Onyx Webb 9

by Diandra Archer

  Besides, it’s not like he was alone in his use of fake names. People used different names to hide all the time—especially celebrities.

  Elton John’s real name was Reginald Kenneth Dwight. Jennifer Aniston was born Jennifer Linn Anastassakis. And Michael Caine, one of Stan Lee’s favorite actors, was really Maurice Joseph Micklewhite.

  And then there were the various aliases celebrities used to make restaurant and hotel reservations. Tom Hanks liked using Johnny Madrid. Kid Rock used the name of Batman’s sidekick, Dick Greyson. George Clooney used Arnold Schwarzenegger, who Stan Lee thought would be a good candidate for an alias himself. And Marilyn Monroe—who was born Norma Jeane Mortenson—used Zelda Zonk.

  And then there was Kara—nose-up-in-the-air, I’m-so-much-smarter-than-you-are, fictional-cartoon-star Kara. Even she used an alias.

  Anyone who read comic books knew that Kara, whose full name was Kara Zor-El, a.k.a. Supergirl—last survivor of Argo City after the explosion of the planet Krypton—had adopted a secret identity.

  Linda Lee Danvers.

  Fake people pretending to be other people—using names that weren’t really theirs—for no other reason than to hide, Stan Lee thought. How was what he’d done any different?

  But then there was the Southern Gentleman, the performer in the white suit who had worked so hard to fit in with society. Who garnered respect and applause from people far richer than he could ever hope to be. People who he made laugh with his wry wit and clever words.

  Not being the Southern Gentleman was…

  Crushing.

  Stan Lee went to a dresser, opened the top drawer, and found a bra. He stuffed it with socks and put it on. Then he went to the closet and found a lavender sweater he’d purchased for 70 percent off at JCPenney during their annual spring sale and pulled it on.

  Now he needed a skirt.

  Stan Lee found two skirts in the closet and pulled them out. One was black. The other was white, with a tone-on-tone houndstooth pattern woven into the fabric. He held them both up and looked in the mirror.

  “Go with the black,” Kara said from the doorway. “No one wears white after Labor Day, especially in the middle of a blizzard. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Stan Lee tossed the black skirt on the floor and pulled the white skirt on.

  “You’re an idiot,” Kara said. “And a bad dresser.”

  “You said it yourself, Linda,” Stan Lee said. “White will stick out like a sore thumb. The only thing anyone will remember if they’re questioned will be the skirt, not my face.”

  Kara shrugged. It made sense somehow. “Grab a coat, Stanton. It’s cold out.”

  Stan Lee grabbed as many things as he could carry and opened the front door of the house—and then he remembered.

  The van was in Charleston.

  “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” Stan Lee said. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” What in the hell was he going to do? He couldn’t call a cab. He had too much stuff to bring. Not to mention the glass jar with Juniper’s legs. Excuse me, would you mind putting these legs in the trunk? I’m a good tipper.

  Damn it.

  “You know what you’ve got to do, right?” Kara asked from her position sitting on the glass jar filled with formaldehyde. “You’ve got to go back and steal a car.”

  “Go back to the mansion? Are you insane?”

  “Think it through, Stan,” Kara said. “What other option do you have?”

  2:14 A.M. EST

  IN THE AMBULANCE

  DECLAN GRIMACED, HIS face etched in pain.

  “Can’t we go any faster?” Robyn asked.

  “We’re less than two minutes out,” the ambulance driver said over his shoulder. “I’m not going to get this close only to run off the road now.”

  Declan leaned forward and grabbed Tommy’s arm and pulled him closer to him. “There’s something I haven’t told you too.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Tommy said. “You’re dying.”

  “No,” Robyn said. “He’s going to be okay.”

  “No, Robyn, he’s right. I’m dying,” Declan said.

  Tommy didn’t want to admit it, but he had sensed it all along. The stab wound was bad but survivable. But he was also ill and would be dying soon regardless.

