A Haunting in Crown Point: Spookshow 6

by Tim McGregor

  He fumbled for another cigarette. “Wanted to talk.”

  “Back for more secrets?” Her voice was a soft whisper. Not hostile but neither welcoming. “Ye didn’t get enough last time?”

  “I got more than I bargained for.”

  “You’re a reckless bumbler,” she said. “Do ye not realize what ye let loose, summoning me back?”

  Gantry shrugged. “That’s why I’m here. I’m out of my depth with that thing. I need your help sending Old Scratch back to Hell.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible,” said Margaret. “Best I could do was keep him restrained when that witchfinder put me to the stake. Sending Skratte to the underworld? Tis a whole other story.”

  “Look, Margaret, I screwed up. I let the bastard thing loose when I conjured you, thinking I could nick your secrets. He’s my responsibility now, I know that. But there’s got to be some way to get rid of him.”

  “If there is, it’s well beyond my reckoning.”

  The breeze changed direction, wafting the smoke toward Gantry. The smell of woodsmoke and charred flesh.

  Margaret knelt down on the soiled sheet before the assembled bones. “Look at this,” she said. “So fragile, isn’t it? So…inconsequential.”

  Gantry eased down, settling onto the ground across from her. Now it truly was a picnic, a failed mage and a ghost, sitting round a pile of witch’s bones. Someone get out the camera.

  “There was something else,” he said. “Old Scratch, he had his fun. He took my wife. Her name was Ellie.”

  “Always a price to pay, isn’t there?”

  He flung the cigarette away, a tiny orange dot swallowed by the night. “You can guess where she is now. But she doesn’t deserve to be there.” Here he leaned forward, locked onto her burning eyes. “How do I get her out?”

  She almost laughed. “How does one snare the moon with a rope and pull it down?”

  “I don’t accept that.” The woman before him was already fading, time running out. “You know what those things are like down there, with their bizarre rules and hierarchies. There’s got to be a way.”

  “Slit your wrists, John, and go down. Ask the gatekeeper if he’ll accept a trade. Your soul for hers.”

  An owl hooted from the trees. Another hunter in the night.

  Margaret Read became still, kneeling with her hands folded in her lap. Almost pious.

  He watched her for a moment. “I’m sorry those wankers nicked the bones. Strung you up in that altar like that.”

  “It was,” she said slowly, “unpleasant.”

  Gantry cast his eyes over the ruins of the abbey around them. “What about this place? Quiet. A hell of sight better than that museum.”

  Margaret surveyed the arches and the flintwork of the stones. “It’s no longer consecrated. This will do fine.”

  “Do you want the stone box?” He wagged his chin at the car. “It’s back in the motor.”

  “No. Just earth, if you please.”

  He went to the car to fetch the spade. When he returned to the bones on the dirty sheet, the woman was gone. The smell of smoke had drifted away on the breeze.

  Thankfully, the ground wasn’t frozen. He sunk the spade into the earth, pushing it down with his boot, and started digging a fresh grave.

  ~

  Mockler kicked the door in. There wasn’t any need as it wasn’t locked but it felt good. The initial panic had boiled over into fury by the time he’d plowed the car onto the curb before the condo building.

  Christina didn’t even look up. She simply rose from the chair and turned to the window. Beyond the trees, the lake was indistinguishable from the night sky.

  He stood panting in the doorway. Relief churning with the anger. “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

  “Good,” she said. “More dramatic that way.”

  The door was left open. In the hallway behind him, a man stuck his head out of his door but retreated quickly when he saw them. Mockler closed the door. Wiping a hand over his face, he crossed to the coffee table. Sifting through the clutter he found prescriptions for three different anti-depressants. Less than a handful in each. Two bottles of red next to them, the French sauvignon she liked. One was empty, the other halfway there.

  “How many of these did you take?”

  “I wasn’t asking to be rescued. I meant for you to hear the message after it was over.”

  “Answer me!”

