THE BIKER AND THE BOOGEYMAN (The Cracked Mirror Series Book 1)

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  “Where are you going?”

  “The men’s room. I only wish we had one down here,” he smiled, taking the steps one at a time. “I’m sure glad you and the girls are going to help me move everything upstairs.”

  “Me too, Pop,” she called after him as he disappeared.

  With her father upstairs, the basement became suddenly silent. The only sound was the quiet scratching of Betty’s cloth against the surface of the table she was cleaning.

  Suddenly, underneath the sound of her work, she heard a strange low whimper.

  Pausing her scrubbing for a second, she listened. She couldn’t have heard a whimper, could she? If she had, it must have been a rat or some other vermin hiding in the stacked mounds of stuff. That made the most sense.

  She went back to scrubbing, watching the dust slowly come off the surface. The whimper came again, a little louder this time. She paused again, listening for any sign of where the strange noise was coming from.

  Had a cat gotten in there somehow?

  Feeling a slight shiver run down her spine, she sighed. She refused to let Carlos and her father get to her. She’d never believed in ghosts before, and she had no plan to start now.

  Glancing around the room, which looked like some morbid antique store, she huffed defiantly. “Haunted,” she laughed. “Really.”

  Suddenly, a loud slam rang out through the whole basement, causing Betty to jump right out of her seat.

  Had that been the basement door closing?

  “P-Pop?” she called out, figuring he was just playing games with her. “Are you up there?”

  There was no answer.

  “Darn him,” she spat under her breath, angry that he would even pull such a stunt. Turning to march up the stairs and give him what for, she stopped cold in her tracks—never even making it onto the stairs—when another whimper came from behind her.

  Spinning on her heel, she faced the cluttered basement with wide eyes. The room seemed dimly lit, dimmer than before. The hanging light fixtures, with metal shades to project the light down, seemed to buzz loudly. They grew dimmer and dimmer, and then flashed back to light again.

  “That darn electricity,” she muttered, trying to convince herself not to be scared. “Pop should really have the wiring in this place checked.”

  When the sound of whimpering came again, louder than before, Betty froze stiff. Slowly, the voice began to cry.

  “Oh no, this isn’t happening,” she whispered to herself. “It’s just a stupid cat.”

  But the crying was clearly human, seemingly belonging to a woman.

  “P-Pop?” she yelled again, praying that her father would get down there fast and tell her she was just hearing things, that there was nothing there.

  As the crying grew into heaving sobs, the room grew cooler, as did the lighting. The bulbs dimmed down low, darkening the basement and leaving only bizarre outlines of the items there.

  Betty wanted to turn and run up the stairs, to escape whatever it was that happened to be sharing the room with her at that moment, but refused. If she ran, she would be admitting she was scared. By admitting she was scared, she would be granting credibility to the fact that her father’s new bar just might be haunted—and she was determined to prove that ghosts only existed in movies.

  Instead, she stepped further into the room. If she faced her fear, and it turned out to be nothing, she could say adamantly that she was right, and that there were no ghosts. Unfortunately, that meant finding the source of that noise. “H-hello?” she called, shuffling her feet on the concrete floor and moving among the towering shadows.

  It seemed the looming black silhouettes created by the low lighting might just surround her completely, swallowing her in their darkness.

  “No,” she whispered. “Don’t let it get to you. It’s just the wind through a crack in the building, an animal, maybe even an old faulty tape recorder.”

  As if to answer her assumption with a NO the sobbing grew into wails, and they seemed to be nearby.

  “Oh, no, oh, no,” Betty muttered to herself, turning slowly to face the wall where the sound was coming from.

  She was almost positive. The noise was coming from behind the brick.

  She was beginning to shake and had to lean on a nearby chair for support. “You can do this,” she said to herself. “Nothing to be afraid of.” But there was something to be afraid of, and she knew it. The sensation of absolute and all-encompassing dread was coming back, flowing through her entire body.

  Taking a deep breath, she had to pry her own white-knuckled grip from the chair and step forward. Reaching out, she pushed through a few cartons that were in her way and came to stand directly in front of the wall, touching it.

  Instantly, she drew her hand back. The wall was warm—as if a furnace was built behind it.

  “H-Hello?” she managed to choke out. “Is someone in there?”

  For a second, the crying went completely silent, as if it’d never been there at all.

  Betty let out a low sigh of relief.

  However, before she could steady her shaking body, the screams started.

  Let me out. Let me out of here. Came the woman’s frantic voice from behind the wall.

  Betty took a frightened step back, unable to believe what was happening.

  Let me out, please. The sound of scratching accompanied the screaming, fingernails scraping against the brick and mortar on the other side. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe in here. Please, someone, let me ouuuut!

  “Oh, no,” Betty whispered.

  H-Help me pleaaase.

  “No, no way.” Betty felt her heart hammering in her chest, her ears ringing, and her stomach spinning.

  Turning around, she ran for the stairs as fast as she could.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  Pounding her feet all the way up the stairs, she came to the closed door which led out to the bar. Gripping the handle, she realized it was locked tight.

  “No,” she shouted. “No, no, no, no!”

