by Terence West
She had been lying to herself and everyone around her. She wasn't the strong-willed director she envisioned herself as, not at all. She was a frightened little girl who was hiding behind the mask she had created for herself. Now two men, and possibly a third, were dead because of her vanity. She slowly drew her hand across her mouth to wipe away the excess vomit. It was all over. Her crew was in shambles, and her broadcast a total disaster.
She saw a flicker of lightning arc across the sky. She found herself secretly wishing a bolt would split the heavens and strike her where she stood. It would be easier than dealing with the pain.
STOP.
She looked down at the mess she had made in front of her as she caught her breath. She was completely soaked to the bone. Her clothes were sticking to her thin frame, and her hair hung messily around her face. What was she doing? Slowly standing up, she coughed once to clear her lungs, then took a deep breath. She wasn't going to allow herself to wallow in self-pity. After all, that's what it really was. She wasn't mourning the death of a friend, she was mourning herself, and she wasn't dead yet. How could she have let herself sink so low so fast? She was actually thinking of dying, for God's sake. She balled her fists again, this time, not in pain, but rather in protest. She wasn't going to allow herself to sink into regret and depression. There was too much work to be done, and she had to do it. This live broadcast would be the best fucking hour of television anyone had ever seen, she assured herself. She would do it not only for herself, but also for those who had fallen trying to bring it to fruition. It was what they would have wanted. She knew that now. No amount of wallowing around in the muck would bring them back. She would have to honor their memory the only way she knew how, and by God, she would do a damned good job of it.
She dug into her pocket and pulled out the garage door opener. Clicking the large button once, she waited as the door slowly creaked open. Once inside, she tossed the remote and stood in front of Carrie and Trent like Patton addressing the troops.
"We are two hours from airtime," she said, "let's get our ass in gear, people. We have a show to do," Chloe stated boldly.
****
Dawn had both hands firmly on the steering wheel as she tried to keep the car from blowing off the road. Her knuckles were white from the amount of pressure she was using. The car was being tossed about by the storm. The winds would change direction from moment to moment and sweep her across the rain soaked pavement, then immediately toss her back in the other direction. She had the windshield wipers on high, but it wasn't helping much. Visibility had been greatly reduced by the blowing debris and rain. Her shortened field of vision kept her nerves on edge.
"I take it you haven't driven in this kind of weather before," Bishop stated as he swallowed hard. Dawn's driving was scaring the hell out of him, but he was too much of a man to admit it. He had both feet pressed firmly to the floor and one hand wrapped tightly around the "oh shit" handle above him. His vision was transfixed on the road ahead of them in fear. "Maybe we should pull over and–"
"And what?" Dawn bated him, "let you drive?"
Bishop shook his head. "I was going to say ‘maybe we should pull over and wait out the storm'." He smiled, "And they think men are egotistical about their driving."
Dawn exhaled slowly. "Sorry. This whole mess has just got me a little on edge."
"I know what you mean," Bishop agreed. "Killer ghosts that seem to be following some kind of pattern. It's just too wild."
"That's the part that strikes me as odd," Dawn admitted. "We read the killings happened seventy-seven years ago, right?"
Bishop nodded.
"Why would the ghosts come back to complete a ritual seventy-seven years later?" She slowly brought the car to a stop in an intersection and flipped on her blinker (although she really didn't know why, it wasn't like any cars could actually see it). "The police files stated they never captured any of the killers."
"Yeah, we read that," Bishop followed. "So?"
"Hauntings are usually the result of unfinished business," Dawn said from experience. "When a spirit is unable to complete their tasks during their mortal lives, they spend the rest of eternity stuck in a kind of infinite loop."
"I'm not following."
"From what Cane and I have found on previous cases involving ghosts, or paranormal activity, is that they are doomed to repeat the past, but aren't able to change it."
"Or willing to change it," Bishop theorized.
"No," Dawn said thoughtfully, "if that were the case, then they would finish whatever they had to do and move on. I don't think they are able to complete their task. They can follow the exact same path they did before, but just before they finish, they are forced to go back to their starting point."
"Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars," Bishop said dryly.
"Exactly," Dawn snapped. "So if these people were never captured by the police, what stopped them from finishing?"
"Some kind of outside interference," Bishop said finally. "That's the only logical answer."
"So," Dawn said as she bit her lip, "we have two forgone conclusions: something stopped these men from completing their task, but they found a way back to finish it."
Bishop nodded, "But to finish what?"
"I wish I knew," Dawn said with exasperation. "It must be the key; the one piece of information that will reveal everything to us."
"The ever-elusive ‘x’ marks the spot theory," Bishop interjected.
"You know, you could help figure this thing out instead of just coming up with interesting quips," Dawn spat. "I need some help."
"Sorry," Bishop said as he sank down into his seat. "I just don't have very much experience with this stuff yet. I'm kind of ‘flying by wire’ here."
