“Very nice. I should've known these weren’t mass-produced in a factory somewhere. The colors are nice and they have an intense scent,” he said, as if he knew anything about candles or candle-making. “You can be sure I’ll be back for more, once cold weather settles in.”
“Oh, candles are the perfect complement to a roaring fire.” She reached under the counter and pulled out a brown paper bag. “Maybe a glass of wine to enjoy while the winter storm rages outside.”
Ian handed her his credit card and said, “Maybe you should have been the writer. That’s an intense image.”
“Nonsense. There's more pleasure for me in reading a book than there could ever be in my writing one.” She slid his card through her machine and handed it back to him. “Curl up on your sofa with the fire going and candles lit. It’s addictive. Just sign this for me, please.”
“I’ll take your advice on the first cold night we get,” he said. “I got the books and the candles. Just need the weather.”
She took the receipt and handed Ian his copy. “Those cold nights will be starting soon. Look outside at the leaves on your way home; they’re already beginning to change color.”
Once again on the brick path, her voice carried her goodbye. He turned around and waved. When he got to the archway, he turned to look again, but the oak tree obscured the line of sight. It was almost like the experience never happened; it seemed somewhat too surreal for words, but in a positive way.
~ ~ ~
Back home, he put the books in the library room, or what would be the library once the shelves were built and installed, and then tried to decide where to set the pumpkin candles. It wasn’t freezing cold out, but chilly enough, since he hadn’t had the furnace and ductwork looked at yet. He didn’t trust building a fire in any of the fireplaces until the chimney guys came to check them out.
So he took the opportunity to light the candles and see if Belle was right when she promised they would make the house smell good and feel warm and cozy. Alone in the house, since the contractors didn’t work on the weekends, he felt like someone followed him close behind, as he walked from room to room checking out the progress on the house. The windows were in; the frames wrapped and painted.
Looking out the front room window, he gazed at the overgrown yard. Not quite dark yet, the setting sun still provided enough light to shine into the valley and light the yard. Next spring he’d get in gear and work like a dog whipping the landscape into shape. Well, he’d get in gear and hire somebody to come do it for him because he didn’t know the first thing about it. Only thing he knew was, he wanted a pond with one of those waterfalls that fed into the pond and made the fish happy.
Staring at the spot where he’d decided the pond would go, he about had a heart attack when he realized someone was looking through the window at him. A woman. He stepped back. There wasn’t anyone on the porch.
But the face was still reflected in the glass.
Not outside. In the glass.
And then his heart nearly stopped when he realized the woman wasn’t standing on the porch.
But had to be standing behind him.
He spun around, ready to ask whoever it was, what the hell they were doing in his house. Only there wasn’t anyone standing behind him. Turning back to the window, he searched for the face in the glass, finding nothing. Scouring the pane, he looked and looked for something, an imperfection; a buckle, striations, anything that may have given the illusion of a face. Squinting and moving so close his breath fogged the glass, he tried to find an explanation.
Only his fingerprints marred the slick surface.
If Scooby-Doo had taught him anything, it was not to freak out; the monsters were usually just assholes wearing masks anyway. Of course, it’s always important to bribe the dog with treats, to check out the potential danger.
He tried to chalk it up to his mind misinterpreting something, making a face out of just a couple specks of dust or the shadow of a bird or something. Yes, he could’ve bought that explanation. Except for one thing: he still felt like someone was standing so close behind him. So sure was he that someone was there, Ian expected to feel the person’s breath on his neck.
You’re freaking yourself out, so knock it the hell off. During times like this, he really missed Alex. She always stayed close to him. And he was never alone when she was there, either sitting beside him or curled up somewhere near. If he didn’t try to stop missing her, he’d sink into melancholia. She wouldn’t want him to be so damned depressed. No, she was always a happy girl, ready to play at the drop of a hat.
He convinced himself to let the candles work their promised magic and spread the warmth needed to make the house feel like a home on pumpkin-scented air.
As hard as he tried, he couldn’t shake the freaky feeling someone had followed him as he moved throughout the house. Every once in a while he thought he saw something, a fragment of something, out of the corner of his eye. Whatever it was lurked right on the edge of his peripheral vision, teasing him, taunting him, hunting him, and haunting him. No matter how quickly he turned his head, whatever it was danced out of his range of vision before he could get a good look at it.
The house was looking good, but there was still a damned bit of work to complete before winter set in. The furnace and fireplaces needed to be somewhere at the top of the list; he might find himself freezing to death during one of those spiteful storms that whipped up and blanketed the area in beautiful, but deadly layers of thick, heavy snow. He pictured himself curled up on the big, brown sofa enjoying a crackling fire, a bottle of wine, and a good book while listening to the wind whip around the house. He found he liked the idea a whole lot.
Ian decided to go upstairs and take a shower. Standing under the hot water for a while, would ease his tension, help him shake the sense he was being shadowed, and give him back a feeling of security.
As he stripped down, he caught sight of the stereo and decided to turn it on. The stereo held a Doro Pesch CD and the eerie, opening strains of “Love Me In Black” soon filled the air; he cranked the volume so he could hear it over the sound of the water and stepped into the tub, pulling the shower curtain closed behind him. He soaped himself up and sang along with the song about the pain of love.
