience office. And while she liked the students, the research atmosphere, and many of the people in her building, she could barely stand her job. The beginning of each semester brought a few enjoyable weeks with a flurry of activities, meet-and-greets, and records processing; but this was followed by two long months of Angry Birds, Buzzfeed articles, and personality quizzes just for something to do for eight hours a day.

She’d always cringed at the thought of having the title of Housewife, but she imagined putting a real meal on the table instead of a frozen lasagna might be a hundred times more fulfilling than shuffling papers from one side of her desk to the other.

Moire suddenly couldn’t wait to tell her boss (the King of Dull, she’d christened him) to find someone else to keep her chair warm. She again admired