  “I could have fought, but not for long,” Declan said. “I don’t want to put the people I love through that. I don’t want Bruce and Koda’s final memories to be of me bedridden—a bag of bones, unable to eat or drink on his own, soiling himself—before someone from county came to carry what was left of me out to the curb.”

  Declan turned his gaze to Tommy. “I’d rather get it over with—for everyone’s sake. You understand, don’t you, Tom?”

  Tommy knew what was coming next. It wouldn’t be the first time a dying person had asked to be taken.

  “You mean now?”

  Declan nodded.

  “You sure about this?”

  Declan nodded again.

  Tommy nodded back.

  Declan reached out and took Robyn’s hand in his. “You were always the one. You know that now, right?”

  Robyn nodded, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

  “There’s a cassette tape in my coat pocket,” Declan said. “Make sure Bruce and Koda get it. Everything they need to know is on it.”

  Robyn nodded. “I will.”

  Declan released Robyn’s hand and looked over at Tommy. “They say when you pass over your family is there waiting for you in the light,” Declan said. “Were your parents waiting for you?”

  Tommy shook his head. “No. Doesn’t mean yours won’t be.”

  Declan nodded. “It would be nice, though. Every orphan’s dream to know.”

  Tommy nodded.

  “Should I be scared?” Declan asked.

  “Scared? You serious, a man like you?”

  Declan reached out his hand, and Tommy grabbed it and held it tight. “Remember what we used to say to each other back at The Open Arms?”

  “Best friends to the end,” Declan said.

  Tommy nodded and smiled and then leaned forward to deliver a final kiss of eternal friendship.

  2:22 A.M. EST

  IN THE AMBULANCE AT THE HOSPITAL

  THE AMBULANCE DRIVER steered the vehicle into the emergency bay at Bon Secours St. Francis Hospital. “We’re here. How’s he doing back there?”

  Tommy ignored the question and took Robyn by the shoulders. “They’re gonna have a lot of questions when you get to the hospital,” Tommy said. “Robyn, you listening?”

  Robyn nodded. “Yes, I hear you.”

  “Good. Now the less you say, the better,” Tommy said. “You were asked to help get Declan into the ambulance, and he died on the way. That’s all you know. Understand?”

  Robyn nodded.

  “Good.”

  “What do we do now?” Robyn asked.

  “I’m going back to the mansion,” Tommy said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Robyn said.

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” Tommy said. “I ain’t gonna be taking a taxi.”

  2:28 A.M. EST

  AT THE MULVANEY MANSION

  STAN LEE HATED the idea of going back to the mansion—a place from which he’d just escaped. Worse still, he couldn’t sneak through the yard cloaked in darkness and find a car to steal. He had to go back into the house through the tunnel.

  Because of the Mulvaney’s new fence.

  Stan Lee made his way to the kill room, found a claw hammer, and began removing the nails he’d used to seal the secret door from his side—which turned out to be a lot of work for nothing.

  Once he removed the last of the nails, Stan Lee gently pushed on the door and it swung open a foot. He listened but heard nothing. Dead silence.

  So far so good.

  Stan Lee swung the door open a bit more and stuck his head inside. It was so dark he couldn’t see a thing, so he went back and grabbed a flashlight.

  Stan Lee stepped th
rough the secret door into what was once Declan’s art room—which was now nothing more than a storage area for unused household items and holiday decorations.

  With the flashlight beam to guide him, Stan Lee climbed the stairs to the first floor and was surprised to find the mansion empty and dark.

  Where was everyone? Stan Lee tried to gauge how long it had been since he stabbed Declan and fled. Forty-five minutes, maybe? Could everyone have left so quickly?

  Stan Lee took a moment to get his bearings to determine the shortest route to the mansion garage and then started down the hallway—and promptly tripped on something and went sprawling to the floor. Stan Lee pointed the flashlight behind him and couldn’t believe his eyes.

  It was a body. A dead, gray body.

  What the hell was going on?

