Speed Dating with the Dead

by Nicholson, Scott

  “Showtime, Digger,” he said. “It’s a new day.”

  Bury the past yet again.

  His last clear memory was sitting next to Cristos at the bar and making the decision to go for that third drink. After that, only flashes remained, a jigsaw puzzle of his night he’d never be able to reassemble: the hostess, Violet, waving from across the bar...a Bud Lite commercial featuring Mike Ditka...the cryptic message “Yaz manchoo” scribbled on the wall above the urinal...Kendra taking his boots off...and…

  No. Please, God, you didn’t let her see me like that, did you?

  And what if Beth had been watching? His encounter with her swirled in with the broken memories of his binge and the shards of frantic dreams, until he couldn’t sort one from the other. But maybe there was no difference.

  Wayne changed the batteries in his walkie talkie and pressed the button. “Burton?”

  “Aye, Kip-tin,” Burton answered, in a Scottish brogue parody of engineer Scottie from “Star Trek.”

  “How’s it looking?”

  “Assembling for night hunts.”

  “I’ll be in the control room shortly. Over and out.”

  “Roger.”

  Professional, controlled, relaxed, just the way Wayne had taught him. And everything Wayne wasn’t.

  The trip to the door went smoothly. He made it just fine to the stairs, greeting a couple of ghost hunters and smiling as if to say, “Sure, I’ve been around all day, you just haven’t seen me.” His head swam a little as he ascended, but nothing too unmanageable. Based on distant past experience, he’d have pegged his consumption at between a quart and a half gallon. Only his bar tab knew for sure.

  He was nearly to the top of the stairs, breathing hard and wobbling, when one of the guests confronted him. He recognized her face but she wasn’t wearing her name badge. Her clothes were rumpled and dirty, as if she’d been ghost-hunting in a basement somewhere. But it was her eyes that got him.

  “Where’s the party, Digger?” she said.

  “In the control room. We’re gathering for hunts.”

  “I don’t need a group.”

  He remembered her now. Eloise Lanier, one of the panelists for “What’s My Line?,” a discussion of why some people were more attuned to supernatural and psychic phenomena than others. He made a polite step to one side to indicate he was in a hurry. His throat was already dry despite the glass of water he’d downed. “Well, ma’am, we can’t accommodate solo—”

  She shoved him against the railing with enough force to knock his top hat over the side and twenty-five feet down to the landing below. Off balance, he grabbed at the slick oak rail. “Ma’am, if you’re upset—”

  Eloise grabbed a fistful of his ruffled shirt and shook him. Even though she outweighed him by a good eighty pounds, he was startled by her strength. “Upset? Why should I be upset?”

  He gripped her wrist with both hands, forcing himself to remain gentle despite the pain. “I’m sorry if—”

  “I’m not upset, I’m grateful.” Her voice changed and deepened. “Thanks for inviting me to the party.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re having fun,” he said. “But we also hope to get some serious data on the White Horse Inn.”

  She leaned her face closer, spittle flying from her broad, dark face as she hissed. “You want answers, Wayne Wilson? Do you really want to know?”

  Wayne blinked. Had her eyes flashed yellow or was he still wobbly from the drinking? He couldn’t trust any of his senses, and it made him feel even more lost than before.

  He pulled free but she grabbed his wrist as he tried to slip past her.

  As her eyes burned into his, he caught a glimpse of a dim, dirty opening and a crumbled carpet of gray and black. Ashes. In the vision, a tiny dot of red sparked to life underneath, then orange-red sparks winked to life.

  He reeled against the railing as the hallucination swept over him. Eloise’s grip was like molten iron, and an electric wire of heat stabbed up his arm. The hallucination broadened and the embers burst into flames, images of naked bodies in the flickering bands of red, yellow, white, and blue.

  Hell... the gate of hell....

  But he didn’t believe in hell. This was someone else’s illusion, a fire-and-brimstone story from a Southern tent revival. Or a bad horror movie. Yet the warmth engulfed his chest and his heart stuttered. He clawed at the searing band around his wrist, his head jangling with more than a hangover.

