Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set

by Flynn, Connie

  Ivy frowned so deep her eyebrows collided. “Two...? Two flights? I thought you said one flight.”

  He was already gone, headed on a path directly opposite the one he’d told her to take. When he disappeared behind an exit door, Ivy settled the skull back inside the tote. Eyes darting nervously around, she trudged toward the exit sign, alone, and none too happy about it. Something was very off here. Steve’s preoccupied, impatient manner. The contradiction in floors. His vague relationship with Melanie. What were they to each other? Colleagues? Friends? Lovers?

  She rattled her head to shake off the fuzzy thinking. She always did have an overactive imagination. And this was no place to indulge her fears. It was so quiet. The kind of stillness that in movies always preceded something jumping from the bushes. Her gaze caught on a small fox like creature lurking beneath a plume of wide-blade grass. Had it moved?

  Yes, it had moved.

  Of course it hadn't.

  The air conditioner clicked off and she jumped. Clutching the tote to her chest like a shield, she put another leaden foot in front of her. She’d been moving slower than a snail toward the stairs, but now she’d reached them. She opened the door, entering an enclosed stairwell and passing the first exit door, taking Steve at his word that Melanie’s office was two flights down.

  The stairs terminated on the second sub-level, at a spot creepier than anything she'd seen so far. Most likely the exhibits were prepared here, but she'd expected more of a laboratory setting—finished floors, painted hallways and lots of fluorescent lighting overhead. This place was a cluttered mess of broken plaster, huge blocks of chipped Styrofoam and scraps of broken two-by-fours. Folded cardboard boxes leaned against the dirty walls and the hallway leading out of the area glowed weakly under a dim light bulb.

  A soft thud sent Ivy jumping back.

  “Miss Powell?” she squeaked, hope twitching inside her constricted heart.

  But nothing was there. One of the cartons slipped, probably. No reason for her to stop walking. The hallway was straight ahead. Melanie's office.

  Third door to the right.

  Steve said.

  She was two or three steps from the bottom when the lights went out. Her scream gurgled in the air. She froze, engulfed in pitch blackness and totally blind. Urging her semi-petrified neck to move, she looked first left, then right, but it was like someone had poured ink into her eyes. Black as coal. With a silence as dense as the dark.

  Touch was her only guiding sense. She had to make herself reach out. Tentatively, she removed one arm from the tote, patted around until she found the straps. Using a firm grip, she pulled the straps to her shoulder, freeing her hands to guide her up and out of the basement.

  Were the lights out up there, too? Lord, say it wasn’t so.

  Banishing stupid fears that the walls would come alive with crawly things, she reached out, relaxing when she connected with smooth, solid wall. Feeling more certain after this micro-success, she slid one foot back until it touched the stair riser. This gave her the courage to let go of the wall and turn around. Now facing up, she groped for the handrail. At the feel of cold metal, a frisson of relief momentarily weakened her legs. She waited until it passed, then forced herself to lift a foot.

  The first step was the hardest, the second came easier.

  Could she do this for two flights?

  Something scraped. Behind her. From below.

  Ivy gripped the handrail with both hands, heaving herself up to the next step. Then step after step. The scraping grew louder. Closer. Someone, some thing, was crawling behind her.

  Chasing her.

  She damn near pole-vaulted up the next steps, making more noise than her pursuer. She gasped when her trailing foot hit empty air, paused, steadied herself, braced for another leap.

  A hand bumped her ankle, once...twice. Before Ivy could jerk away, fingers gripped her leg.

  “Give me the head.”

  The speaker’s voice was raspy, asexual. The hand felt strong, callused, but too small to completely envelope her ankle. Ivy’s imagination slammed into overdrive.

  A bony hand. Strong. Like a mummy. Or the fleshless remains of an ancient skeleton.

  Her terror skyrocketed. Screams bounced inside her throat, escaping as whimpers.

  Locking her arms around the handrail, she spun and kicked with her free foot. Her breath came in ragged spurts and she felt suffocated.

  “The head,” her attacker intoned. “Give me the goddam head.”

