From Darkness Comes: The Horror Box Set (8 Book Collection)

by J. Thorn

  “Like you’d ever get to find out,” Deke said. His face was redder now, the color of the sun on the lake. He was breathing hard.

  “I’m curious,” Vicky said.

  Freeman wondered how far she was willing to go. It was one thing to run intellectual circles around Deke, but if you started hitting below the belt, he might turn dangerous.

  “Show her, man,” said Army Jacket.

  “Unzip,” said another of the goons. A couple of others took up the chant.

  Deke looked over at the counselors again, this time in desperation. Suddenly the bell rang, and the shouts from the playground turned into disappointed groans and then silence.

  Deke tugged at his waistband. “You got lucky, baby,” he said to Vicky.

  She rolled her eyes and said nothing.

  “Let’s get out of here before she pukes or something,” Deke said. The goons followed their leader off the rocks and toward the main building. A couple of the goons glanced back at Vicky with looks of veiled appraisal.

  “Well played,” Freeman said.

  “You could have been more clever.”

  “I ran out of big words.”

  “Maybe I’ll loan you a few, next time. My name’s Vicky.”

  “I know. Did I mention I’m perceptive?”

  “Perceptive enough to know how I figured out your name?”

  “Let me guess. You read my mind.”

  Vicky stood and touched him on the forehead. “Nah. That’s one place I don’t think I want to go again.”

  She skipped down the slope of the boulder and headed across the grounds. Freeman was going to have to change his opinion of her: as slight and skinny as she was, she definitely wasn’t one of the Weak.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nah. Couldn’t have been him.

  Starlene was on the ground floor, headed for the offices in the central entrance, her arms full of reports. Bondurant had given her copies of Freeman’s case history, and since the new boy would be in Group with her, she planned to stay one step ahead of him. She had been mulling something Bondurant had said, about the boy “knowing too much,” when she’d seen the strange man in the gown again.

  The man’s shoulders slumped, his posture one of weary defeat. He gave a slow turn of his head and Starlene looked into the saddest, most empty eyes she had ever seen. The man nodded at her, then shuffled around the corner toward the west wing.

  “Hey, wait!” Starlene hurried after him, her heels loud on the tiled floor. She’d lost him before, but now he had nowhere to disappear. She would drag the man down to Bondurant’s office and then make Randy see she hadn’t imagined the incident at the lake.

  They were entering the section where Dr. Kracowski conducted his therapy sessions. Kracowski insisted on silence. Or, rather, Bondurant had, on the doctor’s orders. Starlene had never met the doctor herself, and he seemed as elusive and mythical as the old man she was chasing.

  She reached the corner and turned, anxious and breathless. The hall before her was empty.

  No. Not again. He was REAL.

  Something glistened on the dreary tiles. Starlene knelt and wiped with her finger. Water. Behind her stretched a trail of bare, wet footprints.

  “Hey,” she called again, uncertain.

  A door opened. A tall, dark-haired man came out, his clipboard loose in his fingers. He wore a white lab coat, the pockets frayed. His cheeks were blue with stubble. He looked as if he’d been napping in his office. “Lose something?” he asked.

  “Did somebody just come by?”

  “Somebody?”

  “A man. Dressed in a gown, hunched over, no shoes.”

  The tall man smiled. “My dear, are you new here?”

  Dear? He was talking like somebody from a 1950s sit-com. “I’ve been working here for eleven weeks.”

  “That explains it.”

  “What explains what?”

  “Look-Out Larry. Our resident specter.”

  “Specter? You mean—?”

  “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “Only when I think I’ve lost my mind.”

  “We don’t lose minds around here, we find them. Look-Out Larry is a ghost, I assume. I’ve never seen him myself, since I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “This water is real,” Starlene said, though most of the footprints had now evaporated.

  “I see no water,” the man said.

  “Oh, you don’t believe in water, either?”

  The man smiled. “If I could make something disappear just by no longer believing in it, then I’m afraid God would have died ages ago. Excuse my manners. I’m Dr. Richard Kracowski.”

