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

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Ulrich chuckled dryly. He wasn't hungover, but the ache migrating into his temples would likely respond to some greasy breakfast food. “Sure, sounds great.”

  Callum disappeared into the kitchen for a moment. It was a very small space, as best Ulrich could tell, sequestered just beyond the bar and blocked off by a swinging door. Sizzling reached his ears as the barman threw some eggs on and began humming loudly. The sound of metal instruments striking the hot grill rang out next, and when Ulrich had made it half way through his peanuts, Callum returned with a plate teeming with food.

  Ulrich thanked him and ordered a Perrier with lime before digging in. Three eggs, sunny-side up, topped a greasy hash of potatoes and sausage. As he carved into the mound of food, the runny yolks seeped into the hash below. Every bite was sheer bliss. When he was well into the plate, he found his headache alleviated somewhat and, taking a gulp of chill Perrier, asked the barkeep a question. “Tell me, Callum... working here alone, have you ever experienced anything strange?” There were no other customers in the bar at the time, but Ulrich still kept his voice low, knowing how such a query might sound.

  Pausing in his polishing of numerous glasses, Callum furrowed his brow. Then, resuming, he glanced over at Ulrich with a shrug. “How do you mean, strange?”

  Spearing a bit of potato and onion on the end of his fork, Ulrich leaned forward. “You know... anything weird... anything you haven't been able to explain?”

  The bartender seemed to understand what Ulrich was driving at, and shook his head, chuckling. “You, uh... you get into the liquor there, lad?”

  “No,” replied the investigator, working over a bite of food. “But last night, something strange happened. I was doing my rounds for Jamieson, right? And when I came upon the bar, I heard something inside. I wander in, and that closet there,” he said, motioning to the closed door behind the bar, “was shaking and rattling. Someone was inside-- a lot of people were, by the sounds of it-- but when the door was opened, there was no one there. I called the cops and they checked it out. Must've thought I was insane, but... I know what I heard.” Picking at his teeth, Ulrich pushed the plate away and lowered his gaze sheepishly. “I know how that sounds, but, uh... we couldn't find any trace of anyone in here. Not a speck of a clue. Was damn weird.”

  Throughout Ulrich's telling, the barkeep could be seen to grow ever more uncomfortable. The smile had crept off of his face, and was replaced by a deep-set frown. The color of his skin had changed into something paler, and his movements were fidgety, unpracticed. He nearly dropped a glass as his shoulders stiffened. Forcing a short laugh, he looked to Ulrich. “So, what are you sayin', exactly?”

  Ulrich sat in silence for a time. His study of the bar the night before had yielded no clues into the identity of the intruder. Previous experience led him to believe that there may have been a very good reason for that. Maybe there hadn't been an intruder at all... maybe Ulrich had simply heard one of the building's inhabitants. A long-term resident.

  He was thinking, of course, of ghosts.

  Though a lifelong skeptic, Ulrich's experiences with the supernatural in recent months had changed his outlook on a great and many things. There were phenomena, he now knew, which could not be explained through reason alone. His last major case, the exploration of the Sick House in Moonville, had taught him that. There could be more to this old building than meets the eye. He didn't want to jump to conclusions, however the possibility of a supernatural menace was no longer something that he could write off. Not anymore.

  Callum scoffed. “Too many ghost stories, I reckon.” He disappeared into the kitchen for a time and could be heard to clean off the grill with a brush. When he returned, the color had returned to his cheeks somewhat.

  Ulrich wasn't done, however. “So... you've never seen or heard anything strange down here? It is an old building... Seems like a good place for that kind of thing, if ghosts really do exist. Don't you think so?”

  Callum wet his lips pensively before replying quietly. “Don't believe in that crap.” The narrowing of his eyes betrayed him. He almost seemed to wince at the notion. “You believe what you wanna believe, of course. There's no convincing a believer in that sort of mess that there's no such thing as ghosts. Trying to talk reason to the faithful is like giving medicine to the dead, I think. Maybe you believe... in that kind of thing. Me? Not in the least.” He cleared his throat. “Sure you didn't break into my stash?” he asked, pointing at the row of bottles. “A bit of drink can make you hear and see strange things.”

