by Jack Kilborn
“You’re not Roy.”
Tom looked at the Skype window. He saw the profile of a man’s head, obscured by shadows. Richard Reiser was Skyping without any lights on.
“I’m Roy’s partner, Detective Tom Mankowski.” Tom raised up his badge, holding it to the webcam embedded in the monitor. “When was the last time you spoke with Roy?”
“Is Roy missing?
“Do you know something about that, Mr. Reiser?”
“Rich. Call me Rich. I told him not to go to the Butler House. But he went, didn’t he?”
Rich’s voice was slurred, and Tom wondered if the man was drunk.
“No one has heard from him in seven days,” Tom said.
“I warned him. I practically begged him not to go.”
“When did you last speak with Roy?”
“Eight days ago. It was Thursday. He said he got some sort of invitation to Butler House.”
“Why did he get in touch with you?”
“He wanted to know what happened on my show, Ghost Smashers. Why I quit show business.”
“Did you tell him?”
Rich paused for a moment before continuing. “The network did a good job of covering it up. They paid me off not to talk about it. I signed some non-disclosure agreements.”
“So you didn’t tell Roy?”
“No. I did. I did so he wouldn’t go. But I guess he went anyway.”
“Can you tell me as well?”
“He didn’t listen to me.”
Tom lowered his voice. “Mr. Reiser, please tell me what you told my partner.”
Another pause, and Tom began to wonder if Rich was going to balk. But then he began.
“It was nearing midnight. I was doing my intro in Butler House’s great room—this huge space in the front of the house when you walk in. Two story roof, curved staircase, weird tapestries on the walls. It looked like the set of a Roger Corman Poe flick from the sixties. We’d gotten there in the daytime, did some establishing shots, set up our equipment. EMF, IR, EVP, full spectrum motion cameras.”
Tom didn’t know what any of those abbreviations were, but he didn’t want to interrupt the story to ask.
“During set-up, one of the camera guys caught an RSPK on tape. That’s recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis. Poltergeist activity. A painting fell off the wall, right in front of us. Portrait of that serial killer, Augustus Torble. We checked the nail it was hanging on—a big, thick, six inch nail. Bent right in half. We’d never gotten footage like that before. In hindsight, we should have left right then.”
Rich grabbed something and lifted it to his face. A bottle. Beer? Whiskey? He tilted it and swallowed, and then began to gag and cough. More evidence of being drunk.
“At midnight, I’m set to do my first piece of the night. Explore the basement of Butler House. We were using the dual head cam. Have you seen the show?”
“No.”
“It’s a two way camera, mounted on my head. One lens is pointed ahead of me, where I’m looking. One is pointing at my face, so the viewers can see my reactions. It’s mounted on a helmet, and with the batteries… it’s pretty heavy. So… we had a… a… thick strap around… my chin… to keep the rig steady. Right after I started my segment… the batteries…”
Rich’s voice trailed off.
“What happened to the batteries, Rich?”
He didn’t answer.
“Rich?”
“They… exploded.”
He reached off to the side, and then the lights in his room came on.
Rich’s face looked like it had strips of half-cooked bacon glued to it. Eyebrows burned off. No nostrils, just a gaping hole for his nose. Part of his upper lip missing, showing his teeth, which explained his slurring. He wasn’t drunk. He was Frankenstein’s goddamn monster.
“Lead batteries contain sulfuric acid. So my helmet was both on fire, and leaking acid down my face. And because of the chin strap, I couldn’t… I couldn’t get it off. I couldn’t get it off…”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said. It took everything he had in him to not turn away from the screen.
Rich lifted the bottle—a water bottle—to his face and took a sip, gagging again, some of the water running down his ruined chin.
“The network sued the company that made the camera. But when they took the rig in for testing, no one could find anything wrong with it. No faulty wiring. No bad parts. It’s like it exploded for no reason at all.”
Tom felt terrible for the guy, and he didn’t like making him talk about it. But for Roy’s sake, he had to ask. “But you think there was a reason.”
“Something in Butler House did this to me. I’m sure of it. Something evil. That’s why I begged Roy to stay away. And you should stay away, too.”
Tom pursed his lips.
“Look, your partner, your friend, Roy. He’s dead, man. Butler House got him. And if you go looking for him, you’re going to die.”
“Thanks for your time and insights, Rich. I’ve got to get going.”
Tom disconnected, guilty about his lie. He didn’t have to leave. He just couldn’t stand looking at Rich’s disfigured face anymore, and the conversation had greatly disturbed him.
Tom’s hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood at attention, and he had a very strong feeling he was being watched. By who? Eavesdropping co-workers?
Or was someone else watching? Someone, or…
Some thing.
Tom swiveled around, seeking the staring eyes he knew were on him.
But no one was there.
At least, no one he could see.
Realizing he was letting his imagination mess with him, Tom called Joan’s cell phone. Thankfully, his girlfriend picked up on the third ring.
“Tom? I’m in the middle of something. Director wants a rewrite on set, writer is throwing a hissy fit. Is this important?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice, babe.”
“That’s sweet. Can I call you back?”
