The Nightmare Room (The Messy Man Series Book 1)

by Chris Sorensen

  “Yes.”

  “Open the file I attached.”

  Had the sky grown darker? Was that even possible?

  “Mr. Larson?”

  “I’m a bit busy staying on the road, but…sure, I’m opening it.”

  The attached file was an mp3. He thought he might lose Ellen if he opened the file, but apparently phones had come a long way.

  “Are you playing it?”

  “I am, Ellen, now shut up so I can hear it.” He hadn’t meant to be so brusque, but the woman was getting on his nerves.

  The recording began normally enough.

  This is Ellen Marx, I’m speaking with Peter Larson. The following interview is copyright Ellen Marx and Apparition Press…

  “Jump to 9:08,” Ellen insisted.

  Peter flipped on the defroster. It was getting hard to see the road ahead.

  “Hold on.” Peter fumbled with the phone and managed to get somewhat close. 8:55. Ellen’s voice popped up.

  …mentioned that you were renting this house, is that correct?

  It is.

  And neither you nor your wife have any previous connection to this residence?

  None.

  How long have you been staying at this house?

  “Yes, Ellen. I remember what I said.”

  “Give it a second.”

  A rumbling sound, like the warning growl of a guard dog, came from the phone. And the strange thing about it was that it seemed like it didn’t come only from the phone. It felt like it set off vibrations all around him. He stopped the recording.

  “What is that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Jesus, do you have a guess?”

  “I do, but you’re not going to like it.” Spit it out already! “Try me.”

  Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The air, which had been downright frigid a moment ago, had become hot and humid.

  “I don’t think you have a pure haunting scenario on your hands, Mr. Larson. I think something’s latched onto you.”

  The heat was oppressive.

  “What’s latched? What are you talking about?”

  “Something has…”

  Her voice turned into a shrill whistle that hurt his ears.

  “…like a spiritual lamprey, like a…”

  Skree-ee!

  The car lurched as he ran over a branch in the middle of the road. He felt it catch in the rear wheel well, could hear the leaves flapping against the tire.

  The recording started up again.

  Describe this grey man to me again…

  GROWL.

  “Mr. Larson? Are you still there?”

  Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging them.

  “I feel it’s my duty to warn you…”

  Skree-ee-ee!

  Peter grabbed his phone and threw it into the back seat where Ellen continued to talk.

  I can’t see shit.

  He rubbed at the windshield with his arm and only managed to erase a small window in the fogged glass.

  A truck roared past, and the spray it kicked up was tremendous.

  I’ve got to pull off at the next exit.

  The pain in his stomach grew sharply more acute. He coughed, the taste of bile filling his mouth.

  I’m going to lose my lunch.

  “Don’t you get sick in this car!”

  Peter felt the world drop out from under him. He turned his head slowly to his right. Myrna Larson was sitting in the passenger seat just inches away.

  The smell of her rot was appalling.

  “I paid good money for that meal. You’re insulting me, boy. You’re insulting me!”

  The woman spat her venom through yellowed and missing teeth. Her skin was blue, and her face hung limp. Her gnarled hands flapped about in her lap like injured birds, and suddenly she was a bird, her head transformed into that of a hideous, black crow with a gaping beak.

  Skree! Skree-ee!

  The dead woman with the bird’s head snapped at him, and Peter swerved to the shoulder, skidding as he braked.

  Skree!

  The hooked beak bit at his face, drawing blood. His mother’s arms became wings, which swatted and slapped him in their feathered fury. He heard bones snap as she beat him down.

  Skree!

  And then, she was gone.

  “Mr. Larson?”

  Peter looked at the dashboard. His hazards were on. The car was in park.

  “What’s going on?” Ellen asked from the back seat. “Hello?”

  Peter turned off the hazard lights and threw the car into drive.

  “Are you still there?”

  To tell you the truth, I don’t know anymore.