  A thumb pressed brutally into the indent at her Achilles tendon, shooting a searing electric jolt up her leg. She sank to her knees, one hand still wrapped around the rail. She would not give this monster the skull. Her life’s savings had gone into that house. Without this evidence, she may never, ever have a place to live.

  The attacker grabbed the tote, jerking Ivy back, but freeing her leg. Lunging, she rewrapped the rail with both arms. Her elbows screamed as she stiffened them against the monster’s tugs. Did this person mean to kill her? Over the skull of a dead person she’d found in her back yard?

  Abruptly, she realized it could be true—was about to say, here, take it if you want it so bad, when that dose of reality hit her hard. She really might be with a killer and, if she gave over the head, she’d quite probably end up as dead as the person whose mind once inhabited the skull. After a lightening-fast paranoia check she chose to heed her instincts.

  “Give me the head!” her attacker croaked.

  “Hell no,” she shouted. “Let me go!”

  She rolled her hips and furiously scissored her legs, provoking more vicious tugs on the tote. But her kicks hit their mark and frequent pained grunts proved they were doing damage. Suddenly the pull on the tote ceased. Thuds, bumps and curses bounced off the walls. The attacker had fallen down the stairs.

  Free. Ivy was free. With one hand on the rail, waving the other in front of her to assure a clear path, Ivy crab-crawled up the stairs until she found the exit door.

  From below, she heard a mumbled, “Goddam bitch! Where are you, bitch?”

  Sticks and stones. Would break her bones. But words...? She felt for the doorknob. Fumbled and turned. The door swung out and she fell through it. Escape. And light, blessed light. Red glowing security lights that made the exhibits look even more ghostly, but at least she could see. She sprang to her feet and sprinted as though a real mummy was chasing her.

  Where was the way out? Where was a hiding place? And where was Steve? He said he’d be right back.

  Running full speed, she rounded a corner and was out of sight when the stairwell door banged open. Even at a sprint, the sound from her shoes was muffled by the clatter of her pursuer’s footsteps. They boomed and bounced inside the cavernous halls like a tapping cane and she couldn’t tell where they came from.

  The exits. Surely they were alarmed. If she opened one, help would come, police would be summoned. But were they left, right, straight ahead? Did this floor even have exits? Lord, she didn't know. All she saw were the stairs to the floor above, an open stairwell that wouldn’t conceal her whereabouts, but would at least eliminate the danger of another blackout. After a mad dash, she virtually leaped up the first half dozen steps before pausing for breath. The museum was totally silent except for her own rasping breath.

  Where was her pursuer?

  Shadowy recesses lined the halls. Anyone, anything could leap out anytime, from anywhere. She couldn’t move. Or stand still. Not while she was out in the open. Exposed.

  She bolted all the way to the next floor and skidded into Stanley Hall. Sue greeted her, glaring down from a perch on a manufactured mesa of mountainous rocks. The enormous T-Rex looked angry and hungry, even though she was just a string of empty ribs and vertebrae, massive hip and leg bones.

  Ivy gave Sue’s platform a once-over. The four-foot protective railing curved out, making it more difficult to climb into the exhibit than to climb out of it. Below, circling the platform’s base, was a narrow worker’s walkw
ay, recessed under the dramatic sculptured rock overhang. Could there be a crawl space beneath the platform where she could wait for Steve? He would be back, wouldn’t he? To save her? Of course he would.

  Unless he was a conspirator in this chase.

  A thought she’d been pushing away ever since he’d left the museum. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. She could not let herself believe it. If she did, panic would overtake her.

  She swung over the railing, easing her way down the sloping wall to the walkway, feeling safer here. The overhang concealed her, the cobbled concrete allowed her to move noiselessly. She found the lift-up access grate about halfway around.

  Setting down the tote, she knelt beside the grate and pulled with both hands. It wobbled, but didn’t budge. Shooting a nervous glance over her shoulder, she let out a frustrated breath and gave the grate a vicious yank, which landed her on her butt as the panel snapped open.

  Returning to her knees, she peered in to assess the space. Shallow, she’d have to lie down, but big enough to hold her. Would it also be dark? Still shaky from her experience in the basement, she hesitated.

