by J L Bryan
“Ronan,” Ryan said. “Pause it and say good-bye. Pause it!”
The six-year-old paused his game, said “good-bye!” in a rush without looking at me, then started it up again.
We headed downstairs, and I stepped out to the loading dock through the roll-up door. He lingered inside to close it, looking at me.
“Thanks again for coming,” he said, sounding genuinely grateful. “It's good to know somebody's on the case. I think we'll rest better tonight.”
“I hope so,” I said. “See you in the morning.”
He lowered the door, and I hopped down from the dock and walked to the van.
The snow had continued to fall, the sun was down, and I was getting more nervous by the minute. I have no trouble driving through the worst thunderstorms—I'm used to those, living right in the path of major hurricanes, deadly monsters born in the infernally hot winds of the Sahara and turned into raging watery giants as the trade winds pushed them across the Atlantic to my front door.
Snow was tricky, though, turning into a slippery layer that coated the road. I might as well have been driving on an alien planet.
I drove slowly up the driveway, resisting the urge to stomp the gas and get back to town as fast as possible.
My headlights punctured the gathering darkness, but light reflected off of hundreds of falling flakes as I drove through them, making them all glint like shooting stars, an effect to which I had to adjust.
I felt a little more confident by the time I turned out on the main road, the one that twisted back down the mountainside a bit to the town below.
“You've got this,” I told myself, trying to overrule my sweaty palms and my nervous gut. I followed the steep road, using only my steering wheel and my brakes, which was also unfamiliar and uncomfortable. I didn't need gas, because gravity was more than willing to haul me down that mountainside at high speed if I just let my wheels turn freely.
The RUNAWAY TRUCK signs flashed through my mind again, the ramps for tractor-trailers whose brakes had lost their fight against gravity.
“We're fine, we're fine,” I whispered aloud. Then: “So, who's 'we' anyway? I'm alone here, talking to myself, but for some reason I'm saying 'we're fine' like I'm trying to convince someone else—”
I rounded a sharp curve, and an expansive view of the starry skies and moonlight mountains opened up on my right. There was a vast empty space over there, just a couple yards away, on the other side of the guardrail.
On my left, a man ran out into the road wrapped in what looked like bloody rags, waving his arms frantically as he darted right in front of the van.
I wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right to avoid running him over. My tires squealed as I crushed down on the brakes as hard as I could.
I cringed, listening for the sickening thump at the impact of my vehicle against a person's body.
Looking out my window, then at my side view, I couldn't see whether I'd hit the guy or not.
When I looked ahead again, I realized I was skidding toward the guardrail and the steep thousand-foot drop beyond. Smoking rubber filled my nostrils, but I wasn't stopping fast enough.
I wrenched the wheel the other way, and then I lost control of the van.
It spun and slid. Once I got my bearings, I saw I was still heading backwards toward the drop-off.
I grunted as I slammed both feet down on the brake pedal, while baring my teeth, willing the van to stop with my mind.
At last, it stopped sliding.
It sat backward in the middle of the road, facing uphill, headlights pointed up along the twisting mountain road.
I grabbed my flashlight, set the emergency brake, and jumped out. My boots crunched on snow.
“Hello?” I shouted up the road. “Are you okay?”
No response came. I couldn't see anyone, at least not in the patches of road and woods that my headlights illuminated. There was plenty of shadows and darkness left, though, in every direction except straight ahead.
I started up the slope, the wind picked up, really flinging the snowflakes in my face, and I had to squint against them and wipe them from my lashes. My van's tire tracks in the fresh snow showed my crazy route down the hill, twisting and sliding.
“Can you hear me?” I asked, looking at the curve where the person had stepped out in front of me. Beyond the road was a steep bluff full of slender trees and deep shadows, stretching away up the mountain.
I didn't see anyone in the road, so I clicked on my light and pointed it into the woods from which he'd dashed out. I searched among nooks and crannies in the rocky ground. It was almost like an overgrown staircase of rocks leading up the mountainside, intersecting the road.
The guy seemed to have vanished, so either he'd run away, or...
I checked the snow on the ground. There were no footprints except for my own, leading back down to the van below. There was no sign the man had been here at all.
The wind picked up even more, really howling as it came down the mountain, bringing a wave of icy cold air that slashed right through my leather jacket like it was a tank top. I may as well have been up north somewhere, like Chicago or Canada, it was so cold.
I hurried back down the hill, keeping watch over my shoulder for any sign of a man staggering out of the woods.
When I looked ahead, I saw him staggering down the hill instead, close to my van, just at the edge of my headlights.
I slowed. He couldn't possibly have walked past without me noticing.
I looked down at the road—no footprints in the white layer of snow, except mine.
He staggered across in front of my van, turning filmy and transparent in the searing light of a headlight, and faded from view altogether, as if the light had been too much for him.
That pretty well settled it for me. It was a paranormal entity, not a living human.
I clicked on my flashlight and continued down the hill cautiously, watching for him to re-emerge through the drizzling snow.
I became sharply aware of how alone I was, with no backup, nobody to know that I might be in trouble.
