“Why did Sandra start murdering innocent women?”
“You have no idea what it was like for her,” said Mr. Partridge. His voice lifted into a yell. “She saw other cheaters here all the time, reminding her of me! And when she saw happy, married couples, that hurt her too. You and I can’t imagine!”
The thing was, I could imagine. When my first boyfriend cheated on me, I cheated on him right back and made sure he caught me. Another time, I left my two-timing ex in the middle of the night with of all my stuff and half of hers. The third time I found out I was being cheated on, I took a bunch of drugs and partied for a week straight. Then, when Sasha cheated on me, I lingered like a bad smell in her spare room for six months.
It was normal to lose it a little when you felt unloved, inadequate, and second best. But no betrayal had ever driven me to become a bloodthirsty serial killer. I could relate to Sandra to some extent, but she and I differed massively in one important, homicidal way.
“So what?” I said to Mr. Partridge. “Now you’re doing whatever it takes to make it up to her?”
He smiled. “Every time I think of straying, I think about what Sandra would rather I did instead.”
Murder?
Sandra and Mr. Partridge were perfect together. They were both grotesquely, destructively obsessed with each other.
“I should go now,” I said. I had my information. I needed to talk to Roman.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” And then there was a handgun pointed at me.
Well, fuck. That was unexpected.
My brain went into hyperdrive. I had half-known Mr. Partridge was dangerous, but I didn’t expect the pistol-aimed-at-my-face kind of danger in room 1406. Mr. Partridge’s hand was shaking; I wasn’t sure if he could aim well enough to land a bullet in me, but I didn’t want to risk it.
“You don’t want to shoot me, Mr. Partridge,” I said calmly.
“Don’t I?”
“You’ve never shot anyone before, have you?”
“I’ve done other things.”
“What, you’ve pushed people down the stairs? Suffocated a couple of people with a pillow? That’s not the same as firing a gun at me.”
“You have no idea what I’ve done.” He shook the gun angrily at me.
Why the hell didn’t I have a recording device? “Roman is outside. If you shoot me, it will be obvious who did it. You’re an old man, Mr. Partridge. Do you want to live the rest of your life in jail?”
“You’re only going to turn me in,” he said. His hand was white-knuckled on his gun.
Where had the gun come from, anyway? Out of all the deaths in this hotel, none had been caused by gunshot wounds. Mr. Partridge had completely lost his cool.
“I’m here to support Roman,” I said. “You know Roman. He’s only here for the ghosts.”
“I won’t let you hurt Sandra!”
“We won’t hurt Sandra,” I assured him. “We can’t. We aren’t priests. We don’t have any way to perform an exorcism.”
I hoped he didn’t know about ghost tasers.
“You’ll tell-”
“Who would believe us?” I said as gently as I could. I had experience keeping my voice steady, but that didn’t mean it was easy. I wanted to collapse and cry and scream and beg for my life like any normal person would. Instead, I was diplomatic. I was like a hostage negotiator, only I was the hostage as well. “Roman and I are supernatural investigators. We don’t want to get involved with cops. We won’t snitch.”
Mr. Partridge seemed to consider this. “I won’t shoot you if you get out of here,” he said at last. “But stick around, and I’ll call the cops myself.”
“Why would you call the cops?” I asked. “You’re the bad guy.”
“Your boyfriend is obsessed with ghosts. It wouldn’t be hard to convince a detective that he went crazy and killed someone for not letting him into the building, would it?”
Kyle.
“You’re the one who murdered Kyle.” My heart pounded.
“Of course not. I’m an old man.” Mr. Partridge wrung his hands together. “You and Roman are both young, healthy, and not supposed to be here. You killed Kyle.”
I felt like I was going to be sick. “Kyle wasn’t married! He didn’t cheat on anyone.”
Mr. Partridge raised his gun slightly. “Kyle became curious about room 1205 too.”