When the shadow fell across the shower curtain, Ian threw the curtain aside, splashing water across the floor. Scanning the bathroom, he saw no one. Maybe having a spirit in the house was a gamble one took when living in an old house. He would learn to deal with a ghost if that was the case. What scared him the most, was that ghosts were not supposed to cast shadows, at least not in any of the research he’d done or on any of the shows he’d watched. If that was true, the only other explanation was somebody truly was in the house. Ian’s thoughts turned toward a human intruder. A person who realized the place had started getting fixed up, might assume there was good shit inside and attempt to steal stuff. Probably potentially sell it too. The only good thing was, nobody really knew he’d moved in; maybe whoever broke in wasn’t armed. Well, they wouldn’t have known he’d moved in until they’d discovered him naked and wet, vulnerable. He hoped it shocked the shit out of them and they immediately hauled ass out of his house.
He got out from under the spray of water and wrapped a towel around his waist. Dripping, he crept on tiptoes, like a demented fool afraid to make a sound and give away his presence. He went from room to room upstairs first, then made his way to the first floor. No open windows or doors; no sign of entry, forced or otherwise. He checked the basement door, only to find it closed and barred. Not a living soul save himself in the entire house. On one hand, that was comforting; on the other, what the hell did the shadow belong to if he was alone in the house? Not the most pleasant thought he’d ever had.
Ian moved on.
Going through the house a second time, solely to ram it into his head that he was alone, Ian double checked every window and door to be sure nothing was open and to reassure himself no one had broken into his house. Fin
ally, coming to the conclusion there had been no one other than himself in the house, he paused to literally scratch his head and wonder if he was going nuts or if his nerves were just having a laugh at his expense.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, his hand resting on the head of the carved raven perched atop the right newel post, he stared up, eyes searching for shadows moving inexplicably, a translucent manifestation. Floating head. Something.
He saw only the top of the stairs and the landing. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Upstairs the Doro CD still played. He hadn’t turned the water off either, in his haste to track down the intruder. Figuring his wet footprints and drips would eventually dry on their own, Ian went back up to enjoy the remainder of his shower. Back under the hot water, he tried to let it wash away any worry that may have remained from the scare. His heart calmed down; it no longer felt like somebody was using a sledge hammer, in an attempt to escape through his sternum.
With eyes closed and both palms flat against the wall, he bowed his head under the water. It sluiced down his face. He held his breath as long as he could, until his lungs burned in complaint, before moving out from under the torrent and wiping his eyes with his hands. Too late did he remember he had his next-to-last pair of contacts in. He cursed himself for nearly washing them down the drain. He groped for the wet towel as he turned off the shower. Stepping out of the tub, goose bumps broke out across his exposed flesh.
“Normal reaction,” he told himself. “Doesn’t mean there are invisible spirits staring at naked me.”
But if there were… “Get an eyeful,” he said as he toweled off his chest. “Hope you like what you see.”
Christ, those pumpkin candles were powerful. Not in a bad way, but he could smell them all the way upstairs. Ian silenced Doro’s singing, grabbed a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from his bedroom, and then hightailed it back downstairs to check on those candles. He wanted to make sure he hadn’t set the entire house on fire. He didn’t have much candle experience and sure as hell didn’t want to burn the damn house to the ground, especially after putting so much money and energy into the renovation.
Ian understood he was rambling on and on in his head; he was freaked out from the feeling that something was shadowing him and seeing as plain as day on the shower curtain. He figured if he kept his mind busy, he wouldn’t have time to dwell on the freaky feeling and thus, he wouldn’t taint the thrill of living in his dream house. If he occupied his mind, he wouldn’t feel so uneasy and want to pack up and get the hell out of Dodge.
He tread carefully as to make as little noise as possible. Still, the floor squeaked here and there.
The thought of inviting a priest or a shaman in to exorcise the house, just in case, made him laugh out loud. No way would he be able to keep a straight face while somebody went through the house spreading incense and spraying holy water. And he knew he’d probably choke himself half to death if he tried to smudge the house himself to get rid of any bad juju. Maybe he could substitute the sage with oregano or basil. From research for his writing, Ian remembered you had to get the smoke from the sage into every nook and cranny of the house in order to properly cleanse the place.
His luck, he’d miss some tiny spot and end up really pissing off the spirit. Then he’d really be up a creek without a paddle.
If indeed there was a ghost inhabiting the house. He reminded himself he was jumping the gun, putting the corpse before the hearse, as it were. There were a few odd events that could easily have plausible explanations—not necessarily of the supernatural or paranormal variety.
What he needed to do was dig up some information on the house’s past. Since there was literally nothing he could find on the Internet about the property, his best option was to make a return trip to the courthouse and see what they had on file. There simply had to be, at the very minimum, a chain of ownership, and he could then try tracking down information on the previous owners. Find out about the house that way. Maybe Mr. Kane, who had been so helpful when he went in to ask about the house in the first place, could shed some light on the house’s past. Couldn’t hurt to ask. But that would have to wait until the court house was open. All Ian wanted to do at the moment was walk out on the back porch and have a relaxing smoke.