  Pounding on the door with both fists as hard as she could, she yelled. “Let me out of here. Let me out of this basement.”

  The scratching below her grew more urgent, and Betty swore she could hear the snap of the fingernails breaking.

  “Get me out of here!” She banged harder, desperate to escape the horrors below.

  Suddenly, the door swung open, nearly knocking Betty backward down the stairs. Luckily, she caught the handrail to keep her balance.

  “Betts?” Her father asked, a look of deep concern appearing in the wrinkles of his face. “What’s going on?”

  Pushing past her father and a good ten feet away from the door, she leaned on the bar. “I-I need a serious drink,” she confessed.

  Pork glanced from the open doorway back to his daughter. “Hold on here,” he offered, “I’ll grab a bottle from downstairs.”

  “No,” she shouted, standing up straight, her eyes wide. “Don’t go down there.”

  Walking forward, he put his arm around his daughter. “What is it, short stack? What happened?”

  She hesitated, feeling the sweat building up on her face and struggling to get her words out. Should she admit it, admit she was wrong? She figured, after banging on the door and screaming the way she had, there was no getting around it.

  “Come on, short stack, you can tell your old man.”

  “A-A w-woman’s voice,” she admitted. “She was crying behind one of the walls.”

  “You heard a woman crying?” he pressed, seeking more clarity.

  “She was crying for someone to let her out. When I got close enough to the wall, she started clawing at the bricks, screaming for me to let her out.”

  Pork looked back toward the basement a little apprehensively. “Maybe I should check it out.”

  “No,” she begged. “Let’s just leave it for now, call it a day.”

  “Betts,” he argued. “What if there really is someone trapped downstairs?”
<
br />   “In the wall, Pop?!” she exclaimed. “In the wall?”

  Brushing his mustache back and forth, he nodded his head. “I see your point. It doesn’t make much sense.”

  “She just kept screaming.”

  He sighed. “Are you positive? I didn’t hear anything.”

  She narrowed her eyes, a little irritated by his lack of faith in her word—especially after his confession to believing in ghosts.

  “It was a ghost, Pop. I know it was.” Betty shivered at the prospect of someone who was long dead still living down there.

  “You just finished telling me a little while ago that you didn’t believe in ghosts. You said it was only in the movies.”

  “I know what I said,” she shot back. “But I don’t see any other way of explaining what just happened. That wasn’t the wind howling down there. It was a woman.”

  He tilted his head, trying to look her in the eye. “You’re serious? You’re not just trying to tease your old man?”

  She shook her head. “You said there are things we just can’t explain? Well, I can’t explain hearing a woman’s voice crying inside a random wall.”

  “So,” he sighed, leaning on the bar, “this place really is haunted, huh?”

  “Nobody wanted this place for a reason,” she shot back. “And maybe it wasn’t as good of a deal as you originally thought. It’s freakin’ scary, Pop.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” he sort of half-smirked.

  “I’m going back to Carlos’ place,” she said. “I need a drink.”

  “Hey, hey, just a minute,” he stopped her, holding her by the arm.

  “What, Pop?”

  “Don’t you realize how good this might be, Betts?”

  Her eyes fluttered in surprise. “Are you kidding? What could possibly be good about some dead woman moaning in the basement?”

  “Advertising,” he proclaimed, clapping his hands. “I got the deal of the century, don’t you see?”

  “No, Pop. I don’t see. All I know is that I’m never going down in that basement again.”

  “Think about it,” he urged her. “I bought this bar at a good price, in a good location. I got almost everything I need to run the place for free in the basement.”

  “And a ghost,” she reminded him.

  “Exactly. It’s a bonus. Throughout my time on the road, I often stopped at places that were reportedly haunted, especially bars. They were always popular hot spots.”

  “So?”

  “We can play it up. Welcome to Old Bar, the most haunted place in Fawkes, Arizona,” he waved his hand through the air as if reading the words off a sign.

  Betty, despite still being totally shaken up, started to see her father’s point.

  “People from all over will come to our bar. Curious tourists, horror fans, ghost hunters, occult enthusiasts, everyone.” He chuckled slightly. “We’ll be making bank.”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, a little nervous about the idea. “What if I get locked in the basement again with the wailing woman?”

  “Exactly,” he clapped his hands again.

  “Exactly, what?” she groaned, not liking the direction this conversation was taking.

  “Your story of getting locked in the basement with the screaming woman—it’s our own story we can share with customers.” He slapped the bar. “I want you to write it down. We should have it on the backs of all the menus.”

  “You want me to do what?” she exclaimed, not having any desire to relive the events she’d just experienced.

  “I want you to go home and write your story. You’re always writing lyrics for songs, you should be able to do this with no problem.”

  “It’s a little different, I think.”

  Grabbing her by the shoulders, he led her to the door. “Write it down, and maybe do a little research on the place,” he suggested. “If there is any type of juicy history behind the building—murder, suicide, whatever—take notes. We’ll have it right next to your story on the back.”

  “But, Pop,” she protested.

  “Would you rather stay here and help me in the basement?” he asked, one eyebrow raised knowingly.

  “N-No,” she confessed.

  “Then?”

