Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3

by Margaret Lashley

  Grayson birthed himself from the bag, pulling its sides down to his knees, then kicking it free. He sat up on the cart and pulled a static-cling sock from the side of his black shirt. “Every culture since time immemorial has had some kind of legend about a blood-sucking monster.”

  “Yeah,” Stanley said. “They’re called politicians. Now keep it down, please. We don’t want to disturb the other residents.”

  “Right.” Grayson hopped off the cart.

  “I’ll be back in a few with the second load,” Stanley whispered, pushing the cart and its deflated laundry bag out the door.

  “Thanks, Stanley,” I said. “We appreciate you helping us.”

  “I know nothing, I see nothing,” he said, then smiled and shut the door behind him.

  “The Egyptians had Sekhmet,” Grayson said. “The Greeks, Ambrogio.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, adjusting my bed covers.

  Grayson cocked his head at me. “Vampires, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “If any of the old legends are true, the creatures mentioned in historic lore would have to be thousands of years old by now.”

  I fluffed my pillow. “And your point is?”

  Grayson rubbed his chin. “Suppose this blood-sucking creature ran out of relatives to care for it? What better place for it to hide out than in a nursing home?”

  “Huh?”

  Grayson nodded his head. “It’s ingenious, really. The perfect solution.”

  I sighed. “Again, Grayson. What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Sticking elderly vampires in nursing homes, Drex. Think about it. Dinner is easy to catch—like sucking seniors in a barrel.” Grayson smiled. “Meals on wheelchairs. Brilliant!”

  I blew out another sigh and pulled the blanket at the end of the bed up and over my legs. “I thought you said Bram Stoker invented vampires.”

  “The modern version with capes and bad sideburns, yes. But we could be dealing with a much older creature from ancient mythology. A pre-vampire, yet nevertheless blood-sucking, parasitic being. As you might recall, most of the missing men suffered from anemia.”

  “Yeah. I remember.” I sat up and chewed my lip. “This Ambrosia dude and Seek’em creature. What did they look like?”

  “Sekhmet was a warrior goddess. Egyptians drew her as having the likeness of a lioness,” Grayson said. “Ambrogio was actually a regular guy. An Italian mortal who Apollo turned into the first known human blood sucker.”

  “Why’d Apollo do that?”

  “Because they both wanted the same chick, Selene.”

  “Ugh!” I groaned. “Guys!”

  Grayson laughed. “Long legend short, Ambrogio was cursed by Apollo so the only way he could touch Selene was to drink her blood. Doing so also had the rather inconvenient side effect of killing her.”

  “Most contact with males usually does,” I deadpanned.

  Grayson’s cheek dimpled. “Anyway, Selene died and legend says she became the Goddess of Moonlight. She now forever more shines down on the children who carry both Ambrogio’s and her blood—their progeny of vampires.”

  I frowned. “Great. Let’s hope Ambrogio wasn’t too lucky with the ladies.”

  Grayson shrugged. “He was Italian.”

  “Ugh!” I groaned. “It’s all just nonsense.” I scrounged around in my purse for a Tootsie Pop to calm my nerves. Grayson’s words had spooked me. It was going to be a long night.

  “Remember the TV show The Night Stalker?” Grayson asked out of the blue.

  “No.”

  “How about the Twilight saga? Or Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”

  “Yeah.” I stuck an orange Tootsie Pop in my mouth. “Want one?”

  “Sure.” Grayson took the green sucker I’d handed him. “It may seem trivial, but TV shows like those have kept the idea of vampirism alive.”

  “So what?”

  “Just postulating, but what if our belief in vampires keeps the reality of them possible?”

  My nose crinkled. “You mean like our thoughts turning random particles into real matter—that quantum physics stuff you’re always talking about?”

  Grayson’s green eyes shone in a way I’d never seen before. “Precisely, cadet.” He sighed, and his eyes dulled again. “But sadly, more and more, poor vampires are being dumbed down to cartoonish freaks, just like poor Bertie was.”

  “What do you mean, cartoonish freaks?”

