Sucking in rapid and shallow breaths, Sam felt tears spring to her eyes and her hands trembled. Behind her, she saw the pick-up's brake lights. Without another thought, she put her foot to the floor. She knew it was a stupid thing to do, but something had triggered her fight or flight mechanism, and she had chosen flight--it was a humbling realization. So, too, was the realization that her hallucinations were continuing. That had to be what they were. She had kidded herself all along, claiming that it had been ghosts or spirits she had seen.
Insanity. Could anything be more terrifying than to no longer be able to tell what is real? A cluster of mailboxes marked the end of the dirt road that Sam had been looking for, and she was caught by surprise. Slamming on the brakes, she remembered the insulated pizza bag on the passenger seat an instant too late. It had somehow stayed in place during her spin, but slid forward out of her reach and slammed into the dash. After completing the turn, Sam pulled the pizza bag back onto the passenger seat.
The Camaro chattered over the ripples left in the dirt road by rainwater, and Sam had only a vague sensation of control. Her car shimmied along as if it was on ice, and she slid the car sideways when the narrow driveway she was looking for appeared. Sending a cloud of loose gravel into the air, she straightened out the car on the steep downhill driveway that gave her enough momentum to make it up the sandy uphill climb that led to the house. People who lived this far out generally liked to be left alone, and there was nothing welcoming about the place. The porch and downstairs were dark, and only a dull glow from an upstairs window gave any indication that someone was home. Sam left the car running and lights aimed at the side door.
When removing the pizza from the bag, she noticed that the box was heavier on one side than the other, so she held it at and angle and gave it a little shake. She felt the weight move back toward center. Walking toward the front door, she had an eerie feeling, like she was the idiot in a horror film. She could almost hear the people in the theater yelling, "Don't go in there!"
She didn't know what the place looked like in the daytime, but at night it looked like a haunted house. With those thoughts in her head, she heard growling in the darkness. Moving between her and her car, a dark silhouette that resembled a small horse blocked the light. Sam walked backward toward the house and caused an echoing racket when she backed into a pile of rusting sheet metal that sat alongside the walkway. The dog moved toward her, and Sam climbed the pile of metal, while yelling, "Hey! Get your dog! Hey!"
A moment later, the light beside the door came on, and Sam noted that it was about time. Anyone with the least bit of courtesy would have turned that light on when they ordered the pizza. And what about that dog, she asked herself. What kind of asshole leaves Cujo out to greet the pizza delivery person? None of the questions left her lips. The man that answered the door looked like an angry bear stuffed into a pair of overhauls. His bare chest was as big around as a barrel, and his beard looked like steel wool.
The rotweiller ran to the man's side, its cropped tail wiggling back and forth.
"She don't bite."
Without a great deal of relief, Sam climbed down slowly, trying to avoid the sharp edges. Unable to formulate a response, she just opened the pizza bag and pulled out the box.
"Twelve fifty."
The man handed her exact change, turned around, and after the rottweiler slid past him, closed the door.
Sam was walking back to her car when the door opened behind her and the dog charged back out, barking. "What the hell is this?" The man held the open pizza box. What was inside didn't really resemble a pizza; it was more like an inside-out calzone. "Gimme my money back. I ain't payin' for this."
* * *
Grease ran down the side of Sam's face as she tried to eat something that only vaguely resembled a piece of pizza, while driving a country road. She'd always wondered what Chicago style pizza would be like, and she figured this was pretty close, and it was too good for words. Heart's Magic Man came on the radio, and the music carried her along, helping her to feel a little better and forget the shadows that remained just out of sight. She could feel them watching her, but she ignored them. While licking the grease from her fingers, another figure appeared, this one alongside the road and, as Sam was pleased to see, very alive.
The young man turned and put his thumb out while shading his eyes from her high beams. She stepped on the high beam switch and hit the brake. The young man started running and was at the door by the time Sam had moved the rest of the pizza to the back seat.