  As Peter plucked the remains of the branch from the wheel well, parked beneath the shelter of a truck stop canopy, he saw that the woman fueling up her SUV next to him was staring.

  “You should put some antiseptic on that,” she said, pointing to the wound on his face.

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Images of his mother, his bird mother, flashed in his head. Dead eyes and hungry beak.

  “What happened?”

  Peter pulled back from the fog. “Huh?”

  “To your face?” The woman seemed more concerned than curious, so Peter told her.

  “I got pecked by a bird.”

  Pecked.

  The word struck him as funny, and he stifled a laugh.

  “They carry diseases, you know. That avian flu.”

  Peter Piper the pickled pepper picker picked a peck-peck-peck…

  He giggled aloud this time. The woman was not amused. She quickly topped off her tank and got back into her SUV.

  His phone rang. Ellen again. He’d told her he would call her back as soon as he got off the road. The gal was impatient.

  “It’s an entity, and that’s outside of my area of expertise.”

  “Mine too, Ms. Marx.”

  “Are you being sarcastic? I don’t understand sarcasm.”

  Peter steered her back on track. “An entity, you said?”

  “Yes. Not a spirit; not a ghost. Ghosts live in loops. Like a song that plays over and over again. And that song is a recording of something that’s been. That’s haunting. This is different. This frankly scares me a lot.”

  The sky pulsed with lightning. “So, do I just throw out everything you told me to try—”

  “No! The sonics, the prayers—those are good things. They might help confuse it. Confused is good. But they aren’t going to solve your problem.”

  Peter switched ears. The gouge in his face was starting to hurt.

  “I’m going to have to do some research. I’ll miss tai chi tonight, but that’s okay. Sometimes we have to make adjustments. It doesn’t mean that everything gets thrown out of whack.” This last bit was by rote as if she were parroting someone else’s words. “We’ll talk again soon.” Once again, she was gone without fanfare.

  The phone rang as he pulled away from the truck stop. Hannah. He let her call go to voicemail.

  * * *

  “At the sound of the tone, please leave your message,” chirped the automated voicemail.

  “Hey, all of downtown just lost power,” Hannah said, lighting another candle. “I may need you to pick me up sooner than later. I’ll buzz you back after the owner figures out what’s what. Okay?”

  The crowd had dwindled to two tables of locals, the college students having departed soon after the lights had. Riggs kept them occupied with jokes and free chips.

  Pat Porter, the Blind Rock’s owner, came in through the back door, a cane in one hand, a heavy-duty flashlight in the other.

  “What’s the good news, Pat?” Riggs called.

  “That I get to fork out a couple thousand bucks on a new generator,” the old man said.

  The two tables responded by asking for their bill. Riggs tried to cajole them into staying, but the matriarch of the group said, “I got cold
beer back home. And power.”

  Hannah took a towel over to where Pat stood wiping the rain from his eyes.

  “Thanks, darlin’. You’re the new gal, right? Peter Larson’s wife.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I knew that father of his. Bill. Did me a kindness or two back in the day. I heard about Myrna. That’s tough.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The old fellow hunched his shoulders. “I know I should go out and see the old buzzard, but I’m not so sure I could take it. Sometimes it’s best to remember folks like they were.” He clapped a hand on Hannah’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “When you see him, tell him Pat Porter says hey.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Porter.”

  The last of the patrons exited the front.

  “Shuttin’ it down, chief?” Riggs asked.

  “Damn straight. Hold on a sec, Riggs.” The man pulled a stack of laminated cards from his pocket. “Here are your passes for the Fall Festival. Make sure you give one to our beer distributor too.”

  “Thanks, boss. Will do.”

  “I’d like to hear more about your research sometime, Mr. Porter,” Hannah said, reaching for her phone. “Riggs told me how you came up with the name for this place.”

  “Sometimes when you go digging you find some pretty horrible stuff. Why don’t you two go ahead? I’ll lock up.”

