Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella

by J. R. Rain

Sherbet grinned. “Sure it does. So what are we looking for?”

  “A storage room. Or a props rooms. We’re close to it, I think.”

  “Then what?”

  “We look for a mirror.”

  “A mirror?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I’m a freaky chick.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Then what?”

  “There should be an opening behind it.”

  “Thank God you didn’t say through it. Dealing with vampires is bad enough. I don’t think I can handle Harry Potter, too.” Sherbet took another step, then paused. “Hey, do that crazy thing you do with your mind.”

  “My mind?”

  “You know, one of those mental scouting jobs you do, or whatever you call it.”

  “‘Mental scouting job’ sounds good to me,” I said. “Give me a moment.”

  “I’ll give you two.”

  I closed my eyes, exhaled, and cast my thoughts out like a net. The net scattered throughout the theater, through rooms and offices, across the stage and theater seating, and even up into the lighting booth.

  “We’re alone up here,” I said, reporting back, opening my eyes. “Except for the ghosts.”

  “What ghosts?”

  “The ghosts that have been following us since we stepped foot in here.”

  “I didn’t need to know that.”

  Lots of old places have spirits hanging around them, and this theater, which was decades old, if not a century, was no exception. Still, there seemed to be a lot of spirit energy here, more than to be expected, energy which flitted past quickly, energy which appeared and disappeared next to us, energy which watched us from the shadows. Some of the energy fully manifested into lightly glowing human forms. These watched us from doorways and rafters, from behind curtains and in windows. I decided not to tell Sherbet about the entity standing next to him. For a tough guy, he sure got the willies over ghosts.

  “You said alone up here,” said Sherbet. “You think this creep works below ground?”

  “Would be my guess.”

  “And your radar whatchamacallit doesn’t pick up Mason?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Which means?”

  “We’re still probably too far from him.”

  “Or that the place is empty.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “Fine. C’mon.”

  We soon found ourselves somewhere backstage, where backdrops hung from flies and where trap doors were cleverly placed in the floor. Clothing racks filled with costumes lined both sides of the wall, and a catwalk ran along the upper levels. There were many, many ghosts moving back and forth along these metal walkways.

  Lots of death here.

  And, judging by the many gashes in their necks, lots of victims here, too. I kept this last assessment to myself. I suspected Sherbet was about to see for himself just what was going on here.

  We found a hallway leading off to one side of the stage, which we followed to the props room. The door was ajar.

  “This is it,” I said.

  Sherbet nodded and slipped inside first, holding the gun out in front of him even though we were alone in the theater. I think it made him feel manly. Not to mention, he was still a cop, and cops did these kinds of things.

  I paused at the doorway, taking in the room despite the darkness. The room was, of course, exactly as I had seen it in my mind days earlier. Props of all shapes and sizes, everything from dinner tables and jukeboxes to plastic trees and park benches. Like a small town all crammed into one room.

  I pointed to the far wall. “There.”

  Sherbet followed my finger, aiming his light, and illuminated a massive mirror that was apparently attached to the wall.

  “The mirror. Just like you said.”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’ve never been here before?”

  “Nope. At least, not physically.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “Welcome to my life.”

  He shook his head and I heard his thoughts, despite my best attempts to stay out of them. Rather clearly, Sherbet thought: I’m going insane.

  The scent of blood suddenly wafted over me, coming from the far wall—from behind the mirror, no doubt. My traitorous stomach growled instantly. So loudly that Sherbet turned and looked at me. I shrugged innocently.

  As we moved around a four-poster bed covered in cobwebs, Sherbet said, “I swear to God that if a guy in a hockey mask and a chainsaw starts singing about the music, I’m going to start shooting.”

  “You’re mixing, I think, like three movies together.”

  “Well, they’ve been warned.”

  We found ourselves at the big mirror. The smell of blood was most definitely coming from somewhere behind the mirror. I said as much to Sherbet, even as my stomach growled again.

  Sherbet looked at me, looked at the mirror, then looked at my stomach. He put two and two together and grimaced unconsciously. Finally, he said, “Help me with the mirror.”

  He holstered his gun and we each took one side of the mirror and lifted it off the hook. Once done, we set it to one side, and returned to the spot where the mirror had hung.

  There was, of course, a door there.

  A hidden door.

  Chapter Forty-two

  The scent of blood was nearly overwhelming.

  So much blood.

  Sherbet and I had the same thought simultaneously: to scan the room beyond. So I did so, and saw that it was empty of anything living. I reported my findings to Sherbet.

  He nodded and pointed at the doorknob. “Any chance this lock is broken as well?”

  I reached for the doorknob and a moment later dropped the twisted metal to the floor. “I would say a good chance.”

  He shook his head. “I’m just glad you’re on our side. C’mon.”

  He eased the door open, which promptly groaned loudly on rusted hinges. He flashed his light on the ancient, rusted hinges. He said, “My guess is there’s another way down here. Probably accessible from the alley.”

  “Would make it easier bringing bodies in and out.”

  Sherbet nodded grimly. He next swept his light around the small room. “Another storage room.”

