Speed Dating with the Dead

by Nicholson, Scott

By the time she’d clicked up the projection program and sent her image of the Jilted Bride onto the wall in front of the group, Duncan had joined her.

  “Ease back on the contrast,” he said. “It’ll look too solid otherwise.”

  He took the mouse from her and manipulated the image so that it faded in. The image had been taken from a slide in the university’s Appalachian history collection, a silver daguerreotype whose iridescent coating made the woman appear even more ephemeral. The woman’s large, dark eyes and the bouquet in her slack fingers didn’t project the joy of a new bride. Instead, she looked like a teenager in the end stages of tuberculosis.

  The image was barely visible when one of the group, a short woman dressed completely in black, pointed and exclaimed. Though the monitor system had no audio track, her lips clearly formed the word “Look.”

  Duncan had edited the video clip so that the contrast fluctuated, creating the illusion of a ghost trying to flicker into existence. The resulting handiwork, as viewed through the spycam, was almost as good as the cinema tricks coming out of Disney and Pixar.

  “Suckersss,” Ann said, with an exaggerated hiss.

  “Check out The Roach,” Duncan said, pointing to the screen at the man fumbling with the equipment on his belt. “Looks like he’s having a panic attack.”

  Ann chortled, surprised by the sound erupting from her throat. She was enjoying this far more than she thought she would.

  “Who ya gonna call?” she sang, mauling the 1980s movie theme. “Roach busters!”

  “What’s he got in his hand?”

  Chapter 22

  A hotel full of living, breathing demons, and a weakling like this comes along?

  The Roach was almost annoyed that such a puny residual would dare show its face, sort of like a peg-legged pirate stumping onto the marble mezzanine at the royal ball. But you dealt with the entities as they came. It was all part of the training. It was all part of the War.

  The hunters behind him were no good, too busy oohing and aahing and thinking about what they’d be blogging next week. The problem with paranormal tourism was that, when it came to crunch time, they tended to get in the way of the real work. But, like the demons, they were a necessary evil.

  They made good bait.

  The entity appeared to be the Jilted Bride, though the descriptions had varied over the decades before settling into an acceptably homogenized urban legend. And though the bride was already losing steam, failing to draw enough power to pose for a photo, The Roach wasn’t willing to let it go without a fight. So while the hunters behind him fumbled to bring their cameras and EMF meters to bear, he pulled a vial of holy water with all the deftness of a Wild West gunslinger.

  He thumbed away the rubber stopper and sent a clear arc of water across the wall, flicking his wrist so the path of the water widened. If the spirit was a demon in disguise, it would piss and moan, and if it were merely a possessed puppet, it wouldn’t feel pain but should dissolve on contact.

  The water splashed on the wall and carpet, and the bride stood there frozen, her face locked in the sick misery of her eternal death.

  “Did you see that?” said a woman in black, Terry was her name, who’d been pestering him non-stop during the hunt. From the lack of hot water in the shower to overpriced Manhattans in the bar, she’d expressed her displeasure at every opportunity. And though she’d squealed with fear at the bride’s appearance, she now was pushing her way through the group, her jaw slack in rapture.

  “Careful,” The Roach said.

  Terry evaded The Roach and reached for the vanishing entity. “Don’t go.”

  A man in cowboy boots, evidently her husband, rushed forward as well. “It’s a residual, honey.”

  Ignoring him, the woman said to the spirit, “If you need to draw power, you can take it from me.”

  The Roach had found ripe bait. You’re lucky it’s not a demon. That’s practically opening up the refrigerator door to your soul and letting Evil sample the buffet.

  As the image faded away to nothing, the group of hunters broke into chatter.

  “Did you see that?”

  “What was it?

  “I couldn’t get my damned camera to work–”

  After the image had faded, one disturbing impression remained. For a flicker of a second, the Jilted Bride’s arm had been superimposed over Terry’s skin, as if Terry had penetrated the entity’s spirit stuff. And a sleeve of dust was visible in the air overhead. Maybe the phenomenon had tunneled out from a peculiar hole in the heavens, and the entity hadn’t been a demon after all.