  Hannah dialed Peter. After a couple of rings, she gave up.

  “Riggs,” she said. “Think you could give me a ride?”

  * * *

  The rain pooled in puddles on the gravel drive up to the house. Lightning danced amongst the clouds.

  “That’ll be thirty-two dollars,” Riggs said as he pulled the Jeep alongside the front door. “But I’m inclined to give you the friends and family discount.”

  The house was dark, and the Prius was nowhere to be seen.

  “That’s awfully kind of you,” said Hannah.

  Riggs leaned in close. “I’ll settle for a buck fifty and a kiss.”

  Before Hannah knew what was happening, Riggs pressed his lips to hers. His hand went to her shoulder, drawing her in. The scent of patchouli was overwhelming.

  Hannah shoved him against the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I thought—”

  “What the hell?”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  Now it was Hannah who leaned in. She jabbed a finger into his chest, hard enough that it made him wince.

  “Not going to happen, Riggs.”

  “I get it.”

  She jabbed again.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes! Believe me. I get it.”

  Hannah withdrew. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Riggs couldn’t look her in the eye. “I’ve been so lonely, and then you came along and, Jeez, the way you danced on the bar,” he blathered. “I thought we were getting on real well, like a real team.”

  “We were. We are. But don’t ruin it.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m married, Riggs.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. If you need to quit—”

  “I’m not quitting. I like my job. But you’ve got to shut this down right now, understand?”

  “I got it.”

  “Good.”

  They sat for a moment in silence, save for the tapping of Riggs’ fingers on the steering wheel.

  “You gotta admit,” Riggs finally said, breaking the mood. “It was a pretty balls out move.”

  “Yeah. You couldn’t have fucked up with more gusto if you tried.”

  The two broke into uncontrollable peals of laughter.

  “I’m still mad at you,” Hannah said between snorts. “You cannot pull that shit again.”

  “Aye aye, cap’n,” Riggs said, offering her his best hangdog look. “You…you’re not going to tell Peter, are you?”

  Hannah looked back at the dark house. There was a light coming from the basement window well. No power outage here.

  “No.”

  She opened the door.

  “You going to be okay? I could wait, if you want me to,” Riggs offered. She could tell he was eager to scram.

  “I’ll be fine. Go home and take a cold shower, boss.”

  Riggs gave her a little salute.

  Hannah turned and walked briskly up the cracked sidewalk. Thunder echoed across the plains as she drew her key from her purse and unlocked the front door.

  Rain dripped from Hannah’s hair as she stood in the foyer. She knew Peter wasn’t here, but still, she called his name. No answer.

  After kicking off her boots, she hung her jacket up on the coat tree Peter had found in the second upstairs bedroom—the smaller of the two. It had been a child’s room, once upon a time; she was sure of it. There was no substantial evidence to back this up, but there were clues that only a parent would notice. The notches cut in the windowsill by a penknife; the pinholes in the wallpaper from posters tacked up, taken down, tacked up again.

  Not a girl’s room. A boy’s room.

  It was now the depository for all things Hannah. Her grandfather’s record albums, boxes of cookbooks and the large wardrobe box containing the dresses that seemed so out of place here in Maple City.

  She walked to the kitchen to make some coffee and then remembered—no pot. She’d dropped it when Peter grabbed her arm. She’d never seen him like that before. Crazed like that. Even in Michael’s darkest days, Peter kept a steady hand on the wheel. But not that night. That night he was jackknifing all over the road.

  Hannah opted for mint tea instead. The kettle had just started boiling when she thought she heard someone mumble just outside the room.

  “Peter?”

  She listened, but the only sound she heard was the kettle’s gentle whistle.

  “You left me high and dry, you know,” she scolded. “Your phone better be broken, mister.”

  She poured hot water over the teabag; the scent of mint hit her nose.

  “Peter?”