“Okay,” I said hastily. “Okay, I’m going. We’re going”
I was shivering with a cold sweat as I left through his door, half expecting a bullet to catch me in the back. But it didn’t. I closed the door behind me and breathed deeply. Roman and I were in trouble.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Roman
I held my breath the entire time that Isaac was in Mr. Partridge’s room. Despite all I’d done to try and protect him, he was in danger again.
My heart couldn’t abide it. I had to let him do this on his own, but I hated every moment I was separated from him, unable to protect him if the worst happened. I shifted from foot-to-foot, hiding as best as I could behind a potted plant and trying to soothe my pounding heart.
When Isaac finally emerged from room 1406, my heart melted with relief. I ran to him, holding back the urge to draw him into an embrace. Awkwardly, I stopped myself a foot in front of him. His eyes were wide, expression shell-shocked. He shot an anxious glance over his shoulder. He was pale again, sweaty. Had something gotten to him?
“What happened?” I asked.
“Not here,” said Isaac, shaking his head. He dragged me around a corner, out of sight from 1406.
“What happened?” I repeated quietly.
“Mr. Partridge is definitely killing people,” said Isaac. I’d never seen his composure this shattered.
“How do you know? Did he tell you?”
“He held a gun at me.”
I had been right to panic. I wanted to seize Isaac, look him all over, and check he was unharmed. I couldn’t let him be hurt again. “Why didn’t you call for me?”
“You aren’t Superman, Roman. You couldn’t get to me faster than a speeding bullet.”
I wished I was a superhero. I would get a lot more done. “But no-one has been killed by a gun here before. That’s not how the Cressley killer works.”
“I don’t think Mr. Partridge had ever used a gun before,” said Isaac. He hugged his arms around himself. “I think he’s shaken up because he- he killed Kyle.”
I swallowed hard. I was trying not to think about Kyle. If I let my thoughts go down that flight of stairs, I’d never get them back.
“That’s violent for Mr. Partridge,” I said. Even though Mr. Partridge had probably killed more people than Sandra by now, he staged his murders as accidents. There had been blood on his hands for decades, but this might have been the first time it splattered onto his shoes.
“I don’t think he’ll kill us,” said Isaac. “But he might try to frame us for Kyle.”
“No,” I said. Horror turned my stomach.
“We need to check out room 1205,” said Isaac. “He was cagey about it. I think there might be something in there.”
***
“And we’re sure no one is staying in this room?” I asked.
“I told you,” said Isaac. “Kyle couldn’t find a record of anyone checking into this room since the files went digital.”
“But what if-”
“We have to risk it.” He tossed his head confidently, and his golden-blonde hair shimmered under the fluorescent lights. How could any man look so beautiful?
He knelt on the ground in front of the door to room 1205 with his lock-picking kit. He had been fiddling with it for a few seconds when I heard an unmistakable scream of terror from the stairwell. Someone had found Kyle. I should have been there.
“Shit,” said Isaac.
“Hurry,” I said. The longer we hung around here illicitly, the higher the chance we’d end up as suspects.
“I’m hurrying,” Isaac muttered. “This is an art,
Roman.”
After what felt like forever, the door swung open. Isaac and I quickly slipped inside and closed it behind us. I flipped the light switch, but it clicked without turning on.
“The electricity isn’t working in here,” I muttered, reaching for my flashlight.
“Figures,” said Isaac.
If not for the dust covering everything, I would have thought we had walked into someone’s home. A dressing gown was slung over the back of a chair as though someone had prepared to step into it after their shower — although, judging by the yellowed sleeves, no one had, and no one would.
Figurines played on the shelves, porcelain couples holding hands and embracing. So much grime had collected over the years that I couldn’t make out the little statue’s faces, which gave them an uncanny, ominous appearance.
Isaac stepped closer to me, and I squared my shoulders. If he insisted on being here, I would insist he stayed safe. I watched him carefully for any chance that his supernatural swooning might return.
