Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  "Why?" asked Ulrich, attempting to subdue his shuddering. "Why me?"

  "Because you were there."

  The investigator tried to grapple with the meaning behind this, but in his terrified state it was impossible to drag anything meaningful from it. "What do you mean, Vivian? We've only just met, you and I. I... I wasn't there when you were alive."

  A girlish giggle filled the room and the air grew ice cold.

  When the lights flashed on, Ulrich backed up hard against the wall, gasping. The TV sputtered loudly, a commercial blasting onto the screen as though the footage had been pent-up. Shivering, he tried once, twice to stand but couldn't find any feeling in his legs. The skin on his arms was spiked in goose flesh and his heart thumped against his eardrums like they were tom-toms.

  The specter was gone, but the mood in the room was every bit as dense as it had been only moments ago. Vivian had spoken to him, really spoken, but what was the meaning of her cryptic talk? Because you were there. What was that supposed to mean? Catching his breath, Ulrich searched in his memory for some prior dealing with the Poole family, with some run-in he might've had with Vivian in years past.

  Because you were there.

  The cat regained his legs before Ulrich did. Creeping out of the bedroom, body held close to the ground, Beardsley made his way back into the living room and sniffed the air. Confident now that the threat was passed, the cat stood up properly, stalking around the space like a prideful lion. Ulrich managed to claw his way up the wall and stagger over to the kitchen.

  Vivian is haunting you because she wants you to listen to her. And because “you were there”. But... what does she mean? You don't have anything to do with what happened to her. Why doesn't she understand that?

  The minutes faded into hours and Ulrich was no nearer an answer. He paced around his apartment, fidgeting whenever the volume on the television shifted, and pondered the night's events. Things never got any clearer, though. Feeling desperate for answers, he thought to reach out to anyone else who might know about spirits or who had known Vivian in life.

  The list was damned short, however.

  Madame Zarnubius, the psychic, didn't pick up. Her voicemail announced that she'd been called away suddenly on “international business”, and was in Baja for a week. She planned to resume consultations upon her return. The omnipresent clinking of Tecate bottles in the background seemed to lend this recording some credibility.

  Ulrich had spoken to Michael and Ligeia about their daughter, but there was one other person that'd been close to the situation who Ulrich had hitherto hesitated to tap for an interview. That was Michael's current wife, Meredith, who'd allegedly served as Vivian's nurse during her final days. There was considerable risk in arranging a meetup with Meredith behind Michael's back, though a secret chat was the only way to ensure he'd be getting nothing but Meredith's take. If he were to meet with the couple together then there was no telling how her account might bend due to her husband's influence.

  Deciding Meredith to be too risky a lead, he went for the last entry on his list. Back at the Prescott hotel, a number of squatters had claimed to see Vivian on a nightly basis. One, supposedly, had been been haunted by her after approaching her in the night. It was a long-shot, but it was entirely possible that this group of roughs could provide new insights into Vivian's habits. Fixing himself a carafe of fresh coffee and siphoning it into his thermos, Ulrich stepped into the bathroom to wash his face and steel himself.

  "You're right, Vivian. I am listening," he muttered. "But I still don't know what you want from me. Is it just a kindly ear you're searching for?" Throwing a bit of warm water on his face, Ulrich wiped himself down with a towel and then returned to the mirror, in whose corner he caught the briefest flash of a warped countenance. He stepped back, blinking hard, only to realize it wasn't there any longer. It'd been Vivian's face; there one minute and gone the next.

  Though the apartment was quiet as he set out, he couldn't help but hear Vivian's voice in the hiss of the heater.

  You'll listen. You'll always be listening. Because you were there.

  17

  He was getting sick and tired of the old hotel. The very look of the place made his skin crawl. It'd been during a previous visit there, when he'd been poking around, that he'd picked up his spiritual hanger-on. The place was cold and empty, but judging by the types who crowded into it for shelter during the winter months, it was still fit enough to live in. Ulrich braced himself as he rounded the building's side and found the fire escape. The squatter he'd met during his previous visit, who had refused to give a name, had shown him this way into the building. Taking the creaky metal steps one by one, he arrived at the second story door and gave it a hard shove.