  She turned slowly, looking at him finally. “Enough.”

  He flung the bottle away and marched hard on her.

  “Just go,” she said lazily. A dismissive wave as she turned back to the window.

  He snatched up the back of her hair. Her lidded eyes cleared instantly, fear driving away the fog.

  “Let go of me!”

  He squeezed her jaw until her mouth popped open and he rammed two hard fingers down her throat. She choked and gagged. He shoved harder until her knees buckled and she vomited onto the floor.

  Christina coughed and spat, her voice ragged. “Are you fucking crazy?”

  He repeated the process. She spewed more bile onto the slick floor, over his shoes, the white carpet. Bending down, he studied the stomach contents splashed before him, wiping his fingers through the muck without finding what he was looking for.

  “You didn’t take any, did you?” he said.

  She pressed her head to the cool tile and the gagging twisted into sobs.

  He looked for something to wipe his hands with but everywhere he turned, he saw her face looking down at him from the funhouse gallery of self-portraiture.

  When she opened her eyes, she was on the couch. Her face was damp from being cleaned up but there was vomit all down her nightgown and the smell of it made her wince.

  Mockler sat in the chair opposite. Watching her. “I called your sister,” he said. “She’s on her way.”

  Christina buried her face in her hands. “Why did you do that?”

  “Better than calling your parents.” He sat very still, his voice controlled, but the muscle in his jaw was clenched tight. “You need help.”

  Her hands dropped into her lap, eyes fogging over. “Just go.”

  “When did the depression come back?”

  “You think it left?”

  He jerked forward and she flinched, thinking he was about to attack again.

  “We both know it did. When we split, you were on top of the world. What changed?”

  Christina said nothing.

  He eased back in the chair. “You and what’s-his-face break up? Carlos, the gallery owner?”

  She said nothing.

  Mockler felt his guts turn greasy. This felt like work, interrogating some smokehound in the box. But he couldn’t stop himself.

  “Tell me something,” he said. “Were you seeing him before we broke up?”

  Again, nothing. But there was a flinch, a twitch to the eyes. The tell.

  The door buzzer rang. He rose and pressed the button that unlocked the front entrance. “That’ll be your sister.”

  Christina shook her head and dried her eyes. Then she looked at him. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Get help.” He stayed where he was, near the door. “Here’s what you don’t do; call me. We’re done, Christina. I can’t be responsible for you anymore. If I see your number on my phone, I’m going to ignore it. If you leave another suicide message, real or fake, I’m gonna delete it without listening.”

  Her eyes hardened. “Does that feel good, delivering your little speech? Did you come up with that on the drive over?”

  “Goodbye, Christina.”

  The door swung closed behind him but there was no reassuring click as the strike plate had been wrenched from the jamb. Just a soft thud, dull and anticlimactic.

  ~

  The party continued apace, but Billie’s heart wasn’t in it. She brushed off the fight with Mockler, determined not to let it ruin her night. Keep dreaming. It gnawed at her, stealing her focus from the friends arou
nd her to somewhere inward and dark. Like prodding a wasp’s nest with a stick, all the old enemies came buzzing out.

  Five minutes after he had left to go ‘rescue’ his ex-girlfriend, she was already feeling lousy about her reaction. Of course he should go if Christina was in trouble but she couldn’t help resent the woman’s timing. Of all the days, she had to pick her birthday? What were the odds of that being a coincidence?

  Billie sipped her drink, wondering if, somehow, the psychic thing was a two-way street. What if Christina had picked up on her mood, feeling it empathically the way that Kaitlin could? Or, the more likely scenario, she and Mockler still had some bond, some shared empathy after being together for so long. It happened all the time. Lots of people marched blind through their day, unaware of their own emotional powers.

  Still, it stung. The way he’d left like that. His ex snapping her fingers and him running to her. The bitch.

  No, she told herself. That was unfair to both of them. Christina had a history of depression and Ray was a decent man. If someone was in trouble, he’d help them. It was complicated and yet, it was not. She tossed back her drink and leaned forward, trying to pick up the conversation and re-engage in her own birthday party.