  He said his name with the air of one who knew his reputation had preceded him.

  “Hello, Doctor. Glad to finally meet you. I’m Starlene Rogers, counselor.”

  “Ah, yes, Bondurant warned me about you.”

  “‘Warned?’ Sheesh. Tell me about Look-Out Larry, because that makes twice I’ve seen him today, and I’ve never had any reason to doubt my eyes before. And I don’t believe in ghosts, either. But I do believe in God.”

  “Oh, so you’ve seen God?” Kracowski looked toward the ceiling. “Actually, I have this theory that Look-Out Larry is God.”

  “Sir, I’d love to debate religion with you sometime, but right now I’d rather figure out if I’m going crazy or not.”

  “Miss Rogers, the word ‘crazy’ is not in the lexicon anymore. Hallucinations are one of the hallmarks of schizophrenia, or, in certain diagnoses with which I don’t agree, delusional disorders.”

  The footprints had evaporated completely now, and Starlene was no longer sure they had even been there. “So I’m schizophrenic because I thought I saw somebody who doesn’t exist?”

  “Either that or you’re a religious visionary.”

  “But you said yourself that others have seen him. He even has a name.”

  The doctor leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Hate to tell you, but all the other people who claimed to have seen Look-Out Larry were patients.”

  Starlene looked both ways down the hall. “So more than one person has the same hallucination? I would think a man of science would take that as corroborating evidence.”

  Kracowski held up the clipboard, showing her the charts and graphs fastened to it. “Evidence is something that can be measured, quantified, proven. Surely you studied research methods in college, even if you ended up being a counselor.”

  Starlene didn’t like the sarcastic bite that the doctor put on that last word. It was bad enough to get strange stares from the members of her church and neighborhood, but to have to endure this from someone in the same profession—

  “Maybe it was a trick of the light,” she said. “These halls are dark. I mean, if it was a ghost, and I don’t believe in ghosts, then I wouldn’t have seen him. Right?”

  “You’re sounding cured already.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  The doctor smiled again, his eyes half-closed. “For you, anything.”

  “Don’t mention this to Mr. Bondurant? I wouldn’t want him to think his hiring me was a mistake.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Bondurant knew exactly what he was doing. For the good of the children, right?”

  Had Kracowski said that last sentence in mockery of Bondurant and the director’s tight-lipped manner of speech? “I want him to trust me,” she said.

  “As far as I’m concerned, what happened here is a secret, between you, me, and our old pal Larry.”

  Starlene wanted to stuff Kracowski’s clipboard into his smile. She cast a quick prayer of forgiveness, both for Kracowski’s arrogance and her own surrender to anger. This was her first job, the counselor’s equivalent of a combat zone, and she would be a good soldier. God had sent her here for a reason, and she didn’t need to understand His purpose until He needed her to know.

  “Excuse me, I’ve got a group session to lead.” She headed down the hall to the stairwell, feeling Kracowski’s eyes on her.<
br />
  “A pleasure to meet you,” Kracowski called when she was about to turn the corner. Starlene kept walking.

  In college, Starlene had studied the phenomenon where medical students often noticed symptoms in themselves of ailments they were studying. Med school hypochondria. The same was true of psychology students, though the symptoms were more nebulous. Maybe working with troubled children had snapped something loose in her own head. Were hallucinations contagious?

  Sure. And mass hysteria in Salem had led to witch hangings. The human race had come a long way, and the field of psychology had come even farther. Carving out pieces of people’s brains in order to rid them of emotions was rarely done anymore, and even required the patient’s permission. Electroshock wasn’t automatic for every person who sought treatment for depression. Insanity was no longer touted as a spectator sport, as had happened at St. Mary of Bethlehem hospital in Seventeenth-Century London, commonly known as Bedlam to the tourists who gave tuppence for the show.

  No, she hadn’t seen a ghost. Because only crazy people saw ghosts, and as Dr. Kracowski had said, nobody’s crazy anymore. Especially her.