  She turned off the stovetop and stepped into the hallway, the still steaming kettle gripped in her hand. If someone was there—and if that someone wasn’t Peter—they were going to get a faceful of boiling water.

  What if it’s Riggs?

  She tossed the idea aside. Riggs might be a horndog, but he wasn’t stupid. Or dangerous.

  “Is someone there?”

  A door slammed, and Hannah dropped the kettle. Hot water splashed across a stockinged foot.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She stripped off the wet sock and tossed it aside. The boiling water had already done its damage; a large, red oval welt was already forming on the top of her foot.

  Hannah slipped off her other sock.

  Determined not to let her nerves get the best of her, she marched toward the back of the house and quickly tested the door. Locked.

  Did I lock the front?

  She was about to check when she noticed that the basement door was standing wide open. And a light glowed from below.

  Her first instinct was to dowse the light, shut the door and retire to the comfort and safety of the upstairs bedroom. Peter would return eventually—of that she had no doubt. They had both moved on so quickly after his mother’s funeral, and even though he’d had a strained relationship with the woman, he couldn’t be faulted for being off his game. Well, not completely. Moodiness was one thing—going AWOL was another.

  She walked to the door, placed her hand on it and heard a sigh. Not the wind; not the house settling.

  A child’s sigh.

  Instinct coaxed her forward, and soon she found herself halfway down the stairs. The wooden steps were cold beneath her bare feet. And as she made the conscious decision to continue downward, she felt a familiar ache rise—a combination of fear and comfort in coming when called. What would be behind the cry? A bad dream? A stomachache? An allergic reaction to treatment?

  Michael had had all three. One night, he’d called out to her in a pa
nic, screaming that the bed was on fire. The mercury in the thermometer said he had a fever of one-hundred and four degrees. A frantic cab ride later, the doctors were pumping him full of medicine and pushing fluids.

  Peter had been quiet that trip. As if he knew what was coming. Two weeks later, they were picking out the outfit their son would be buried in.

  She reached the bottom step and dared not go farther. Peter had yet to do a thorough cleaning, and she could imagine a minefield of rocks and rusted nails waiting to do her in.

  Hannah looked to the left, into the depths of the basement and pulled back. But what at first glance had been a hulking figure emerging from the darkness proved to be nothing more than a stack of cardboard boxes.

  She checked herself, glad that she hadn’t screamed. But as she watched, the topmost box slid from its perch atop the cardboard tower and hit the floor in an explosion of papers.

  All her senses shot to high alert.

  Dozens of manila folders now lay spread across the floor; their contents fanned out like cards—like the darkness was offering up a magic trick.

  Pick a card, any card.

  Hannah stepped down. The cement was cold. Undeterred, she picked her way toward the spray of papers, and, kneeling, picked up a large, manila envelope and peeked inside. Receipts for car air fresheners.

  She picked up a folder. It contained a legal pad covered in Peter’s father’s handwriting—questions about the possible purchase of a mini-golf course.

  Hannah had just picked up a folder labeled From the Law Offices of Moots and Perrin when she heard a metal clank echo from upstairs. The kettle she’d left lying in the hallway—someone had just kicked it.

  “Peter?”

  The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Hannah heard the weighty creak of a step.

  * * *

  Peter urged the complaining Prius on, its engine gasping like an overworked horse. The Blind Rock had been dark, and he hadn’t dared listen to Hannah’s messages.

  His face hurt like a bitch. He’d only glanced at the wound in the rearview mirror once, but that was enough to know that he’d have a scar where the black, glistening hole lay. It hadn’t bled—not much. It was as if the gash had been cauterized.

  Keeping his mind on his wound rather than on what had caused it had been his modus operandi during the sluggish trip home, but now that the house was close, his thoughts turned to the thing. But even now, his recollection of the event was fading. Was it his mother? A bird? Or something in between? The memory seemed to have wings of its own and was quickly escaping, leaving him with a blur of fear and an ache in his jaw.