by Alexie Aaron
Puzzle
A novel by Alexie Aaron
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
~
Copyright 2013 – Diane L. Fitch writing as Alexie Aaron
ALSO BY ALEXIE AARON
HAUNTED SERIES
The Hauntings of Cold Creek Hollow
Ghostly Attachments
Sand Trap
Darker than Dark
The Garden
Puzzle
PEEPS LITE
Eternal Maze 3.1
Homecoming 3.2
CIN FIN-LATHEN MYSTERIES
Decomposing
Death by Saxophone
Discord
I dedicate this book to Kelly and Aaron who brought me this puzzle idea and encouraged me to incorporate the PEEPs into the story. Also to my beta reader Jim who drops everything once the last word is edited and reads. Without these supportive members of Bliss Cottage, I would not be able to bring these books as quickly to the reader as I do. You have my heart and my thanks.
I would like to thank my readers. Your comments and encouragement make writing the “Haunted Series” a pleasure. I thank you, PEEPs thanks you, and Murphy thanks you.
Table of Contents
The Runner
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Alexie Aaron
The Runner
The hallway was longer this time. As he ran, he heard his footfalls echo off the walls of the corridor, which looked more and more like a cattle shoot in a slaughter house with every second that passed. A wave of dizziness hit him. He dropped to his knees and vomited up his lunch. Was it the food that made him continue to retch or the overwhelming waxy odor that surrounded him? Feeling a presence behind him brought him to his feet. He hesitated and decided not to turn around. To acknowledge the thing that stalked him would confirm his fears that he was outgunned.
A hum preceded the whirl of machinery starting up. More and more, his nostrils bore the acrid smell of hot wax. He fought the urge to turn. Turning meant loss of time. His decision to run instead of facing his fears was instinctual. He heard Coach King’s voice in his head. “Come on, boy, one foot after another, breathe in in out out…”
The voice was replaced by the pounding of his heart as his feet made contact with the floor, which was increasingly becoming more and more porous until the black vinyl tiles were nothing more than tar that pulled him under until his lungs filled with the ooze. He looked up as the floor became static again. He watched as the whirl of polishing brushes moved over him, trapping him forever in the glossy tile.
Chapter One
“The place looks like a frickin cube,” Richie observed. “I mean, where are the windows? I only see four on this side, and they’re bricked up.”
“It’s a middle school, bozo, they didn’t want the kids crawling out,” Dave joked. He looked over at his friend, pleased to see him handling the dark as well as could be expected. It hadn’t been that long since Manny’s death and the horrors that clung to them from the experience. Richie had grown almost a foot since the summer. His left knee hadn’t healed right, and he walked with a limp. For some odd reason, he had taken to dying a swatch of his black hair blue. He said it was for Manny. The kid was still pretty messed up. His brown eyes darted back and forth, never stopping for long. He was always expecting the invisible to hurt him again.
“Air-conditioning,” John Larsson explained. “They built them airtight to save on fuel bills. The eighties were all about saving the earth through better construction.”
“Then why is it closed?” Richie challenged.
“Mold. You seal off all the air, add water from that flood three years back, and you get mold. It made a lot of kids sick so they closed it, transferred the survivors to High Ridge a year ago. Anyway, that’s what my ma told me.” John pulled at one of the chains on the door. “Mason’s bringing the bolt cutters,” he said, giving the chain a last tug.
“I’m not going in there if I’m going to get sick,” Richie insisted. “My parents will kill me if I end up back in the hospital. They just paid off my last trip.” He looked over at Dave and asked, “What do you think?”
Dave shrugged. He didn’t like the situation he and Richie had gotten into. This new group of friends was a bit too reckless for his comfort, but in their small world there wasn’t too much selection. If you weren’t a jock then you were left with the brains, the band fags and the losers to befriend. The losers consisted of computer geeks, freaks like him and Richie, and the guys that drifted in life, the ones never able to study hard enough to ever be considered College Prep. The only thing awaiting these guys was low paying jobs and boredom. Boredom could, however, be dealt with, and tonight was an excursion ripe with possibilities. They were going to break into Clinton Middle School, home of the Clinton Cougars.
“Why the hell did they build this place in the middle of fucking nowhere?” Richie asked, looking at the dense woods that surrounded the property. You couldn’t even hear the traffic from where he was standing. He doubted even in the winter, the perimeter roads could be seen. It was more of a prison than a school. He was glad his low income neighborhood only rated the modified elementary school from the fifties. There he had windows and the feeling of freedom.