"You obviously have some kind of interest in the supernatural, or you wouldn't have joined the OPR," Dawn retorted quickly. "That means you must have read books on the subject, or watched documentaries, or soaked up some kind of knowledge on the paranormal and the occult." Dawn reached over and patted Bishop on the knee. "All I'm trying to say here is that anything you can think of, no matter how insignificant you may think it is, you need to share it."
Bishop smiled, "You're right. I just feel a bit out of my league talking to you and Cane most of the time. It's like being a Star Wars fan all your life, then finally getting a chance to sit down with George Lucas. I mean, what would you ask in that situation?"
"Don't tell me you're some kind of Trekkie," Dawn laughed.
"Wrong series. Trekkies watch Star Trek." Bishop adjusted his coat, "I watch Star Wars."
"Enough said," Dawn said with a chuckle. "I think I understand. You shouldn't feel dumb around Cane and me. We both had to start somewhere as well, and to tell you the truth, Cane's knowledge of subjects still intimidates me a little as well."
"Good to know I'm not the only one in this boat."
The two were startled by Dawn's cell phone. Dawn quickly dug into her coat pocket and retrieved the small phone. Clicking it on, she pressed it to her ear. "Hello? Oh, hi, Maria."
Bishop became hopeful. It had been less than half an hour since Dawn had contacted the Records Department at the OPR. This could mean good news, possibly even a much needed break.
Dawn nodded once, then hung up the phone. "We have our ‘why'."
"Well, are you going to tell me, or just keep me hanging?" Bishop asked excitedly.
"Maria cross-referenced all the information we gave her and came up with some very interesting, and somewhat disturbing facts." Dawn stuffed the phone back in her pocket and returned her hand to the wheel. "It seems that our killers seventy-seven years ago did have a record."
"Tell," Bishop instructed her excitedly.
"They were some kind of unholy trinity that had formed a group known as the ‘Dark Moon’ cult. Apparently, their cult was formed around Revelations 8:12."
Bishop snapped his fingers, "I know that one. It talks about the apocalypse." He thought for a moment, then clear
ed his throat, "And the fourth angel sounded, and the third part of the sun was smitten, and the third part of the moon, and the third part of the stars; so as the third part of them was darkened, and the day shone not for a third part of it, and the night likewise."
"I'm impressed."
"Bible school," Bishop smiled. "These cultists have the same rudimentary knowledge of the Bible every religious nut seems to have. That passage isn't actually talking about the moon going dark. It's more of a reference to things that will happen and the moon and sun are just symbols of that."
"Interesting," Dawn agreed, "but it's still a passage about the end of time."
"Yes, part of the seven trumpets."
"There's that number again," Dawn said eagerly. "It seems that things come in sevens for our cultists. Seven trumpets, seventy-seven years and seven hearts," Dawn said grimly.
"Seven hearts?"
"They were performing what is known as the ‘Ritual of Sevens'. If they complete it, it would basically give them unlimited power and make them, for all intents and purposes, immortal."
"Did Maria tell you that?"
Dawn nodded. "She said the ritual could only be performed every seventy-seven years on Halloween. It requires seven human hearts and seven personal effects from the victims."
"Why seven?"
"Unknown," Dawn replied. "Seven seems to have some kind of cosmic importance."
"Tell me more about the ritual," Bishop said.
"The ‘Ritual of Sevens', if performed correctly, gives one the ‘essence’ of the people killed, thereby giving a person seven extra lifetimes and all the power they had."
"So there's a pattern we didn't see," Bishop theorized. "These murders are connected. Each of them had to have some kind of developed or latent paranormal abilities."
Dawn snapped her fingers. "Like Sam Peters, the world renowned psychic."
"Exactly," Bishop grinned unevenly as if he were the sole keeper of the world's biggest secret. Knowledge is power, and he knew that well. "So that means the Grants all had some kind of psychic ability, as well as Kelley's girlfriend."
"But counting all the Grants and the girlfriend, that's only four hearts. They need seven."
"There may be more we don't know about yet."
"God, I hope not. Today is Halloween and we're heading back into the lion's den."
Bishop nodded. "We need to talk to Cane. He can tell us what to do."
****
Cane awoke in a dark place. There was only the faint flicker of light on the far side of this place. He could see a small, tapered candle burning close to the nub. A quick estimation proved to him that he wouldn't have light much longer. He reached up and felt his forehead. There was a large goose egg forming just below his hairline. At least that was a good sign. He knew he didn't have a concussion. He couldn't remember how he arrived in this place. The last thing he remembered was falling…
He slowly began to feel the floor around him. It was cold and hard, but not exactly level. It could be rock, he theorized, some kind of cave. He stretched out his arm in the darkness to see if he could find the wall, and was surprised when he did. It felt similar to the floor, but damp, as if a trickle of water was running down it. He knew he was in a cave, or some kind of structure built into the rock. He wasn't sure which, but he was determined to find out.
Maybe he didn't understand after all. He had thought he understood the shadow's games, but things hadn't turned out the way he expected. What, really, did he expect? To be standing in the middle of the Grant's living room as if nothing happened? He realized now he may've been asking a little too much. He had thought it was all an illusion, but this certainly felt real. Therein lies the rub, it all felt real. The vertigo he experienced while hanging above the bottomless pit, the smell of the chemicals the red fluid was kicking up as it ate through the couch, it was all so real. Could he be in another illusion created by the shadows?
