Cherry Hill

by James A. Moore

  Rico watched on, too stunned to notice much of anything else going on around him until there were only three prisoners left, the ones with the good sense not to catch Crowley’s attention.

  Then the last man standing turned his way, spitting blood from a smiling mouth and wiping more of the stuff from his hands.

  Crowley looked him over, the grin slowly fading away and his eyes half-lidded as he spoke in mocking tones. “Oh, come on, Detective. Don’t look so shocked. Didn’t you hear? I’m a dangerous man. I should be locked away.”

  Rico couldn’t stop himself from taking a few steps back as Crowley approached. Crowley’s gaze made him feel small: like a first grader caught peeing himself. His expression said it all: I could have killed you if I wanted to. I just didn’t feel like it.

  He wanted to ask a hundred questions but knew that the answers wouldn’t be anything he wanted to hear.

  Crowley walked past him and headed for the stairs, stepping over the people he’d just slaughtered. Montoya desperately wished he had his weapon on him.

  He was also very glad he didn’t have it. He wasn’t sure he could draw and fire before he got Crowley’s attention.

  Once they were in the stairwell, Crowley turned and faced him again. The door they’d just passed through slammed shut with a thunderous finality.

  “Let’s get this finished, Detective.”

  “Get what finished?”

  “I don’t have the time to play a song and dance with you, so I’m going to make this easy. I didn’t kill my family.”

  Damnedest thing: he believed the man.

  “My life is complicated right now. I have enough issues to deal with. You’re a busy man, I’m sure and I bet you’d like to get back home and see your family. So here’s the deal. Go home. Keep looking for my family’s murderer and let me know if you find a suspect worth mentioning. In exchange, I promise to stay well away from you.”

  Crowley spoke, and Rico listened. He should have been protesting, telling the psychopath that as soon as he could, he’d see him on death row. Instead, he nodded his agreement and even smiled. They shook hands in the corridor and Crowley wrote down a phone number on the back of one of Montoya’s business cards. He slipped the card deep into his wallet, convinced that having that number would be very important some day.

  Five minutes after he left Cherry Hill, Rico Montoya had forgotten all about Jonathan Crowley and everything he’d seen that was out of the ordinary during his visit.

  If he’d remembered what had happened, he might have thanked Crowley for it. His life made a lot more sense when the supernatural was left out of it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jonathan Crowley told Roger Finney everything about what had happened in the violent ward. He mentioned nothing at all about what occurred in the stairwell afterwards.

  Roger listened to the details with a growing sense of dread and called Bob Wilkes to have him confirm what was reported. His lips felt numb as he spoke on the phone with the chief of security, and his hands shook as he finally hung up.

  “John, there’s no way in hell I can hide this anymore.” He spoke without really being aware of what he was saying. Somewhere along the way, his ‘Inside Voice’ as his mother had always called it, had managed to sneak straight out his mouth.

  Crowley looked at him and frowned. “That’s not really my concern, Roger. It shouldn’t be yours, either. The smartest thing you could do is close down Cherry Hill until this is all resolved.”

  “Close down a facility for the criminally insane? You really have lost your mind.”

  “Hey, you’re feeling bad about this.” Crowley crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, his sarcastic tones weren’t lost on Roger. “Maybe it would be better if you just handled it yourself. I could be on my way and no one ever has to hear about it. Listen, I bet if you tried, you could hide most of the bodies in swampy areas and no one would ever find out.”

  “That’s not going to happen and you know it.”

  “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought it would, Doc.”

  “Can you tell me what the hell is happening John? Can you at least give me a guess?”

  “Well, I haven’t had a lot of time to look into the details yet, Roger. That’s part of the problem here. All I can tell you is that you’ve got an escalating situation on you hands.”

  “Well no shit!” Roger slapped his hand on the desk and knocked his pencil jar to the ground in the process.

  “Calm down. Blowing up is hardly the way to work out the details. Let’s look at what we’ve got so far.” Crowley held up his hand and started lifting one finger with each point he made as if he were keeping score. “Near as I can tell this started with the dead body in the plumbing; still no identification of the corpse, so we can rule out a missing patient. The clothes were antiquated, so it’s possible we’re dealing with a first attempt at manifestation that just didn’t work out.”

  Roger frowned, trying to understand what sort of rationale Crowley was using. Harrington was sounding smarter by the minute.

  “Three or four people end up badly mutilated, several ghosts get torn into pieces and left to wander around. That leads me to think something is trying to understand how they work and is also learning to absorb what it needs to survive.

  “That’s all bad enough, Roger. It could mean dealing with a hungry ghost and as I said before, they can get very mean very fast. The more they devour, the stronger they get.”

  “Okay, damn it, John, I’m really trying to accept all of this, but now you’re telling me that ghosts eat other ghosts to get stronger? That’s like saying I could start eating my patients to become Superman.”