"Thanks for stopping," he said, his voice had the timber of fresh pubescence. He was lanky, but he looked like he'd fill out eventually. He climbed in.
"Where you headed?"
"Just up the road a bit. A guy's having a party. There's supposed to be a keg. You going?"
One beer couldn't hurt.
"Turn right just before that little church. It's on the left."
No directions were necessary. The place was lit up; cars filled the yard and most of the horseshoe drive. Sam pulled in and shut off the car, which had been running a little hot. It dieseled for a moment, before finally slamming to a halt with a gunshot-like backfire.
Grabbing the pizza box, Sam followed the young man up to the back steps of the small house. The church across the grass was not much larger.
Most of the people inside were crowded around a kitchen table large enough for maybe four people. A game involving dice and full cups of beer was in full swing.
"Three man!" someone yelled, and Sam watched redneck Brian chug a beer. He looked a little green, but then he saw Sam and became distracted. After a long belch that drew applause, he said, "What up, ghost girl?"
"I brought a seriously messed up pizza. Mind if I grab a beer?" Sam put the pizza box down and people descended on it like locusts. Within minutes the box was empty, and those who spoke all agreed that pizza ghost bitch rocked.
"No one leaves until the keg floats," Brian said, "and up next is naked stair diving."
After grabbing a beer, Sam sat on Brian's lap. "So, you gonna show me how to play this game?"
"Fresh meat is three man!"
Chapter 4
Wondering why there was duct tape over her nipples, Sam groaned and reached for her aching head. As soon as she moved, she began to feel the rug burn. What had she been thinking? What had any of them been thinking?
How she had gotten home, Sam had no idea, but she was at least on her bed. There were no sheets or pillows, as those had been packed away, but she had woken up in worse places.
There remained the problem of the duct tape. It appeared to have no intention of coming off on its own, and Sam again wondered how she had managed to end up with industrial strength duct tape over her breasts. Thinking of it like a band-aid that must be removed, she gave it a quick yank. "Oh… Ow… Son of a bitch!"
Shells charged into the room a moment later, and she found Sam sitting on her mattress, topless and with one breast covered with shiny silver tape. "Dude. What the hell happened to you last night? Three guys carried you in here wrapped in a blanket at four-o'clock this morning. And what the hell is up with the duct tape?"
"Naked stair diving," Sam said. "There was a keg that refused to float."
Shells nodded with a look of understanding, while Sam pulled on a t-shirt. "Happens to me all the time. Oh, and I landed a little graphic design gig for a hundred and fifty bucks. How are you doing?"
"I took a twelve dollar loss on a lopsided pizza, but I got it back in beer. Aw, man, my head."
"Hudocks or Seagraves?"
"Seagraves. I need a cheesesteak. And it's been a while."
It was a short ride to Tillbury, and Sam pulled into the parking lot of Seagraves Sub Shop. Eddie and Carol worked behind a single, L-shaped counter; Eddie working freshly cut beef on the grill, and Carol wrapping up subs.
"Hey there, Sam," Eddie said when he turned and spotted her. "It's good to see you. You haven't been around for too long. What can I get you? C
ure for a hangover, perhaps?"
Sam just nodded.
"I'll take one, too."
"Sure thing. Coming right up."
"We were really sorry to hear about everything that's happened to you," Carol said, her voice soft and kind. "We've been worried about you."
"I'll land on my feet," Sam said, pushing her sunglasses back up to the bridge of her nose. "I always do."
"Two hangover cures," Eddie said, and he placed two long cylinders wrapped in paper on the top of the counter. "Ut oh."
Sam followed his gaze to look out the window into the parking lot where a LAC police car sat behind Sam's Camaro and Officer Winter waited, leaning against his car.
Carol handed Sam her change, and she grabbed their cheesesteaks. "Thanks. I'll see you soon."
"Good luck," Eddie said with a shake of his head. "Girl can't catch a break."