  That was when Kaitlin sprang to her feet, jostling the table. She was pointing at something, her face animated.

  “Billie! You’re on TV!”

  They all swung their attention to the television screen over the bar. Billie felt her jaw drop.

  There she was, a shaky video capture of her walking away from the camera, hiding her face under a black floppy hat.

  “Hey!” Kaitlin hollered at the bartender. “Turn that up!”

  The woman behind the bar shrugged, out of her hands.

  “Please!” Kaitlin pleaded. “That’s my friend on the screen. And it’s her birthday!”

  The bartender relented. The music faded and the television blared up. The shaky video of Billie was wiped, replaced by a head-and-shoulders shot of the reporter. A blond woman with flawless skin and bright blue eyes. Text on the bottom of the screen identified her as Amanda Troy.

  “—the psychic who appears to be the central link in the rash of occult crimes plaguing the city. Her name is Billie Culpepper, a twenty-nine year old bartender with a troubled past. Her mother was also a psychic, plying her questionable trade in a small town just outside of Hamilton. Considered unstable and erratic by the townspeople, the mother disappeared when Billie was only eight-years-old, presumably abducted and murdered by Billie’s own father. Their whereabouts remained a mystery until recently when police located both of their remains. Miss Culpepper herself reportedly found her father’s remains inside the old Bourdain estate, site of numerous occult crimes over the years. The Bourdain mansion burnt down shortly afterwards. Arson is suspected but the police have yet to lay charges on Culpepper. In fact, she appears to have assisted the police in a number of unsolved homicides recently. When asked how the police justify employing a psychic in criminal investigations in a time of budgetary constraints, police officials offered no comment.”

  “Turn it off.” Billie was on her feet, moving to the bar.

  The bartender didn’t move, watching the screen.

  “TURN IT OFF!”

  The flung glass bounced off the screen without breaking it. Startled, the bartender yelped and backed away.

  The television blared on. An image of Gantry, of Mockler, another shot of Billie ducking the camera before returning to a shot of the reporter with her perfect teeth and flawless skin.

  Billie felt seasick, the ground pitching under her feet. The television went black as she turned slowly. Everyone in the room was looking at her. All those eyes, accusatory and suspicious. Smugly superior. The bar was silent but she could already hear their whispers. Crazy. Con artist. Delusional. Who wouldn’t be fucked up with a childhood like that?

  A strong hand gripped her arm. The waiter, a big strapping fellow, was already escorting her to the door. “Get out,” was all he said.

  “Wait—”

  “Out!” he barked, ejecting her into the street. The frigid air hit like a smack to the face. As the door swung closed, she thought she heard the man utter the word ‘psycho’.

  Kaitlin dashed outside, handing Billie her coat. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, hurrying into her coat.

  “Can you believe that fucking bitch? God!”

  “I’m just gonna go,” Billie said. “Will you tell everyone I said goodbye.”

  “They’re just settling the bill. Wait for us.”

  “No. The party’s over. I just want to go home.”

  Kaitlin crushed her in a bear hug. “You sure?”

  Billie kissed her friend’s cheek and let go. “Thanks for the party. It was very sweet.”

  She turned and walked away, doing up her coat. She waved as Kaitlin said goodnight.

  Her gut churned with rage at how easily that reporter had painted her as a stereotype. The sketchy psychic, the con artist, the crazy woman. A chip off the old block, tarring her mother with the same brush. What was it with that bitch reporter? It was like she had a personal vendetta against her.

  And then there was Mockler, running out to play hero. Pulling her phone out, she checked the time and wondered if he was still with his ex-girlfriend. Correction, ex-fiancée. Jesus Christ. The day had started out so well, with the flowers and taking Tom to see the butterflies. Now this.

  And everyone wondered why she disliked her birthday.