  “You’re thinking in terms of the physical realm, Roger. If you put two people in a room and one of them cannibalizes the other, you end up with a corpse and a cannibal. I’ll give you that. But try thinking of the dead as energy instead of matter. If you put two fires in the same room they’re just two fires. If you merge them, they become a bigger fire. Same thing with water, put two gallons of water together and they merge easily.”

  Roger tried to calm down and listened. “Okay. So a hungry ghost is like a fire added to a fire. Got it.”

  “Here’s another part of that comparison for you. First, you have a ghost. Then you have a bigger ghost with an appetite. Soon it’s adding more and more fires, and it’s burning hotter and brighter. In order to keep up with its new size and strength, it burns more fuel faster.”

  “So you’re saying this won’t get better? It’ll get worse?” His voice cracked.

  Crowley nodded. “Oh yes. Much worse. If we don’t figure out what it’s doing and fast.”

  “If you can see ghosts, why can’t you see this hungry one?”

  “I can see them as long as they don’t start outthinking me, Doc. This one is getting smarter. Also, I’ve never run across a hungry ghost that actually successfully ate people. I don’t think this is a hungry ghost, Roger. I think it’s something all new that works on the same principle.”

  “Not a demon?”

  “No. Demons might work this way, but they wouldn’t leave behind evidence unless they were either making a point or were told to by whoever summoned them. Also, I’m not getting the same sort of vibe I get from demons.”

  Roger closed his eyes and tried to let the surreal conversation mingle with his own beliefs. It wasn’t working very well.

  “We’re getting off track here. I don’t know what exactly is going on, Roger. I just know it’s getting worse. I can’t say exactly what happened to those patients I had to handle, either, but whatever has been tearing people apart has apparently now learned how to make improvements. If I were you, I’d be asking for a very thorough autopsy of the men I just had to kill. I’m guessing not a one of the men I dealt with has normal anatomy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They were too strong, too fast and too tough, Roger.” Crowley dropped himself into a chair. “They also got out of lock
ed cages, which means they had help of some kind.”

  “No one in this facility would be stupid enough to unlock the cells.”

  “I didn’t say it was an employee, did I?”

  “Then what do you think it was?”

  “I think whatever is growing inside of your asylum is learning new tricks. I think it altered the men and then let them free, just to see what would happen.”

  Roger stared at his patient for a long time, uncertain how to react to the comments. Everything that Crowley was saying made a certain sense to him and that was bothersome. Roger considered himself first and foremost a man of logic. The supernatural didn’t fit comfortably into his reality. However, as it had been presented to him in a logical and relatively orderly fashion, he had to concede the reality of strange things happening in his previously orderly world.

  “Okay, enough about the whys and wherefores, John. What can be done to fix the problem?”

  “I’m still working on that. I have to know what’s broken before I can actually fix it, Roger. It’s the way these things work. You don’t drive a wooden stake into a werewolf to stop it.” Crowley shook his head. “If this was a hungry ghost I could have figured it out by now, but this is something that’s trying to work along the same lines. If it was a demon, I could have sorted out the details, but it’s not. Whatever is happening is either breaking the rules or has never existed before. If it’s new, the rules as I know them don’t really apply properly.”

  So basically, you don’t know shit and can’t do a damned thing to help me. Roger closed his eyes. “John, how am I supposed to explain how and why you killed over a dozen people?”

  The question couldn’t have been better timed. Carl Branaugh opened the door to Roger’s office just as he started asking.

  Crowley looked over at the detective and crossed his arms. “It was self-defense.”

  “What happened to Montoya?” Branaugh’s voice was calm, and belied his expression.

  “He found out what he needed to know and went home. I imagine he’s on his way to the airport right now.” Crowley kept a calm expression and a snide tone.

  “Well that’s a damned shame for you, Mr. Crowley. Because without him to back you up, I have to consider whether or not you went on a killing spree.” Branaugh moved toward him and put his hand to the small of his back, where he likely was carrying handcuffs.

  “Don’t be an ass, Branaugh. If I felt like killing a few people here, my list wouldn’t have started on a ward where I didn’t even know anyone.” Crowley slipped out of his sitting position and into a defensive pose.

  The detective stepped forward with his chin out and his hands almost balled into fists. “There are twenty-two dead people upstairs, Crowley. I’m not being an ass; I’m looking for a legitimate explanation for mass murder.”

  “Whatever officials were up there, nurses and guards, were killed by the inmates. Montoya killed one of the guys who did those murders and I took care of the rest.” Crowley, who seemed at times a truly sensitive man, shrugged off the deaths as if they were discussing the odds of the Yankees winning the World Series.

  “So you’re admitting to murder?”

  “No, Detective, I’m admitting to self-defense. Listen, feel free to go one on one with any of the remaining three inmates. I’m sure you’ll find out for yourself that they aren’t exactly normal.”

  “What remaining inmates? Everyone on the floor is dead.”

  “Excuse me?” Crowley shook his head. “No, three of them went back into their cells and I left them alive.”