He may not have intended her to hear that last part, but the statement nearly brought a tear to her eye. For one brief instant she felt sorry for herself, but the sight of Officer Winter ignited her ire.
"Cure for a hangover?" Officer Winter asked.
Sam didn't answer.
"Did you know that you are often still drunk when you wake from an all night binge? I know where you were last night, and we saw them carry you into your house at 4:15 am. I could take you in right now and give you a breathalyzer."
"She didn't drive here," Shells blurted. "And I didn't drink anything last night."
"I see. And is this your car?"
"No, sir."
"And is your vehicle parked at Ms. Flock's residence?"
"Yes."
"So tell me, why did you drive Miss Flock's vehicle and not your own?" Officer Winter asked with a smile that made it clear that he expected to come out on the winning end of this conversation.
"Because her car is kickass!" Shells said. "Who wouldn't want to take it for a spin?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Are we free to go?" Shells asked.
Officer Winter said nothing for a long moment. "I suppose you are."
Sam handed Shells the keys, and Officer Winter glared at them.
"Sorry," Shells said once in the car. "I didn't want you to get a DUI."
"Thanks," Sam said. "You have to double clutch it to get it into gear, and then tach it up a bit so you don't stall it. The clutch is a little touchy-" Sam was cut off when Shells slammed the shifter into first. There was a grinding sound and Shells tached it up. The shifter slid into gear. Sam was thrown back into the seat and Shells took them out of the parking lot sideways, leaving a pair of black marks arching out of the parking lot.
It was only a short distance back to Sam's place, and Officer Winter tailed them. When Shells pulled into the grass, he followed. Rolling up beside them, he lowered his passenger window. "I'll be watching you. Both of you." Then he backed out and roared back toward Elsinboro.
Sam and Shells made their way inside, silent and knowing their cheesesteaks were getting cold. Not a word was spoken until well after the hangover cure had been administered.
"You need to make some more money, dude." Shells said.
"I know," Sam admitted.
"Maybe we should do some local investigations and try to make some money that way."
"So far, that route has only cost us money."
"Yeah. I know." Shells said.
"But it's a good idea. Maybe we could just get one of those little handheld night vision cameras; those were pretty cheap, right?"
"Yeah. I could get us one of those."
"And I've got an old tape recorder." Sam rooted through the disaster that was her belongings and came out with a tape recorder circa 1975; it may have once been white but it was now yellow and brown.
"Does that thing even work?"
"I think so."
"Seriously, dude. That would be some ghetto ghost hunting there. Can you even buy cassette tapes any more?" Shells asked.
"Yeah. They're right next to the incandescent bulbs and dodo bird cages."
"Ok. So let's say we go ghost hunting with a night vision camera and John Lennon's tape recorder, where are we gonna investigate? Seven Stars Inn?"
"No way."
"Why not?" Shells asked. "Everybody around here knows that story."
"Yeah, I know. If they don't keep a candle lit in the baby's room, they hear crying all night. I don't want my big discovery to be a baby crying because it needs a paranormal diaper change. I want something that I can communicate with. I want something that can give me answers."
"The Hancock House?"
"They'll never let us in there. That's a historic monument; though I agree that it probably is haunted."
"Fort Mott?"
"We could probably get in there again, but last time all you could hear was the rednecks drag racing."
"Yeah, but-" Shells stopped when Sam stood and smacked herself on the forehead, and then immediately seemed to seriously regret it.
"I have an idea," Sam said once she'd recovered. "We've gotta go see Morton."
* * *
A frame rested on a trailer with a tarp secured over it, an old gas pump lent to the charm with its patina of age, and the vintage signs completed the impression that entering the garage would somehow transport you back in time. That was how it felt to Sam, at least. Once inside, Sam saw a mostly restored Henry J that looked to be only hours from cruising down the roadway. Tools and parts adorned the shelves and walls and were interspersed with pictures of women with large breasts. Sam had never quite understood the attraction of girls holding tools, but it seemed to work every time. Whenever she was on a creeper working on her exhaust or changing the oil, a man would appear from nowhere. It wasn't such a bad thing.