“Yeah, sure. And hey, wait… Joan… you still there?
“Yes?”
“Did you write anything on my mirror?”
“What?”
“My bathroom mirror. Someone wrote I’m watching you on it.”
“Wasn’t me. Gotta go, lover. Call you soon.”
His long distance romance hung up, and Tom’s creepy feeling got a whole lot creepier.
THE NEXT DAY
Charleston International Airport
Frank
Dr. Frank Belgium walked out of the baggage claim area and onto the sidewalk, the warm blast of summer air welcome against his overly air-conditioned body. The plane had been chilled to meat-locker temperature, so cold he’d had to ask an attendant for a blanket. The airport had been similarly refrigerated.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the temperate heat warm him. But he couldn’t feel the sun’s rays.
Belgium squinted up at the overcast sky. The clouds were an ugly swirl of gray and black, but the air didn’t feel humid or sticky. It didn’t look like rain. It just looked ominous.
A man of science, Belgium publicly scoffed at the paranormal. Omens. Superstition. The afterlife. These didn’t hold up to the scientific method, and had no empirical evidence to support them.
But privately, he feared the supernatural. Because he had, in a way, experienced it. To Belgium, the sky looked like a warning meant specifically for him. Like a big sign that said GO BACK WHILE YOU STILL CAN.
Something reddish brown darted toward Belgium, swooping into his peripheral vision, and he dropped his carryon bag and ducked down, emitting a less-than-masculine yelp as he did. Covering his head with his hands, he prepared himself for another attack.
“It’s a finch,” a female voice said from behind him.
Belgium turned, squinting through his fingers. “What?”
“A house finch. They won’t hurt you.”
Belgium stared at the woman. She was maybe in her late thirties, short
hair, baggy sweater, no make-up. He could guess, on a good day, she’d be cute. But it didn’t look to Belgium if she’d had any good days in a while.
He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.
“Oh. Thanks. I I I thought it was a…” he let his voice drift off, and then picked up his bag and stood up, warily searching the area for more dive-bombing finches.
“You thought it was what?” the woman asked.
“Hmm? Oh. A bat.”
“A red bat?”
Belgium frowned. “You’d be surprised.”
The woman shrugged. Belgium glanced around, trying to get his heart rate under control, wondering why there weren’t any cabs. Shouldn’t an airport have cabs?
He watched a traveler cross the street, where he was met by a blue Honda. A woman got out, they had a quick but poignant hug, and then he loaded his suitcase and got into the car and they drove off.
“Where are the taxis?” the finch lady asked.
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for one one one myself.”
Another minute passed. Belgium considered renting a car. But he didn’t want to go back into that freezer of an airport. In fact, he didn’t want to be in South Carolina at all. The thought of being arrested for treason began to hold some appeal. At least, in that case, he knew what to expect. Knew who his enemy was.
There was security in knowing. But the unknown, however…
“Do you have a cell phone?” the finch lady asked him.
“Hmm?”
“To call a taxi.”
“No. Don’t carry one. You?”
“Me neither. We’re probably the last two people in the world who don’t.”
Finally, a lone yellow cab pulled onto the throughway. Belgium held up his hand and at the same time noticed his companion did as well. He’d gotten there first. And at the rate cabs arrived at this airport, this could be the last one of the day. But even though Belgium was rattled, and hadn’t been with a woman for a very long time, he still had a streak of chivalry in him.
“You can take it,” he summoned the courage to say.
“Are you sure? You were here first.”
The cab pulled up. Belgium took a quick look at the sky again, which was getting even uglier.
“It’s okay. I’m sure sure sure another one will come along.”
The lady smiled, and it took ten years off her face. “I didn’t know there were any gentlemen left. We could share it.”
“I’m heading west. Solidarity.”
Her brow crinkled. “Really? So am I.”
Belgium did a quick mental calculation on how coincidental that was, and considering Solidarity had a population of less than a thousand, he found the odds to be extremely high. Unless…
“The Butler House?” he asked.
The woman nodded, eyes wide.
He remembered his manners and offered his hand. “Frank Belgium.”
“Sara Randhurst,” she said. Her touch was soft and warm, her grip strong.
Belgium opened the door for her, then helped the cabbie put their bags in the trunk. When everyone was seated, he gave the driver the address.
“I don’t go there,” was the gruff reply.
“Pardon me?”
“The Butler House. No hacks go there. Bad news, that place.”
Belgium considered asking how close he’d take them, but then realized they’d have the same problem once they got there. Renting a car was still an option, but that would be a hassle.
Plus, he had the paranoid delusion that if he left the cab, the sky would open up and lightning would fry him.
“I’ll double your fare,” Belgium said.
“No way.”
“Triple it.”
The cabbie turned around in the driver’s seat to face him. “You serious?”
Belgium nodded.
The cabbie let out a noise that was part sigh, part shrug, and said, “It’s your funeral buddy.”
They pulled out of the airport parking lot and headed west, into the woods. Belgium kept his eyes out the window, trying to look casual instead of nervous. He was aware that the side of Sara’s foot touched his, and he was hoping she’d keep it there. That small measure of human contact was keeping him grounded.
