Chapter 3 The Specimen Lover

# Chapter 3: The Specimen Lover

Andrea had always been a light sleeper, but in recent weeks she had perfected the art of appearing deeply asleep while remaining acutely aware of her surroundings. Tonight, she counted the minutes in her head—one thousand eight hundred seconds after Leland's breathing had deepened into the steady rhythm of true sleep—before carefully extracting herself from his embrace.

The hardwood floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she slipped from the bedroom. She had studied the apartment's layout meticulously, memorizing which floorboards creaked, which hinges needed oil. Tonight's exploration required more than casual snooping; she needed to appear as someone who wasn't fully conscious of her actions.

Andrea had noticed how Carl watched her with particular interest whenever she mentioned her occasional episodes of sleepwalking—a childhood habit that had mostly subsided in adulthood. The way his eyes had lit up at this information suggested a peculiar fascination, one she could potentially exploit.

She shuffled her feet slightly as she moved down the hallway, keeping her gaze unfocused, her movements fluid but purposeless. The large picture windows along the corridor revealed the Boston skyline, city lights glimmering against the night sky. Three a.m.—the hour when the building was at its quietest, when even the most dedicated insomniacs had surrendered to sleep.

Andrea heard the soft click of a door—Carl's bedroom—and forced herself to maintain her shambling pace, her vacant expression. From her peripheral vision, she detected movement: Carl emerging into the hallway, watching her with undisguised interest. He made no move to wake her or guide her back to bed, instead following at a careful distance, observing her somnambulant journey.

Perfect.

She wandered toward the kitchen, then veered suddenly toward a door she had never seen opened—the entrance to the basement level of the penthouse duplex. It was always locked, with Leland explaining it away as storage for seasonal items and old furniture. Yet she had noticed Carl disappearing through this door at odd hours, always with a key that he kept separate from his main ring.

Andrea fumbled at the handle in a convincingly sleepy manner, making small sounds of confusion when it wouldn't open. Behind her, Carl remained silent, watching. She turned, still maintaining her unfocused gaze, and shuffled past him toward the living room.

As she'd hoped, curiosity overrode caution. Carl retreated to his room, emerging moments later with the key. He approached the basement door, unlocked it, and descended, leaving it ajar—perhaps assuming her sleepwalking self would follow more interesting stimuli elsewhere in the apartment.

Andrea waited until the sound of his footsteps had faded before approaching the door. Heart hammering against her ribs, she eased it open further and peered down the staircase. A faint blue light illuminated the steps from below, and the air that drifted up carried an unmistakable chemical odor—formaldehyde and other preservatives, reminiscent of the conservation labs at the museum where she worked.

Gathering her courage, Andrea descended the stairs, careful to avoid the center of each step where creaking was most likely. The stairwell curved, revealing more of the basement with each cautious step. At the bottom, she paused, listening. The sound of water circulating through filters, the low hum of refrigeration units, and beneath it all, Carl's voice—a soft murmur, as if he were speaking to someone.

The basement had been completely transformed from its original purpose. What had likely been a storage area was now a laboratory of sorts, with gleaming stainless steel tables, specialized lighting, and equipment Andrea recognized from museum conservation departments. But the purpose here was clearly not art restoration.

Glass containers lined the walls, ranging from small specimen jars to human-sized tanks. Each was meticulously labeled and illuminated from within, creating the blue glow that permeated the space. Andrea moved closer to the nearest shelf, then froze in horror at what she saw.

Inside a medium-sized jar, suspended in clear liquid, was what appeared to be a perfect replica of her hand, down to the small scar on her index finger from a childhood accident. Next to it, a similar jar contained a recreation of her ear, the delicate curve of the lobe exact in every detail.

She bit back a gasp, forcing herself to continue her examination. Each shelf held more unsettling contents—parts of what could have been a mannequin, except the attention to detail was far beyond any display figure she had ever encountered. The skin texture, the coloration, even tiny imperfections were reproduced with disturbing accuracy.

And then she saw the clothes.

