“It isn't!” replied Ulrich, sitting up and gaining his feet. He felt like his shoes were encased in cinder blocks. “I'm telling you, I saw a woman. I told you what she looked like, Callum. You think I'm just going to make that kind of shit up? You think I'm going to go to the trouble of fabricating all of those details?” He threw his hands out. “Come on, I'm not lying to you. I don't even drink. How many times do I have to tell you? I was attacked last night.”
“Attacked,” echoed Callum, crossing his arms and leaning against the kitchen counter. “Sure, sure. Attacked... by some... by some woman.” The barkeep squirmed a little, his hands flexing into fists. “Keep talking like that and they're going to cart you out, mate. Listen, I found the door to the bar open, found the closet door open, a few busted bottles, and then I find you passed out on the floor. It isn't hard to put two and two together. Just admit to me that you got into the stash and we'll try and put this behind us. I'm sure Mr. Reed will be understanding of your problem--”
“Goddammit, Callum, I didn't touch your alcohol. Get it? I'm not going to say it again. I was attacked last night, plain and simple. Believe what you want, but quit hassling me.” Ulrich walked over to the window and looked at the rain-slick world below. The sun was bright today but the landscape was littered in puddles. The roof of a nearby building was host to several, the dark, ashy water sitting still and stagnant. “I know how it looks, but something is going on in this building.” He turned to the barkeep sharply. “I want to ask you again whether you know anything about it.”
Callum straightened himself, looking to the floor and chuckling throatily. “You want to know if I know something? What might I know about, mate?”
“I want to know whether you've ever experienced anything strange... anything out of sorts in this building. Anything frightening.” Pacing towards Callum, Ulrich jabbed a finger his way. “Because the thing I saw last night... it isn't the first time I've seen it. And it sure as hell wasn't normal. There's something wrong with this building, some kind of energy circulating about it, and I'm not sure what to make of it, but you've been here longer than I have. You must've encountered something by now. It can't possibly just be me seeing these...” He trailed off before finishing. “Ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” Callum's face had begun to grow sweaty, and though he frowned in anger, the color of his cheeks had drained away. The Scotsman fiddled nervously with the hem of his vest and stamped a boot on the floor. “Look here, I won't entertain talk of that kind! Perpetuating rumors of haunting might've been well and good in Exeter House once upon a time, but this is a new day, mister, and I ain't going to have business suffer because paranoid talk like this persists. Least of all from... from a damned drunk!” He stepped into the hallway, breathing raggedly. “Ghosts, he says. Ghosts. Sure, it was ghosts that broke into the bar and drank that liquor.”
“You seem nervous,” said Ulrich from the door. He leaned against the frame, dissecting the Scotsman with his gaze. “Almost as if you've seen something.”
Callum turned to him sharply, his fist shaking at his side. “Building's always been said to host spirits or what have you, guy. Everyone knows that. It's a local tradition. They used to run ghost tours out of here not so long ago. And maybe, once or twice, I've seen a little something I don't much care to discuss. Now and then, when I'm locking up, the misty figure of The Captain walks the hall downstairs. More often than not I hear him. I hear him when I know I'm the only living soul in the place. What of it? I've seen him, but I've never encountered anything like the garbage you're reporting...” He growled, ambling down the hall towards the stairs. “Chased by a ghost? Give me a break. Do me a favor and drop the charade, mister. Quit talking about this ridiculous ghost business lest you hurt this business. And don't breathe a word of what I've said to anyone. Last thing we need is a bunch of freeloaders coming in here with cameras in search of spooks. I've had enough of this and don't want to talk about it anymore.” Stopping at the top of the stairs, he turned and bellowed a final warning. “Get yourself squared away and stay out of the bar from here on out. Hear me? If I find you've messed around in there again, I'll report you to Mr. Reed, and he'll see you jailed for theft. A night in the drunk tank might do a loon like you some good, but I'm going to give you this last chance, fella.”