  Still open.

  Edging his way into the building, he waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust and simply reveled in the shelter he'd gained from the steady winter wind outside. The hallway was lit hazily by the moon, giving him some twenty or so feet of visibility. Anything further than that was murky, to say the least.

  He wasn't sure how he might find the folks who were staying in this building. His last encounter with one had occurred very much by chance down in the main lobby. There were too many rooms to search; probably close to a hundred. He stood by, listening for traces of occupation, but only stillness reigned.

  And so he began down the hall, easing open a couple of doors as he went, looking for someone to talk to. His only hope was that the others would be as friendly and talkative as the last. He held his thermos tightly in one hand, so that he could use it as a bludgeon if need be, and kept on exploring the shadow-swollen recesses of the second floor.

  Except for the discarded furniture and the rare bit of more recent refuse, there were scarcely any signs that anyone had ever resided in the place. Had this floor, possibly because it was so close to the most reliable entrance, been eschewed by the squatters? Approaching a stairway, Ulrich decided to try out his voice. "Hello, is anyone there?" His words echoed off of the walls and struck him harshly.

  On this floor, at the very least, he was completely alone. There was no longer any doubt.

  Well, that wasn't quite accurate. Every step he took, every inch he explored, was shared by another. Though he couldn't see her just then, Vivian's influence was undeniable in the shadowed space. Her presence colored the entirety of the building in a pallor of tragedy, of perpetual suffering. Since that event ten years ago, the Prescott--a once prestigious establishment--had been demoted to a flophouse whose walls were painted in the hues of desperation.

  As he navigated the stairs to the third and then fourth stories with only rare, weak traces of light to go by besides the glow of his phone, Ulrich hoped to hear some sound of occupancy. Footsteps, voices raised in spirited conversation, the odd snore―any would have been welcome to break up the pall of silence. Instead, only the sounds of his own errand intruded upon the quiet, making his visit feel like a complete and utter waste. What if there was no one here? What would he do then? Who could he talk to?

  He continued rising, level-by-level. Now and then a food wrapper would catch his eye and give him a surge of hope, but following such things to their source always yielded nothing. The rooms from which such relics skittered in the draft were long-abandoned. Cursing his luck, Ulrich kept on, checking out the uppermost floors before finally starting up to the highest level. The roof. If the layer of frost on the top stairs was any indication, none had much ventured onto in recent days.

  The roof of the Prescott Hotel was accessible through a large metal door whose lock had long ago been knocked out of place. Ulrich shouldered his way past the thing and stepped out onto the moonlit stretch to have a look. Snow had accumulated in the nooks and crannies, and large swaths of ice existed where snow had melted and subsequently been re-frozen. Careful not to lose his balance, the investigator buried his hands in his pockets and paced out towards the edge of the building, where a number of large, black pipe-like structures jutted out
of the floor. To the back of him was a small, crumbling outcropping which had once been a utility elevator bank.

  This was where she'd done it. Ten years ago, Vivian had taken that elevator to the roof. She'd wheeled herself towards the edge of the building and, crawling out of her wheelchair, had thrust herself to the ground below. A shiver jumped up his spine just at the imagining. He hadn't even gotten to the edge yet, hadn't experienced the slightest hint of vertigo, but already he could feel his stomach dropping.

  On this night, the bitter cold and the nature of his visit notwithstanding, the roof of the Prescott was almost a peaceful place, picturesque in that way that all forgotten temples of civilization are when allowed to bask in the right light. He stood for some time looking across the crumbling skyline of downtown Toledo, to other buildings that had once been beautiful and vibrant in their day. He'd done this not so long ago from his room at Exeter House, not far from this very spot, though to take in the sights in the open air like this was far more exhilarating.

