by Ellery Fenn
She giggled.
“You can handle that drink, but can you handle a guy like me?”
She angled her cleavage toward me. “Guys like you are my specialty.”
I downed my drink. “Glad to hear it.”
“You know.” She leaned in to whisper in my ear. “I have a room upstairs.”
Finally. “That sounds great, baby.”
She finished her drink and grabbed my hand. “This way.” She led me, skipping up the stairs. I’d been up here before, but never with her. She unlocked her room and showed me in. All the rooms looked alike. A bedroom, with a bathroom to the side.
She backed her way onto the bed and kicked her shoes off. “What’s your name, tiger?”
“Sam. Sam Gibson.”
“I’m Patsy.” She untied her shirt. “Patsy Robinson.”
I advanced toward the bed. She went to run her hands down my arms, but I drew away. “Don’t touch my fucking arm.”
“Jeez, okay.”
For those few moments of wild scrambling in the sheets, everything faded away but flesh against flesh, heat, thrust. My arm held me back. I wasn’t as strong. It wasn’t as satisfying as I hoped. At some point the lights flickered, but I didn’t stop until I finished.
The moment release came, everything came rushing back, especially the pain. One more girl, one more day. Would she claim I raped her too?
She laid back, sweating against her satin pillowcase. “Sam,” she whispered.
I slid off the bed and grabbed my boxers from the floor.
She propped herself up on her elbows. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“What, you want me to stick around and cuddle?”
“W-well, yeah.”
I flashed her a look of disgust.
“Oh.”
I finished dressing and pulled my wallet from my back pocket. I threw a fifty at the bed.
Her eyes widened as the bill landed on her sticky stomach. “What?”
I didn’t stick around to find out what confused her.
By the time I got back downstairs, my head was buzzing. The journal, the slip in my backseat, my arm, oozing and aching. Infected. Lisa, dead somewhere in the forest.
The band started to play as the businessmen streamed in from work, cramming around the bar. I squeezed into the only seat left, next to the man that was there when I arrived, and angled myself to protect my arm from the pushing patrons next to me.
“Alek!” I waved to him.
He nodded toward me as he filled someone else’s order. “Give me a minute.”
My arm hurt too bad to wait for long. I needed to be numb, fast. The sun was setting outside, and the familiar grungy atmosphere returned.
Alek slid a glass my way.
“Finally.” I relished the terrible taste of tequila. Disgusting, but it burned everything else away.
An hour passed before the other customers were settled in, laughing and drinking. Alek kept a close eye on me.
An argument broke out at a table, unintelligible. Everything was slow and warm, and I was numb. Exactly what I came here for.
Alek clocked out at seven and switched with a bartender I’d only seen a couple times. An older man with scraggly gray facial hair and quick hands. Alek nodded goodbye and went upstairs to the room he used when he worked. He went home to his wife on weekends.
The new bartender ignored my request for another drink. I stared at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar, blurry and red. All that looked back through those eyes was guilt. I licked a last drop from my glass.
Ten minutes or so passed before I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, ready to fight.
“Oh, hey Alek.”
His eyes were cold. “I’ve just been with Patsy.”
“I won’t tell Emma.”
“Talking with her, you idiot.”
“So?”
“So, she told me you gave her this.” He waved the fifty in my face.
“You steal that from her? That’s pretty low, dude.”
“She’s not a prostitute!” he said. “She’s been up there crying since you left.”
“Crying ‘cause I paid her for something she was going to do for free? That’s stupid.”
He shoved the crumpled bill against my chest. “You’ve got a lot to learn about women.”
“A lot to-” He stormed away. “Hey! A lot to- I see more pussy in a week than you’ll ever see!”
The man beside me pulled me down by the shoulder. “It’s not worth a fight, boy.”
I shrugged him off. “Hey! What’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here? I been waiting all day.”
The bartender grudgingly slid me a glass.
The man beside me chuckled as I took a sip. “You paid her, huh?”
I shot him a glare. “None of your business.”
“I guess not. There haven’t been many whores around here the last thirty years, you know?”
I furrowed my brow. I’d been paying for sex here for a year now. “So?”
“So, you ever heard of Rose?”
I shook my head.
“I’m surprised. She’s a legend.”
There always had to be some old-timer at the bar that talked your ear off. The annoying charms of a local place. It was better than going home.
“She was a working girl here, oh, sixty years ago. Before my time.”
“What do I care about an old bag?”
“She wasn’t an old bag. She was the prettiest prostitute for fifty miles. She charged a fortune, and people paid.”
“Sounds like a scam.”
He ignored me. “There was a sailor that fell in love with her. Didn’t have a penny to his name. She wouldn’t even look at him. Every time he put into port, he’d hitch a ride all the way out here just to see her flirt with richer men.”
“Should’ve just taken what he wanted.”
“Oh, he tried. But she screamed and the management caught him.”
“Ungrateful,” I muttered. “Why- why do girls always do that? Like, they should be glad I chose them, you know? It’s a compliment.”
