Medicine For The Dead: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 2)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Gulping, he palmed the doorknob and prepared to throw the door open. Whoever it was, he hoped to take them by surprise. He hadn't heard anyone mounting the concrete stairs outside, though. If there was an intruder, had they come from the other stairwell, the one blocked off by a thick, metal door? Surely Ulrich would have heard such a door closing if that were the case?

  Glancing at the living room to his back, the view through the rain-flecked windows made him feel suddenly vulnerable. He nearly went to shut the blinds when another incongruous thump in the hallway commanded his attention and incited a palpitation. Ulrich tensed. He was the only one living in the building at this time. Though he sought comfort in other scenarios, perhaps in the thought that some drunken bar patron had lost their way and wandered up to the fifth story of the building, everything pointed to an intruder.

  If it was a squatter, someone seeking shelter, he knew what he'd have to do. He'd taken on the job and would kick them out, just like Jamieson had asked. But what if they resisted? Became violent? Before he lost his nerve, Ulrich threw open the door and stepped out into the hallway, standing straight and assuming as solemn an expression as he could. Whoever it was messing around out there, he wanted them to know with a glance that he meant business.

  Canvassing the hall, Ulrich looked first to the dark and winding concrete stairs to the right. There was nothing there, save for the tell-tale bobbing of a cat's tail as the animal partook from the bowls he'd earlier filled. His eyes continued along the hall, studying each door aside from his own. They were shut, each of them, just as they were supposed to be.

  But then, at the end of the hall near the bend, he saw someone.

  The light fixture at hall's end had seemingly burnt out, because no light was cast on the individual who now entered into his sights, and their rigid, masculine outline was highlighted only in shadow. Whoever it was, Ulrich felt confident that they were of stocky build, perhaps a hair under six feet tall, and possessed of a baleful glare whose potency was felt even from a distance of forty-plus feet. Wrestling with the dread in his throat, Ulrich turned and pointed at the figure, squinting so that he might make out more than the slightest generalities. “You there!” he called, taking a nervous step forward. “What are you doing up here? This area is off-limits.”

  The figure didn't budge, made no motion whatsoever so that Ulrich wasn't even sure whether he'd heard. Continuing down the hall and glancing up at the light fixtures, which dimmed very slightly at the passage of a forceful gust outside, he balled his fists. “You must leave here, at once. If you don't, I'll call the police.” Ulrich took his cell phone out of his pocket, waving it out in front of him and hoping that the man at the end of the hall would take the hint. He wasn't bluffing; even as he approached, Ulrich's thumb was acquainting itself with the nine and one on his keypad. “Leave this instant or I'm calling 9-1-1.”

  Without warning, the figure suddenly slipped around the corner. For a man of his stature, he scarcely made a sound as he started towards the metal door and vanished completely from view. Had he decided to leave the building, or was he simply waiting in the corner near the metal door, preparing to ambush the investigator? Ulrich clutched his phone and raced forward, listening for the sounds of the man's exit, but hearing nothing of the door, of even a single footfall.

  Turning the corner and bracing himself, Ulrich looked to the door that led to the stairs.

  It was closed.

  And there was no one there.

  Loosening his stance tentatively, Ulrich took a shaky step forward and eased the metal door open, pushing on its handle so that the hinges gave way with a noticeable creak. The way beyond was dim, virtually unlit, but so far as he could see there was no one waiting for him in the stairwell. The door hadn't been opened; he would've heard it. And though he waited some time, listening, the stairwell proved ponderously silent as well.

  Wiping at his eyes, Ulrich loosed a long-held breath. “Where could the guy have gone?” he asked, craning his neck around the bend in the hall. From here he could see the door to his room sitting ajar, could see the light pouring out of his unit. Something else caught his eye, too, as he retraced his steps and wondered just where the intruder had gotten off to. The light fixture whose malfunction had allowed the man to dwell in shadow was working now, every bulb in the thing burning brightly and casting an abundance of light.