A separate section of the room housed what looked like a costume department—racks of clothing she recognized as her own. The blue cashmere sweater she'd "accidentally" left at a restaurant. The white silk blouse that had "disappeared" at the dry cleaner's. Each item she had written off as lost was here, preserved and displayed like artifacts.

Andrea's attention was drawn to Carl's voice again, coming from behind a partially closed door at the far end of the room. Steeling herself, she crept closer, peering through the gap.

What she saw defied immediate comprehension. The inner room was dominated by a large tank, similar to those used in mortuaries for embalming. Inside, partially visible, was a form that appeared human in size and shape. Carl stood beside it, one hand resting on the edge of the tank, speaking in low, affectionate tones.

"She's becoming more curious," he was saying. "Just as you predicted. Her mind is exceptional—she senses something isn't right, but can't quite piece it together." A pause, as if waiting for a response that wouldn't come. "Don't worry. Everything is proceeding according to schedule. The wedding will happen exactly as we planned."

Andrea leaned forward, trying to see more clearly into the tank, when her foot struck a small metal tray. The resulting clatter seemed deafening in the quiet room.

Carl's head snapped up, his expression shifting from tender to alert in an instant. "Hello? Is someone there?"

Andrea backed away rapidly, searching for a place to hide. The room offered little concealment, but a large cabinet stood nearby, its door slightly ajar. She slipped inside just as Carl emerged from the inner room, his footsteps deliberate as he scanned the laboratory.

"Andrea?" he called, his voice unnervingly calm. "Are you down here, sleepwalking again? You shouldn't be in this area. It's not safe for someone in your condition."

From her hiding place, Andrea could see through a narrow gap as Carl methodically checked each aisle. He moved with the confidence of someone in their natural habitat, completely at ease among the preserved specimens and chemical equipment.

"If you're hiding, there's no need," he continued, his tone shifting to something almost playful. "I'm not angry. In fact, I'm impressed by your curiosity. It's one of the qualities he loves most about you. One of the qualities I've come to appreciate as well."

Andrea held her breath as Carl passed directly in front of the cabinet, his shadow momentarily blocking the light from the gap. He paused, as if sensing her presence, then continued on. She waited until his footsteps retreated up the stairs before slowly pushing the cabinet door open.

With Carl temporarily gone, this might be her only chance to discover what was in that tank. Moving as quickly as she dared, Andrea approached the inner room once more.

The tank was larger than she'd initially thought, its contents obscured by a cloudy preservation fluid. As she drew closer, details became clearer—a human form, male, nude but partially covered by a white sheet floating in the liquid. The face was turned away, but the build, the height, the dark hair...

With trembling fingers, Andrea reached for a long metal instrument resting beside the tank—something like a shepherd's crook, clearly designed for manipulating objects in the fluid without direct contact. She carefully hooked the sheet, drawing it back to reveal more of the figure.

The body appeared remarkably lifelike, preserved with extraordinary skill. As she maneuvered the instrument to turn the head, a wave of dizziness washed over her. She already knew what—who—she would see, but the confirmation was still devastating.

Leland's face, peaceful as if in sleep, stared up through the preservation fluid. His hair drifted slightly with the movement of the liquid, giving a grotesque illusion of life. But the stillness, the unnatural pallor of his skin, left no doubt: this was not a living person.

A sheet of paper floated to the surface of the tank, having been dislodged by her manipulation of the body. Andrea fished it out carefully, trying to minimize the dripping as she examined what appeared to be a medical document. Much of the text was blurred by the fluid, but the letterhead was clear—Boston Memorial Hospital—and a few phrases remained legible: "terminal diagnosis," "progressive deterioration," "estimated six months."

The paper slipped from Andrea's numb fingers, falling to the floor with a wet slap. Her mind raced, trying to process what she was seeing. Leland—or someone who looked exactly like him—was preserved in this tank, while upstairs, a man who claimed to be Leland slept in their bed. The implications were too horrific to fully comprehend.

As she backed away from the tank, her gaze fell on a large refrigeration unit against the wall, its digital display showing a temperature well below freezing. Unlike the specimen containers and preservation tanks, this appeared to be a medical-grade freezer, the kind used for storing biological materials.