  The vision swelled until he could no longer see the dull white walls of the stairwell. He was surrounded by darkness, and the searing band was now a lasso, tugging him into the roiling pit of burning human forms. The crackle of the flames was like a soft, sibilant whispering, an almost seductive lulling.

  “Dance with us, Digger... stay and play.....”

  “No,” he said, straining against the lasso. “I don’t see this.”

  And just like that, his eyes snapped open, and he was in the stairwell, holding onto the railing and gently swaying. Eloise Lanier stood a couple of steps above him, her brow furrowed in concern.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.

  Wayne looked around and reached for the top of his head. His hat was missing. “I’m just a little...late.”

  “I heard you were under the weather.” She gave a sweet smile of sympathy.

  He looked over the railing. His black top hat lay on the carpet of the first-floor landing, the brim dented from the fall. When he turned his attention back to Eloise, she eased down a step. He fought an urge to back away. This wasn’t the embodiment of evil.

  According to the biography she’d sent in for the conference program, Eloise was a public librarian who fancied herself a psychic medium. She probably baked cookies for her grandchildren. If he gave her credit for channeling a vision through him, she’d probably quit her job and start dressing in black gowns and owl feathers.

  It was easier to believe he’d gone through a delayed case of delirium tremens, the scientific name for shaking yourself sober.

  “I dropped my hat,” he said.

  “Good thing your head wasn’t in it.” Her smile remained frozen in place.

  Wayne’s walkie talkie crackled and he jerked at the sound. “Come in, Digger,’ came Burton’s voice. “Where are you?”

  “On my way.” He eased past Eloise, half expecting her to trip him up. He was nearly at the top when she whispered, “Catch you later, Digger.”

  From the third floor, he looked down to see that his hat was gone. Children’s laughter echoed up the stairwell.

  I’m going to have a talk with that goddamned manager. But first things first.

  Get the night hunts rolling, find Kendra, and get out of this hotel before my brain pickles in its own juice.

  Chapter 39

  “Cody?” Kendra swept the flashlight beam past Rochester and into the recesses of the attic. Cody had been right beside her. How could he have just disappeared?

  Rochester laughed. “What, want to play ‘kissy face’ some more?”

  She thrust the beam into his face. He didn’t squint and his dark eyes seemed to soak up the light. “None of your business, you little rat-faced creep.”

  His lips curled in anger. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Just like a rat—sneak around in the dark and stink.” The words were louder than she’d intended, but she was scared and didn’t want the brat to know. She forced her hand to hold the beam steady on his puckered, pointy face.

  “Take it back,” he said.

  She glanced around, but all she saw were shadows. Why didn’t Cody answer? Had he dropped off his flashlight? Where were Bruce and those other kids?

  “Why are you guys playing games?” she said, then aimed the beam behind Rochester. “Oh, I get it. Bruce, you’re such a dork.”

  Rochester fell for the trick and turned to look behind him, and she glimpsed a dark depression in the flesh of his neck. It was an unbroken line, with mottled skin around it. As if....

 
No. He couldn’t have hanged himself, because then he’d be dead. Just like Bruce. And I don’t want them to be dead.

  Because then I’d have to believe all this crap.

  Maybe Cody was in on it, using her as bait in some bizarre research project. He could have set up his audio recorders, decimeters, and other devices beforehand, then tried to scare her so he could measure her skin temperature, pulse rate, electromagnetic energy, and screams.

  Probably even the kiss had been part of it, causing her to let guard down, make her vulnerable to his suggestions of demons.

  Now it made sense. Bruce grabbing her book, leading her on a chase, Cody conveniently guiding her to the attic, planting ghost stories in her ear—

  Christ, my first serious crush had to be wasted on an asshole.

  The Future of Horror. If this is what the future looks like, then put me down with Emily Dee in the churchyard sleep. I’ll die a virgin, and the sooner the better.