  Ulrich stood beneath it and puzzled for a time before simply giving up. “Must've been a trick of the light,” he told himself. The coffee hadn't quite kicked in yet, and he was feeling a bit tired; possibly, his eyes had simply misled him. There wasn't any other explanation to be had, no evidence that anyone had actually been there...

  Except that, as he started back towards his room, he discovered the door leading to apartment number five sitting ajar.

  Chapter 6

  Apartment five was the last apartment on the floor, and its entrance was located directly across from the metal door leading into the secondary stairwell.

  Ulrich had walked past that door just moments ago and was as sure as he was of anything that it'd been shut, just like the others.

  And yet, there it was, the door half-open and an inky darkness flowing out of the space, where it pooled on the hallway carpet.

  An almost imperceptible draft must've coursed through the hallway just then, or else the slight hairs on Ulrich's forearms were called to action by another force. He licked his lips, staggering towards the door to number five, and giving it a slight push. He hadn't seen anyone go into the room; the intruder he'd thought was there had gone in the direction of the stairwell. In the time it'd taken him to round the corner and investigate the stairwell, however, this door had opened. It was the fact that it'd fallen open, seemingly of its own agency, while he'd had his back turned, that most bothered him.

  Old buildings like this one, he knew, sometimes had minds of their own. Loose door frames, faulty knobs, could cause doors to swing open of their own accord. But a close study of these fixtures reinforced what Ulrich already knew of the place; Jamieson had just remodeled all of these rooms, and no expense had been spared. This extended to the doors and all of their parts, thus putting a dent in the rickety door hypothesis. Jiggling the door handle, Ulrich found it responsive, in working order.

  And unless his mind was playing tricks on him, he fancied it felt a little warm, too, as if another palm had been wrapped around it just moments before.

  He drew his hand away in the next moment, wiping it on his pant leg as though it were filthy, and then took a step into the room, narrowing his gaze in the hopes of penetrating the shadows. The blinds were closed so that even the faint lights of downtown Toledo and the feeble moon could not penetrate. The minute patter of raindrops against the windows sounded from across the vast, bare living room, but aside from this the space was absent of sound. The din of appliances was not heard here, and a timid perusal of the kitchen from the doorway told him why. There were no appliances. Jamieson had said the other units weren't furnished. The silence that fell over him was positively vacuous.

  Walking inside, the soles of his feet growing cold against the bare floors, he entered the kitchen, then crossed into the small bathroom. There was nothing out of place, no conspicuous signs of an intruder. Still, as he stalked about the unit, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone had just been there. Maybe it was simply the density of the shadows that accumulated in the corners of the space that intensified this impression and made him feel like other presences were gathered in the room with him. Stepping into the bedrooms, he found them clear.

  At least, as far as he was willing to venture into the black, cave-like rooms, they appeared free of intruders.

  Ulrich was about to leave when the squealing of a hinge brought his attention to the door of the pantry, presently swinging open. Gritting his teeth, he took a step back and prepared to throw a punch, only to find Sparkles darting out from within. The cat raced across the bare living room floor and slid to a stop near the doo
r.

  “Damn cat,” muttered Ulrich, grasping at his chest. Looking to the feline with annoyance, he started for the hallway. “How'd you unlock that door?” he asked it. The cat turned its eyes inquisitively upward, and they narrowed as if in response, though he couldn't guess for the sake of him what that response was.

  Ulrich tracked down the key for room five on his ring and firmly bolted the door. Then, watching as Sparkles darted down the hall towards his room, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “No need to get so worked up. It was nothing, just a cat. You're not used to living with animals. They do things like that all the time. Door was probably unlocked and it just let itself in. Won't happen again.” As Ulrich started back down the hall, hoping that his coffee hadn't grown cold, he felt something beneath his feet.

  In a few spots, the carpet was moist.

  Bending down to inspect it, he found that the carpeting bore several sets of wet footprints. The water was cold and abundant; the prints were fresh. Wondering if he hadn't tracked water onto the carpet somehow, he ran his hands against the bottoms of his socks and found them mainly dry.

