by Terence West
"I need to deal," she admitted, "and the best way to do that is to talk about it."
"With an experienced grief counselor," Enbaugh added. "We don't have to talk about anything that will make you uncomfortable."
"I was brutally tortured and made to watch while my girlfriend was killed."
Enbaugh forgot to take a breath. The sheer rawness of her statement had both startled him and sent shivers down his spine. "Dear God."
Kelley shook her head. "It's okay, I think I'm in denial right now. I keep expecting her to walk through that door bringing me flowers or balloons and a big card that says ‘get well soon'. I realize she's dead," Kelley admitted, "but my brain, or rather my heart, won't accept that." She adjusted uncomfortably in bed. She had been in the same position for most of the day and her feet and ankles had fallen asleep.
"Who did this to you?" Enbaugh asked tentatively.
The eyes.
Kelley gasped. She had been trying not to think about them, but now the memories came flooding back. "I don't know what they were," she said with a slight tremor in her voice. "This is going to sound crazy, but I know they weren't human." She reached around and grabbed a pillow. Holding it tightly in her arms, she buried her face in it for a moment. "I heard the police talking about me yesterday after they took my statement. They think I did it," Kelley said frantically. She looked up at Enbaugh. "They think I just snapped and killed my girlfriend. They want to give me a complete psych evaluation to make sure I'm not crazy."
"Did you do it?" Enbaugh said with a level voice.
Kelley looked him straight in the eye. "No."
Enbaugh nodded. "I believe you."
"Thank you. I think you're only the second person who does."
"Who was the first?"
"Nick Bishop."
Enbaugh smiled. "I was working with him before my accident. He's a nice guy." He let the smile quickly fade from his face. There were more important matters at stake. "We're not insane."
Kelley's eyes widened. "You?"
Enbaugh nodded. "I've seen them too." He pulled down the neck of his gown to reveal the scratches on his chest. "They did this to me."
Kelley stared in awe at the wounds. "Did you see the eyes? Those awful red eyes?"
Enbaugh nodded. "That's one of the last things I remember before I lost consciousness after my accident. Those eyes moving toward me."
"What are they, Jack?"
"I don't have any idea," Enbaugh admitted with a huff, "but I think we've got the right people working on it."
"Bishop will find out," Kelley agreed.
"Are you going to be all right?"
Kelley nodded. "Eventually. It's going to take time, but I'll be okay."
"You're very brave," Enbaugh said with a smile.
"Thank you." She sat up and arched her back to stretch. "By the way, you never told me what you do."
"I'm a cop."
"Oh," Kelley said quietly. "They sent you into question me, didn't they?"
"No, I–"
She was quickly becoming agitated. "You do think I killed her! You think I went fucking insane and hacked my girlfriend to pieces. Then I just started carving on myself to create an alibi!"
"Just calm down, Kelley," Enbaugh said as he stood.
"You're slime." She looked at Enbaugh angrily. "Get out."
"Now wait just a damned minute," Enbaugh shot back. "Let me explain."
"Get lo–"
"Shut up," Enbaugh said forcefully, hurting his throat. He had to stop for a minute to hold back the wave of coughing about to erupt from his chest. He leaned over and rested a hand on the bed. "I overheard the doctors talking about you this morning. I didn't come here to question you, but I did come for answers." He straightened up and took a slow, deep breath. "I needed to know that I wasn't losing my mind. It seems like I was the only person that kept seeing these damned things and living. Everyone else who saw one is now dead. You were my best shot at an answer. You saw one and survived!"
Kelley's rage vanished after realizing he had also helped her. "I'm sorry. I'm just a little on edge right now."
"It's okay," Enbaugh said quietly. "You're allowed."
"Thanks, Officer Jack," she said with a smile.
"That's Detective Jack to you, missy."
She patted Enbaugh on the shoulder. "My mistake."
Turning, Enbaugh started toward the door.
"Would you like to stay?" Kelley asked quickly. "We could just talk."