  “You know. The ‘Count’ on Sesame Street,” Grayson said. “Count Chocula. Even Spongebob Squarepants has an episode with Nosferatu in it. The poor, mighty vampire was reduced to a hash-slinging slasher who made the lights flicker at the Krusty Krab whenever he showed up. You have to admit, that’s a pathetic end for Murnau’s fearsome creation.”

  Grayson stuck the Tootsie Pop in his mouth and tipped his fedora back on his shaved head. I smirked.

  If Kojak and Super Mario had a baby ....

  He glanced at his cellphone. “What’s keeping them? It’s well past ten o’clock. The unexplained phenomenon we’re waiting on could appear any minute.”

  I grinned. “You talking about Earl or Old Mildred?”

  Grayson laughed.

  Suddenly, a weird scree, scree sound echoed down the hallway. The hair on my arms pricked up.

  “That doesn’t sound like the laundry cart,” Grayson whispered.

  “Oh my lord, Grayson! That’s the sound Stanley described—the night Charlie Perkins disappeared!”

  The sound stopped at my door. Grayson pulled his Glock, then sprinted over and hit the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.

  “You’re going to shoot at a ghost?” I whispered.

  “Shhh!” Grayson hissed.

  Slowly, the door creaked open.

  In the dim glow of the hallway night lights, a gnarled, black, withered hand snaked its way inside. It clamped hold of the edge of the door.

  I gasped.

  A gravelly voice wafted into the darkness. It sounded like it said, “Old Mildred ....”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  I LURCHED UP IN BED and clawed around in my purse, desperately searching for something—anything—I could use to defend myself from the gnarly-handed ghoul creeping into my room.

  Scree, scree.

  The door creaked open wider ....

  Scree, scree.

  The hand reached out, revealing a boney arm ....

  Scree, scree.

  Then a shoulder ....

  My fingers found purchase and wrapped themselves tightly around my makeshift weapon. I snatched it from my purse and hurled it toward the black silhouette skulking through the door.

  At that exact moment, Grayson flicked on the lights.

  I watched, in horror, as my bottle of Flintstones vitamins bounce squarely off the forehead of an old black man pushing a mop and bucket. The guy, dressed in blue janitor coveralls, crumpled to the ground like a heap of old clothes.

  “Oh my God!” I squealed and scrambled out of bed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I said as I ran over to him.

  He gave no response.

  Grayson knelt beside him and checked his neck for a pulse.

  “Is he dead?” I squeaked.

  “No. I think he’ll live.” Grayson locked his green eyes on mine. “Nice throw, DiMaggio. Now, help me get him up.”

  We pulled the old janitor to sitting, then lifted him into my wheelchair. He sat there limp as a ragdoll for a moment, then let out a groan.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “I’m so sorry!”

  “I ... I think so,” he said, rubbing the rising knot on his head. “What’d you go and do that for?”

  I cringed. “I thought you were Old Mildred.”

  At the mention of her name, the old man’s eyes grew wide. “You know about Old Mildred?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it seems you do, too,” Grayson said, studying him.

  “That I do,” the geriatric j
anitor said. “Been here near as long as she that runs the place.”

  “Gable?” Grayson asked.

  “No.” The old man chuckled. “Gable just a baby. I’m talkin’ ’bout Ms. Draper, the owner. Mildred was her sister.”

  “Her sister?” I gasped, offering him a glass of water. He turned his nose up at it.

  “Never touch the stuff.” The old man perked up and smiled. “But I’ll take one of them Tootsie Pops, if you got another.”

  “Sure. Hold on.” I ran over and grabbed my purse off the bed.

  “Old Mildred was somethin’ special,” the janitor said as I searched for a sucker amid the wrappers, coupons, and Walmart receipts crammed inside my pocketbook. “She lived here back in the ‘80s.”

  “What do you mean, ‘something special’?” Grayson asked.

  The old man shrugged and took the Tootsie Pop I offered, unwrapping it as he spoke. “She was a simple-minded gal, that Mildred. What folks back then called ‘retarded.’ Ms. Draper had her livin’ here, amongst the old folks, until she up and died in 1988. Ever since then, ol’ Draper wouldn’t let no other woman stay here overnight, on account a what happened to Mildred.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Well, I don’t like to be spreadin’ no rumors.”