  The footsteps resumed. Slow, this time, deliberate, the echoes different from before. Ivy pushed through her nervousness and leaned against the outer wall so she could see if anyone approached. An unexpected reflection drew her to the polished shoes above. A man's shoes and he stood in the overhead balcony. He probably couldn't see her, but she didn't plan to find out.

  Grabbing the tote, she shimmied through the hole, sliding into the crawl space. When she was flat on her back, she pulled down the grate.

  Please, by all that's holy, don’t let it stick when I need to get out.

  But that was a thought that could drive her crazy, so she turned her attention to finding a spot to hide the tote. Small amounts of light filtered through the slats of the grate, letting her see the irregularities in the wall that gave Sue’s platform that rugged rocky look. If Ivy was caught, she wanted that skull out of easy reach.

  My how her priorities had changed. No more denial for her. Whoever was giving chase had a deadly serious purpose and Ivy had no illusions she’d survive if she stood in the way. This was no longer about protecting her home, it was about preserving her life. Bartering the location of the skull might be the only way to stay alive. She pushed the tote and its precious cargo into a convoluted niche, where she was sure it couldn’t easily be spotted.

  Leaving nothing to do but stare up at an array of braces and wiring. And wait.

  The space confined her like a coffin, making her think about the person who’d ended up as a skull in her bag. Had he or she been dead when put in the ground or half-alive, to be slowly buried in dirt, clawing, trying to scream through the falling earth?

  Killed by the same person... the same? Could that very same person now be after her? Suddenly, it seemed likely.

  The steps were approaching again. Tapping, rat-a-tat-tat. Loud. So loud. Almost as if they were under Sue and not outside. Different this time, less deliberate, yet still conveying that sense of determined pursuit. Then the taps moved into another room, grew fainter until they were little more than distant drumbeats. Ivy waited again, alone with only the sounds of her own ragged breath and thrumming pulse, her every muscle stiff with terror, fighting the urge to claw her way out. She rocked side to side, struggling to regain inner balance.

  She heard a ring.

  Her cell phone.

  Oh God! The fabric snagged several times as she yanked the tote toward her, frantic to shut down the phone. Rummaging inside, she dislodged the Turkish towel and scraped her trembling fingers on rough-edged bone as she reached around the skull, her make-up bag, her wallet, before finding the relentlessly ringing phone.

  She flipped it open. Oh, let it be Steve.

  “Ivy? ”

  Todd? Crap!

  “This really isn't a good time,” she choked out. “I need you to call the cops.”

  “No! You never call! I’ve got to say it now!” She heard a big intake of breath. “You can’t dump me, bitch. I already dumped you. ”

  Darkness, close quarters, being trapped under a T-Rex—none of that was enough to dull Ivy’s shock. Was Todd the one after her? If so, every word she spoke telegraphed her location. He’d be here any moment.

  Another call beeped in her ear. She clicked over, disconnecting Todd.

  “Get off that phone, Ivy, ” Steve commanded. “She heard it ring. Move to a new hiding place.”

  “She? A woman is chasing me? No, I saw—where are you, Steve? I can’t—”

  “Don’t argue, Ivy. And don’t make any more noise. Find a new place to hide.”

  He disconnected, leaving Ivy to devise her own means of escape. Find a new place? Easy for him to say. He wasn’t slithering around under a T-Rex. She scooched over the pebbly concrete foundation, moving closer to the tiny hole she’d entered. She’d felt exposed enough going in. Climbing out head first, shoulders and arms vulnerable and the rest of her trapped below, seemed like pure madness.

  She was just below the grate when a rumble sounded overhead. For one insane and panicky second she thought Sue had come to life. Reason returned. Steve had been right, her conversation with Todd had given away her location and Steve or Todd or some unnamed female was even now prowling around overhead trying to figure out the precise origin of Ivy’s voice. The overhead footfalls gave off a rat-tat-tat-tat, betraying the slender heels of a woman’s shoes. Steve appeared to be right again. So who was the man she'd seen on the balcony? Todd or Steve? And if Steve, why hadn’t he helped her then? Was his advice to move actually designed to flush her out of hiding?