  She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Fine. I’ll go do the write-up.” She opened the front door. “But I am stopping at Carlos’ for a drink first.”

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  Upon arriving at Carlos’ place, Betty was surprised to find Muddy sitting at the bar talking to Foxy. Carlos himself was nowhere in sight. Walking over, Betty took a seat next to Muddy.

  “Hi, girls,” she greeted them. “What are you two up to?”

  “Well,” Muddy confessed, “I’m on my break from the garage.”

  “And I’m working, of course,” Foxy told her, indicating she was serving drinks.

  “And you decided a good thing to do on your break in the middle of the day was to come drinking?” Betty asked her dark-haired friend.

  Muddy shook her head. “Hardly.”

  “I asked her to come by,” Foxy confessed.

  Betty raised an eyebrow at her two friends. “What for?”

  “I’m worried about Carlos,” the redhead confessed.

  “Is he hurt?” Betty pressed, standing up from her bar stool.

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Muddy informed her, pushing her back down onto her seat.

  “Then what is it?”

  “After you came over this morning, he sort of flipped out.”

  “I noticed,” the blonde haired woman admitted. “I thought he’d be fine after a few minutes.”

  “Weeeellll, he wasn’t,” Foxy sighed. “He hung around until opening time, told me to take charge, and left.”

  “He left?” Betty blurted. “In the middle of the day?”

  “Seems you scared him off,” Muddy teased. “With your tales of your father’s haunted bar.”

  “Haunted bar?” she exclaimed, feeling her skin prickle with the memory of getting locked in the basement. “Who told you that?”

  “Foxy overheard you two talking earlier. Something about curses and hauntings?”

  “I didn’t tell Carlos any stories. I only told him the address of the place and he freaked.” And she had to admit, rightfully so.

  “Anyway,” Foxy shrugged. “I’ve never seen him act like that.”

  “So, she called me,” Muddy said.

  “Why not call me?” Betty asked, turning to look at Foxy. “I’m his girlfriend.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” Foxy confessed, “and he didn’t seem too keen on chatting this morning about that place. I’ve never seen him so freaked out.”

  “But it wasn’t my fault,” Betty argued. “He must have some kind of history with the place.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Muddy announced, standing up from the bar and grabbing her leather jacket off the stool. “You and I go and ask him about it.”

  “What about me?” Foxy protested. “I don’t get to tag along?”

  “You have to run the bar,” Muddy pointed out. “We’ll fill you in on all the details when we get back.” She waved at Betty to follow and the two women stepped out into the early afternoon sun. Walking to Muddy’s car, they both got in.

  “So,” Muddy asked, turning to her friend. “Is the place really haunted or what?”

  Betty swallowed, unsure of what to say. Did she dare confess the truth to her best friend? Who else could she even tell without sounding like an absolute nutcase?

  Eventually, she nodded her head. “It’s haunted all right. Let me tell you what happened to me in the basement this morning.”

  * * *

  Standing outside the apartment door, Muddy took the initiative and knocked. A shuffling noise indicated someone was home, and a moment later Carlos appeared at the door.

  “B-Betty? Muddy?” he exclaimed, clearly surprised to see them. The ruddy nature of his cheeks was an indicator that he’d already
had a few drinks since leaving the bar.

  “Can we come in?” Muddy asserted herself. “Betty and I just want to chat.”

  His eyes squinted as he examined the two women. “If you’re here to talk about the bar on Cherry Street, you can forget about it.”

  He attempted to close the door, but Muddy—quick as lightning—caught it. “Come on, Car. Let us in.”

  “No, thank you,” he insisted.

  This time, Betty stepped forward. “Carlos? You can’t ignore me forever. I’m your girlfriend, remember?”

  She could see his face twist up painfully before finally relaxing again and opening the door wide for them to step in. “Fine, come in.”

  The apartment had all its windows open, letting in lots of light. Additionally, all the lights were on inside. The place smelled slightly of cigarette smoke, and there were four cans of beer sitting on the table. Three of them had been crushed. Carlos picked up the fourth and took a swig.

  “Got any for me?” Betty asked.

  “Sure thing, babe,” he said, walking over to the fridge and pulling out a can. “Muddy?”

  She shook her head, no. “I’ve still got work later today.”

  Popping the tab open, he handed the can to Betty. She gratefully took it and had her first gulp.

  “You went in that place, didn’t you?” he sighed, taking a seat on his couch.

  “I did,” Betty admitted, the grim look on her face giving her away.

  “I told you not to,” he shot back. “That place is cursed.”

  “There may be a difference between haunted and cursed,” Muddy pointed out. “It’s not like the place cursed you or anything, right? I mean, you seem moderately successful with your job, you don’t seem sick, you have a beautiful girlfriend. That doesn’t sound like a curse to me.”

  “Not me,” he argued. “My boss’s wife.”

  “Wait, wait,” Betty said, holding up a hand for him to slow down. Sliding up next to him on the couch, she took a large drink from the can and set it on the coffee table. “Are you saying that you used to work there?”

  “Yeah, I did. About six years ago.”

  Sighing, Muddy sat in the chair across from them and put her feet up. “Maybe you should start at the beginning.”