  She had to admit, though, Rochester’s make-up job was pretty decent. He turned back to face her again, and she studied the black folds of skin beneath his eyes and the pale cheeks. Even the fey little Victorian get-up had the air of stage costume.

  The kid was a pretty good actor, but ten-year-old boys already had a lot of creepiness inside and it wouldn’t take much to bring it to the surface. Like maybe fifty bucks and the promise of a good laugh. Or a credit on Future’s Web site.

  She reached out, planning to push him back into the fluffy shredded paper that served as insulation. With any luck, he’d hit a soft spot in the ceiling and tumble through to the third floor. The flashlight dipped with the movement, and she lost her balance. She grabbed where his shirt should be, but her hand went cold and she clutched air as she fell.

  “Cody!” The cry was a mixture of anger and fear, because now she was the one falling toward the insulation.

  The attic was a kaleidoscopic swirl of dust, brown rafters, and white, plastic-coated wires as she fell. Just before she landed, she saw Dorrie peeking from behind the brick chimney. Then she was choking in the shredded paper, the flashlight lost.

  Something creaked beneath her and she pictured the gypsum ceiling and its ancient cracks. If she struggled, the ceiling might give way. She’d probably survive, but it wouldn’t be fun, and it was hard to get revenge from a hospital bed.

  She coughed, her throat tickled by the thick dust. “Cody, you bastard.”

  “Over here.” His voice was strained and far away. How had he reached the other end of the attic, navigating the maze of support posts and wires in the dark?

  From somewhere to her left, the flashlight cast a muted glow, as if it were half buried. She had the sensation of swimming as she fought for traction, and for a horrible second, she imagined she was in a dark morass of thick liquid that would suck her down and into... into what?

  The hotel.

  The hotel will pull you down and drown you and keep your bones inside forever, and no one will ever know where you went.

  “No one will ever know,” Bruce whispered from the darkness.

  As her knuckles struck a floor joist, she yelped in pain. But the pain was solid, as was the wood, and she clung to it, dragging herself to her knees. Her vision was bleary from the paper as she squinted into the depths of the attic. “Cody?”

  “Run for it,” he said, and she once again wondered if he was playing with her. He sounded scared himself, and she recalled the wistful tremor in his voice as he’d said “Multiples.”

  She didn’t know about demons, but three kids were sure as hell tormenting her. She gained purchase on the floor joist and spied her flashlight nestled in the insulation ten feet away. Crawling the beam so that she didn’t test the ceiling, she recovered the flashlight and pointed it toward Cody’s voice.

  He hovered in the air, his face stricken and pale, mouth open and gasping for breath. His hands were at his throat, and his legs flailed six inches above the attic floor. He made a rough sucking sound, as if swallowing rocks, and it was then she saw the wire descending from the roof.

  Kendra shouted his name and ran toward him, somehow managing not to trip. Rochester taunted her from the shadows: “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

  “The old gray goose is dead,” Dorrie sang in an off-key, nasally whine.

  By the time Kendra reached Cody, his eyes were bulging and glazed. She ducked between his legs and placed her head between his thighs, lifting him. Maybe that would buy him time....

  Unless this was part of the act, and cameras were trying to capture his spirit leaving his body. A suicide video would really rack up the Web hits.

  But she couldn’t think about that now, or the warmth of his crotch against her neck, or the laughter of the hidden children. She was working on instinct, and if she could release the tension on the wire, then Cody could untangle it.

  But he didn’t kick her away, and air whistled into his lungs as his windpipe opened above her and he fought for breath. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but his arms were busy, and then his full weight was on her and they both fell. She thumped her hand again—luckily not her drawing hand—and the gypsum groaned beneath them. Cody rolled over, still wheezing, and she shined the light on his face.

  “Thanks,” he croaked, and she sent the beam to the wire that descended from the roof. The wire was still swaying, two bright points of copper protruding from its frayed end.

  “Is this for real?” she asked, sensing the small forms of the children looming around.