Morton himself was probably best described as an old codger with a smile that made you feel like you were home, and an attitude that would keep an angry cat at bay. Sam had known him for most of her life, and memories of going to the drag races were some of her fondest. There was nothing quite like the raucous fun of getting the people in the stands to chant, "The other side sucks!" or "Show us your tits!" The latter was a favorite of the men, and Sam recalled that there were always some rather lovely ladies on hand who were more than happy to oblige. Ah, good times. Sam was pretty sure the one picture in his garage of a woman with small breasts was there just to make her feel better. It was perhaps the oddest compliment anyone had ever paid her, but she took it as the dirty old codger intended it. In the end, they were friends, and that was the best part.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked when Sam and Shells walked into his garage.
"We were in the neighborhood and just thought we'd stop by," Sam said with her most innocent look, and Morton coughed. "And I might have a couple little favors to ask of you."
"You finally gonna to fix that solenoid? The screwdriver trick is just supposed to get you to the shop so you can get it fixed. How long have you been starting her that way?"
"Too long," Sam admitted, "but that isn't actually the favor I was going to ask for. Didn't you just finish building a street rod for Bert Richmond?"
"Yeah. Son of a bitch still owes me money."
Sam smiled. "And wouldn't you say that you know exactly how fast that car can turn a quarter mile?"
"Yeah," Morton said, looking intrigued.
"And wouldn't you say there are parts in this garage right now that could make my Camaro sound worse but turn a quarter mile faster?"
"With the right driver," Morton said, his grin turning wicked. "So you wanna go out there with a sleeper and make a fool of Richmond and take his money?"
"Yup."
Morton laughed from his belly, and Sam flashed her best smile.
"I don't actually have any cash to put up though."
"So let me get this straight, you want me to put my stuff on your car and give you money so you can go humiliate someone who already owes me money?"
Sam just nodded.
"Your ass don't look that good, girl."
> After a quick shrug, Sam lifted her top and wiggled back and forth. Morton just stood there with his mouth hanging open for a minute.
"Yeah. Alright," he said. "But I have to ask, why's there duct tape over one of them?"
* * *
Salem County was not known for its nightlife; the locals had to find other ways of entertaining themselves, and as for the gear heads, drag racing was always a possibility, but you never really knew when or where races would occur. It wasn't like in Philly where people blocked off streets and ran semi-organized events; Salem County drag racing was spontaneous.
Shells ate organic, low-fat, low-sodium, gluten-free chips in the passenger seat.
"Want some?" she asked, her mouth still full.
"Uh, no thanks."
The night air had failed to cool down any, and Sam noticed the Camaro was running a little hot, not to mention sucking down the fuel. They had been riding around for two hours looking for the hotrodders, knowing there was a good chance Bert Richmond would be out showing off his new ride. They had been down by the dike, out to Alloway, and back through Muttontown Woods in Penton, a place said to be haunted by gypsies. Many times Sam had heard the tale of Muttontown woods, of how a pair of teenage lovers had broken down near the intersection, and how he had left her in the car alone while he went for help. The story said she spent a terrified night in the car, the sound of branches dragging across the roof scaring her, only to find in the morning that the gypsies had hung her boyfriend from the tree and it had been the toes of his shoes that had been dragging on the roof of the car.
Sam didn't believe the story, and yet she still felt that Muttontown Woods were creepy and quite possibly haunted. In a way, she was glad there were no hotrodders to be found there, and continued back into town. After cutting through the avenues, Sam rolled through town as quietly as she could, but the lopping of her exhaust echoed off the buildings that lined Main Street. Unoccupied buildings outnumbered those still occupied, and it was clear that this place had been hard hit and was still recovering. Many of the buildings had been recently restored, and there was a glimmer of hope amid the despair.
Lure Page 4