  Stan Lee pulled himself to his feet and continued until he reached the end of the hall, and when he turned the corner, he found several more dead-bodies. He stepped over the bodies and followed the flashlight beam until he found the front door of the mansion and walked outside, only to find another dead body.

  This was getting creepy, Stan Lee thought.

  Even for him.

  Stan Lee looked to the left and saw the limousine in the circular drive. Too noticeable, he thought. Instead, he turned to the right and headed in the direction of the garage.

  The good news was when Stan Lee got to the garage the door was wide open. The bad news was he couldn’t find the keys to any of the vehicles. They must be inside somewhere.

  Which meant his only other option was the limousine.

  With any luck, the keys were in it.

  Stan Lee exited the garage and crept along the front of the mansion to where the limousine was parked, covered in a layer of light snow. To the best of his recollection, the only other time it snowed in Charleston was the winter of 1989, ten years after he’d arrived.

  Stan Lee walked slowly on the icy pavement to the limousine and tried the driver’s side door handle. It was locked. He took his hand and wiped snow off the glass and peered inside to see the keys dangling from the ignition.

  The door on the passenger side must be open, Stan Lee thought, and he made his way around the limo and tried the handle. Again, the door was locked.

  Damn it.

  Why would someone lock the keys in the car? Then Stan Lee saw the man sleeping in the back of the limo.

  He was screwed.

  Stan Lee slowly backed away from the car and then remembered something. There was a catering truck out back earlier in the evening. Could it be there still? It was worth a look. Other than calling for a cab, bludgeoning the driver, and taking his car, Stan Lee was out of options.

  Beatrice Shaw was curled in a ball shivering. She’d been hiding in the refrigerated compartment of the catering truck for over half an hour, wondering when it might be safe to come out. Were the ghosts gone? If that’s what they were. They must have been ghosts, Beatrice reasoned. What other explanation could there be?

  Beatrice decided to give it five more minutes, but then—

  She heard what sounded like the door to the catering truck open. Oh, God—they were there. The ghosts were there.

  Then the truck’s engine started.

  A moment later, the vehicle began to move.

  2:31 A.M. EST

  AROUND THE MULVANEY MANSION

  OLYMPIA HAD BEEN sneaking around the haunted mansion in the dark for twenty minutes—ever since she opted to leave the panic room in search of Graeme—and had yet to see a single ghost. Maybe they were hiding. Maybe they’d gone back to this Loll place Gerylyn talked about. Or maybe they’d all gone full-Elvis and had simply left the building.

  And then Olympia thought she saw one. An older woman in a white skirt who quickly passed by at the end of the hallway.

  Olympia felt the hairs on her neck stand on end and her heart pounding as the adrenaline of her autonomic fight-or-flight response kicked in. Fighting was out. And as far as flight went, where was she going to go?

  In the end, Olympia picked a third option: follow.

  Olympia tiptoed her way to the end of the hall and peeked around the corner just in time to see the woman in the white skirt exit through the mansion’s large front door.

  Olympia went back the way she came and made her way to one of the front rooms and gently pulled back the drapes, only to discover the windows were shuttered—probably due to the storm. Then Olympia heard a knocking from the next window and discovered a shutter had come loose, which allowed her to look out between each slap of the wood.

  The woman was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, she passed directly in front of her. The woman’s back was to the wall; otherwise, she’d have seen Olympia for sure.

  Whoever the woman was, Olympia decided she was real and not a ghost. And it appeared she had prosthetic legs.

  Olympia watched in fascination as the woman walked to the limousine parked in the driveway, looked inside, and hurried away.

  That was weird, Olympia thought. It was as if the woman saw something inside the limousine—something she didn’t like.

  What could it be? Olympia wondered. She couldn’t imagine, but the reporter in her wanted to know.

  Dressed in the same yellow Spandex tights and halter top she’d been wearing all evening, Olympia opened the mansion’s large front door and felt the blast of frozen air hit her. Dear God, don’t let yourself get locked outside, Olympia thought.