I knew the room was haunted before I turned on my EMF meter. I could feel the malevolent spirits closing in on me. The readings confirmed that this was not a safe place to be. But it was the place where we would find our answers.
“This room was supposed to be empty,” said Isaac.
“All of this must have belonged to Sandra.” How had I hunted ghosts at the Cressley for three years without hearing anything about this room?
No one had died here, I reasoned. But I had been narrow-minded, too focussed on the thirteenth floor to consider that the killer could have lived somewhere else in the Cressley. Why hadn’t anyone told me about this place, not even Kyle?
The memory of his warped neck flashed into my head. Better not think about Kyle.
An eerie wind whispered past us, even though the windows were closed. I shivered.
“What are we looking for?” asked Isaac.
Now, that was a good question. “Anything that will prove what’s going on.”
“That’s helpful,” said Isaac. “That’s specific.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Very.”
“Well, stop it. And start looking around.”
“I’ll check the bathroom,” sighed Isaac. He turned on the flashlight on his phone and wandered away.
I stared helplessly around the room. Where should I even start to look? I opened the closet, bracing myself for some demonic vision to lurch out at me.
The closet was shockingly clean compared to the rest of the room. Pictures of Sandra Keene covered the walls, and an open locket hung from a nail at the back. I could make out Mr. Partridge’s features in the age-paled photograph inside, but he was smiling, his face only starting to show the wear of time. Of course, Sandra was at his side.
The other stuff in the closet was more innocuous. This was a shrine to Sandra Keene. I spotted a bank letter addressed to her, still unopened. A pen. A cigarette holder smudged with red lipstick. A fishing line, the hook still attached and a water stain on the wood underneath it. Funny. The pair didn’t strike me as the outdoorsy type.
I scanned the closet for wedding rings, but the only jewelry in here was Sandra’s. This closet was creepy, but it wasn’t proof of anything.
“Roman, check out the bathroom!” Isaac called to me.
I shut the closet door, shuddering, and ran to him.
The bathroom was in a state of disarray. Copper tubes stuck out from the wall at odd angles, and strips of the linoleum floor had been torn up. Underneath, the concrete was smashed into dirty grey shards. Isaac was standing in the shower stall, wiggling one of the pipes from side to side.
“What happened in here?” I asked.
He looked at me, bewildered. “How should I know?”
“You’re a better guesser than I am.”
“Maybe the plumbing was messed up?” ventured Isaac. “Maybe Lance — or Lance’s dad, even — couldn’t fix it, so he gave up halfway through the job?”
I was doubtful. This room didn’t look like it had been taken apart by someone with a drop of training. It was trashed. I’d observed Lance’s work, and even though he was a jerk, he was good at his job.
I tentatively reached for the sink tap. I hadn’t struggled with a jar since puberty, but I strained to turn it. It was rusted stiff. After I finally got it, nothing happened.
Not immediately.
Then the faucet started bleeding, and my nostrils filled with a putrid, copper stench. I instantly tensed up, trigger finger flashing over to my ghost taser.
“Isaac,” I said sharply.
He turned from where he was examining the edge of a pipe. “What?”
I couldn’t form words. I gestured to the sink.
“Oh,” said Isaac. He put a hand on the small of my back, and instantly, some of my muscles relaxed. His fingertips were a huge comfort through the thin fabric of my t-shirt.
With his free hand, he reached to touch the flow of gluggy crimson fluid.
I snatched his hand away. “Haven’t you learned anything? You shouldn’t be making contact.”
“I’m not inviting them to touch me-”
“Be fucking careful.”
“Fine. You touch the blood, then.”
“I’d rather neither of us touches the blood.”
“How else will we know if it’s real blood?”
“I don’t think it matters if it’s real blood.” I shuddered. “The message is clear. Get out of here.”
“I’m just curious-”
Sirens wailed outside, and my stomach lurched. I knew they were coming here. “Do you have any idea what we do now?
“Not necessarily good ideas.” Isaac shrugged.