He made a mental note to give his friend Toby a call and attempt to coerce him into coming for a visit. Maybe he’d take a video with his cell phone and send it to Toby. That would pique Toby’s interest.
Musical notes, almost whimsical, floated on the air and Ian wondered where they came from. Very faint, like an afterthought, the piano music drifted up the stairs. Ian walked to the top of the steps and stood. Yes, the source of the music was definitely downstairs.
“Go into the light,” he whispered, willing it to happen with all his might. “Find the light and go into it.” He wanted to scream it as loud as he could.
The music stopped, as if whoever was playing had heard him. Silence flooded the house and overtook Ian and he felt like he was drowning in it.
From nowhere she came at him, arms outstretched, hands curled into claws. Her hair billowed around her head like she was underwater and insanity bled from her eyes. Mouth an open chasm, as if she silently screamed. The hot scent of rot seethed in the air. Ian dropped to the ground, his eyes frozen on the spectacle of her, this feral specter.
And she was gone as quickly as she had appeared. Ian rose to his knees and rested a hand over his heart, feeling the rapid thumping in his chest. She'd scared the breath out of him and now he inhaled raggedly.
Drops of water, feeling like shards of ice, dripped from his hair to slide down his chest and back.
That's how fast it had all occurred, he noted. One moment I'm stepping out of the shower and starting to towel off; the next I'm kneeling on the floor after being scared half to death by what appeared to be a demented or damned spirit.
Sinister wasn't the word for the experience.
Eleven
Cramps woke him.
Deep down in his abdomen, the pain writhed and tightened, and then radiated throughout his entire body. Sweat ran into his eyes and burned like a bitch when he rolled from his side onto his back. He tried to rub it away with the heels of his hands but that only made it feel worse, hurt more.
He belched and tasted sour vomit at the back of his throat.
The sheets and his skin dripped, soaked with sweat, and a stench hung in the bedroom, foul-smelling like rotten sewage. A migraine pounded, making little pricks of light dance in the darkness when he opened his eyes. His stomach surged; he forced himself to sit up so he wouldn’t choke to death if he puked.
Rumbles started in his stomach and worked their way to his bowels. The cramps worsened; jagged flashes of pain slashed his intestines. Gas escaped him with a rip and he realized what had caused the foul stench in the room.
Feeling another twist start, he squeezed his eyes shut. One hand on his stomach, he felt the storm inside him rage. Bile rose in his throat, that sickening acid taste assaulting his tongue. The lava erupted; he threw up in his lap, splattering the bed and his legs with the sour contents of his stomach. Puke spilled onto the floor as he got off the bed, and he almost slipped and fell in the mess.
He doubled over in agony as another wave hit him; he hoped he’d make it to the bathroom before his bowels let loose.
Progress was painful but he moved as quickly as he could, and he finally made it. Sitting on the toilet, he closed his eyes against the dizziness. He couldn’t hold his bowels any longer and hot liquid spewed from him. A hellish aroma swirled up around him; his gorge rose and he fought against puking again. The seemingly never-ending river of shit splattered and splashed into the toilet bowl.
He sat with his head in his hands and waited for it to end. Just when he thought his bowels were finally empty, they loosed yet another torrent. Stomach seizing, he grunted as hot pain flared. If he was the praying kind, he’d pray no blood gushed from his dehydrating body.
I’m dying
.
Pressure inside intensified; he felt it grow and the thought crossed his mind that his organs were about to rupture. Agony stabbed through his stomach, erupting in both his chest and his intestines. He couldn't be getting sick. What the hell could he have possibly eaten to cause this much agony? It didn't feel like food poisoning.
Must be what labor’s like. He nearly cried out in agony. Giving birth, but to what?
His intestines seized. A crescendo of pain made him cry out. Something squeezed out of him and plunked into the toilet, making a splash as it landed.
The pressure and pain subsided. He immediately felt better. Even the migraine had vanished.
“Thank the gods,” he said and reached for the toilet paper.
He wiped. As he tossed the used paper into the toilet, he looked down into the bowl.
Worms.
Amidst the splattered fecal matter, there was a bundle of long, translucent worms. Writhing and crawling, separating from the mass bobbing in the dirty water.
“What the fuck?” He hit the switch to turn on the wall lights and peered back into the toilet. Not a figment of his imagination; the worms were still there. “Holy Christ.” Ian felt sick again and puked slime into the toilet, followed by a dry heave.
They looked like thin pasta noodles wriggling in the water. A solid mass of worms had come out of him. The worms slithering up out of the water and over the rim of the toilet bowl had to be seven, eight inches long.
He reached out and slammed the lid.
And then a nasty thought occurred to him: If the worms had come out of him, were there any more still up inside him?
Bile rose in his throat; he tasted the acidic tang on his tongue. Wiping frantically, he saw no evidence of any worms hanging out of him.
Worms. That’s what was twisting and crawling around in him. How in the hell did he get worms?
His thoughts spiraled, plummeting to dread and disgust. Sweat, sour and hot, dripped off him.
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