  Ulrich chortled. “No, no. I don't drink, I'm telling you. I'm teetotal. Never touched the stuff, not after my father died a hopeless drunk.” He paused, beating back the attendant recollections that came with such an admission. “Anyhow, I'm just surprised that you've never experienced anything. You spend all day down here and you mean to tell me that--”

  “Listen,” blurted Callum, drying his hands off and throwing down his rag, “I don't have much time to talk right now. I'm going to head into the back for a bit. Meal's on the house.” With that, his cheeks looking rather flushed and his hands trembling, he stooped into the kitchen and disappeared from view.

  Callum's reaction was a strange one. Talking about supernatural activity, apparently, was unpalatable for him.

  If Ulrich didn't know any better, it almost seemed as though Callum had seen something down in the bar after all. Something he didn't wish to discuss, lest it should manifest again.

  Ulrich left a few small bills on the counter as a tip and cleared out after draining his Perrier.

  Chapter 10

  Wandering back up to his room for a brief stint, Ulrich thought back to his last case, in the haunted infirmary. He'd been surrounded by death there, had made contact with more spirits than he could possibly recall, and had witnessed unimaginable horrors. Was the Exeter House the same kind of place? An ancient building that was host to tortured souls? Were the halls and rooms he'd been asked to survey crowded with presences who couldn't move on from the world of men? It occurred to him that the building might contain something fearful, something intangible, and that it was very much aware of his presence.

  But that was enough about that.

  Sitting on the sofa, counting out the money in his wallet, he put all thoughts of spirits out of his mind. There were more pressing matters to worry about; namely, how he was going to spend the last of his cash.

  A few hundred dollars, plus a fair bit in small bills, would likely furnish him a month's worth of food, if he ate on the cheap. A new apartment, however, would be out of the question until he could rummage up some serious cash. Even then, he wouldn't be able to afford a new bed or any furniture for a while beyond that. Slumping against the plush leather cushions, he felt himself wrapped up in hopelessness. It was embarrassing, being a grown man with no place to call his own. He'd skirted the poverty line before, had overspent and wanted for many things in his life, but this was the first time he was facing the possibility of homelessness.

  He considered various odd jobs he could do. A paper route, maybe, could give him enough spare change to get by. On his phone, he scrolled through a site that listed local apartments for rent, but was disheartened by how much it would cost just to move in. The down payment and first month's rent for even the smallest, dingiest units in town, would bankrupt him.

  Probably he would have to put ads in the paper, find himself a new case. He could do one or two simple cases and make enough to secure an apartment. The trouble was, he probably wouldn't be able to get it all done within the space of a single week. Unless he happened upon a particularly desperate client or two, things would move forward slowly.

  Losing his patience, Ulrich stood up. He wanted to walk, had more thoughts burgeoning in his mind than the apartment could contain, and hurriedly locked up. It was early in the afternoon. A brief walk outside, to get to know the area a little better, would help him clear his head. Jogging down the stairs, Ulrich left through the main entrance and started th
rough the chill day.

  Though he'd lived in Toledo all his life, there were still places he didn't know very well. The area surrounding Exeter House was one of them. There were a number of narrow streets and alleys around the building, many of them leading to abandoned businesses. Hoping that he could find someplace to pass the time and allay the stress that was threatening to topple him, he followed the pulverized sidewalk and kept his eyes peeled. Nearby, he glimpsed a towering office building, several of its windows on the lower stories knocked out. It was long-abandoned, and a couple of unkempt figures limped about its foundation.

  Further on, in a cluster of bent, leaning trees, was a weathered pavilion that had taken on a similar crookedness. Approaching it, Ulrich found it peppered with cigarette butts and dead insects. The surviving wooden rails, all of them severely worn, wore countless carved messages. Hearts and initials covered every inch of open space, and even the floor of the structure had been carved into.