  Crossing Jackson Street, Billie quickened her pace as the cold nipped at her, chasing her home. She touched her throat, feeling for the present she’d received from Tammy’s friend but the necklace was gone. It must have snapped away when she was being ejected from the bar.

  Chapter 20

  REVEREND JOY SAT in the tiny rectory office with the teacup halfway to his mouth, his eyes fixed to the television screen. He hadn’t moved during the entire news segment on the Culpepper woman. The reporter, Amanda Troy, had really done her homework, digging up the background on this psychic and exposing her for the dangerous fraud that she was.

  He struggled with his feelings on the matter. Was the woman wicked or just deluded? She clearly had emotional problems, considering her tragic childhood but was there more to it. Evil was sly. It was subtle and it was crafty, slipping through the gates in a Trojan horse of psychology and pseudoscience and, once inside, it was free to infect the innocent undetected. One had to be vigilant at all times and not be swayed by the wiles of sympathy.

  Even if the woman wasn’t evil or malicious in intent, dabbling in such things only invited trouble, opening the door to all kinds of wickedness. That was likely the case here. The Culpepper woman probably meant well trying to help Noah’s family, but blind to the fact that she herself was the wooden horse ferrying the enemy through the gates. Dabbling with divination and communicating with the dead, these were like beacons to the evil, to the Devil himself. He shuddered to think of the woman stepping inside the church, contagious with wickedness as she was.

  Turning off the television, Reverend Joy gathered up his notes and tidied his desk. He glanced at the clock and bemoaned the lateness of the hour. If he didn’t get to sleep now, he’d be a wreck in the morning.

  He didn’t hear the banging until he ascended the stairs to the church proper. Who the devil would be at the door at this hour? He hesitated, hand on the great door handle, remembering what Mrs Rickman had said about recent church desecrations. Were the cultists at the door, eager to target his fledgling parish?

  They probably wouldn’t knock first, would they? He opened the door. “Who is it?”

  The small family looked wretched, huddled under the pale exterior light.

  “I’m sorry, Reverend,” Noah said. He seemed out of breath, as if they had all sprinted here on foot.

  Robin’s eyes were puffy and raw. She’d clearly been crying. “We didn’t know where else to go,” she said.

  “Co
me in, come in.” He waved them inside and closed the tall door against the cold night. “What happened?”

  Robin dropped into a pew with a long sigh, one hand splayed over her belly. Her husband stood mute, his face puckered as he fought back tears.

  Maya, the little girl, looked up at the Reverend. “It followed us,” she said quietly. “To the hotel.”

  Reverend Joy went down on one knee, levelling his eyes with that of the girl. “You went to a hotel?”

  “But it came with us,” Maya said. “Can we stay here?”

  She was just a child, he thought. But she was being so brave it almost broke his heart.

  ~

  The apartment was inhospitable. The moving boxes were stacked up against a wall, waiting to be unpacked. The furniture was scattered, left where it had been set down after hauling it inside. The bed wasn’t even put together. Mockler looked at the mess of cardboard boxes but they all looked the same. He hadn’t labelled any of them, assuming that he had plenty of time to unpack and set up before staying the night in his new place.

  He couldn’t blame Billie for wanting to be alone right now. Not after what had happened.

  Leaving Christina’s condo, he called Billie to see if they were still at the bar.

  “No,” Billie said coolly. A pause, and then, “How is Christina?”

  “She’ll live,” he replied. The last thing he wanted to talk about right now was Christina but he needed Billie to understand something. “But she won’t be calling me again.”

  “I see.” She did not sound convinced.

  Fair enough. He deserved that. “Did the party move on somewhere else?”

  “No. I came home.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Okay. I’m not far. Be there in five.”

  “Don’t.”

  He went still, the phone cold against his ear. “Billie, I’m sorry this happened. Especially tonight, but it won’t happen again. I made sure of that.”

  The line went quiet. Snow was falling, tiny flakes slipping down his collar to prick the back of his neck. “You still there?”