“Bad ideas are the best we’ve got right now.” I needed Isaac’s keen insight. He had good instincts.
“Well, the edges of these pipes should be smooth,” said Isaac. “They should have been sawed cleanly, but come look at this.” He gestured for me to come closer, and I stepped into the shower stall with him. It was barely big enough, but I didn’t mind being in such close quarters with Isaac. Adrenaline pumped my chest. The last time we were this close…
This isn’t the time.
Kyle was dead on the Cressley stairs, and the police were on their way. I knew who their first suspects would be.
Not ghosts.
Not a doddery old man.
But me and my con artist boyfriend? The guys who snuck into the hotel by bribing the dead guy with alcohol? I knew what call the cops would make.
It terrified me. I wasn’t half as scared of the ghosts as I was of those sirens or the blue-suits with guns inside the screaming cars.
Isaac and I needed to prove who the real killer was. We needed to find evidence fast. And then… Then we were still in danger. But it was our only shot.
“What am I looking at?” I asked, bringing myself back to reality. I stared at the pipes. My voice shook, unrecognizable to my own ears. All I could feel was fight or flight, and I’d gone for the third option: freeze.
“Look at this.” Isaac tapped the pipe. “It looks like someone tore these apart with their bare hands.”
He was right. The pipes were crushed in some places, twisted in others, and the edges were sharp shards. No tool could have mangled them like that. And what kind of human could tear metal apart?
“More like something tore them apart,” I said.
The sirens stopped suddenly. It was more frightening to be plunged into silence. I knew the police were coming.
Isaac took my hand. “We’ll be okay.”
“I might-”
“I could try to sneak us out-”
I nodded. An attempted escape could put me in more danger, but how much worse could it get?
“I don’t know. Maybe. I-”
A chill blasted into the room. Air froze in my lungs and misted in front of me when I exhaled.
“What’s going on?” asked Isaac.
“Supernatural activity,” I said. How co
uld I leave when we were this close to the truth?
“What kind of supernatural activity?” asked Isaac.
“I know as much as you do.” Between the bleeding taps and the chill in the room, I had come to the conclusion that someone wanted us out of here. Sandra wanted us out of her room.
“Uh, Roman-” Isaac gestured at the sink.
Blood kept trickling from the tap, clotting in the porcelain underneath like the ugly aftermath of an unsuccessful organ transplant. But it was the mirror above the sink that horrified me. Bloody letters streaked through the dust in dark, sticky red.
G-E-T O-U-T
“How cliche,” said Isaac.
That was where his mind went? A ghost was threatening us with blood on the mirror, and he was concerned that the ghost wasn’t original enough?
I tried not to get scared often, but even with my hand on my taser, as prepared as any ghost hunter could be, I was terrified. We were trapped in a tiny room with a dangerous ghost who didn’t want us around. Maybe we were exactly where we were supposed to be, but it wasn’t a place I liked.
I stared, breathless, at the words on the mirror, unsure what to do next. Before I could think of a plan, the mirror shattered in front of me. Shards of silver rained onto the floor with an eardrum-crushing smash.
Isaac let out a small yelp and gripped into my arm. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “We need to work out what’s going on.” We needed evidence. Fast.
“Right,” said Isaac. “What’s going on…” He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips, brow furrowing in concentration. Now that the mirror was in shiny pieces on the ground, the faucet had stopped bleeding. Without the steady glug-glug-glug of blood into the sink, the bathroom was a silent cage.
“What if the rings are inside the pipes?” I suggested.
“Inside the pipes? How would Mr. Partridge sneak evidence into the pipes?”
“In the closet — which is a creepy shrine to Sandra, by the way — I spotted a fishing line with a hook attached, and it looked like it had been used recently. I thought it was weird, but what if they were using it to get things in and out of the pipes?”
Isaac’s face lit up. “You’re a genius, Roman Bula!”
The New Paranormal Page 27