He slowly stood up. A rattling sound rang off the walls of the cave as he shuffled his feet forward. It was very familiar. He had heard it before. Kneeling down, Cane ran his hand down his pant leg until he reached his ankle. He suddenly realized what the sound was, and it was very real. A metal cuff had been attached to his legs with a heavy chain leading from them. Spinning around, he traced the chain's winding path along the floor until he reached the wall. There he found a large steel plate bolted to it that the chains were attached to. He tugged once on the chain to check for weaknesses, but wasn't surprised to find the plates were solid.
"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.
The light flickered around him. Glancing up, he watched the candle's flame dance at the end of the wick. That was odd, he thought. I didn't stir up the air enough to disturb the candle. He watched as the flame settled back down, then flittered again. There’s a breeze in here. That means this room is connected to the outside somehow. He scanned the darkness for any traces of an egress or a stairwell that led out of the cave, but found only inky blackness. Then an idea struck him.
"My cell phone," he said quickly. Reaching for his jacket pocket… he stopped. He had jettisoned his jacket in the living room. He let his head fall forward in exasperation. It had his cell phone and a small flashlight he kept for emergencies. "Score one for the British," he said angrily.
Standing up, he decided to test the length of the chains. Taking baby steps away from the wall, he slowly crept forward with his arms feeling blindly in front of him. He stopped when he felt the chains become taut. Reaching around, he felt a wall in front of him and one to his right. Glancing to his left, he realized he could make it to the candle. At least he could have light to navigate, he decided. He had taken one step toward the light, when it flickered once and went out.
"Should've seen that one coming."
Then it struck him. He could feel no breeze. Not even the slightest trickle of air. The air in this room was completely still. Then came another horrible realization; he was not alone. Skittering back across the floor, he pressed his back up against the wall and became silent. His breathing became slow and deep, but it was all he could hear. The cave was now completely dark, and he was utterly immersed in its murkiness. He slowly sank down the wall until he was crouching next to his chains. His heart was thumping in his ears.
"He has no power."
Cane heard the voice like a gunshot. It was everywhere all at once, and nowhere at the same time. He frantically swung his head around to try and locate the source of the voice, but there was nothing but blackness.
"We can still use him," came another voice. The voice sounded coarse, as if it were being filtered through sandpaper, or as if it died at the bottom of the creature's throat and was being propelled forward by sheer will. The very wavelengths had been deconstructed, and piled on top of each other incorrectly as it echoed into itself. All the voices sounded like this, but each had a distinctly different pitch. They were grotesque in their inhumanness.
An acidy feeling began to burn at the pit of Cane's stomach. He was completely at the mercy of his unknown captors. He could do nothing but wait. This was killing him.
"He is useless to use," a third voice stated with a hiss, as if said through clenched teeth.
Three sets of red eyes blinked into existence in front of Cane. They were all at the same height, at least seven feet off the ground, and completely unwavering. They neither blinked, nor turned away. Their horrible gaze remained focused on Cane. He felt his heart sink.
"We need two more," the first shadow protested.
If Cane weren't frightened out of his wits, he might've found this conversation completely fascinating. The only thing that anyone had reported the shadows saying was "You will not escape". This proved they were intelligent, instead of the mindless killing machines that everyone else perceived them as. He listened to the conversation become heated between the creatures. His fear was slowly beginning to quell, replaced by a scientist's interest. He had never been witness to a discussion between, Cane quickl
y searched for a fitting term, ghosts. This completely disproved Dawn's theory of the afterlife. They were not stuck in a loop as she suggested. They were completely free to go and do what they wanted. It was apparently the ghost's own personality and drive that kept them repeating past mistakes over again. They weren't being forced to relive their experiences, rather change what had originally happened. Interesting concept, he thought. He just hoped he would be able to eventually share it with someone.
"This is not one of the chosen," the third shadow argued.
"We can't let this one go. The ritual is tonight. We may need him yet," the first voice concluded.
It sounded as though they were squabbling over what to do with Cane, and that the first shadow had just put his proverbial foot down. Incredible, he repeated to himself. If only these were controlled circumstances, I–
A hand clamped around Cane's throat and ripped him out of his thoughts. Cane's hands instantly shot toward the hand and tried to pull it away. He was surprised when he made contact with something. It was cold, almost freezing to the touch. He recalled the sensation of handling dry ice, how it was so cold, it burned flesh on contact. His neck was beginning to burn.
"We may need you," the shadow growled. "You will not escape."
Cane suddenly laughed out loud. He wasn't sure why, but that struck him as extraordinarily funny. It was like the shadow had added that just to sound menacing (which, of course, it was). The hand suddenly retracted and left Cane giggling on the floor. He ran his hand over his neck. His flesh was cold to the touch, but he didn't think any serious damage had been done. He laughed again, then let out a long breath.