Ulrich said nothing, but simply stared him down.
Callum began to descend the stairs, his steps echoing through the hall.
Slamming his door shut, Ulrich looked out across his living room. It was certainly a mess. A side table had been knocked over and the lamp atop it was laying on the floor in two pieces. The cushions were gone from the sofa, one of the chairs at the kitchen table had been knocked onto its side and the shards of the broken vase he'd cleared away were strewn about the floor.
Ulrich felt out his wallet in his back pocket. It was still there, and a quick search proved it hadn't been messed with. His phone was on the floor, too. A walk through the entire unit yielded no evidence of theft. Though the place was a mess, nothing had gone missing.
Still, recalling the white, bony hand that'd gripped the side of his door just before he'd lost consciousness, Ulrich felt his stomach roil violently. The thing, whatever it was, had gotten in.
Looking up at the ceiling rafters he thought he caught a bit of movement within the shadows of the wooden latticework.
Was that thing still there in the room with him?
The back of his head throbbed something awful.
Chapter 18
He was pleased to find some ice in the freezer, and took to loading several cubes into a starchy washrag. This was pressed to the back of his head the moment he walked out of the shower. In washing his hair, he'd rinsed away a fair bit of dried blood. Damn, he'd thought, watching it spiral down the drain, how hard did you hit yourself last night?
With the goose egg pulsating beneath the mound of ice, Ulrich fixed himself some dry toast and sat down at the table, wondering just what had happened. Though he detested being labeled a drunk, he couldn't necessarily blame Callum. Based on the evidence available to the barkeep, all signs pointed to Ulrich's drunkenness.
That wasn't the truth, though.
Glancing about the well-lit kitchen and admiring the polished, modern appliances, he found it hard to believe that this was the same building he'd had such a fright in the night before. By day, when the sunlight flooded in through the gorgeous windows, it was a lovely place. From the wood floors to the cabinet handles of brushed steel, it was a treat for the eyes and a more comfortable place than any he'd ever stayed in before. But when the sun went down, the old building seemed to go haywire, and no stylistic flourishes could mask the hideousness surging underneath.
Something dwelt in this building, and it was more than just rats. From where it came or why it still lingered he hadn't the remotest clue. But he did know that, if he'd had any other place to stay, he would've fled forthwith from Exeter House, never to return.
While polishing off his toast, Ulrich set down the makeshift ice pack and began scrolling through the day's local headlines on his phone. He needed something to distract him, to make him feel normal again. Only then would he be able to devise a plan. Callum's little interrogation had left him feeling miserable, and he needed a bit of time to make sure that he wasn't as insane as he sounded.
He read the major stories one-by-one, scrolling along the main page listlessly for a time and reading aloud between bites of toast. The biggest story of the day dealt with a massive number of layoffs at a nearby sugar plant. Next up was a well-publicized disagreement between members of city council regarding the naming of a new elementary school. The investigator was nearly fed up with the humdrum headlines when he happened upon a photo of a young, beautiful woman with shoulder-length black hair. He admired the photo for a time, thinking her a news correspondent or something, only to realize moments later that the picture was related to a bit of breaking news.
The photograph, he read, belonged to a local woman by th
e name of Veronica Price. Reported as missing by her father that very Summer, the body of Veronica Price, nineteen years old, was the first positively identified in the recent, mysterious deaths, considered homicides, discovered along the shore of the Maumee River. The story was still breaking, so rather light on details, but the woman's body was reportedly found, like the others, in a black body bag, and had been dumped into the river. The cause of death had not yet been released, but a statement by the girl's father was included, and it hurt Ulrich's heart just to read it. “I hadn't seen my daughter in months, not since she ran away, but had always hoped she'd return home. All I wanted was to know where she was, that she was safe... but now that she's been found, I wish I could go back to not knowing, to carrying that hope that she'd one day turn up on my doorstep.”