  An angel? Angels were just as common as demons, but tended to be ineffectual. The Roach had learned never to count on them at Crunch Time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” The Roach said. “I believe we’ve just had an encounter.”

  “Anybody get a reading?”

  “EMF was flat.”

  “Her eyes were so sad.”

  “We’ll corroborate this later,” he said. “Let’s get some baseline readings in case she comes back.”

  Terry wiped at the water The Roach had spattered across the wall. She sniffed the substance on her finger.

  “What’s this?” she asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Protection.”

  “From what?”

  “I hope none of us have to find out.”

  Terry’s husband took her arm. “Let’s check our audio and see if we got any EVP’s.”

  She shrugged away from his grasp. “I paid to be here and I didn’t come to see this clown play ‘Exorcist.’“

  The rest of the group, whom The Roach figured was as tired of the woman’s complaints as he was, gathered close to hear the confrontation.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “SSI policy puts the safety of the hunters first.”

  “Safety? From what? She didn’t exactly look like the Bell Witch.”

  “I got a picture of an orb,” said an overweight man who leaned on a wooden cane, balancing precariously while he checked his viewfinder.

  “Dust,” said another man. “I saw it swirling when you hit your flash.”

  “No, it was energy,” Terry said. “I felt it.”

  “Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” said a weasel-faced woman.

  Oh, yeah? Then what’s watching us from the end of the hall?

  The Roach’s original count of active demons was six, but it figured they would try for seven if possible. While the number “666” had gained infamy because of its purported role as the Mark of the Beast, scholars had traced old translations and found the number had been recorded in error. Besides, the Holy Bible was hardly more than a field guide for the surface struggle. The real battles waged outside the pages, in rare air and poisoned darkness. Seven was appropriate, a number of magic, mystery, and perfection.

  “Where’s Artie?” a woman said. “He was right behind me a second ago.”

  The Roach looked down both ends of the corridor and at the locked doors lining each side of the hall. A quick head count showed he had indeed lost a group member. He hoped Artie was sitting on the stool down at the bar, indulging in spirits of the liquid kind, but the energy in the ancient structure had grown palpably stronger, and The Roach wondered if a demon had taken Artie for a spin across the dance floor.

  The Roach activated his two-way radio. “Digger, I got a Lost Boy.”

  Cody’s static-filled voice came back, the signal saturated with noise so that the words were barely audible. “Digger’s a Lost Boy, too. What’s the prob?”

  “We had a sighting and someone must have fled the scene.”

  “He wasn’t scared,” said the woman. “He loves ghosts.”

  The Roach nodded while ignoring her. Paranormal tourism had all the inherent risk factors of traditional outdoor adventuring, with the same fear response and endorphin rush. The Roach frowned upon speed dating with the dead, but he figured he could best serve on the front lines where the metaphysical bullets flew hot and fast. He�
��d learned long ago that just closing your eyes to a problem didn’t make it go away.

  And there was wisdom in the old saying about being careful what you wish for.

  Because he wished a demon would invade Terry and shut her bitching mouth.

  Chapter 23

  Violet wasn’t sure what was worse—that old bitch Janey Mays hovering everywhere like a vulture crossed with a hummingbird, or disappearing when things went to hell.

  Violet had called Janey several times from the front desk since the mummified manager had called the front desk. No answer each time, and Wally Reams had knocked on her door to no avail. J.C. Henries from night shift had gone AWOL, one of the gas burners in the kitchen stove had flared and burned a cook’s arm, the hot water was on the blink, and two of the guests were complaining about children running up and down the halls. Despite the lie she’d told Digger, Violet was positive no children had checked in, since most of the rooms were taken up by the ghost-hunting crowd.

  The customer’s always right, even when they’re assholes.

  “You sure she reported a leak?” Violet asked Rhonda.