  Just hours earlier she’d viewed him through rosy glasses, now she was considering him a possible bad guy? But since she’d already washed off the sugary haze, she had to stare at the facts. He’d lured her to the museum and abandoned her here after closing time.

  But why go to such trouble? He could have walked off with the skull when she’d handed it to him and she wouldn’t have been the wiser until later.

  So maybe he was leading a rescue effort. Or maybe aiding the woman prowling overhead. Either way, Ivy had to act. Steve was right to say she couldn’t stay here. The woman would find her, trapped like a corpse in a coffin. In fact, she already seemed to have given up on her topside search. Her steps now came from the far side of the platform, then stopped at the edge.

  Seconds later, Ivy heard a light thud. The woman was climbing down to the walkway on the opposite side of the structure, giving Ivy time to get out undetected. Go! Now! Go!

  She stashed the tote again, turned off the phone and shoved it in her bra, then pushed on the grate, her heart nearly stopping when it didn’t immediately give way. Her second shove sent the grate clanging onto the concrete. She might as well have blown a whistle.

  Suppressing a horrified shudder, she reached up through the opening to pull herself out and was caught just like she’d feared, head and torso exposed, hips still inside. A figure loomed above her, and she saw—Dear God, she must be getting delirious—Isis, the Egyptian dog goddess, lurked over her, barking, “Where is the skull?”

  But the goddess's body didn't ... well, it wasn’t exactly an Isis lookalike. The outfit was just plain slutty. Black skin-tight pencil-slim skirt, a midriff-baring low-cut top and Blahnik knockoff stilettos. Ivy had almost worn a similarly obvious outfit to meet with Steve and was glad she’d sidestepped that disastrous choice. One thing for sure, she wouldn’t have topped the outfit off with a Darth Vader helmet.

  “The skull, Ivy.” The raspy voice was the same one she’d heard in the basement.

  “Melanie Powell, I presume.” As soon as the words were out, Ivy knew she’d regret them.

  Pain exploded in her head. When her eyes stopped watering, she saw a humongous walking stick in Melanie's hand.

  “Who I am has no relevance,” the dog-head growled.

  “Guess not,” Ivy mumbled, earning another blow.

  Her head felt fuzzy,
something wet trickled down her temple. She considered digging the phone out of her cleavage and hitting the last call return button for Steve but couldn’t get past the possibility that he and Melanie might be in cahoots. She had only herself to trust and could think of only one way out. Give Melanie the skull.

  “In the T-Rex,” she said, her tongue feeling thick.

  The Darth Vader head tilted back. “Impossible. There’s no way to climb those bones.”

  “Not up, beneath me.” Even though Ivy’s limbs felt weak, with some effort she could still lever herself out, but if she did, Melanie would undoubtedly send her back in for the tote. So she feigned several collapses and, as a finale, toppled forward to rest her bleeding head on her arms.

  “For God’s sake,” the Darth head grumbled, the body bending to pull Ivy out by her arms.

  “Ouch.” Ivy crumpled on the walkway. “I...My head...feels...funny.”

  Melanie waved the stick. “So sad. Now where is the skull?”

  “To the...to the left of...the opening. In a book bag.”

  Melanie went down on her knees and reached in, blindly patting the floor. Ivy knew she wouldn’t find the niche that easily and waited for the next annoyed explosion.

  “Goddamit, where is it?”

  Ivy dragged herself closer to Melanie. “Lean in more...feel for...the curve.”

  Melanie pulled her arm back. “You’re lying.”

  “No, no. Right there...under the, under the...you know.”

  “The grate? Under the grate?”

  “Look...down. You’ll see it.”

  Melanie paused for a heartbeat, then bent and put her head through the opening without taking time to remove the helmet. Ivy sprang to her feet. Ignoring the scorching sparks of misery from her injury, she threw herself at Melanie’s backside. The woman plunged through the opening, her stiletto-shod feet frantically kicking empty air. Ivy pushed again. And again. Until Melanie’s ample butt was firmly wedged.