  Rounding the Exeter House, Ulrich started into a large, unkept lot that was littered with gravel and weeds. A single car was parked there, and the building it led up to, squat and faintly lit, appeared inhabited. Starting across this lot in curiosity, Ulrich noticed the first sign more than twenty yards from the front door, fastened with zip ties to the lamp post near the sidewalk. It was a weather-beaten thing, that read; WARNING: VIDEOTAPING IN PROGRESS. SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED, and numerous others of similar spirit could be found plastered to the sides of the business and in its dusty windows. Looking upward, Ulrich noticed an impressive collection of security cameras watching the lot. There were cameras fixed to the roof of the building, to the streetlight, and still others in the nearby trees. The sign atop this building read “BOOKS AND MORE”.

  The owner, apparently, took shoplifting very seriously.

  A little nervous as he approached the door, Ulrich walked across the lot under the scrutiny of the cameras and pushed it open. A digital chime sounded as he stepped in, and from the first his nostrils were accosted by the smell of dust.

  The scene that met him from the threshold was one of disorder. Numerous shelves with precious little space between crowded the store. Upon these shelves were what appeared to be books and videos. Aside from these shelves there were glass showcases, somewhat scuffed and dingy, displaying glass beads and other items. Leering at him from a wooden desk near the door was the shopkeeper, an old woman with a thinning knot of hair atop her head and an ill-fitting brown muumuu. She blinked at Ulrich from behind a pair of bifocals so thick that they could have been bulletproof, and grunted.

  “Hello there,” said Ulrich, nodding in her general direction.

  She didn't return his greeting, but simply straightened herself on her stool and pulled her lips into a pointed scowl. The sign on the door had led him to believe that the place was open for business, but the old woman didn't look particularly happy at the notion of hosting customers just then.

  Ambling a little further in, Ulrich eyed the shelves of books, pulling a few out and reading the titles. Most of them were worn-out romance novels, old ones. Walking amidst the shelves, he sought to put a little distance between himself and the unfriendly old woman.

  It didn't work out that way, however.

  Shuffling footsteps sounded from behind, and the old woman, carrying half of a sandwich in hand, came to stand behind him. She watched intently from behind her thick lenses, while he looked through the books. Chewing noisily, she spat a little as she spoke. “Closed for lunch,” she managed, choking down a bite and then taking another. “Forgot to change the sign.”

  Ulrich apologized. “Sorry, I didn't realize.” He returned a book to its shelf and stepped aside, trying to bypass the woman.

  After watching him for a time and pounding another bite of her sandwich, she rolled her slumped shoulders. “Just don't break nothin'. Or steal nothin'.” She leaned in, then pointed to the ceiling, where a number of black, globe-shaped cameras descended from the dusty rafters. “I'm watchin' ya.” A few bits of food escaped her lips, landing squarely on Ulrich's shirt.

  He nodded, side-stepping her and brushing off his breast with a shudder. “I've never seen this shop before,” he said, trying to break the ice. “Lot of books you have here.”

  The old woman kept shuffling behind him, straightening her glasses and breathing heavily. Eating and walking at the same time was apparently very taxing to her, however she wasn't willing to let Ulrich wander the store on his own.

  With the shopkeeper looking over his shoulder at all times, Ulrich perused the shelves, happening upon a couple of old mystery novels that piqued his interest. He leafed through them, finding their pages intact, and then turned to the woman. “H-how much for these?” he asked, failing to find a price sticker.

  She glanced the books over, chewing silently, before spitting a response. “Fifty cents apiece.”

  Fishing a dollar out of his wallet, Ulrich handed it over and then placed the books under his arm.

  The old woman took the money into her mayonnaise-damp paw and ambled back to her desk, dropping the bill into a small lock-box. For a time, Ulrich glanced over the showcases staggered about the place. Nothing much caught his interest within, and the wares had been displayed haphazardly, with strings of beads piled upon one another and various needle-working supplies strewn across felt-covered panels. It was a weird mix of things to sell, and Ulrich was about to ask the old woman why it was she'd chosen to devote a whole store to such disparate interests when she unexpectedly spoke up.

