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

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Looking out into the night, however, Ulrich felt a great discomfort that was hard to ward off. It was the same sensation he'd felt earlier in his room, a feeling of vulnerability. Walking by this glass door made him feel as though there were a hundred eyes fixed on him, threats homing in from some fixed point in the inky night. The investigator made haste, continuing on his way and whistling a nervous tune while absentmindedly glancing at the framed art on the walls. A picture of a large ship sailing the Maumee River, a grainy black and white photograph of men in military uniform. Ulrich wasn't even reading the placards beneath them anymore; as the minutes wore on, he simply looked at them from the corners of his eyes and quickened his pace, eager to put the night's surveyance behind him and return to his room.

  Another exterior door entered into view, its glass panes fixed in jarring blackness and offering scant glimpses into the ebony, rain-soaked streets outside. He half-expected to find someone leering at him from the shadows of the nearest building, to find some awful presence hammering at the door with an open hand, pleading for admittance. The door was locked, however, and only the pervasive night could be seen through it.

  He kept on, nearly jogging through the hall. This next door, around the corner, was linked to a stairwell; the one that led all the way up to his hallway, on the fifth floor.

  The very same to which he'd tracked an intruder just hours before.

  Ulrich shook his head, tried to force out a little laugh at the foolishness of it. There had been no intruder, of course; that incident in the hallway, where he'd found a trail of watery footprints, had been his imagination. He'd looked up and down the hallway, had peered into the dark stairwell, and had found nothing. He himself had left those tracks behind somehow. And if someone had been there, then they weren't there any longer.

  As far as Ulrich was concerned, there hadn't been anyone there. That was what he needed to tell himself if he was going to finish the night's rounds. There had been no intruder in the building, and he hadn't seen anyone lurking in the hall outside his room. It was just paranoia. A lack of familiarity with the building. Staying in this large, empty place with only a cat for company was playing tricks on his mind. But, soon enough, when he'd had a little more time to get used to things, he wouldn't go to pieces like this anymore. Bumps and thuds in the dead of night would become the norm, and he'd no longer be easily startled. He just needed to spend more time there, to become acclimated to the building's quirks.

  Ulrich found himself walking back towards Oliver's Bar. All of the exterior doors were sealed, by the looks of it, and everything appeared more or less the way he remembered it during his earlier tour with Jamieson. He prepared to mount the great concrete stairwell again and had placed his hand upon the bannister when something broke the silence. It was an unmistakable noise, a noise whose characteristics he could immediately place, but one that should not have sounded in the empty building.

  From inside the bar, Ulrich heard muffled human speech.

  His blood turned to ice and he stood on the first step, shuddering and listening for some time. There was no denying it; though hard to make out from this distance, someone was talking just beyond the glass door leading into Oliver's Bar. The place was unlit, however, and a cautious, narrow glance showed no signs of movement from within.

  The bartender, Callum, was probably still inside somewhere, he thought. Perhaps the Scotsman was having a conversation on the phone, or was talking to himself before locking up for the night. Carefully approaching the door to the bar, however, Ulrich began to doubt whether that was indeed the case. He tried the door, and found it locked. The bartender had gone home already and had secured the place.

  As he approached the door, the sounds of speech grew only more unmistakable. And, though he wished it were the opposite, the hushed voices-- for there was surely more than one furtive speaker somewhere in the dark bar-- were completely unfamiliar to him. The booming accent of the Scotsman was not among them.

  Had someone broken into the bar? Ulrich bit down on his lip and tried to imagine the scenario. A few homeless people, or local gang members looking for free drinks, perhaps, had broken in, picked the lock on the door. He'd go in there and scare them off, perhaps call the police beforehand.