  The janitor popped the sucker in his mouth. Grayson and I exchanged glances.

  “We’re here on official—” Grayson began. I stepped on his toe.

  “We won’t tell anybody. We promise,” I said.

  “Well, all right then,” the old man chuckled. “Legend has it, one night poor old Mildred bit off more’n she could chew. Found her dead in her bed, with somebody’s big toe stuck in her throat. She been wandering these halls ever since.”

  “Wow. That’s quite a story,” Grayson said. “Have you ever seen Old Mildred yourself?”

  The old man shrugged. “Sure. From time to time. She always partial to showin’ up right around Thanksgivin’.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Grayson asked.

  “Her anniversary, I guess. Mildred died here the day before Thanksgivin’.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. “How sad.”

  The old man nodded. “Sure was. Draper never forgave herself. She was supposed to be watching her, you see? But she’d gone off to see some beau she was sweet on. That woman ain’t never dated nobody since, as far as I know.”

  “Has Mildred ever ... uh ... killed anyone?” I asked. “Her ghost, I mean.”

  The old man’s gray eyebrows rose and inch. “What? Why you askin’ me that?”

  “Five men have gone missing from here this week,” I said.

  “Huh,” he grunted. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “Does everyone here know about Old Mildred?” Grayson asked.

  “Mostly,” he said. “Word gets around, you know. But if’n you asked, wouldn’t nobody admit to it. You can’t say word one around Ms. Draper about Old Mildred. She’ll fire you faster’n’ double-aught buckshot.”

  “Have you heard any rumors about the men that’ve disappeared?” Grayson asked.

  The old man shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

  Grayson pursed his lips. “Did you notice anything suspicious during any of your shifts this week? You see, each man went to dinner, but none of them made it to bed. When the staff went to get them for breakfast, they were gone. Their beds hadn’t been slept in. They were still made up with military precision.”

  “Don’t see how it could be Old Mildred,” the janitor said. “When she was alive, she never made her bed. No, sir. She been haunting these halls for over thirty years. And ain’t nobody just up and disappeared in the night before.”

  He stood and grabbed his mop. “Well, I best be gettin’ back to my rounds. Thanks for the lollipop, Miss.”

  “You’re welcome.” I cringed out a smile. “Sorry again about ... well, you know.”

  “Don’t you worry your head none about it.” He tapped his boney knuckles on the thin, white tufts of hair atop of his skull. “Head’s the hardest spot on old Sampson Jones.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  AFTER BIDDING SAMPSON and his poor head-knot farewell, I crawled back into bed while Grayson shuffled through the drawer on my nightstand.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “A spoon to eat your tapioca pudding cup.”

  “It’s behind the glass with the fake dentures.”

  Geez. If a random stranger wandered in on this conversation, we’d be committed.

  Grayson grabbed the spoon and held it up. “Got it!”

  I leaned back in bed. “I wonder, does Draper know about the disappearance of the vets? If she does, you think she’s covering it up? You know, to protect the memory of her sister Mildred?”

  “Unlikely.” Grayson shrugged and worked on peeling the lid off the pudding. “Why would she care about the reputation of a ghost?”

  “What if she’s protecting a live person, not a ghost?” I asked. “Sampson mentioned Draper had a boyfriend ....”

  A sudden thought made me gasp. “Grayson! What if the ‘beau’ Draper snuck off to see the night Mildred died was Bertie?”

  “Hmmm.” Grayson frowned. “The timing’s right. But what about—”

  The door creaked open. Stanley entered, dragging Earl by the arm.

  “I thought I told you to put him in a laundry bag,” Grayson said.

  Stanley shot Earl a look. “I couldn’t get him to go in it.”

  Earl stuck his chin out and pouted. “I’m claustrophobic. Just like Polly.”

  Right. And you’ve also both got brains the size of walnuts.