  From around the corner he heard a faint mechanical whine, as of metal grating on metal. Pacing towards the sound to investigate, Ulrich suddenly stopped in his tracks. From around the abandoned elevator bank, seemingly propelled by a gust of wind, came a rust-flecked wheelchair. The seat and backrest of black leather were cracked and worn by the elements, and it was no small miracle that its wheels could still turn. The rubber on them was completely deflated and they'd lost their perfectly spherical shape, making the chair bounce awkwardly as it moved.

  Vivian's wheelchair.

  The very sight of it made Ulrich want to turn around and never come back. It's not really there, he thought to himself. It couldn't be a real object. There was no way that such a thing could resist becoming a pile of rust over the years. More than that, after what had happened, it was impossible that Vivian's wheelchair would be left on the rooftop.

  The thing bumbled along, seemingly at random, until it took a sharp turn to the right. Then, as if guided by a firm hand, the thing began to roll slowly, with purpose, towards the edge. Ulrich stood in place, watching the chair until it came to a stop. The edge of the roof was dressed in a wall of bricks that extended up to Ulrich's waist. Even for someone without the use of their legs, surmounting it would not be at all difficult if one possessed the determination to do so. Placing one hand against the cold bricks, he looked down at the chair and gave it a weak kick with the inside of his foot. Then, despite his better judgement, he cast his gaze over the side of the building and took in the dizzying heights.

  What he saw stunned him, but not for the reasons he'd initially expected. Some ten stories above the ground made for heart-pounding scenery, but it was the figure whose blood-soaked, screaming form clawed its way across the ground and up the side of the building that most terrified him.

  The blood-darkened spot on the ground from whence this thing crawled formed a curious contrast to the icy night. Thin, flopping arms like white worms sought purchase on the side of the building, and began, by some malign power, to climb. With a pair of atrophied legs trailing behind and the raggedy collar of her grey sweater pulled nearly to bits, Vivian Poole loosed a cacophonous cry that was bone-chilling in its monstrousness. It was a noise borne up out of mashed lungs and jumbled ribs; the only sound which might be produced by a body that had plummeted ten stories to a bed of cold concrete below. It was a dying scream played in reverse, and amplified to such volume that there could be no doubt that he was hallucinating.

  Ulrich's hand grazed the edge of the brick facade, unable to turn away from the shrieking figure that now scaled the building's side. Brown hair was matted in a slurry of blood and ice to the apparition's back, and what could be seen of her face dragged a groan out from his depths. Scrubbed of features, hers was a visage populated only by two meaty sockets and the lacerated vestiges of a mouth, whose jaw had been knocked apart by the incredible impact that'd killed her. With each of her throaty cries the jaw fell wider, until finally it remained fixed to her skull solely by a few sinewy, frost-bitten threads.

  It's not real, he told himself. Come away from the roof. Leave this place. The cold is wreaking havoc on your brain and the ghost is taking this opportunity to mess with your head...

  He took a step back, only to feel an ice-cold hand close around his wrist.

  Startled, Ulrich found the wheelchair at his side to be occupied by a young, brown-haired girl whose face he recognized. Her eyes were red, cheeks stained in tears, but despite the lack of a photogenic smile he recognized her as Vivian Poole at once. This was what she'd looked like in life, a melancholy stand-in for the girl in the photo he'd been given. As Ulrich fought to step away from the roof's edge, he tried to make sense of the concurrent hallucinations. He could still hear the clapping of blood-soaked hands as they smacked against the building's exterior. Vivian was still climbing up to join him.

  And yet here she was, sobbing, in the wheelchair beside him.

  "W-what... what is this?" asked the investigator. "What are you... what are you doing here?"

  The girl in the chair cradled herself with her arms, shivered as though she could really feel the cold. This messed with his head more than anything, made her seem like a real, living person. She wasn't that; he knew it in his gut. This was some kind of waking nightmare, a memory loop that existed in this place where tragedy had taken place ten years ago. But still he was taken off guard, moved.