John didn’t have an answer so he ignored him. Richie’s questions were annoying because they echoed the ones he had. Mason promised that his brother could fence whatever they salvaged from this building. Copper wire and pipes were the goal, but he would take clocks, speakers and high-end furnishings too. The money would be split seven ways and, in his case, feed his gaming habit. He needed a new hard drive, and the one he wanted wouldn’t be cheap. He reasoned with his conscience that the stuff was just sitting here rotting. He would claim he had reclamation rights, as if he found a wreck on the bottom of the ocean. They would strip whatever they could find, and no one would be the wiser.
The engine noise of a fine-tuned hemi drew the boys’ attention away from the building. Momentarily blasted by the Ram’s headlights, the boys squinted until they could pick out the familiar lines of Chuck Dupont’s graduation present. The Duponts’ overcompensation for their son’s passing twelfth grade the third time around was a flame red Dodge, built to haul heavy loads. But so far the heaviest thing it had hauled was six beer kegs to a rave in St. Louis. Chuck pulled the truc
k around to the back of the building, up onto the sidewalk and parked it close to the door. Josh jumped out of the back, flicking his cigarette onto the ground. Troy took his time.
“Come on, Lang, move your ass,” Josh Jansen ordered the younger boy.
Troy Lang was wasted. He was either high or low, depending on what his mother’s medicine chest had an overabundance of. This habit started in grade school with his mom taking his Ritalin and substituting her Valium to keep the boy sitting still long enough, so the social worker didn’t suspect she was using his meds to maintain her active lifestyle.
“Leave him alone, come help with this stuff,” Mason Callen called over. He was lugging a large canvas satchel filled with what he called toys out of the front of the Dodge. These toys were bolt cutters, a sledgehammer and a handful of wire cutters. The rest of the weight consisted of a selection of whatever they might need to pull pipes, wire and whatnot from the walls of the abandoned building.
Mason Callen wore his first generation-Irish blue-collar roots like a badge of honor. From his Red Wing work boots to his clean but tattered Levi jacket, Mason looked like he belonged with the hardhat-wearing souls of his forefathers. The only thing separating him from this long line of honest hardworking folk was a break in the line. Callen’s parents had died in a car crash, leaving his older brother to take care of the two of them. Without the steady influence of a parental role model, Mason leaned towards the quick way to riches that his older brother had adopted.
The group of young men assembled at the door. It didn’t take long to cut the chain. Mason pulled out a lock pick set and went to work on the door. It took him ten minutes to unlock it. He pulled open the door, wincing as the stale air wafted out. “We need a look out,” he said, sizing up the group.
“Richie doesn’t want to go in,” John announced.
Richie looked around him and realized he would be alone in the darkness. “Nah, I’ll go in. You’ll need me for the tall stuff.”
“I’ll stay out,” Dave volunteered, not wanting to be involved in the first place.
“No. Troy will do it. He’s done it before. He’s useless otherwise,” Mason said.
“Who are you calling useless!” Troy argued.
“You’re high,” Mason accused. “I told you, no one comes to work high.”
Troy opened his mouth, saw the firm set of Mason’s jaw and shut it again. “This is my last time waiting for you bozos,” he said as he walked down the drive to the street entrance where he would position himself.
Mason divvied up the heavy equipment. He trained his light on the entrance and said, “Well it’s now or never, ladies,” as he walked into the school.
“Hey, if it’s alright with you, asshole, we’re pirates looking for plunder,” John voiced, ignoring Mason’s lifted middle finger.
Mason knew he’d get away with this with John. Chuck would have broken the offending finger quicker than he could apologize.
Dave and Richie followed the group into a service corridor that they thought should access the gymnasium and shop classes.
A poster of a monster truck dominated the hall. “A plunder,” Richie said, gripping the plexiglass frame. He tugged, but it didn’t move. He tried lifting it off the wall, but it remained in place.
“Don’t waste your time, dude, this is middle school. Everything that’s worth anything is bolted on the fucking wall,” Dave said.
They found a locked, expandable gate across the hall. John shook the gate and waited for Mason to pick the lock.
Mason looked at it and shook his head. “This one will take some time. Let’s see if any of these doors are open.”
The boys tried several and were rewarded with what appeared to be a back entrance to a small lecture room. Chuck crossed the threshold. The lights came on.
“What the fuck!” Chuck reeled around, expecting to see the cops waiting for him. There was no one. “They left the electricity on?”
Dave walked over and pointed out the sensor on the light switch. “It’s one of those automatic jobbers. It detects movement. If the room is empty or everyone is still, it will turn off on its own after a few minutes,” he explained.
The other boys shuffled in and looked around the room. On the chalkboard someone had left a lesson. On closer inspection it appeared to be instructions for a game of some sort.
Take a seat. This is a test of your caliber. Only the smartest will continue.