  I was suddenly having difficulty focusing on the detective’s words. After all, the scent of blood was much stronger in here. Much, much stronger. And intoxicating.

  Doing my best to ignore it, I stepped in behind Sherbet and saw that the room was filled to overflowing with even more theater junk. Moldy props. Moldy clothing. Hats that were badly destroyed by rats or moths. Boxes and crates and old furniture. And the moment I stepped inside, my inner alarm began buzzing.

  “What’s that sound?” asked Sherbet, pausing, listening.

  “What sound?”

  “You can’t hear it? It’s a steady buzzing. Like electricity crackling.”

  Stunned that the detective could pick up on my own inner alarm, and stunned at the depth of our connection, I told him what he was hearing.

  “Thank God. Thought I was going crazy all over again. C’mon, let’s check this out, and be careful. It’s buzzing for a reason.”

  The air was alive with frenetic energy, which lit the way for me. Not so much for Sherbet. His flashlight would have to do. Tiny claws scrabbled in the far corner of the small room. A mouse or a rat.

  By all appearances this was just a forgotten storage room. A storage room hidden purposely by a massive mirror. If I had to guess, I would say the crap in here hadn’t seen the light of day—or the light of the stage—for over fifty years.

  Most important: it appeared to have no exit.

  We moved deeper into the room. Sherbet’s breathing filled the small space. Mine, not so much. The wooden floorboards groaned under the big detective’s weight. Me, not so much. The smell of blood was heady and distracting and reminding me all over again just what a monster I had become. Sherbet gave no indication of being able to smel
l the blood.

  The metallic scent wafted through the far wall of the room, that much was clear. I moved toward the wall, toward the smell. Once there, I reached out a hand and placed it on the cool wood paneling. With Sherbet easing up behind me, I closed my eyes and cast my thoughts outward again. This time my trawling consciousness returned images of a short corridor and wooden stairs that descended down. At the base of the stairs, I saw another door. I tried to push through that...but the images beyond were vague and distorted. Too far to see. I snapped back into my body.

  I reported my findings to Sherbet. He said something about me being handy to have around. I agreed enthusiastically. Next, we both felt around the wooden wall until we simultaneously found a seam. We kept feeling until we found a small notch in the wall. Sherbet stood back and I hooked a finger and pulled.

  The wall instantly opened, rumbling along tracks hidden in the ceiling and floor. Dust sifted down. Cold air met us. Darkness lay beyond.

  Darkness lit by supernatural light and infused with the scent of even more blood.

  So much blood.

  Stomach rumbling and hating myself, I led the way through into the passageway.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I counted seven ghosts.

  Some drifted along the dark corridor. Others simply appeared and disappeared, popping in and out of existence. Still others approached us, curious. Most were in their fuzzy energetic state and composed of tens of thousands of shimmering particles of light. Some spirits were brighter than others, and still others were more fully formed. Most, however, were just faint blobs of light drifting down the dark passageway.

  Sherbet said, “I keep seeing movement out of the corner of my eye.”

  “You’re catching sight of them, Detective.”

  “Them?”

  “Spirits.”

  “We’re still on that subject?”

  “They’re still here, Detective.”

  He aimed his flashlight down the long corridor. The light disappeared without hitting anything. A lesser man might have been scared shitless. Sherbet only said, “Again, I don’t think I needed to know that. Which way?”

  The tunnel led in both directions. I followed the scent of blood and pointed to the left.

  “To the left it is, then,” he said, and led the way, sweeping his light before him.

  The corridor was composed of dank wooden panels. I had no doubt that we were following something built a century or more ago, walled off and hidden, and used by only those with secrets to hide.

  As we walked along, I slid a hand along the rough paneled walls, risking splinters. I did this not for balance, but rather to receive psychic hits. I’d discovered that energy is stored in a location—in its walls, for instance. For me, all I had to do was touch such a wall to unlock a location’s memory. Weird stuff, I know, but it works.

  And what I was seeing now wasn’t pretty.

  Men and women being forcibly dragged along this very hallway. Kicking and screaming and fighting. Horrific scenes and sounds forever recorded—embedded—within these very walls.

  I shivered and, with a procession of ghosts trailing behind us, continued down the narrow corridor.

  * * *

  In the hallway before us, a partially materialized ghost—a fragment that looked barely humanoid—drifted toward me, unbeknownst to Sherbet.

  It swept through Sherbet, who was leading the way and shivered noticeably, and headed straight for me. As it did so, it took on a little more shape and soon I could see that it was a young woman. Or had been a young woman. Like the others, there was a massive gash along her neck.

  As I attempted to step around her—stepping through just seemed a little rude—she drifted to one side and blocked my path. She raised a hand. I tried stepping around her again and again she blocked my path.

  “Jesus, Sam. You dancing back there?” said Sherbet, turning and shining his flashlight over me. The light went straight through the girl and even caused some of her form to scatter like frightened fish.

  “I’m being blocked by a spirit.”

  “Of course you are. I should have realized.”

  The wound in the girl’s neck was ghastly. Faint but ghastly. She drifted before me, rising and falling on the supernatural currents.