In my mind, I tried to re-conjure the image of the staggering man. He'd been in ripped clothing: a long coat, scarf, hat—much smarter about dressing for the weather than me, then. But the ghost-man might have lived here in the mountains. I couldn't plunk down a bunch of money on a new winter wardrobe for a single case, especially with a client already in dire financial straits.
Quietly, I moved closer to my van, watching for any sign of him. I looked into my van, too, thinking of those fairly common stories about hitchhiker ghosts, the ones who catch a ride with an unsuspecting motorist and then quietly disappear after a minute or two.
Then I thought of other stories I'd read, about malevolent ghosts on haunted roads, steering drivers to their deaths. That had nearly happened to me.
I looked along the direction in which the ghost had been walking before it vanished. Beyond the van, over the guardrail, I could see a steep, rocky path continuing on down the mountainside. It looked like the paved road had broken through an old walking path.
There was no telling whether the ghost had been trying to attack me or whether I'd just driven through its path. I would have to remember to be careful about that curve.
Since I didn't feel like hanging around with the dead, I hurried back to the van, got it pointed the right way, and continued down toward town, where there would be lights and warmth and people with a pulse.
Chapter Fifteen
I staggered into my hotel room, removed my boots, and sprawled across the bed, burying my face in the pillow to escape the dim glow of the lamp. Eventually I'd get back up, I told myself, after I rested my eyes for just a second, after I took a breath...letting some of the weariness of the long day soak out of my muscles and into the bed...which didn't make a lot of sense, but hey, I was drowsy...and the bed felt so good...maybe a quick nap—
“She's back!” The connecting door banged open, startling me awake. Melissa
entered, along with a flood of light from their hotel room. “Now we can eat!”
“Huh?” I blinked. “You guys go on.”
“No way, we've been waiting forever,” Melissa said. “We already wrapped your presents and we were out of stuff to do.”
“My presents?” I sat up, feeling mildly alarmed. “I didn't bring anything to give—I mean, this trip was very last minute...”
“It's okay! We can shop tomorrow.”
“I have to work.”
She turned back. “Michael, let's go!”
“Don't harass her, Melissa.” Michael stepped into the doorway and took her by the shoulder to steer her away. Melissa flashed a look of seething anger at him before she left. “Do you feel up to going out? Or do you want to stay in? I can grab something for you from the hotel restaurant.”
“I want to go to Renaissance Fare!” Melissa said from inside their room.
“It's probably packed,” Michael said. “We don't have a reservation. Maybe tomorrow night.”
“They'll be closed for Christmas,” Melissa said. “Come on. Let's go have fun for once.”
“We've just been shopping,” Michael said. “I thought that was supposed to be fun. And the candy store.”
“You went to the candy store?” I asked.
“Yeah, there's some fudge, some Jordan almonds...”
That motivated me to get out of bed, but Michael blocked the doorway. “Melissa? Presents?”
“All set,” Melissa replied.
“You shouldn't have gotten me anything,” I said. I was starting to have mixed feelings about bringing them on this trip. For one thing, I now had to work in some time for Christmas shopping.
“I think my sister just wanted to shop,” Michael said. “Don't take it personally. And definitely don't feel like you have to get us anything.”
“Right. I'm just going to sit there on Christmas morning, opening gifts from both of you and not giving you anything,” I said.
“Let's not forget to hang our socks over the heating vent.” Michael pointed to the one on the wall of his hotel room. “In case Santa Claus comes by.”
Melissa let out a disgusted sound and rolled her eyes.
“I don't think Santa can fit through there,” I said. “He's got that stomach like a bowl full of jelly. Speaking of which...” I found the small box of fudge and took a square for myself. My stomach growled. “Melissa, why don't you call that restaurant you were talking about and see if we can get a table? I know it's late.”
“Yeah, it's almost six-thirty,” Melissa said. “We should probably take our Metamucil and put on our pajamas.”
“Is it?” I looked at the clock on the end table. It got dark early this time of year. The winter solstice had only just passed. “Okay, I refuse to be a grouch who stops everyone from having a good time.”
“I'll call!” Melissa looked at her phone.
“You may not be into it,” Michael told me, looking embarrassed. “It's one of those medieval dinner show places. They have sword fights and...occasional musical theater. Sometimes at the same time.”
“I can handle it,” I said. “Let's go.”
So that was how we ended up at the faux-medieval tavern, drinking cider from tankards and watching a Christmas-themed sword battle on the stage. It seemed to involve Santa and his elves going to war against large green “Grunches,” grouchy-looking monsters that were like Grinches, but with slightly less trademark infringement.
The actors kept up the ye olde English speech the whole time, and the acoustics weren't actually great, so it was a bit hard to follow the specifics of the story. There was a tinsel-draped “Christmas witch” in a pointy hat, whose stage appearances included a cauldron overflowing with green and red smoke. She was my favorite character, I think.
The restaurant's sign outside had claimed you could “Eat Like a King!” but unfortunately it turned out they meant a medieval English king, and the menu ranged from fried fish and potatoes all the way to boiled chicken and potatoes.
Michael and Melissa clearly had a good time; I suppose it reminded them of childhood with their mom, so even though I was tired, I made sure to smile and not be a Grunch about it.