  With great care, Vivian reached out and touched the top of the bricks, pulling herself out of her wheelchair with a grunt. Slowly, she eased her body up onto the edge, her thin legs draped to one side and her chest heaving.

  "W-what are you doing?" asked Ulrich, taking a step towards her and extending a hand. "Don't do this. Don't jump. You... you mustn't relive this. Please, don't--"

  With a wistful smile, the pale girl wiped her tears. "They never listened. They never listened to me. They never cared."

  Ulrich nearly choked on his words as he went to reply. "B-but I'm listening. I'm here now, and I'm listening. Move past this. Don't jump, please."

  Just over the edge, the sound of searching palms, of the other Vivian's death rattles, grew even louder.

  Still weeping, Vivian shook her head. "No, it's too late for that. They didn't listen. And they never cared about me. Not in the least."

  Before Ulrich could offer anything in reply, the girl suddenly leaned to one side and let go of the building's edge. He reached out for her but touched nothing but cold, winter air. By the time he summoned the courage to look over the side, she'd already met the ground. Her descent had been impossibly fast, and already, from the pool of red on the pavement below, there was a stirring.

  The entire thing was happening again.

  Ulrich lost all feeling in his arms as he stared down at the groaning, bleeding mass that now crawled on its hands towards the building. This same horrific sequence would repeat all night if he let it. If he'd had the mind to stay and watch, he'd have seen Vivian materialize in that wheelchair a hundred times before sun-up, and would watch her jump to her death as many times, only to see her climb back to the starting point.

  He fell backward, landing hard against a patch of ice. He crawled across the roof towards the stairwell door, delirious with fright.

  But the girl in the wheelchair, who'd suddenly rematerialized, only shook her head as she watched him flee. "I don't care. I never wanted pity. I never wanted anyone to feel sorry for me. I just wanted them to listen." Eyes aglow with moonlit tears, Vivian lifted herself out of her wheelchair once again and cast herself off the top of the building, sending the hideous cycle into another repetition.

  Ulrich didn't stay around long enough to see how many times the spirit engaged in this terrifying loop. Instead, he burst through the door, fell down several stairs and threw up the coffee in his belly. His knees and calves ached where he'd taken the brunt of the impact, but the fear in him was such that he peeled himself off of the concrete stairs and descended with all the quickness he co
uld muster.

  That was the last time he'd ever visit the hotel. Nothing on Earth could bring him back to it, and he'd have rather died than watch the cycle on that rooftop repeat another time. To him, that endless loop of death and despair was the ultimate in suffering. It wasn't enough that Vivian had suffered in life; she would suffer endlessly in death, too. Though not the most devout man, had Ulrich been forced to describe Hell itself, his description would not have differed awfully from the scene he'd just taken in on the rooftop.

  When he was back on the second floor, he jumped down the fire escape and ran down the street until he was reunited with his car. In it, with all the doors locked, he pressed his forehead against the steering wheel and did his best not to give in to the panic attack that now threatened to overcome him.

  And yet, even in that moment, when his fear was without equal and he was consumed by a profound hopelessness, he understood that his night wasn't over.

  Not by a long shot.

  18

  The wait till morning was a brutal one. He'd decided, even before returning to his apartment and holing himself up in his bedroom, that he was going to put an end to things when the morning came around. At first light, he'd call up Michael and arrange a meeting. He couldn't evade his client any longer, and besides, he'd hit a dead-end. The vagrants he'd hoped to speak with hadn't been in the hotel, leaving him with no alternative.

  He'd been tasked with tracking down Vivian's ghost and figuring out why it was she'd committed suicide.

  Well, he'd succeeded in that.

  There was no good way for him to describe the things he'd seen in recent days, and there would be no sugar coating the news. Telling Michael that his daughter had killed herself because she detested her parents and their negligence might cause a violent stir, but there was no way around it. And anyway, facing an indignant client was still preferable to dealing any longer with the alternative.