  He reached into his pocket and ran his thumb against the various keys on his ring, standing so close to the door that his breath fogged up the glass. Though he strained to listen, he couldn't make out the substance of the conversation going on within. Also unclear was the number of speakers or their identities; the speech was muddled, slightly androgynous. Before he lost his nerve, Ulrich pulled the keyring from his pocket and clumsily slipped the key into the lock. Giving it a turn, he slowly pushed the door open, taking great care not to telegraph his entrance. If he was going to take the upper hand in this confrontation, he'd need to surprise the intruders. Pausing at the threshold before allowing the door to close quietly behind him, he wished he'd brought a weapon. If push came to shove, he'd use his fists to subdue any intruder, but he prayed it wouldn't come to that. An expert combatant he was not, and already the thought of tangling with some drunken bruiser was unsettling him.

  Placing a few keys between his fingers, Ulrich baled his fist and crept into the bar. With the lights out and only a dim glow issuing in from the hall outside, he found his surroundings tangled up in knots of shadow. Only the numerous bottles sitting behind the counter threw off a bit of hall light, the vessels glimmering like barely-lit candles in a church. Ulrich trained his ears on the hushed speech that issued from somewhere deeper inside, perhaps from behind the bar itself, but found with no little dismay that it ceased almost the next instant, plunging him into an uncomfortable quietude.

  Whoever had been chatting in the bar had fallen silent.

  They knew Ulrich was in there with them.

  “All right,” uttered Ulrich, trying to sound as firm as possible, “I know you're in here. I've called the police,” he lied. “Get out now, while you still can.”

  There was no reply, save for a doubtful scurrying from somewhere in the shadow-swollen room.

  Ulrich stood at the bar's center, glancing over the counter, and then towards the numerous tables which were burdened with stacked chairs. As best he could tell, there was no one standing in the room with him; over the course of a minute he'd walked between every table, had looked behind the counter, and had seen no one. Unless they were lurking in some particularly shadowy spot, in some corner where he hadn't thought to look, then Ulrich was at a loss. He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, allowing the keys to fall limp in the other. Had he misheard?

  No. There had been someone talking in here. He was sure of it. They'd probably fallen silent once they'd heard him enter, and were hoping that he'd leave.

  “If you're waiting for me to go then you're out of luck,” said the investigator aloud. “Show yourself.”

  No one entered into view, however Ulrich's words did draw something in the way of a response. Behind the bar was a wooden door. Where it led he was unsure; the bar was not under Ulrich's purview, and his tour had not included this unmarked door. From behind it, there arose a faint scraping, as of fingers on wood. Ulrich froze in place, stared at the door with wide eyes like he wished to look straight through it, and put the keys between his fingers once again. “Who's there?” he barked, raising a fist and preparing to gouge any would-be attacker.

  A wheezy, terrible gasp sounded from the other side and the door could be seen to quake as the scratching continued. Though frightened, Ulrich fancied he heard hushed speech erupt from all around him, and he turned to glimpse furtive shadows darting about the tables and chairs at his sides. Slight, crouched things bounded across the floor on four limbs, agile and bestial. He didn't get a good look, but knew it wasn't the cat; these things that darted in his periphery were too large to be mere cats.

  The door captured his attention afresh when, from the other side, there sounded a solid thud, as of a fist hammering into it. And th
en another. The knocking grew in volume as others seemed to join in; There were multiple people on the other side of that door, and all of them were slamming their fists against it. Moans and shouts, pained and inhuman, rang out amidst this cacophony, and the wooden door began to bow outward from the series of chaotic blows.

  Ulrich staggered back; there was a crowd trying to break its way out of there. The gasping cries issuing from the other side of the door made his heart skip a beat, and just as the thumping reached a fever pitch, Ulrich lost his nerve. Rushing through the darkness, he burst through the door, into the hallway and hurriedly locked the bar behind him. Then, pressing his back to a wall, he placed a breathless call to the police.