  And, besides, the prints were far too large to be his.

  Whoever had made them had feet that dwarfed his own.

  He scanned the line of prints, which seemed to start from the concrete stairs and extend all the way across the hall, around the bend, and wasn't sure exactly how he'd missed them during his last walk down the corridor. Ulrich walked all the way to the edge of the concrete stairs, spying the dim outline of still more wet footprints. It appeared as though someone had walked up the whole way, gone down the hall and subsequently disappeared.

  Like someone had come in from the rain outside, barefoot.

  Chapter 7

  It was a squatter. It had to have been.

  That was what Ulrich told himself as he locked himself in his apartment following a frantic search. He'd switched on all of the lights, had bounded up and down the stairs every which way, but had seen nothing of an intruder. With every passing moment the dry air in the place ate away at the moist footprints, and when they'd evaporated Ulrich was left wondering if they'd ever been there at all. Feeling out of sorts, he stormed back into his room, brewed himself a fresh pot of coffee and decided to distract himself with some reading.

  The plush bed was unlike anything Ulrich had ever slept in. He was only a few pages into his book, a dogeared pulp science fiction novel, when he slumped against the downy comforter with a sigh and began nodding off. With more pillows than he knew what to do with, Ulrich burrowed into the bedclothes and was fast asleep till a noise awoke him some hours later.

  It was the sound of his book hitting the floor.

  Startled, Ulrich sat up, peered over the edge of the bed, and was mystified when he found the lights still on. “Must've dozed off,” he told himself, rubbing at his eyes and feeling like his bladder might burst. Stumbling to the bathroom, Ulrich rid himself of the night's coffees and then looked himself over in the mirror, a clean, sharp-looking thing designed in a modernist oval shape. He toyed with the idea of bathing in the spacious tub, or of taking a quick shower, but then recalled the incident that'd taken place in the hall before his unplanned nap.

  The lights at the bathroom vanity flickered a bit, in time with his shuddering recollection.

  Before he could allow himself a shower, Ulrich would need to walk through the halls again, make certain that the place was locked, safe and uninhabited. He straightened himself out in the mirror, his shirt host to unsightly creases, and then ran a hand through his greying hair. A glance at his phone showed it to be just after one in the morning. He'd been asleep for a few hours, but the night was still young.

  Stretching, the investigator made his way from the bathroom and out into the kitchen. Rinsing out one of his mugs, he filled it with cold water and took a few gulps before seeking out his shoes in the living room.

  Something was wrong, however.

  Standing between the kitchen and living room, Ulrich caught sight of something that sent a chill through him.

  The door to his room was sitting ajar.

  Glancing around the room affrightedly, the investigator rushed forth and slammed it shut, bolting it with firmness and then turning his attention to the living room. His pulse had shot up something fierce; so loud did it hammer within his ears that he doubted he'd be able to hear an intruder, if there was one to be found.

  The living room looked altogether unmolested. Nothing was out of its proper place. Then again, Ulrich was not yet so familiar with his new surroundings that he could be wholly certain, and as he began pacing through the room, he found that he second-guessed himself a great deal. Had the easy chair on the burgundy rug been in that exact spot when last he'd been in the living room? Had the lampshade on that brass lamp in the corner always been slightly crooked, or was this some ominous portent?

  Quivering, he crept across the room, had a peek behind the blinds, and found the night to be very dark. Rain still marked the windows, but only a faint mist fell now. Outside, a ragged wind cut across the land, and he could hear each gale as it met the side of the ancient Exeter House.

  Room by room, Ulrich searched for signs of an intruder. When he returned to the kitchen, however, he had to resign himself to the fact that there were none. Nothing had been disturbed; as best he could guess, the door to his room was simply faulty. It'd come unlocked somehow, had been pushed open, perhaps, by the cat. This search of his unit hadn't yielded the cat, but he knew Sparkles was probably scrambling about in the hall, chasing rats at such an hour. Allowing his heart to calm to a stabler rhythm, Ulrich leaned against the kitchen counter and glanced askance at the front door.