"Maybe tomorrow," Enbaugh offered. "Right now, I need to get back to bed. I think my painkillers are starting to wear off, and if the nurse finds me out of bed, she's going to have a tizzy."
"How do you think this is going to turn out?" Kelley asked finally.
Enbaugh shook his head. "I wish I knew."
Chapter 23
They were each taking turns hitting the door with their shoulder. Each man took a full running start and focused all their energy on what looked to be fragile. At one point, they had even used a hammer they found in the garage to knock off the knob in hopes they could gain access into the house. After numerous tries, Trent and Chris finally forced their way inside. The wooden doorjamb shattered as the knob ripped through it. The two of them went skittering to the floor as all their weight was on the door when it finally gave. Like frightened kittens, the two leapt to their feet and glanced around nervously. Everything seemed quiet. Cane had been inside for well over half an hour now, and they were starting to get worried.
"That was weird," Trent said as he dusted himself off. "It was like something was holding the door closed–"
"And then just let go," Chris finished.
Trent nodded. "Maybe that something doesn't want us in here."
"Well it's a little late now," Chris said, looking down the hall into the house. "We're already here, and the door's… "Chris stopped. "Turn around slowly," he instructed Trent.
Trent carefully spun on his heels. His mouth fell agape. "What the hell?"
The door was closed.
Trent reached over and grabbed the handle. It shook loosely in his hand, but wouldn't turn. Suddenly, it hit him. "There shouldn't be a handle here. We took it off." He let go and took a step back.
"Look at the frame."
Trent quickly scanned it. "It's completely intact."
"We broke it when we came in," Chris assured. "I saw the pieces of wood on the floor." He looked down and slowly muttered his favorite swear word. "The wood is gone," he said without any surprise. "This house is fucked up."
"I knew we shouldn't have let Mr. Cane come in here by himself," Trent said in a scolding tone.
"I didn't see you raising your hand when Carrie asked for volunteers. Besides, he was acting all ‘I'm British and I know everything about ghosts'."
"He was not. He was saving our ass."
"She-it," Chris said slowly. "I would've been all up in here in a minute. I would've been all capital g, and busted a cap in some ghost's ass."
"Okay, Martin," Trent said sarcastically. "Can we focus here? I am officially freaked out."
"Sorry, man, defense mechanism."
Trent nodded. "Should we try the door, or should we look for Cane?"
Chris looked down the hallway, then back at the door. "My first instinct is the door, but I'm pretty sure we aren't getting through it. We probably better look for Cane. Since we're here."
"Since we're here," Trent agreed.
The two cautiously made their way down the narrow hallway toward the dining room. The house was much darker than it was this afternoon, probably due to the storm outside. Chris felt with his hand along the wall for a light switch. Fumbling onto a set of four switches, he flipped them all on, then off again.
"Figures. No power," he said.
The two peeked around the edge of the hallway. The house was silent. Even the air seemed stale. Trent spotted his camera equipment still lying in the living room.
"I think I can salvage most of that," he said under h
is breath. "I need to try and get it out of here."
Chris nodded. "I'll help."
The two slowly made their way out of the dining room. Everything seemed to be as it was when they left earlier in the day. Nothing had been disturbed. Stepping into the great room, the two quickly surveyed their surroundings. The shattered pieces of Cane's ghost hunting equipment still lay heaped in the corner, and the shimmering shards of glass from the mirror were still scattered about at the foot of the stairs. A wisp of cool air suddenly flowed over them.
Trent stopped. "Did you feel that?"
Chris nodded. "Let's get the equipment, and get out of here."
The two turned toward the living room and the equipment. Moving quickly and quietly, they began to round up the bits and pieces of the cameras. Trent worked diligently to check both cameras and hurriedly decided only one was salvageable. He was in too much of a hurry to take both, although he was sure he could fix the broken one. Meanwhile, Chris was rounding up the majority of his sound equipment. He lifted his boom and headphones off the floor as well as his DAT recorder. If they had the footage of the earlier interviews, then they would need the sound, he reasoned. Besides, audiotape often revealed things video didn't. He had been reading about a field of study known as Electronic Voice Phenomenon. This was when a stray voice or sound was recorded that couldn't be made by a human or a machine. It was very fascinating to him, and it concreted his position. Everyone always needed a soundman.