Something struck Ulrich about the victim's name. “Veronica Price,” he muttered, standing up from the table and holding a piece of toast between his teeth whilst rifling around the mess in the living room.
The inhaler.
Studying the faded label on it narrowly, he read the only legible word on it. “Price.”
The inhaler had belonged to someone with the last name Price.
Perhaps that was just a wild coincidence, but it gave Ulrich a terrible case of the shivers. He dropped the inhaler down onto the table and wiped his hands off on his pant legs.
The wheels began turning in his mind and Ulrich asked himself questions he couldn't possibly know the answer to. Shutting off his phone and pressing his forehead onto the cool tabletop, he loosed a sigh. You're over-thinking it, looking for connections where they don't exist. Drop it and get some fresh air, you bum. What you really need to focus on is getting ahold of some money so that you can move out of this damned place.
He gulped, the dry toast refusing to go down easy.
His anemic finances weren't all he had to worry about.
Looking to the window, Ulrich understood something. When the light of day had ebbed away, he'd find himself in Exeter House again, walking those dark halls. There was no telling what the night would bring, but if recent encounters were any indication, then he was sure he could expect some unwelcome company. He didn't have much choice but to stay in the building. He might've fled to a hotel and bankrupted himself, begged a friend for shelter, but he would've had a hell of a time. Moreover, he didn't want to let down Jamieson, foolish as it sounded, and a part of him still held out hope that nothing strange was going on in the building, that his mind was just playing tricks on him.
No. He was far past that point. Something was happening here. Denying it was only giving it more power, delaying the inevitable.
Still, he was determined to see this job through. There was nowhere else for him to go. Circumstances being what they were, he couldn't give up the roof over his head just because he was scared. There was a logical explanation for what was happening in the building. There had to be. Even at the Sylvan Infirmary, where he'd weathered unbelievable frights, Ulrich had discovered underlying reasons, however extraordinary, for the mysterious happenings that plagued the place. Surely if these monstrous visitants were materializing in Exeter House, they had a reason for it.
He picked a few crumbs out of his teeth and looked up to the ceiling. “Well, you've got my attention, that's for sure. Now what?”
***
His feet took him to Books and More. He wasn't sure why he'd gone that way, why he'd decided to revisit the cramped little storefront and its unpleasant owner. Setting foot on the sidewalk and taking in a refreshing lung-full of the crisp, cool air, he'd just started walking with no destination in mind. When he arrived at the door to the little shop, he had a look around the well-surveyed lot and then slipped inside. It was as good a place for him to pace as any, he figured.
As he walked in, he immediately drew the gaze of the bored old woman at the desk. She perked up, sitting back on her stool and pushing her bifocals up the bridge of her nose. “Well, if it isn't the detective. What brings you in today?”
Ulrich presented with a weak grin, edging his way around a glass display case loaded with a collection of crochet hooks the colors of the rainbow. “Not much,” he said, at a loss for an answer. Now that he was in the store, he suddenly felt like leaving. Bantering with the old woman had lost all its appeal.
“Did you read the news today?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap. “Those clowns in city council are worthless, absolutely worthless. Why, they're ruining this city with their bickering over trifles. They can name that school after whoever they want for all I care; what about the real issues? It's because of leaders like them that Toledo's going down the pipes,” she croaked. “And don't even get me started on that new mayor. She's a complete joke, that one.”
Ulrich didn't pay much attention and simply responded with a grunt. Stepping between a pair of shelves, he leafed through an old romance novel and tapped his foot against the floor. “I've been at Exeter House a little while now,” he said as her diatribe wound down. “There have been some rough-looking types hanging around the building even during daylight hours. Do they always do that? I had no idea the gang problem was quite this bad, but I seem to remember you saying something about thefts and break-ins?” He craned his neck around the corner of the shelf, peering at the old woman and finding her eyes fixed on him.