  And to see a ghost twice would mean she was two times crazy. She buried the idea of ghosts as she pushed open the door to Seven. She had children to help. She couldn’t be worried about helping herself.

  The room was sparse, with a desk in the corner and a dusty chalkboard on one wall. Posters proclaimed such timeless tidbits as “Hugs Not Drugs” and “A Smile Cures Everything.” Out the window, the sun worked its way behind the distant, black ridge tops. The seven children sat in a ring of chairs. Two slouched sullenly, Deke the pudgy teen whom Starlene knew to be a bully, and Raymond in his ever-present drab olive jacket.

  The others watched Starlene take her seat at the head of the circle: Vicky, pale and wide-eyed, whose dress hung about her as if draped from a clothes hanger; the new boy, Freeman; Mario in too-short trousers, who rarely spoke; Isaac, who nurtured a serious persecution complex; and Cynthia, who called herself “Sin.” Cynthia seemed to have recovered from her recent treatment, but a suspicious defiance sparked her eyes.

  Ready for a good jousting match, Starlene?

  Starlene loved Group. The setting was perfect for teaching socialization skills while also gaining the children’s trust. In group therapy, she could be a “facilitator,” though she hated that word for it. A facilitator was someone who was structured and inflexible, who “empowered” others while not taking much personal risk. She thought of her job as more like “witnessing,” showing others the blessings she’d discovered and which all could share in.

  “Hey, guys,” she said, looking into each face in turn.

  “You’re late,” Deke said.

  “And I apologize. Adults have to apologize sometimes, too, don’t they, Freeman?”

  Freeman winced, twitched one corner of his mouth, and said nothing.

  “You going to make us talk about something, or do we just got to sit here for an hour?” Deke said.

  “I think it’s better when we get things out in the open,” Starlene said.

  “Because sharing is caring,” Freeman said.

  She ignored his sarcasm. Many placements came to Wendover with a wall around their hearts. You couldn’t hammer through the wall; battering at it only made the wall stronger. Love was better. Love seeped through the cracks and melted the wall away, eroded its base until the stones crumbled. “We do care, Freeman.”

  Deke glowered at Freeman, then at Starlene. He looked around the circle, at the children sitting in their straight-backed chairs, making sure he had an audience. “Not all of us care, Freaky Freeman.”

  Starlene was about to quiet Deke, then decided the group dynamic might be more interesting if she let the children lead the discussion themselves. If only Deke’s natural leadership skills didn’t turn nasty so easily. Six years in therapy, according to the case file, and Deke was no closer to adjusting to society than he’d ever been. Still, the Lord and her professional obligation required her to have hope for him.

  But patience was a demanding virtue. That was one of the warnings that her Psych teachers had burned home, that occasionally you’d feel like slapping little Johnny across the face. No matter that he had been abused and suffered a neurochemical imbalance and was diagnosed with an adjustment disorder, you sometimes had to wonder if a particular brand of vermin was, and always would be, a rat.

  “Why do you think Freeman is ‘freaky’?” Starlene asked Deke.

  “He’s weird. He likes books and stuff. He sits by himself. He don’t talk much, and when he does say something, it’s big words nobody understands.”

  “And how would you respond to that, Freeman?”

  Freeman shrugged and slouched more deeply into his chair. “Do unto others.”

  “Ah, something from the Bible. That’s a good rule to live by.”

  “Actually,” Freeman said, straightening, “that’s a basic tenet of many religions. Scientology, Buddhism, Islam.”

  “See what I mean?” Deke said. “Weird.”

  “He’s a thief, too,” Raymond said.

  “Let he who is without sin,” Freeman said.

  “Hey,” Cynthia said. “What about ‘she’? Girls can sin as good as you can.”

  Raymond let loose with a wolf whistle. “And you ought to know, sweet cheeks.”

  “Like you’d ever be so lucky,” she responded.

  Starlene cut in before the verbal barrage turned crude. “Why do you accuse Freeman of being a thief?” she asked Raymond.