“He got kicked out. Banned from the whole establishment. Now, he didn’t take too kindly to that, so one night he snuck in the back way and killed her.”
The alcohol did nothing to stop the chill that crept up my spine. I buried my face in the glass. “What happened to him?”
He leaned back in his seat. “Don’t know if I should tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“He went back to sea.”
“That’s not bad.”
“What was bad was what happened while he was gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“A group of her regulars got to talking and decided they wanted revenge. They tracked down his ship and where it was putting in next. And waited at the port and jumped him when he was alone. Strung him up by his feet and slit his neck, just enough that it took all night for him to die. Folks found him next morning with a whole lake of blood under him, stone-cold dead.”
A chill crept into me despite the heat that roared under my skin. “This is a stupid story.”
“Some don’t believe it.”
I took a shaky sip. “That’s me.”
“I used to be like you too. Just a silly story to scare the tourists.”
“Yeah, that’s what it is.”
His tone was deathly serious. “It’s not. But the way I’ve told you isn’t the way it happened.”
“What do you mean?”
His eyes drifted up to the ceiling. “I was passing through on my way to Washington, oh, fifteen years ago or so. I stopped here for the night, took a room upstairs. Got to talking with the manager at dinner. He told me the real story.”
“The real story?”
“His dad was the manager back when Rose was killed. He said everyone had the story wrong. Nobody went after the sailor. He lived a long and healthy life.”
I smiled nervously. “Good.”
&nbs
p; “Not good. You see, Rose may have died, but she never really left this place. She haunted it for years and years, just waiting for a chance at revenge. And it came. Years later, when he was an old man, he came back here. Wanted to see the place again. He put down a fake name and got a room, went to bed. But he never fell asleep.”
“Why?”
“Rose was waiting for him. She took a knife from the kitchen and stabbed him oh, a dozen times. Police came and looked it over, but they couldn’t find a thing. It’s still unsolved. But the manager, he was there. He heard Rose screaming every night for years, and then, after the sailor died, nothing. She just disappeared.”
I swallowed down the rising alcohol in my throat and winced at the sting. My stomach churned.
“I liked the story,” he said. “So I settled here. I’m glad I did, ‘cause I love Portland. I still come here to the White Eagle a couple times a year, just to sit and listen for Rose.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Lisa
I followed Doug as he left the bar, the story echoing in my head. Could there really be other ghosts out there? I’d never thought about it. Maybe I wasn’t just here to join with Corrie. Maybe, like Rose, I was here for revenge.
He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. He was sweating, way too drunk to be driving, overwhelmed by the smell and in a ton of pain.
The slip freaking him out was just a happy side effect. I stroked the fabric. It was almost like she was with me. I needed to be brave, like Rose. Like Corrie. This was it.
I kicked the back of his seat as hard as I could.
He jumped and looked back, swerving the car across both lanes. His wide eyes glanced over me and stared suspiciously at the slip.
I grinned. Just like before. I kicked again.
He flinched and leaned over the steering wheel. “Ghosts aren’t real, ghosts aren’t real.”
His headlights dimly illuminated the road as the car steered clumsily out of town.
I flicked the overhead light on. He squinted, shut it off. I turned it on. We played a game of back and forth until he gave up and let the light glare on the windows. Probably tired of having to let go of the steering wheel. Driving one-handed looked hard. He turned the radio on as loud as it would go.
We were coming up on the bridge now. Here we go.
I flew out of the car and onto the road in front of him. His headlights glared at me. I turned my brightness up all the way. He swerved and slammed on the brakes.
He peered out the window, creeping forward, but I was gone. I jumped to the end of the bridge and waited. He sped up, racing toward me. As he reached me, I flashed brightly. He drove clear through me, brakes screeching all the way. I hopped into the backseat.
“She’s gone,” he told himself, nursing his arm. “Ghosts aren’t real.”
I flicked off the radio.
“Damn car!” He slammed his good hand against the dials, hair falling into his eyes. He focused shakily on the road. I turned the radio on.
“Country music?” he screeched. “I hate country music!”
I raised the volume.
On his face was the same expression he had Homecoming night as he killed me, frustrated that I wouldn’t give him what he wanted. It scared me then, but now it was pathetic. Excitement raced through me. Haunting was on a whole other level of fun, and it was just going to get better. When we were done, he wouldn’t be dead. He’d just wish he was.
We followed the road beside the Willamette River. I waited till we were about a mile from his house. This was what I’d wanted to do for so long, just to see his terror.
I took a deep breath. “Doug?”
He made eye contact with me in the rear-view mirror and ran the car off the road into a tree.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Doug
I blinked awake, my forehead resting on the steering wheel. Blood dripped down the spokes. “Ugh.”
My head pounded with liquor and pain. It felt like a concussion. But my arm felt worse. The bandage was soaked through, but I didn’t have another to change it with. The arm was inflamed all the way down to the fingers. I could barely move them. Crippling pain consumed me.
A cold breeze came in through the broken window. I shivered.
The memory of Lisa’s face in the rear-view mirror made me double over in revulsion, and the pain from the movement kept me there. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.