Chris…
Chris stood straight up and looked at Trent. "Did you say something?"
Trent shook his head without looking away from his work. "No."
Chris looked around the house. There was nothing, only the house. He felt a cold chill run down his neck.
Chrisss…
"Did you just hear that?"
Trent looked up at his colleague. "Hear what?"
"It sounded like… "He strained his ears in the silence.”Something called… "He shook his head. This place was getting to him. He realized it was his subconscious working against him. With good reason, he reminded himself. Several people had died in this house. He just needed to get out of here. Scooping the last of his equipment up, he quickly started toward the hallway.
"Hold on," Trent called after him. "This is more than I can carry. I need an extra pair of hands."
Chris spun around and glared at Trent. A general feeling of uneasiness was quickly growing in him every extra moment he stood in the house. "Take what you can carry. We're not coming back."
"What about tonight?"
Chris was growing visibly agitated. "To hell with tonight. I'm walking out that door and not stopping. I'll walk back to California if I have to. As long as I'm not here."
Chrisss…
Chris let his equipment fall out of his hands and onto the floor. He turned away from the living room. "You had to have heard that," he said almost frantically.
"I didn't hear anything," Trent assured him as he lifted his camera and stood.
Chrisssss…
"What the fuck are you?" Chris yelled at the house. He stumbled blindly back into the dining room, almost tripping over one of the chairs. He quickly caught his balance against the table. "Leave me alone!" He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples as if to stifle a headache.
Chrisssssss…
Chris snapped his head toward the open kitchen door. His heart began to race uncontrollably when he saw it. It was motionless. Just watching him with those burning red eyes. They weren't human shaped either. They had more of an almond shape to them. Much like the images of the little gray aliens with the wraparound black eyes, but this was much more horrible. The creature had no definition. It was there, and yet not. It was just staring at him through the kitchen door.
"You will not escape, Chris," the creature moaned with pleasure.
Chris tried to call out for Trent, but found the words stuck in the pit of his throat. He pushed with all his might to scream, or at least move, but nothing happened. A sort of paralysis settled over his limbs. He felt a tear run down his cheek. He knew, in that instant, he was going to die.
The shadow lashed out with a swiftness too quick for the human eye to catch. All at once, it was upon Chris. Its rolling darkness beginning to envelop him, all the while, the red eyes stared unblinkingly at him. At that moment, Chris snapped. His mind shut down and his body went into automatic defense mode. Balling up his fists, he swung wildly at the darkness, but connected with nothing. He reached up and clawed at the shadow's eyes, only to have a similar effect. The whole time, the creature seemed to be enjoying Chris’ struggle, as if taking pleasure from it. The shadow's laughter echoed through the folds of darkness. In his final act of desperation, Chris began to swing his arms wildly in all directions, but it was useless. It was as if there was nothing there. With one fluid motion, the shadow plunged a clawed hand into Chris’ chest. It slowly wrapped its fingers around his beating heart and began to squeeze. Chris felt his heart straining to beat against the fingers, but it was failing. They were like steel bands constricting ever tighter.
Chris watched the shadow's eyes harden as they narrowed into thin, burning, red slits. His mind was frantic, but he focused on one thought. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," he gasped, "I shall fear no evil. I shall fear no evil," he spat at the creature in front of him.
The shadow ripped its hand out of Chris’ chest, and with it, his heart. Chris slowly looked down at the gaping, bloody hole in his torso, then his body fell limply to the carpeted floor in a pool of his own blood. The shadow stood mockingly above him, marveling at his work.