  Chapter 8

  Ulrich met the two officers in the main entrance of Exeter House nearly a half hour after his call had been placed. The thumping in the bar had ceased not a few moments after his flight, but the investigator's nerves remained frayed for the experience. With a callous disinterest, the officers asked Ulrich to lead them to the source of this noise, and he wasted no time in unlocking the bar and seeking out the lights. Feeling less vulnerable now, he pointed at the door behind the bar. “There. That's where I heard it. Someone was in there, banging on the door like mad. I've been standing outside the bar ever since. I didn't see anyone come out of there, so I imagine they're still inside. Be careful,” he warned. “It sounded like there were a hundred guys in there.”

  One of the cops, a young man with a careful black combover, looked to his partner with a raised brow. “Stand back,” he told Ulrich, stepping behind the bar and trying the knob.

  To Ulrich's surprise, the door opened without a hitch. It hadn't even been locked. With one hand resting on his holster, the officer pulled open the door and peered inside. The space was dark, and a wave of cool air drifted out into the rest of the bar. “Who's there?” demanded the cop, taking a step inside and searching for a light switch. When he found it, the space was bathed in a faint orange glow. A single bulb erupted from the ceiling in a nest of black wire. The smell of rotted wood emanated from the doorway, causing the officer to grimace. Pulling a flashlight from his belt, he studied the dimmer corners of the room, evidently a closet of some kind, and then shuffled further in. His partner, a stocky, middle-aged man with a goatee and grey crew-cut, was chewing gum and appraising Ulrich with a frown.

  “See anything?” called out the gum-chewer to his partner.

  “Not a damn thing,” replied the cop from the closet. He leaned out from the doorway. “No one in here. No sign anyone's been here, either.” He clicked off his flashlight and sighed, puffing out his chest. “Sir,” he began, turning to Ulrich, “you realize it's a crime to prank call the police, right?”

  Ulrich's cheeks grew red. “Pardon me?” he said, marching at the cop a little more forcefully than was wise. “I'll have you know I'm a private investigator, hardly the kind of man who'd call the cops in for no good reason. I'm watching after this building for the owner, Jamieson Reed, and I heard a terrible racket coming out of that room. There was someone in there, I have no doubt. Maybe they're gone now, but they were definitely in there.”

  Officer Combover looked to his partner and gave a little roll of his eyes. “Look,” he said, “I need you to take a step back, first of all.” When Ulrich had complied, he continued. “I'm sure you heard something, but I'm telling you there's no one in there. It's a closet, full of booze. No one's hiding behind the pallets. I had a good look. Come in with me and we can both check it out, if you insist, but there's no one inside.” Leaning towards Ulrich, he sniffed the air. “Don't suppose you've had any drinks tonight, have you, sir?”

  Incensed, it was all Ulrich could do to keep from belting the young cop across the chin. “I don't drink, as a matter of fact. I was just doing my rounds when I heard someone talking down here. When I came in, I heard that ruckus coming from inside the closet. That was all.”

  “All right, buddy,” replied the older cop, placing a hand on Ulrich's shoulder. “No need to get so worked up. Old building like this makes a lot of noise. Probably full of rats or God knows what else. We'll have a look around, but it's possible it was nothing, you know?” He blew a large bubble with his gum, and it burst with a pop, clinging to his lips.

  Ulrich nodded, following the officers out of the bar and shutting off the lights. When the door to Oliver's Bar was locked, the trio marched through the hall, fulfilling the circuit Ulrich himself had completed just a half hour before. The cops scanned the halls with their flashlights, tried each of the doors and, when they'd finally returned to the bar, gave shrugs.

  “Nothing,” said Officer Combover, putting his flashlight away and shaking his head. “Keep things locked up and you won't have to worry about any intruders,” he said with a hint of condescension in his voice, like he was talking to a child. “You want us to come upstairs, too? No sign of anyone hanging around down here. No sign of entry; doors are all locked.”