  The girl gave a nod, bouncing her red pigtails and smacking her gum. “‘bout 25 minutes ago.”

  “Doesn’t it seem weird? She expects someone to clean her ashtray the second she crushes the butt. You think she’d wait 25 minutes without chewing the whole maintenance crew a new pooper?”

  “Yeah, it’s weird,” Rhonda said. “Her car’s still in the lot and I can’t see her walking two miles to Black Rock. And where else is there to go?”

  You got that right.

  “I can’t believe she’d bail out of a big conference, especially with a freaky crowd like this,” Violet said. “I’m surprised she’s not counting the silverware and towels.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. She busted me for taking a roll of toilet paper.”

  “Well, it’s hotel property. It’s her job.”

  “Nobody should like their job that much.”

  “This place is falling down around our ears. If anything else goes wrong, we’ll have to call in FEMA.”

  ”Life goes on,” Rhonda said, turning her attention back to People magazine, where Angelina Jolie was adopting another baby, this time from Madagascar. The clerk was slouched against the drawer that served as cash till, except most customers used credit cards these days. Violet eyed it, wondering how much loose change was in there. The best filching was done in the bar, but with Battle Axe away, then why not go for a few twenties?

  Violet tried the phone again. It gave a sad bleat, the death of an electronic sheep. She banged the handset against the wall, and then checked the signal on her cell phone. It was hopeless, because cell phones never worked around the inn. Some said it was because of the inn’s location straddling the Eastern Continental Divide, while others called it a “dark zone” the wireless companies had not yet found lucrative enough to pursue. Whatever the reason, she had no bars.

  Wally came huffing and puffing to the front desk, his ruddy face dotted with sweat. “Elevator’s gettin’ squirrelly,” he said.

  “Squirrelly? Is that the engineering term for ‘out of service’?”

  “It’s still working, it just don’t stop on the floor you push the button for.”

  “We’ve only got three floors. How much of a problem can it be?”

  “Normally, it wouldn’t be one, but these Christ-dang ghost hunters are crawling from floor to floor like piss ants in a sugar factory. The way the floors are divided, you got to walk a mile to get from 210 to 324. Down, around, and up.”

  “And Janey didn’t answer?”

  “I pounded on the door near hard enough to break it down. If she’s in there, she’s either dead or deaf.”

  One of the guests approached the desk, a hawk-faced woman wearing an ill-fitting pants suit that spelled trouble. Wally stepped away, falling into invisible-worker mode. Violet was annoyed at being thrust into command, especially since she was due to clock out in half an hour and Phillippe Renaud, the new cook—”chef,” he had insisted, in that gorgeous French accent—had offered to buy her a Beck’s in the hotel bar.

  “Excuse me,” the guest said, rapping on the counter with her room key. “My door’s messed up. I got locked inside my own room.”

  The bony woman’s avian eyes darted past Violet as if expecting someone older and more mature to hear her complaint. An adult. Violet was annoyed. She had a community-college degree, for crying out loud. And one of these days, she’d own a pants suit, too. As soon as she paid back what she’d borrowed.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Violet said, giving her falsest, sweetest smile. “But our keys only work from the outside. All inside doors have privacy locks and deadbolts. Are you sure you didn’t turn the knob the wrong way?”

  “I know how to work a door, Miss,” the Hawk said, with enough frost in her breath to lower the room temperature. Which Violet noticed had gotten colder in the last few minutes. A malfunctioning heater was all she needed.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Violet said, her smile locked in place. “Wally, would you please look at the lock?”

  Wally nodded, though his face curdled as if he’d swallowed a slug. “I’ll get J.C. on it right away.”

  “And don’t disturb anything,” the Hawk said. “I have some very valuable equipment in there.”

  As Wally hurried away, she added, “You people should do something about the heat. It’s freezing in here.”

  Tell it to someone who cares.

  A few guests were milling back and forth, as if the conference had hit a lull. Violet fished under the counter and came out with a couple of brass tokens. “Here, good for complimentary drinks at the bar.”