Drawn by a terrible curiosity, Andrea approached the unit. A small viewing window in the top allowed her to see inside without opening the door. What she saw made her knees buckle.

Another Leland—or perhaps the real Leland—lay inside, this one dressed in a perfect recreation of the tuxedo he had designed for their wedding. His hands were arranged carefully over his chest, a peaceful expression on his face. Unlike the specimen in the tank, this body appeared to be preserved by freezing rather than chemical means.

And on his left hand, clearly visible even through the frosted glass, was her engagement ring—the unique vintage piece with three diamonds that had belonged to Leland's grandmother. The ring she had supposedly lost while swimming at the Montgomery summer home two months ago, leading to a tearful apology and Leland's reassurance that it could be replaced.

Andrea stumbled back, a scream building in her throat that she barely managed to suppress. As she turned to flee, her eye caught a small detail that transformed her horror into something even more profound—a label affixed to the side of the freezer, handwritten in Carl's precise script: "Best Man's Exclusive Seat."

The methodical nature of it all, the careful planning and attention to detail, suggested this was no recent development, no spontaneous madness. This had been orchestrated over months, perhaps longer. And if the Leland upstairs wasn't Leland at all, but Carl playing a role he'd prepared for meticulously...

Andrea's gaze swept across the laboratory, taking in the specimens, the clothes, the detailed notes attached to each item. The wall calendar caught her attention—every day marked with her activities, her locations, her habits. Today's date had a simple notation: "3 AM—Sleepwalking episode expected. Basement introduction."

He had anticipated her coming here tonight. Had perhaps engineered circumstances to ensure it would happen. But why? What possible purpose could this elaborate deception serve?

As she made her way toward the stairs, a final display stopped her cold—a wall covered with photographs of her, taken from angles that suggested she had never been aware of the camera. Andrea at work, Andrea shopping, Andrea sleeping. And interspersed among these images were photos of what appeared to be Leland in a hospital bed, growing progressively more frail in each shot.

The sound of the upstairs door opening galvanized her into action. Andrea raced up the stairs as quietly as possible, slipping into the guest bathroom just as Carl descended once more. She ran cold water, splashed her face, and adopted the confused expression of someone who had awakened from sleepwalking in an unfamiliar location.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Carl stood in the hallway, concern etched on features so similar to Leland's yet fundamentally different in ways she could now clearly see.

"Andrea? Are you all right? I heard noises."

She feigned disorientation, pressing a hand to her forehead. "I think I was sleepwalking again. Woke up in the bathroom, of all places."

Carl's eyes studied her face with uncomfortable intensity, searching for signs of deception. "You should get back to bed. Leland will worry if he wakes and finds you gone."

"Yes," Andrea agreed, moving past him toward the bedroom. "Thank you for checking on me."

His hand caught her arm, gentle but firm. "You know, sleepwalking can be dangerous. You might fall, hurt yourself. Perhaps we should consider locking your bedroom door at night. For your safety."

The threat beneath the concern was unmistakable. Andrea forced a grateful smile. "That's thoughtful, but I'm sure it won't be necessary. This doesn't happen often."

Carl held her gaze a moment longer before releasing her arm. "Sweet dreams, then. And Andrea?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Try not to wander too far next time. Some doors are locked for good reasons."

As Andrea slipped back into bed beside the man she now knew could not possibly be Leland Montgomery, her mind raced with questions. How long had the real Leland been dead? Was the diagnosis she'd glimpsed genuine, or part of Carl's elaborately constructed narrative? And most urgently: how could she escape this nightmare before she joined the collection of specimens in the basement?

Beside her, "Leland" stirred, reaching for her in his sleep. Andrea forced herself to accept his embrace, fighting the revulsion that threatened to overwhelm her. As his breathing settled back into the rhythm of deep sleep, she stared at the ceiling, planning her next move in this deadly game of pretend.

Whatever the truth about Leland's fate, one thing was certain: the man holding her now was capable of unfathomable deception and meticulous cruelty. And he had no intention of letting her go.