Trent looked up. "Chris?" He searched the living and dining rooms for his friend. He couldn't understand. He had only looked away for a moment, and then… "Chris? Where the hell are you?" He walked slowly out of the living room, his camera equipment in tow. Turning, he glanced down the hallway to see the door still closed. "What the hell?" A wave of nausea passed over him and settled in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't good.
Turning back, he noticed a dark mist hovering at the foot of the stairs. It quickly transfigured into a more menacing form, that of a large, snarling dog with glowing red eyes. The beast charged.
"Oh shit." Holding the camera firmly against his chest the way a running back cradled the football, he pumped his legs hard and dashed down the hallway. Not even taking the time to look back, Trent reached the door at the end and quickly mumbled a prayer. He could hear the thud of the beast's footfalls behind him. They were rapidly growing louder. It was almost on top of him.
Reaching down, his hand passed effortlessly though the doorknob. "Fuck," he said in desperation.
He reached forward. There was nothing there. No door. Jumping through what appeared to him as a solid door, he landed awkwardly on the bottom step and tumbled onto the concrete floor of the garage. His ankle hit first and immediately buckled. His knee followed closely and he felt something pop as it impacted. Rolling onto his back in agony, he stared at the gaping hole behind him. There was no door. He and Chris had broken through it when they went in. It was all an illusion. He jumped to his feet, despite the protest from his knee and ankle. There was nothing in the hallway but the broken door and wooden splinters from the doorjamb. There was no sign of the beast. "What the fuck is going on here?" he muttered as he tried to catch his breath.
****
"What exactly are we looking for?" Bishop asked as he sorted through another stack of folders.
"We want to find out if anything else has happened like this at the Grant House," Dawn replied through a pile of paperwork. "Or anything significant that would tie these events together."
They had gained unlimited access to the country clerk's files after a quick call to Detective Montoya to confirm their identity. The county clerk's office was a lot smaller than either of them had expected for a city of Stone Brook's population. It was a small, three room building built adjacent to the city courthouse. One of the rooms had been design
ated a break room, while the other held the office of the county clerk, a one F. Liam Simms (a somewhat greasy, little weasel of a man neither Dawn or Bishop cared for very much), and the last held all the records. Dawn had laughed at the layout of the County Clerk's office. It took real bureaucracy, with the obvious limited space of this office, to designate one entire room, the largest of the three, a break room.
The records room was wall-to-wall filing cabinets. All the cabinets looked as if they were pre-1960 as they were painted a dingy mustard yellow. The filing system was completely antiquated, and most of the files contained a large amount of dust, along with the paperwork. A lone ceiling fanned churned noisily above them.
Dawn and Bishop were both camped out on the floor amidst a sea of folders and papers dealing with the area the Grant House was built on and the actual house itself. They had spent almost an hour in the tiny cramped room, staring mind numbingly at the reams of double and triple filed forms.
"Why does the government need everything in triplicate?" Dawn wondered.
"It's supposed to make file keeping easier," Bishop replied. "One copy goes to the person, another goes to the county clerk, while the final copy is usually sent off to the county or state government."
"Then why do I keep finding all three copies in these files?"
"Somebody messed up."
"Obviously," Dawn said as she pushed another stack of files away from her. "This is getting monotonous and we haven't found anything that even remotely looks promising."
"We did find that one dump certificate," Bishop reminded.
"Ooh," Dawn said sarcastically, "be still my beating heart." She ran her hand through her hair and let out a long sigh. "I don't think that building a neighborhood over an old dump site is in the least significant."
"Just being thorough," Bishop said with a smile. He tossed his folder on the floor and grabbed the next one in the stack. Flipping it open, he stopped. "Do you think this would count as significant?" He passed the folder over to Dawn.
She quickly scanned the pages inside and nodded. "I would definitely say this counts." She lifted a page out and read it again. "Seven mysterious deaths were recorded in Stone Brook over seventy years ago. This is a coroner's report." She read further down the page. "Their bodies were mutilated. Police theorized this is some kind of cult activity, but it could never be proven."