“So,” she said, “you’re doing this to win a million dollars?”
“Hmm? Me? No. I’m… well, being coerced into this.”
“By whom?”
“I’m not not not at liberty to say. Sorry.”
Sara nudged him with her thigh, and when he looked she was smiling again.
It dazzled him. She looked so pretty, so real, so near. Like a safe port in a terrible storm.
“Real secret stuff, huh?” she asked.
He smelled something on her breath. Whiskey. Belgium rarely drank these days, but he really wished he had something to take the edge off.
“I was involved in a government project that I’m not allowed to talk about.”
“What do you do, Frank?”
“I’m a a a molecular biologist.”
She seemed to appraise him, and Belgium lapsed into self-consciousness. Had he combed his hair? Were there crumbs on his face from breakfast? Did he have any stains on his shirt?
“This is a fear study,” she said. “I take it something bad happened with that government project.”
“Yes. That’s… well, it’s actually understating it a bit.”
The horrors of Samhain all came rushing back at him like they were still happening. The deaths. The blood. The certainty he was going to die. Frank could feel his larynx tightening, and he put a hand on his throat to massage it. The sides of the cab seemed to be closing in, making it hard to breath. He stared outside, saw something fly past, and flinched like he had at the airport.
“You look freaked out, Frank. I didn’t mean to—”
“Would you mind if we stopped somewhere for a drink? I mean, I I I don’t want to be forward, or for you to think I’m trying anything with you. But I could really really really use one.” He winced. “The past… it… hurts.”
Sara opened her purse and took out a tiny, plastic airline bottle of Southern Comfort. She passed it to Frank, who was shaking so badly he couldn’t get the small top off. Sara put her hands over his, helped him to remove the cap, and he downed it in one gulp. Almost immediately, he felt better. But he didn’t know whether to attribute that to the booze, or Sara’s touch.
“That’s… that was… thank you.”
She patted his shoulder. “No problem. I get panic attacks too.”
Sara turned away, looking out the window. Almost immediately he missed her looking at him. Belgium felt the liquor burn into his belly and wondered how he could draw her attention again. He figured maybe the truth would do it.
“I was locked underground with a…” Belgium chose his next word carefully. “Maniac. I barely got out alive. A lot of people died. Badly.”
Without facing him, Sara said, “I was trapped on an island with dozens of cannibals, and several serial killers.”
“You were… seriously?”
Sara nodded into the window. “A lot of people died. Badly. I guess that’s why we’re both here.”
Belgium had a sudden, overpowering, completely inappropriate surge of affection toward this woman. He wanted to hug her. For her sake, and for his. If she was a kindred spirit, as he suspected, it would do both of them a world of good.
Instead he sat rigidly in his chair, trying to will his heart to slow down.
“I read up on Butler House,” Sara said, still not looking at him. “Lots of tragedy there.”
Belgium had begun doing some research on the house—the devil you know and all that—but it had scared him too badly to continue.
Sara seemed to be expecting some response, so he grunted noncommittally.
“If any house in the world could be haunted,” she continued, “this would be the one.” Sara turned, and touched his arm. “Do you believe in ghosts, Frank?”
> Belgium didn’t believe in ghosts. But there used to be lots of things he didn’t believe in.
“I can’t rule out that they might exist,” Belgium said.
“I think the supernatural is bullshit. I don’t believe in any sort of afterlife. But…”
Sara opened her purse. Besides a wallet and a few more SoCo bottles, there was a bible, a rosary, and a vial of clear liquid.
“Holy water,” Sara said, snapping her purse closed. “Does that make me a hypocrite?”
Belgium shook his head. “No. It makes you prepared.”
“No atheists in foxholes, I guess. Did you bring anything?”
Belgium hadn’t. For the same reason he’d never bought a gun.
“Um… no. I guess—this might sound silly—but I sort of feel like I’m living on borrowed time. Ever since… well, let’s just say I’m lucky to be alive, and these last few years I’ve been waiting for my past to to to catch up with me. Whatever happens, happens.”
“Kind of fatalistic, don’t you think?”
He was surprised by the frankness of her words, and wondered how much she’d had to drink. But perhaps it wasn’t the liquor. Maybe Sara was always this straightforward.
He liked that. A lot. And it had been a long time since he could admit to liking anything.
“I don’t don’t don’t think it’s fatalistic. More like realistic. When you see dark things—”
“You can’t unsee them,” Sara said, finishing his thought.
They looked at each other, and Belgium saw understanding in her eyes. This woman was just as wounded as he was. He’d heard about the concept of kindred spirits, but hadn’t experienced it before.
“I have a very bad feeling about this trip, Sara,” he said in hushed tones.
Then the front windshield burst inward and the car spun out of control.
Pittsburgh International Airport
Mal
Growing more and more uncomfortable as they inched their way through the security line, Mal let his wife go through the metal detector first.
She beeped, as expected, and then got into a conversation with the bored-looking TSA guard. He waved his wand over Deb. That led to her pulling off her jogging pants—which had snaps on the sides instead of seams.