  “Young man, I noticed you watching my cameras earlier, and I'll have you know that there are eyes on every corner of my building.” She took a sip of iced tea from a faded gas station cup and put her hands on her hips.

  He wanted to laugh. Young man? It'd been a long time since anyone had called him that. “Indeed there are,” replied Ulrich, returning towards the entrance with his purchases in tow. “Why is that? I can see that security is very important to you, but this many cameras is surely a bother, isn't it?”

  “Not at all,” crowed the woman, taking a bite from the second half of her sandwich. “I've been stolen from twice in my life. But not since I set up those cameras. No one comes or goes from this store without being captured on several tapes. I have the whole perimeter in focus, and will press charges for any attempted thefts.” She leveled her gaze on Ulrich. “You weren't snooping around outside my store in the hopes of causing mischief, were you?”

  Ulrich laughed. “Oh, goodness, no.” He extended a hand to shake, which the old woman met only feebly. “My name is Harlan Ulrich. I'm a private investigator by trade, though I'm actually staying just next door in the Exeter House. I'm looking after things for an acquaintance of mine.”

  “A private investigator?” she mused, wiping food from the wrinkled corner of her mouth. “How interesting. Perhaps I'll retain your services someday in investigating the goings on around my building here.” She nibbled on a crust of bread. “The gangs in this area are notorious, and as I said, they've stolen from me twice. Came in and emptied my register, made a real mess of my books.” She coughed, chasing her bread with more tea. “Are your rates reasonable?” she asked with a series of rapid blinks.

  Ulrich was desperate for money, but he wasn't so desperate that he could stand to work for this woman. Smiling, he instantly regretted telling her what he did for a living. “Perhaps some other time,” he said. “My case load is rather high right now.”

  The old woman frowned, then turned to the window. “A shame. Even now those thugs are stirring. Look here,” she said, motioning towards the parking lot. Outside could be seen a couple of young men, all of them appearing rather underdressed considering the chill of the day. In thin shirts and wife-beaters, they stalked around the perimeter of the shop, cutting through the lot and looking not a little suspicious. “Those roughs, there. See the one with the shaved head?” she asked, sitting back on her stool. “He was one of them. I've seen him skulking around here before, when I go to
lock up the place. I take my lockbox with me, of course, never leave my money unattended after what happened, but it wouldn't surprise me if he and his friends came back.”

  Ulrich nodded. “I see. I know there are some violent gangs in the area, but I don't have a lot of experience with them.” Watching the young men disappear in the direction of Exeter House, Ulrich grimaced. Were gang members the ones breaking into the place and putting a scare in him? It was a real possibility, something he hadn't fully considered in the past. Perhaps the young ruffians were looking for some place to use as a stage for illicit activities, or simply enjoyed getting a rise out of him. Whatever the case, Ulrich would be keeping an eye out for the likes of them from then on. “Have a good day,” he said absently as he left the store.

  Chapter 11

  Lean times called for lean meals.

  Ulrich returned to Exeter House after having made a quick stop at the local grocery with a rumbling gut. A loaf of white bread a day from its expiration date, a package of lunch meat, a small bag of potato chips and a can of root beer was his yield, and it would make for a modest dinner, if not a boring one. He set the shopping bag on the counter, locked the door and cracked open the soda, taking a long gulp.

  In with the food were the two books he'd picked up at the old woman's store, and he leafed through one of them while mindlessly gnawing on a heel of bread. Tossing the dogeared thing down, he shook his head and took another sip from his can. Should've been out looking for jobs in earnest. Instead you come back with books to read.

  Some minutes later, with a sandwich held between his teeth, Ulrich went rummaging through his things in search of his boombox. Upon finding it, he set it on an accent table and plugged it in, rifling through a small stack of CDs. There wasn't much to choose from, and nothing seemed to reflect his current mood, but he settled on an old mix CD of jazz vocal standards he'd made some years back and polished off the remainder of his soda while listening to Ella Fitzgerald.