  Olympia spied a coat rack near the doorway. At the bottom of the coat rack was a brass stand filled with umbrellas.

  Olympia grabbed a wool coat and pulled it on and used one of the umbrellas to keep the door ajar.

  Being careful not to slip on the slick asphalt in her high heels, Olympia made her way across the driveway to the limousine, which was lightly dusted in snow. Then she used her hand to brush the snow off the window and peer inside.

  Olympia felt her heart leap. There was a man lying fast asleep on the limousine’s rear seat.

  It was Graeme.

  Graeme was doing his best to stay warm, having curled himself in a ball in the rear of the limousine, when he heard something knocking on the window. The damn ghosts are back, Graeme thought. Crikey. Then he heard someone call his name.

  Graeme rolled over and looked through the window. It wasn’t a ghost. It was Olympia.

  Graeme unlocked the door and pushed it open and Olympia climbed inside the limousine. “Quick, close the door,” Graeme said. “There are ghosts all over the place.”

  “Not anymore,” Olympia said. “I’ve walked the entire place and haven’t seen a single ghost for almost twenty minutes. There is some creepy-ass woman lurking out there, though.”

  “Where is everyone else?” Graeme asked. “Did they get to the panic room?”

  Olympia nodded.

  “Why aren’t you with them?”

  “Why do you think? I had to come find you. Protect your boney-kangaroo ass from the—”

  Graeme pulled Olympia toward him and kissed her hard.

  “Don’t go making the moves on me, not out here,” Olympia said, pushing Graeme away. “It’s too damn cold to be thinking about—”

  Graeme pulled Olympia toward him and kissed her again, wrapping his arm around her and grabbing her butt cheek and squeezing it.

  “Well, maybe it’s not that cold.”

  Graeme and Olympia were deep into each other when they heard a vehicle driving past.

  “Who is that?” Olympia said.

  Graeme lifted his head and looked out the limo’s back window. “Looks like the catering truck.”

  “Could you see who was driving?”

  “No,” Graeme said.

  Olympia wasn’t sure why she’d asked. But she had a feeling it was the woman in the white skirt.

  2:33 A.M. EST

  THE MULVANEY MANSION BALLROOM

  JUNIPER SPENT TWENTY MINUTES walking around the mansion trying to decide what to do next. There was no doubt in her mind why the dark f
orm was there.

  It was there for her light, whatever that meant.

  Fanning had told Juniper as much when he confronted her in the upstairs guest bedroom on Thanksgiving evening. Juniper surprised him that time by rushing him and sending him flying into the mirror with her—back into Loll.

  But Juniper knew she’d been lucky. She’d caught Fanning off guard. This time he’d be ready and not so easily overtaken.

  Juniper approached the end of the hallway, and—as she did—she could hear Fanning’s voice coming from the ballroom.

  Juniper peeked her head around the corner and saw Fanning standing at the far end of the room. There were also six transparent figures wandering around aimlessly, as if lost.

  “Listen up, you worthless flatliners,” Fanning said. “Innocents, line up on the left. Deviants, please line up on the right.”

  None of the ghosts moved. Instead, they just stood and stared off into space.

  “Just like the orphanage. No drive, no desire. And no respect for directions,” Fanning said as he bent down and picked up a bloody knife from the floor. “Anyone want to claim a well-worn, extremely bloody knife? No? Okay. Finders keepers, loser’s weepers.”

  Juniper stood in the back of the room and watched as the dark entity worked its way in a jerky motion toward the stage and climbed the steps.

  “Where are you, Juniper?” Fanning said. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. I know you’re here. What’s it going to take to lure you out of hiding? I could say Beetlejuice three times, if you want.”

  Juniper turned the corner and stepped from the darkness and waited silently until Fanning saw her.

  “Oh, there you are. Welcome to the haunting,” Fanning said. “I knew you’d come eventually.”

  “Really? Why?” Juniper asked.

  “Because you’re predictable—as predictable as the shining of the sun on a clear summer day.”