  “Going to have to let Jamieson know that the door doesn't work so well. I know I locked the damn thing, but it fell open all the same. Must be a faulty lock...” Tugging on his collar and marching back to the door, Ulrich put on his shoes and tested the knob. The lock, too, was tried, bolted and re-bolted. He could find nothing wrong with the hardware, however. He yanked open the door and studied the frame for a few moments before the darting of the cat across the hall frightened him back into the room.

  Sparkles had raced just past the door to his room as if chasing some invisible thing. “Damned animal,” he spat. Then, leaning out the door guardedly, he hissed, “If you give me a heart attack, I'm not going to be around to feed you. Mind your manners, cat.”

  Shutting his door behind him, Ulrich peered up and down the hall. The hall lights burned brightly, lighting up everything except for the concrete stairs to his right. The air felt stuffy, undisturbed, and yet in the silent, empty hall Ulrich couldn't help but feel something more. Something superadded to the isolation that should not have been there. He glanced up at the ceiling, at the other doors lining the way, then rubbed at his arms when he found nothing awry.

  The air was somewhat colder here than it was in his room; this he attributed to a draft coming from the cold, concrete stairwell. Deciding that to be the best place to begin his nightly round, he slowly began meandering down the carpeted hall towards the stairs. As he neared, he could see the mural coming into view. The blue waters, the ancient mariners engaged in naval warfare, the figures of prominent leaders cut into the scene with darker hues. Perry, Oliver... As Ulrich began down the stairs, he attempted to beat back the dread he felt by finding the different naval officers whose names and ranks were written in flowing script. His shuffling steps resonated in the stillness. He removed his phone from his pocket and turned on the flashlight function, giving himself more light to see by. The way forward was only lit by the faint glow coming from the light fixtures of other stories; during the day, the stairwell relied on the light of the massive stained glass window on the fifth floor. Only scarce rays of moonlight could be seen to come through it at this late hour, however.

  Ulrich paused in his shuffling, listened for a moment as if he half-expected to hear someone following him down the stairs. No one did, but the utter silence that e
nveloped him as he paused was disorienting, and as he went on, he pressed one hand to the carved bannister.

  He rounded the bend, passing the fourth floor and noting nothing of import. The other floors of the building were of seemingly the same design as the fifth from whence he'd come, however the second, third and fourth levels of the Exeter House, not having been renovated, were blocked by large metal doors. These doors were fastened with lengths of chain and large padlocks, so that Ulrich needed only to make sure no one had broken in. It was a great relief to him, not having to survey each and every floor, and upon his arrival on the first floor, which was considerably brighter than the rest, he breathed a pent-up sigh.

  The layout of the first floor was simple. The bar sat to the right of the main entrance, and was accessed by way of a glass door after the mounting of some few stairs. In the opposite direction was a long and winding hallway which would lead one in a complete circuit around the building. There were no rooms, save for closets, on this bottom floor, and on his way along the hall, Ulrich jostled the knobs to make sure they were all locked. As was the case elsewhere, the walls here were lined in paintings and photographs; here a number of oil paintings featuring local citizens of note and former owners of the Exeter House, there photographs of its construction, of the architect who'd planned the building and the team of laborers who'd done the job. These each featured captions and brief descriptions, and Ulrich paused on his way to inspect each and every one. It was all he could do to study the curios on the wall; walking through the empty, quiet halls was becoming unbearably uncomfortable for him.

  Jamieson had gone to great lengths to collect these materials; there were enough items on the wall to fill a small museum, and for anyone with the remotest interest in Toledo's history, it made for a fascinating collection. Still, as he rounded a corner and spotted one of the exterior doors, his heart seized in his chest. It wasn't that he'd seen anything through its thick, glassy bulk, or that it had been in any way disturbed. Rather, Ulrich stood beneath the light fixture, which glowed in varied hues of bright yellow due to a mixture of bulbs, and looked out into the pitch black night. The lock was engaged, and a tentative yank of the door proved it solid. No one was getting in through there.