  Raymond and Deke exchanged looks. Vicky, who had been silent thus far, watching the conversation as if it were the ball at a tennis match, finally spoke.

  “Because they feel threatened,” she said. “They’re insecure and overcompensate by trying to dominate the other boys. Any time a new guy comes here, Deke and Raymond and their gang have to knock him down in order to build themselves up.”

  “I ain’t insecure,” Deke said.

  “Dysfunctional. Both psychologically and physically. Remember on the rocks?”

  “At least I don’t throw up every time I turn around,” Deke said.

  Vicky turned even paler, if such a thing were possible, though two red roses of anger blossomed on her cheeks. Starlene had never known the group discussion to get so intense so quickly. Some hidden hostility had been tapped. She should stop it, guide them back to safe topics such as holidays and sports and the Wendover chapel. But this clearing of the air might be a good thing for the kids, who had so few outlets for their frustration. Better to vent here than in an individual counseling session or a playground fist fight.

  “Guys,” Starlene said. “Remember that we’re all here for each other. We’re all in this together.”

  “Bull hockey,” Deke said. “Don’t give me that ‘brothers and sisters’ crap. We get enough of that in chapel.”

  “Remember that part in the Bible about not coveting thy neighbor’s ass?” Freeman said.

  “That’s not in there,” Deke said, and turned to Starlene. “See how weird he is?”

  “It’s there,” Freeman said. “The unexpurgated version of the Ten Commandments. The long form that usually gets trimmed down when they get posted in the courthouse or the classroom. Lots of other good stuff, too, about slaves and how God is a jealous God. The Big Guy said so himself.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the Bible, Freeman,” Starlene said.

  “He probably swiped a copy,” Raymond said.

  “Yeah, Weasel-brains,” Deke said to Raymond. “I got one personally autographed by Jesus. Want to buy it?”

  Raymond rose, fists clenched. Deke held up his palms and smirked. Starlene left her chair and stood between the two boys. “Jesus said to turn the other cheek.”

  “His other ass cheek?” Freeman said, and the kids erupted in laughter, even Deke, finally joined by Raymond.

  Starlene sighed. Dirty jokes and sacrilege. Things were going to be very interesting with Free
man around. Not to mention having a ghost in the home.

  The good thing about doubting your sanity was you didn’t have to worry about dying of boredom.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bondurant didn’t believe in ghosts. No sane man did, no holy man did. But the incident with Starlene at the lake was the third of its kind in recent weeks. Each of the three people had claimed to see a man in a dirty gray gown.

  The first report had been from a kitchen worker, a wrinkled Scots-Irish whose family used to own the farmland where Wendover had been built in the 1930s. The man said the ghost was dressed just like the patients who had shambled these halls when it was a state mental hospital during the Second World War. He’d been a boy back then, and as Bondurant had interviewed him, a childlike fear had crept into the old man’s eyes. Bondurant had written him off as a superstitious hillbilly.

  The second report was from a counselor, Nanny Hartwig, who had worked at Wendover for eight years. Nanny was a reliable sort, thick-bodied and dull and as patient as a cow. She’d never been rattled by the children, even when they threw food or cursed or spat. Nanny could slip a child into a restraint hold as smoothly as if it were a choreographed professional wrestling move.

  But Nanny had shown up one morning to begin her three-day shift as a house parent, then disappeared. The other counselors noticed her missing and found her several hours later, huddled in a closet, gripping a mop handle so tightly that her knuckles were white. Nanny muttered incoherently about the man in the gown who had walked right through her. Bondurant had given her two weeks’ vacation and hinted that she might consider therapy. In a church, not a clinic.

  But this last sighting, with Starlene today, was the worst. Because Bondurant believed that the third time was a charm. The third time meant that the sightings couldn’t be written off as imagination or drunkenness, because Starlene was of good Christian stock. Bondurant could lie to the Board of Directors, give positive spin to the grant foundations and private supporters, even snow the Department of Social Services if it came down to it, but quieting rumors among the staff was like trying to keep water from flowing downhill.