  I said, “She’s warning us.”

  Sherbet was about to say something, then stopped himself. I was giving him a glimpse into my thoughts, allowing him to see what I was seeing, through my eyes. I heard him gasp a little. He backed into the wall behind him.

  As the old detective was working through his issues, I reached out a hand and touched the girl’s hand. A cold shiver rippled through me, followed by something akin to an electric jolt. I whispered to her, “We’ll be careful, I promise.”

  She was weeping now, into her other hand, and as I held her ethereal hand, which glowed in mine, I closed my eyes and wished very hard for her to leave this dark place, to leave and never return. When I opened them again, she was gone.

  “Jesus, Sam,” said Sherbet, holding his heart. “You’ve got to warn a guy before you pull a stunt like that. I damn near wet myself.”

  “Sorry,” I said absently. “Let’s go.”

  He led the way forward and soon we came upon the same wooden stairs I had seen in my vision.

  “I guess we go down,” said Sherbet.

  “Would be my guess,” I said.

  “And away we go,” he said, and led the way down.

  Chapter Forty-four

  At the bottom of the stairs there was another door.

  A light shone from underneath. More spirits were here. A lot more. I counted nine. Many were appearing and disappearing through the door. A few looked back at me.

  “This is it,” I said, whispering.

  “How do you know?” said Sherbet.

  “Trust me.”

  It was all I could do to control myself. Yes, I’ve had cravings in my life. Sugar cravings. Food cravings. When I was pregnant with Tammy, I had ice cravings.

  This...this was no craving.

  This was a hunger. A yearning. A need. I shielded my thoughts from Sherbet. No man should hear such thoughts, especially a man I liked and respected.

  So much blood, so much blood...

  So fresh, fresh, fresh...

  Truth was, I had never been so close to so much blood. So much fresh blood. So much fresh human blood.

  I heard Sherbet’s thoughts as clear as day. He was wondering why they would dump the bodies when the bodies could be disposed of down here. He had just decided that perhaps the killers enjoyed playing a cat-and-mouse game with the police when we both heard a noise from behind the door. The sound of a man grunting. Perhaps lifting something. Sherbet cocked his head, listening.

  And that’s when a girl screamed.

  Sherbet jumped backward, startled. I didn’t jump. I kicked. I lifted my sneaker and kicked in the door as hard as I could.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  The sight, although overwhelming, was not unexpected. Two human corpses hung upside down from the ceiling, suspended by ropes. Both were naked. Both had their throats cut open.

  Both had been completely drained of blood. The gashes in their necks had been cut all the way to the bone, nearly decapitating both men. They were heavily bearded. One had a lot of tattoos. Both were likely homeless men.

  Oh, sweet Jesus.

  My knees threatened to give. Hell, my whole world threatened to give. If I had needed to breathe, I would have been gasping. I probably would have fainted, too. Sherbet stumbled in behind me, making a strangled sound. But he kept it together.

  We both spotted the men with the girl at the same time.

  “Get the fuck down, motherfuckers,” said Sherbet.

  There were two of them—the same two I had seen creeping around in my backyard. One was holding a wicked-looking knife. They had begun to make a run for it, but thought better of it. The one guy dropped the knife and got dow
n.

  The girl was sitting in a chair and shivering violently. Shivering because she was completely naked. She was also maybe eighteen years and if I had to guess she was a runaway: bruises on her body, needle tracks along her inner arm. She was whimpering and rocking hysterically.

  So that’s how they did it. Prostitutes. Bums. Or those without family and homes. Anyone who wouldn’t be missed.

  From deeper in the room, I heard the sounds of running feet and someone cursing.

  “Get him, Sam,” said Sherbet, nodding toward the sounds. “Get that piece of shit.”

  Now I was moving, flashing quickly through the cold room, around the hanging corpses, around a corner, and down a short hallway—

  Where, at the far end, Robert Mason was opening a door.

  I picked up my speed. The walls swept by in a blur, and I slammed into the ex-soap opera actor so hard that I drove him through the partially open door and into the room beyond, tearing the door from its hinges. We landed in a heap, with me on top, and I didn’t stop punching Robert Mason and that beautiful face of his until I felt his cheekbones shatter.

  Chapter Forty-six

  It was late. Or early.

  I was sitting in the theater seats, in the middle row about halfway up, watching the spectacle unfold before me. Medical examiners poured in and out of the theater. Detectives interviewed theater workers.

  According to snatches of conversation I was hearing, many bodies had been dug up within an adjoining dirt tunnel.

  People came and went. Witnesses came and went. Reporters came and went. Covered bodies came and went.

  I sat in the row of seats alone, watching all of this unfold before me like a macabre play. A play just for me. Except there was no plot. No lead character. Just an endless procession of dead bodies.

  I had considered calling Kingsley. And I would, soon enough. Once I had processed what was going on around me. But I was missing something here. Something wasn’t gelling.

  Everything seemed so matter-of-fact. So seamless. No hysterics. And why was no one interviewing me? Other than Sherbet giving me a quick update, he mostly ignored me, too.