“Ghosts aren’t real. Ghosts aren’t real.”
A faint whisper that sounded like static from the broken radio said, Yes I am.
I opened the door and took an uneasy step. I was sick, in pain. I needed to get home.
An uneasy wind played over my neck. I started walking.
“Got to get home. Got to get home.”
I broke into a run.
I was drunk and my arm was killing me, but I was still fast. After all, I was Doug Allan, best player in the state. I had a scholarship.
Each step jarred my arm. I hunched over and cradled it to my chest. My lungs struggled to take in a single breath, each one more and more labored, more and more painful. I had to make it home.
A hand touched my neck. I turned around to beat it off, but there was no one there. I ran faster. Every few steps the touch returned and there was nothing I could do as it stroked my face and wrapped around my neck. I fought down the nausea. If I could get home, this would all go away. If I could get home, this would all be over.
Home. A mile away if I took the road, but half that if I cut through the woods. I turned off the road and pushed myself into the mess of ferns. Shadows swallowed me.
The wind whistled in my ears, only interrupted by a thin voice.
You killed her, you killed her, you killed her, you killed her, you killed her, you killed her.
“Shut up!”
Silver flashed at the edges of my vision, but when I turned, there was nothing there. Nothing but darkness.
Cold breath hissed at my ear. Confess confess confess confessconfessconfess.
If I got home this would all go away. If I got home none of this would’ve happened. If I got home I’d never have gone to Homecoming, never had the police show up, never have been attacked by a flying splinter. If I got home Lisa wouldn’t be there.
A log caught my feet, nearly throwing me down. If I kept heading straight, I’d come out right by my house. Something brushed my face. It was too dark to tell if it was a branch or something worse.
Murderer!
My stomach flipped and I fell to my knees, vile tequila vomit spewing from my throat. I cushioned my fall with both arms. The bad one collapsed, and I barely kept myself from falling in my own puke. I retched until nothing came out, until I saw stars.
My arm. My arm! It didn’t feel like it could possibly be in one piece. I yanked my sleeve up and ripped off the bandage. The wound was green and yellow, rimmed in purple. Pus oozed from it. I threw up a little bit more.
I stumbled back to my feet, dizzy with pain. I could hardly stand, but I had to move on. I had to get home.
Thorns snagged at my jeans as I waded through the thick underbrush. There was running water somewhere near me. I staggered toward it. A creek.
I dropped to my knees and dunked my head underwater. The shock of the cold brought me up gasping. I dipped my arm in the creek. It stung, but it was soothed the burning infection. I kept it in as long as I could, until it was nearly numb. I pulled my sleeve gingerly over the wet wound. It would be fine until I made it home.
The moonlight was barely enough to see by. My heart sped up. I didn’t recognize anything. This wasn’t near my house, or if it was, it looked completely different at night.
If I followed the creek, I would eventually find home. If I reached the spot where it broke off from Tryon Creek, I’d know I’d gone too far.
I walked alongside the stream. The water reflected the darkness more than it did the light.
Something touched my neck. I swatted it away and s
ped up. I had to get home. I had to get home.
I stopped short. The smell. The smell of death. I pressed my fingernails into my palm. It was just an animal. This was the woods.
Cloth wrapped around my face, over my mouth and nose, pulling me backward. I fell to the ground and clawed at the fabric with one arm. Death. It tightened, cutting off my air. Death. My hand slid from the smooth fabric. Lisa’s slip.
I forced my hand under the cloth and threw it away from me. It hung in the air several feet away.
I scrambled backward, holding my screaming arm to my chest. My vision tunneled in on the slip. That impossible piece of useless cloth.
“Doug.”
I froze. The voice called from behind me. It was low, gravelly, inhuman.
I slowly turned my head, eyes straining behind me. I didn’t want to see what made that noise. Nothing good could make that noise. I caught a glimpse of something, but was plunged into darkness before I could make it out. The slip wrapped around my eyes.
I gagged. It was too tight, so tight I saw stars. I pulled frantically at it. I couldn’t breathe. Not with that smell. The silk wouldn’t release me.
I took a choking breath, drenched in death. Surrounded in death. It was all I could see, all I could smell.
The slip wouldn’t budge. It wouldn’t move. No matter what I did it didn’t move.
Heat flushed through my arms and legs. I was strong. I was the strongest guy I knew, but I couldn’t make the cloth move, not with one arm. Instead, it just got tighter. It had to have been made of something stronger than silk. It couldn’t be stronger than me. Whoever held it couldn’t be stronger than me.
Horses raced into my chest. How dare they do this to me? I was Doug Allan.
I pulled at the slip. It didn’t move. My muscles ached. It wouldn’t move. My heart swelled, angry and heavy and strong. I was Doug Allan!
And Doug Allan wasn’t strong enough.
“Please,” I gasped. “Please let me go.”
The fabric tightened even more.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” A girl’s voice, right behind me.
I breathed through the pain. How? How had I fallen so far? “Are you the one that stole my journal?”