  And you better not sit with Phillippe, or I will break a bottle over your head.

  The woman took the tokens, scratching Violet’s thumb with her long, painted fingernails. “That’ll take the chill off. Thanks.”

  Rhonda put down the People after the Hawk was gone. “No wonder Janey’s so crabby all the time.”

  “She’s only crabby when we’re around,” Violet said. “Where’s the master key?”

  “Master key? We don’t have any master key.”

  “Figures. Do we have a copy for Janey’s suite?”

  “You’re not going in there, are you? You might not come out of alive. I’ve never even seen inside it.”

  “Come on, you think she has pentagrams drawn on the floor and a bunch of mutilated cats nailed to the walls?”

  “Maybe she’s got J.C. in there.”

  “Yuck. Don’t want to think about it.”

  Rhonda sorted through the extra keys, reading their tags, until she found a skeleton key that bore Janey’s suite number. The ring also held a key that Violet supposed went to the office. “Here you go. Looks like it hasn’t been used since Ricky Martin was still hetero and hot.”

  “Okay, if I’m not back in ten minutes, call in the National Guard,” Violet said.

  “If the phone’s working.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Violet headed for the stairs, determined to bypass the squirrelly elevator. All she needed was to get trapped and spend the night in a rusty metal box while Phillippe sipped Merlot and talked French to all the drunken girls. The sooner Janey Mays was back in charge, the better.

  She bounced up the stairs, calves sore from a long day in high heels. A man in a black jumpsuit met her at the first landing, heading down. One of the SSI guys, not the young hottie, but a middle-aged, chunky man.

  “How’s the conference going?” She almost regretted asking , because she could think of a hundred things that could go wrong and her shit list was about full at the moment. But he just shook his head and said, “We’re getting some pretty good results.”

  “Are results good or bad? Assuming you actually want to find a ghost.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to find them. They’ll find you.”

  “Great.” Fucking sadist.

  She co
ntinued to the second floor, feeling his oily gaze on her ass. It gave her no pleasure. She had her mind set on Phillippe—not her heart, she wasn’t that stupid—but a girl could always dream. Dreams were all you had in this world, but never enough money to make them come true. Why should a couple of sweet boys like Chad and Stevie have all the—

  She found herself in front of 226. The idea of opening the door had seemed as simple as the mechanical insertion of the key, the triggering of the tumblers, and the turning of the handle. But now a hundred scenarios howled for attention.

  What if she really IS boning J.C.? Or worse, what if she’s settled in for a date with the old battery-operated boyfriend? Or if she’s drunk and grouchy? Snorting coke? Or even something innocent, like reading Agatha Christie? Is this worth it?

  In the end, Violet decided the only way she’d make that date—not a date, just hanging out—with Phillippe was to rouse Janey and let her know the White Horse was coming apart at the seams. She steeled herself and rapped on the door, but it lacked any thunder.

  Chicken dooty pants patootie.

  Surely Janey wouldn’t kill the messenger? Violet had tried hard to solve the problems, right? And this was the last resort?

  She hammered with the bottoms of her fists this time, bruising a bone in her wrist. She should have brought Wally with her, but there were too many holes in the dike and not enough thumbs to go around.

  She was fidgeting for the key when she instinctively tried the door handle. It turned easily, the clack of the catch like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.

  Whatever Janey’s up to, it wasn’t worth locking the door over.

  Violet pushed the door open a couple of feet. “Miss Mays?” she called into the darkness.

  No radio or television, no sound of a shower, no snores, no moans of passion or grunts of surprise. Only a hush to match that of the hallway.

  Jany pushed the door open wider, calling again. She squinted and tried the light switch. Nothing. Darkness crowded the room and Violet had the distinct feeling of being watched, as if nocturnal predators lay in wait. She stood in the doorway, letting the weak light from the hall spill into the room, hoping Janey would wake up and not be too crabby.