  Furious and wanting only to get rid of the officers, Ulrich shook his head. “No, that's fine. I must've been mistaken.” But Ulrich certainly hadn't been mistaken. He was sure he'd heard voices in the bar, was sure that he'd heard people pounding on that closet door. There was no way he was going to get the cops to believe it, though, not without some concrete evidence. Whoever was responsible for the disturbance, they were long gone now and had left no trace. Local kids, perhaps, had snuck in for a drink and tried to spook him. Or maybe the squatters Jamieson had warned him about had made an appearance. Whatever the case, they weren't there anymore, and that was all that mattered. Shivering as he recalled the rasping, wheezy vocalizations that'd come from behind that door, he walked the officers to the main entrance and gave them a half-hearted “thank you” for coming by.

  The cops left with nary a word, only mumbling to one another as they ambled back to their cruiser.

  Ulrich didn't care what they thought. He'd definitely heard something. “Lot of good that did,” he muttered, tonguing his molars and locking the front entrance. “Next time I won't bother calling.”

  Tired and stressed out, Ulrich started up the stairs, leaving the bar behind him and stealing a few more glances over his shoulder as he went.

  Chapter 9

  The investigator slept late. When he awoke, tangled in the plush linens, it was nearly one in the afternoon, and his head was pounding. He'd slept well, but apparently a wicked headache had settled in behind his eyes during the night. Though he kneaded his forehead with his knuckles, he found there'd be no ousting it and groggily sought out a bottle of Acetaminophen in his bag. Taking a couple of them dry, he stepped into the bathroom and gulped a little water from the tap before stripping out of his clothes and standing in the shower. The shower-head, a nice, new fixture, blasted his sore frame with an even, soothing spray. It wasn't enough to ease the tension that'd built up over the course of the night however. As he scrubbed and rinsed, he thought back to his rounds, to the disturbance in the bar.

  Rather than fear, however, he felt only annoyance. Why didn't those damn cops believe me? It's not like I was drunk. I'm not some young kid prank-calling them. Even if they didn't find anything, that doesn't mean I didn't hear someone in the bar last night. They didn't have to write me off like that, the assholes. Cops in the area weren't much a fan of him. Unless one had the reputation of, say, Edgar Hudson, a relatively famous and successful Toledo-based PI, then the police tended to treat detectives like chopped liver. He could count on one hand how many local officers he'd ever had a good experience with, and despite his being a professional, it seemed like the police were never willing to take him seriously.

  When his shower was done, he wrapped a towel around his midsection and stepped out, seeking out a change of clothes from his valise. He opted for more comfortable garments; a white polo and a pair of old dress slacks. Fixing himself up in the bathroom mirror, Ulrich stepped out into the living room and opened the blinds, admitting the brilliant light of day. The bright sunshine only increased th
e ache in his skull, but as he staggered away from the window and fixed himself a coffee, he found the painkillers were finally kicking in.

  Once caffeinated, Ulrich stepped out into the hall and had a look around. The bowls near the stairs were nearly empty, and he busied himself for a time by setting out fresh food and water for the cat. He hadn't seen the little mongrel since the night before, and wondered what he was getting up to.

  Hoping that some food might quell his headache, Ulrich locked up and started downstairs. The bar, Jamieson had told him, opened for lunch each day at one, and Callum could likely whip him up something. When he'd had something to eat, perhaps he'd go out on the town, take a long walk to clear his head. Though luxurious, his room in the Exeter House seemed slightly repellant after the night's events. He wanted to distance himself a little from the old building, get out and see other sights. He'd have more than enough time to walk the dim halls that night, when making his rounds.

  The bar was indeed open, and upon pushing through the door, he was greeted loudly by the barkeep. “Morning,” said Callum, grinning widely as Ulrich shuffled in, rubbing at his forehead. “Long night, I see?”

  Ulrich nodded feebly. “Terrible headache.”

  “I've got something for that,” he said, pouring some cocktail peanuts into a glass dish and sliding them Ulrich's way. “Grill's just about hot. You like eggs sunny side up? A bit of that, with some toast and hash always sets me right after a night of drinking.”