  He nodded, grabbed her hand, and gave it a weak squeeze.

  Chapter 40

  “Roach is still missing, and so’s Cody,” Burton said.

  Wayne Wilson looked around the control room, checking the monitors. Though a few people had dropped out of the night hunts, probably due to exhaustion or excessive celebration, there were thirty people in the room. He’d have to divide them into three groups—one led by Burton, one by Jonathan, and the last for himself.

  That left no one to monitor the video screens and coordinate the schedules. Most likely Cody would show up in a few minutes, but he couldn’t delay any longer. The hunters were already irritable, infected by the unease that permeated the hotel. Wayne wanted to get them rolling before they had time to revolt.

  Beth, please watch Kendra for me. If you’re really an angel.

  Cristos Rubio, standing alone in the corner of the room, raised his cupped hand in an imaginary toast. Wayne wasn’t sure whether the psychic was smirking or smiling in approval.

  “Okay, Burt, you take the first ten and head for room 312,” Wayne said, more decisively than he felt. “Jonathan, take the next ten to the dining room and set up. With any luck, you’ll get an appearance from the Waiter.”

  “Right, Chief,” Jonathan said.

  “I’ll take the rest to the basement,” he said. “My group will be a little bigger but we have plenty of room down there to spread out. That should keep us all occupied for a couple of hours, then we’ll regroup when we lose a few stragglers.”

  “You get Gelbaugh,” Burton said. “And Amelia George.”

  “Sure,” Wayne said. “I’m feeling masochistic tonight.”

  Jonathan silenced the murmuring crowd with a commanding bellow, and Wayne ran through the hunt logistics. As the crowd divided, Burton took Wayne aside. “Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but do you think Cody and Kendra—”

  “None of your business.”

  “Right.”

  Wayne checked the monitors. The attic cameras were stable, showing no activity of any kind. The hall cameras showed sparse traffic as people went from room to room, headed for the bar. He glanced out the window and saw the fog had settled around the hotel, and the lamps on the lawn threw off fuzzy halos of light.

  The surrounding forest was obscured, and the lane leading from the main road was swallowed by the mist. It was as if the hotel had broken loose from the world and floated into a forgotten sea.

  “So, when do
es my guaranteed ghost show up?” Gelbaugh said, when Wayne was left alone with his group.

  “The night is young.”

  “But we’re getting older by the second.”

  “And closer to death,” said the short man in a sailing cap.

  “The spirits are active tonight,” Amelia said, gripping her husband’s arm for support.

  The basement provided enough dark shadows, cobwebs and weird noises to keep the whole group happy. Even Gelbaugh should come away with something to grumble about. Wayne just wanted to survive the night, before he stopped by the bar for another round, Kendra got pregnant, and his dead wife made another appearance.

  “Okay,” Wayne said to everyone. “You guys are lucky because we get the basement. Everybody got a flashlight?”

  Nods all around. Wayne passed out a couple of audio recorders, EMF meters, and spot thermometers to some of the more inexperienced hunters. They probably wouldn’t produce any useful data but they would feel more involved. He gave one more glance at the bank of monitors, wishing Kendra would pop up on one of the screens.

  You just have to trust her. After all, she’s the adult in this family.

  He led the group down the hall, Gelbaugh sniping from the rear. By the time they’d reached the first floor, Wayne was thirsty. Jimmy Buffett’s voice spilled from the bar, preaching rum and sand as a way of life, and the laughter and clinking glass begged for Wayne’s attention. He swallowed hard and hurried past without a glance inside.

  “Get ready to rock, people,” he said, navigating the narrow hall that led to the basement door. He stood aside to let the hunters pass while he fished the key out of his pocket.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Cappie.

  “What?” Wayne said.

  “The door,” someone said.

  Wayne moved through the crowd. Written on the door in red letters was the word “Stay and play.” The paint was wet and running down the wood, as if the perpetrator was waiting around the corner to see the effect of his prank.