She stood from her stool and shuffled over. “Oh, yes, indeed. And that's another thing-- instead of cleaning up the streets, those buffoons in City Hall are arguing over the naming of a school. Isn't that mad? But the gangs, well, that's nothing new. They've always poked around that building, as long as I can remember. Before the bar reopened they used to go in and out of it all the time. Lord knows what they did in there. It sat abandoned for years, you know, and they probably used it as a hideout or some such. Sometimes I'd watch them going in and out of the place from this very spot, right through the window. Now that the building's being refurbished and there are working locks on the doors, I'll bet they're mighty sore about being cut off.” Her lips curled into a wicked smile. The very thought of the gang members being put out made her extremely happy, by the looks of it. It was clear that she bore quite the grudge towards the gangs in the area, and would probably have liked to see them all rounded up.
Nodding, Ulrich put the book back on the shelf. “I wonder,” he began, hands in his pockets, “whether you ever saw a young woman hanging around the place.” He paused, summoning up the photo of Veronica Price he'd seen in the news. “Long, black hair. Very pretty. Must've been about eighteen, nineteen years old.”
Thinking for just a moment, the woman shook her head. “No, I don't believe so. It's almost always men I see out there. If I'd seen a young woman hanging around those miscreants I think I'd remember it. Why do you ask?”
Ulrich stepped past her and donned a sheepish grin. “Never mind,” he said, giving her a wave. “I've got to be going.”
Chapter 19
Money was tight, but that didn't mean Ulrich was above treating himself. His spirits were in need of lifting, and a large meat lover's pizza at Marco's did the job nicely. Spending almost an hour at the pizzeria, sucking down several glasses of soda and slowly working over his pie, he left in a far better mood than he'd come, and decided to return to Exeter House. It occurred to him that whatever was happening in the place wasn't any of his concern. He'd only be staying there a short while longer anyway. He felt bad for Jamieson, whose business would likely suffer due to the mysterious happenings, but there wasn't a thing he could do about it. These things that haunted the place, whatever or whoever they were, had been there long before he'd ever walked in, probably. He hadn't been hired as a detective, as a ghost-hunter. He'd been tasked with just one thing: Making sure the place wasn't broken into and vandalized. So far, the only intruders he'd met had been of the spectral variety. Despite their interest in the building, no gang members had made it inside and no squatters had tried to set up camp, either.
A few more days, he told himself. This isn't
any of your business. You do some quick rounds tonight and then just stay in your room. Don't go investigating what doesn't concern you. Focus on earning some money so you can get a roof over your head once this is all over.
Exeter House came into view, and bumbling about the nearest door like bees outside a hive, were a couple of young men in hooded sweatshirts and jeans. One of them peered in through the glass and tried the handle, before the others took notice of Ulrich and muttered something at him.
The last thing he wanted to do was risk a confrontation while being stuffed with pizza. It simply wouldn't end well. Ulrich pretended not to notice them and began walking the other way, rounding the building and starting for the main entrance. They couldn't get in through those side doors; they were all locked. The main entrance, probably, would be too conspicuous for them to try, and a quick perusal of the downstairs hallways showed no evidence of them.
He slowly made his way up to his room. Stretching, he shrugged off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. From there he fixed himself a fresh coffee and laid out across the sofa, toying with his phone. Outside the light was fading. The beginnings of a beautiful sunset played across the distant horizon, partially obscured by a number of towering buildings. He tried not to pay the oncoming night any mind, focusing instead on his phone and on the photo of Veronica Price he pulled up. Looking over her smiling face, he thought back to the red inhaler and wondered, not for the first time that day, whether there was any connection.
Had this murder victim, her body found in the river, been the owner of the inhaler? For that matter, had the young runaway ever even set foot in Exeter House? He had to admit that he was paying altogether too much attention to what was almost certainly a coincidence, but still he couldn't shake his curiosity.
Medicine For The Dead: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 2) Page 10