Melissa cheered and whistled when a girl elf in a fur-trimmed red dress leaped out of a gift box in a surprise attack on the Grunch King, who went down with a loud thud on the stage.
Eventually, Santa and the elves taught the Grunches the true meaning of Christmas, and all ended happily, as these things must for the benefit of the children in the audience.
We finally left. My exhaustion had fully caught up with me. I somehow managed to trudge back to my room, feeling ill from the food, my head echoing with the relentless sound of lutes and flutes, of knights demanding satisfaction and ladies crying out and waving scarves.
“I had a good time,” Michael said, lingering at my door as Melissa went to theirs. “I'm glad you came out. It means a lot to both of us.”
“Yeah, I'm exhausted,” I said. “And I have an early morning.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Just...have a good time here.”
I closed the door and sprawled on the bed, exhausted and a bit nauseous. The medieval meal was getting medieval on my innards. I felt clammy, and as tired as I was, I couldn't sleep easily. I also felt annoyed at Michael and Melissa, probably unfairly, for wanting to go out at all—I'd spent the afternoon working, not vacationing like them.
I hadn't told either of them about my near-accident earlier, not wanting to worry Michael or to talk about it too much, really. As I lay there, I kept seeing that shadowy, bloody figure running out into the road in front of me, and the road and mountain spinning around me as I slid toward the cliff.
Chapter Sixteen
My hotel room's alarm clock bleated in the predawn darkness, waking me up. It took a moment for me to look at the unfamiliar surroundings and remember where I was and why.
I still felt queasy from the night before, but at least I'd gotten some sleep, and my cat hadn't been around to wake me with midnight meowing and/or face sitting.
First priority was starting the coffee maker—based on my queasiness, I'd be drinking it black today—followed by a hot shower while my dark liquid breakfast brewed.
I was eager to get back to work, fulfilling my small purpose in life. I found myself unable to decide whether I wanted to repair my relationship with Michael or just move on. That might have been a good subject on which to reflect before agreeing to let them come with me.
My head felt calmer and clearer once I was in my work clothes. Boots, jeans, and a leather jacket that might not protect me against the biting cold, but offered some protection against the bites and scratches of hostile spirits.
The town was already awake, or perhaps hadn't fully slept, the giant wacky Christmas decorations still pulsing and glowing in a thousand gaudy hues, all of it reflecting on the snow-covered ground in the park and off snowy awnings over the downtown shops. A salt truck was attacking the snow on the road. Or perhaps assaulting it. If Stacey had been there, I could have made her groan with that one.
I took it slow and easy going up the road toward the museum, past the expensive estates where the houses were mostly or completely hidden between trees and high walls. One house on the way to the museum was a sprawling Tudor mansion; from what I could see from the road, it looked big enough to house Henry VIII and all his wives. I wondered again how these people with their luxury estates felt about the wacky oddities museum up the mountain, advertised by a giant billboard by the road. More such billboards stood around town, directing tourists and their dollars toward the museum.
I slowed as I wound the tight curve where the bloody figure had jumped out at me, but I saw nothing there this morning. I turned off at the big billboard, relieved to be on a flat driveway again.
The museum loomed ahead in the weak, breaking light of first dawn, its castle-style false front with narrow slit windows promising a gloomy interior any tim
e of the year.
I parked at the back and approached the rear entrance, hunched against the cold. I reached for the buzzer next to the entrance to the apartment stairs. Before I could press it, the nearby side door to the loading dock opened, the human-sized door instead of the roll-up one for cargo and large items.
“You really did get here before sunrise,” he said. “Just barely, though.”
“I'm a woman of my word.” I narrowed my eyes as I stepped into the rear area of the museum. “Do I smell...coffee?”
“I thought you might want some,” he said, walking toward an employee break area where a big steel coffee urn from the land of the 1970's chugged and steamed. The mismatched plastic seats nearby looked dusty; nobody had sat there for years.
“You could replace the psychic on our team.” I pulled the little lever, refilling the portable coffee cup I'd brought with me, though it was still half-full from my hotel room. “But you didn't have to get up early to get ready for me.”
“Early? I have a six-year-old boy. We've already had breakfast and read a Pig and Elephant book. Now he's playing a game.”
“Lego Harry Potter?”
“You're a perceptive detective.” He blinked. “I didn't realize that was going to rhyme until I said it aloud.”
“Maybe you could write a song out of it.”
“Ha ha. Anyway, I don't want to let him veg out too long, but the girls will be up soon. They're just starting to evolve toward a more decent, teenager level of sleeping in.”
“And that's what you encourage? As a rock star dad?”
He grimaced. “I was never a rock star. I'll encourage them to go to business school. The arts will just seduce you and starve you. Until they kill you.”
“Sounds bleak,” I said, my voice coming out inappropriately chipper for some reason. “I don't recommend my line of work, either. I should have gone into flipping houses like your dad. Though I guess I sort of do. At least I flip them from haunted to non-haunted, which should be a part of any basic renovation.”
“Maybe we can team up,” he said. “I'll caulk the cracks in the walls and repair the roof. You can get the monsters out of the basement.”