  “You didn’t bring that stupid bird with you, did you?” I asked.

  “No.” Earl jerked free of Stanley’s grasp. “He wouldn’t let me.”

  “Thank goodness someone has some sense around here.” I glanced back over at Grayson. “What were you—”

  “No time left for talking,” Grayson said setting the half-eaten pudding cup back on my nightstand. “We’re already running behind. Okay, troops, take your positions. And keep alert.”

  Grayson stashed his fedora in my closet and donned the white lab coat hanging inside. “I’ll check out the hallways with Stanley,” he said. “Earl, you hide in the bathroom, like we planned. Be ready to spring into action if Old Mildred stops by for another round of digital digeridoo.”

  Earl’s brow furrowed. “Of what?”

  “Toe sucking,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” Earl saluted. “You can count on me.”

  Stanley and Grayson disappeared out the door. I laid back in bed and let out a sigh. “Great. Just what I need. Another night with ikigai.”

  Earl shot me a look. “You ain’t no prize yourself, Cuz.”

  Chapter Sixty

  SOMETIME IN THE NIGHT, I was startled awake by the sound of heavy breathing.

  I flinched with panic, and clamped my eyes shut. Slowly, I cracked one open.

  Where is the sound coming from?

  The door leading to the hallway was closed. That meant the rasping sound was coming from ...

  ... inside my room!

  At the foot of my bed!

  Right where the eerie, green light to the .... My gut went limp.

  Crap! You’ve got to be kidding me.

  I jumped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. In the glow of the green night light by the sink, Earl was sitting sprawl-legged on the floor. His head was slumped over the toilet bowl. He looked like a drunk-ass gorilla after too many Halloween Jell-O shots.

  The weird, rasping sound was being caused by Earl snoring into the toilet bowl. Like an echo chamber, it was sending them bouncing off the wall tiles.

  I bit down on my molars. Hard.

  It took every bit of willpower I had not to slam the lid and flush.

  Instead, I took a deep breath, then jabbed my big lump of a cousin in the ribs with my big toe.

  Earl sprang to life like a mummy in a movie. One of his meaty
hands shot out and grabbed my foot.

  “Aha! Gotcha, you toe-sucking pervert!” he yelled.

  “Shhh!” I hissed. “It’s just me, Bobbie.”

  “You’re the toe-sucking perv—”

  “Hush!” I whispered. “You fell asleep.”

  “Oh.”

  I leaned over and slapped his face. “There, that ought to help you stay awake.”

  He rubbed his cheek. “Thanks, Bobbie.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Guilty pleasure washed over me. I fought back a grin. “Now stay alert!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I crawled back in bed and pulled the covers over me. My fingers were still stinging from slapping Earl, but I didn’t care. I was happy in the satisfaction that, no matter what else happened, this stupid stakeout hadn’t been for nothing.

  I’D BARELY GOTTEN MYSELF settled back in bed when I heard the knob on the hallway door begin to turn.

  I held my breath.

  The door cracked open.

  If I hadn’t taken Grayson’s desensitization training, I’d probably have peed my pants.

  A short, hunchbacked creature crept into my room.

  This was no dress rehearsal. This was the real deal.

  I LAY IN BED, FROZEN with fear, as the hideous creature entered and slowly closed the door behind it. The room was pitch black, save for the eerie green glow of the bathroom nightlight.

  In the darkness, I heard what sounded like dragging footsteps as the hunchbacked ghoul made its way to the foot of my bed.

  Heavy breathing filled the air, along with a horrid stench.

  Then something so utterly crazy happened that I nearly blacked out from my mind not being able to process it.

  Somewhere in the dark, Michael Franks’ Popsicle Toes began to play.

  Holy crap! The other two nights—they hadn’t been dreams after all!

  The covers lifted at the foot of my bed. A cold, clammy hand brushed my ankle.

  Earl! Where are you? I screamed inside my head. You’re supposed to grab Old Mildred!

  My haywire brain raced in tempo with my heart. My pulse thrummed in my eardrums.

  Should I yell for Earl or not? Would I be foiling his surprise attack?