  “They were all dead when I got there. A few of them were in their cells, but they were all dead, Crowley.”

  “Yeah? How did the ones in their cells die?”

  “Like the people we found before. Like someone reached inside their skins and squeezed.”

  “I’m the first to say I can deal out my fair share of carnage, Detective, but I’ve never managed to take out pieces of a man and leave the skin intact.”

  “Well then what the hell is going on here?” Branaugh’s face reddened as he talked, the veins in his neck bulging as his blood pressure shot through the ceiling.

  “For the last time, I’m still trying to figure that out!” John was furious, and if anyone had asked him why, Roger would have guessed it was because he hadn’t solved the puzzle yet. “How long does it take you to solve a case, Branaugh? Do you guess right off the bat or do you have to look at the facts first? I’m doing all I can with the limited resources available to me.”

  “I’ve got half a mind to lock you away right now and see if things get better, Crowley.”

  “I’ve got half a mind to let you, Branaugh, just to see the stupid look on your face when this place goes up in flames.”

  Roger interjected, tired of watching the two of them. “Gentlemen, the testosterone and chest beating aren’t going to solve any of this.” He stood up and moved around his desk. “Might I suggest you pool your abilities and get this solved while there’s still a building over our heads and before the list of employees and patients gets any smaller?”

  He’d hoped to actually get the men calmer. It didn’t work that way. Worse, he could feel himself starting to succumb to an almost irrational rage.

  ***

  Amelia Dunlow savored the atmosphere in the break room. Seventeen people sat in the room with her, and not a one of them looked at her for more than a few seconds. None of the men gave off the vibe that said they wanted to possess her, to own her body and soul. It was a liberating sensation and one that she basked in.

  Having empathic abilities was a pain in her ass when things were going the wrong way. True, it had prevented a few unpleasant encounters with men who obsessed over her, but it hadn’t made her life easier when she knew what everyone around her was feeling and when most of what they felt was barely restrained lust.

  Jonathan had calmed down the part of her that generated those feelings and now she was enjoying the unexpected freedom.

  That changed, though it was such a slow transformation that she barely noticed it at first. She’d been reading over the large stacks of files that Jonathan had taken from the attic of the place. Most of the paperwork was useless, purchasing orders from fifty years back did nothing to help him solve his current case, but she’d found a few nuggets that might prove useful.

  It was while she was sorting through another stack of the dusty files that she first noticed the change. The people around her were still not focusing on her, but they were all gradually getting edgier, more frustrated with their situation. People who’d been chatting casually a few minutes earlier were now sitting in the same spots with sullen expressions and dark thoughts.

  Being sensitive had its uses. Amelia gathered together her files and left the break room before it could get any worse.

  The people she saw in the hallway were exactly the same, however, each and every one of them giving off slowly increasing waves of anger.

  There was nothing natural about it, either. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but she’d have bet five years of her life that something was toying with the emotions of the people around her. It wasn’t affecting her, for which she was grateful, but she still didn’t want to be around when the powder keg of growing unrest was ignited.

  Amelia said a silent prayer, a hope that Jonathan was all right wherever he was, and went back to the office that had become their shared room.

  Two guards were busily glaring at each other down the long corridor. They didn’t even notice her, which was a blessing as far as she could tell. One of them had his hand on the butt of his weapon and looked like he was ready to draw and fire.

  Amelia closed and locked the door behind her. As an afterthought, she slid one of the chairs Jonathan had confiscated under the knob and propped it in place as an extra barricade.

  Her ability to sense emotions wasn’t a fine tuned thing: unlike Jonathan, it was an innate talent and not one she tried to focus on. Still, she had to know
if there was something bigger behind the change in feelings, had to know if she could locate it. Whatever was causing all of the troubles might also be hiding, and if Jonathan couldn’t find the source of the problems he couldn’t very well get rid of it.

  She lay back on her cot and tried to focus on whatever was behind the changes, but she couldn’t quite grasp it, whatever it was. She knew there was something out there, something that she sensed was growing in power, but rather than any sort of malignant spirit or demonic presence, she felt only a strong sense of curiosity.

  Then she sensed something that made her pull back, try to retreat. She felt that powerful curiosity change as whatever it was noticed her.

  What are you? It wasn’t a voice precisely, but the power of the question that pressed into her head was unexpected and painful. Something was digging into her brain, trying to understand what made her different, perhaps, or merely trying to understand everything about her. Either way it was a violation and she tried to force it away without any success.

  “Nothing. I’m no one special. Please just forget about me.” She whispered the words under her breath, taken by surprise.

  You are not human.

  “Yes I am.” The words stung: She’d been trying to be human for a long time and failing.

  No, you are different. Not human. Not dead. Not alive. What are you?

  Underlying the sense of violation was another, distant sensation, a calming of the people throughout the entire building. Whatever the thing was, it could only focus on one task at a time. Maybe that was a plus.

  “Please, just go away. Leave me alone.” She was scared. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she couldn’t catch a decent breath.