“That leaves you out, Richie,” John pointed out.
Richie, stung by the comment, shrugged his hurt away. He wanted to say something clever, but his mind couldn’t come up with anything. Instead he walked over to the front door and tried to open it. “This door’s locked.”
Mason walked over, knelt down, pulled out his lock pick set and started to work. The first pick broke off as if it were made of balsa wood. The second wouldn’t even go in the lock.
A scratching sound came from the front of the room. The boys watched in amazement as words appeared on the chalkboard.
No one leaves unless they pass the test!
“Fuck this,” Chuck said and walked towards the backdoor. It slammed shut before he reached it. He tugged on the handle, but the lock held. “Mason, where’s the sledgehammer?”
“Josh has it.”
They looked at Josh, and he shook his head. “I set it down when the scratching began. It’s gone, dude.”
Dave’s eyes caught a movement. The canvas bag was moving towards the rear of the room. “Quick the bag!” He ran over. Something pushed a chair in his way. He grunted as his leg contacted with it. He pushed it away, but the bag disappeared into a closet before he got there. The closet was locked, and no amount of battering with his hands would open it.
The scratching began again. This time, the boys saw a piece of chalk move on its own across the slate.
Sit down or die!
The boys’ faces paled lighter than the chalk which continued to scratch out more instructions.
If you are clever, you will move on. If you are not, you will stay here. If you break the rules, you will die!
The lights dimmed. Dave watched as a man of considerable size and bulk forced John into a chair. The other boys couldn’t see the entity and ran around the room in confusion. Chuck doubled over as he took a shot to the stomach. He was dragged over and dumped into the chair next to a crying Josh, who had taken a chair voluntarily. Mason needed persuasion and didn’t succumb to the chair until he was beaten unconscious. All that was left was Dave and Richie. Richie ran to his side.
“Stick close, I can see the fucker,” Dave hissed as he grabbed Richie’s arm.
The two of them, guided by Dave, managed to elude the thing for a few minutes. But it moved too fast, and soon Richie was cornered and dragged over to a chair. Dave moved to intercept, but his blows went through the monster.
“Cheater!” the entity screamed. “Cheater!”
The lights went out, and Dave lost sight momentarily of the ghost. It grabbed him from behind. He fought to maintain his stance, but it was too fast and too strong for him. The backdoor flew open. He was dragged out into the hallway. The outside door slammed open, and Dave found himself airborne as the entity tossed him out of the building. Dave hit the side of the Dodge and felt a rib break. He slid down to the ground, but not before he heard one last cheater as the door slammed shut.
Dave forced himself to his feet and ran back to the door. It was locked. He heard footfalls rapidly approaching and turned to see a winded Troy making his way to him.
“What the hell happened? What was that screaming? I saw you fly, dude!”
“Something’s got the guys in there. The door’s locked.”
Troy wrinkled up his face. “You’re tweaking,” he said and pulled on the door, and it opened. “Mason unlocked it, see.” He let the door shut and stepped back.
Dave tried it again, and it wouldn’t open. “I can’t open it. I’m telling you, there is something horrible inside there that has the guys tr
apped.”
“Maybe I ought to go and see for myself. If this is a joke, then your ass is toast, dude.”
“Don’t go in there!” Dave pleaded and grabbed Troy’s arm.
Troy twisted away and shoved Dave hard. He connected with his bad rib, and Dave collapsed in pain. He withered on the ground and watched helplessly as Troy opened the door and walked inside. The door closed behind him with the click of the latch echoing in the still night.
Chapter Two
Mia stepped back and admired her work. The pale sage, satin paint gave richness to the room. The construction on the addition went smoothly with the combined hands of Ted, Cid and Burt. Murphy did some of the heavy lifting but left the finer points of the construction to the corporals involved. Mia was patted on the head and given tasks more appropriate for her small stature. This pissed her off, but she was learning the lessons of being out-gendered. She watched with a jaded eye as the men completed tasks that would have taken them less time had they listened to her.
A few times she just got up and left them to their bruised thumbs and sore backs. The local DIY store employees listened with sympathy, on par with a bartender, to her as she related the three-man circus stories to them while she browsed for paint colors and other womanly errands. Mia Cooper was regarded in the area as the best handy person you could have. To see her relegated to this was criminal.
“Think of it this way, when they screw it up, you can lord it over them for a week or two,” one of the clerks pointed out.
“That would be petty,” Mia told the woman, smiling and hiding the fact that she fully intended to follow her advice.
A different scent filled the air, and Mia turned to see Ted staring at her from the open doorway of the apartment. Gone was the reek of latex, instead the aroma of freshly brewed French-roasted coffee filled the room.