Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Don’t say anything so they don’t walk out. Give the ghost hunters their money’s worth. One last hurrah for the old White Horse, eh?”

  You can bet your sweet little tush on that one, Stevie.

  “Farewell, love.” Stevie hung up.

  The hotel was her life, her identity, her playground. She’d imagined keeping her room on the second floor until they wheeled her out in a zippered bag. Janey gripped the dead phone, unable to face the void that loomed in front of her.

  “Two days.”

  Had she said it aloud?

  She had the acute feeling that someone was watching her.

  Janey turned. Nothing.

  Paranoia.

  But that didn’t mean they weren’t watching.

  She wondered if they’d overheard.

  Two days.

  Chapter 6

  Smells like pigeon poop and mummies up here.

  Wayne played his flashlight beam along the narrow strip of decking that served as a crawl space. The attic was insulated with shredded newspaper, so it was a miracle the White Horse hadn’t long since burned to the ground, especially given the shoddy state of the wiring. The rafters were crisscrossed with cables and pipes, evidence of the hotel’s attempt to change with the times. The upgrades had been haphazard, and the tangles created the suggestion that monstrous, hairy spiders would come creeping out of the shadows at any moment.

  He planned to make the attic a hunt location, but he couldn’t picture running a bunch of forty-something TAPS wannabes up the ladder and through the cramped quarters. One of them might wander off the decking in the dark and plummet through the gypsum ceiling. Even though Haunted Computer Productions was a limited-liability company that owned nothing besides its namesake computer, Wayne didn’t want the hassle or legal fees involved with getting sued. Hunters were required to sign waivers, but a waiver would be nothing more than Exhibit A in a court case that could drag for years.

  He backtracked to attic access, deciding to use the main one off the hall closet instead of the one in Room 318. He yelled down through the access hole to the hall. “It’s a no go up here.”

  “How about a couple of IR cams?” answered Burton Hodges, the former rock ‘n’ roll roadie Wayne had recruited as SSI’s tech specialist.

  Infrared cameras would allow people to watch the attic on monitors. Every waft of dust or wind-blown shadow could become proof of the afterlife. The unbelievable became more real if it was on television, and he could edit together clips to create a commemorative DVD and rake in some extra cash on the side.

  The only thing better than sending customers away satisfied is sending them away broke.

  “Sure, let’s rig it with audio, too.” Wayne figured the eaves had enough cracks and gaps to allow moaning breezes, and with any luck the place was infested with bats.

  Wayne sent his flashlight beam bouncing deeper into the attic. Specks of dust swirled in the orange cone, creating the illusion of a thousand floating fairies. Any digital flash photographs taken up here would result in generous orb phenomena, something the armchair spiritualists accepted as paranormal activity.

  Wayne had always wondered why a ghost should choose to inhabit a fuzzy white space the size and shape of a billiard ball when presumably it knew no bounds of time and space. Every professional photographer insisted orbs were the result of lens flare arising from reflections of dust or water droplets, and in the era of Photoshop programs, no digital image was trustworthy anyway.

  That didn’t stop the proliferation of “authentic” photos of ghosts, and Wayne himself had included orb photos taken at the White Horse Inn with his promotional materials. He did add a disclaimer at the bottom, stating, “Orb photography is a controversial field and opinions vary on its research validity,” but it was like a beer-can label that warned alcohol could impair your motor skills. The warning itself was good publicity.

  As Wayne scanned the crawl space, looking for good locations to post the cameras, the shadows shifted at the far end of the attic. A wall vent covered with wire mesh and wooden slats allowed air to circulate in the attic, and thin slices of sunlight leaked through. Passing clouds could cause a change in brightness, altering the quality of light in the entire attic.

  Groovy effect, now all I need is a ragged sheet on a coat hanger...

  The shadows shifted again, though the air was still.

  Wayne crept forward, keeping his head low so he wouldn’t bump it on the rafters. The flashlight’s globe bobbed in front of him and the boards creaked beneath his boots. The hairs on his neck tingled–the wiring, it’s an EMF effect on my brain circuitry–and the air seemed charged with an expectant weight. A papery rustle in the walls, probably the migration of disturbed mice, sounded almost like a whisper.

  Cumulatively, the various phenomena could be called an “encounter,” but Wayne knew them for what they were. Suggestion, a mild alteration in the physical environment, and cultural folklore meant that if it walked like a ghost, talked like a ghost, and shat like a ghost, it was ghost. The image of ghostly turds made him suppress a grin.

  Then the shadow moved again.

  Mice.

  A chunk of darkness pulled itself free and moved near a crusted brick chimney. Wayne flicked his beam toward it, and the black outline grew more vivid.

  It was a human form.

  A brittle, high frequency pierced his ears and his teeth jolted as if he were chewing tin foil.

  The whisper came again, and this time the wind was quiet and the words were clear and in a language mice never spoke outside of Saturday-morning cartoons: “You’re blinding me.”

  Wayne retreated a step and his skull knocked against a support post, sending squiggly lime sparks across the backs of his eyelids. His flashlight bounced to the decking and went out. He wobbled and hugged the post for balance.

  The temperature in the attic dropped 10 degrees and the electrical surge rippled from his head to his toes.

  The wind, dummy, it’s November. And mice. Yeah. Mice.

  He squinted into the darkness, orienting himself by the distant square light of the access door and the zebra-striped vent. The dark form now blended into the black space of the attic, and it was easy to believe he’d imagined the whole thing.

  But that didn’t stop his heart from hammering like a man trapped in a coffin.

  “Wayne?” Burton called.

  He swallowed and his throat chafed as if the air had turned to sawdust. “I’m okay,” he croaked.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I heard a couple of bumps.”

  “I dropped my light.” Wayne reached out with the tip of his boot, probing for the flashlight, wondering what he would do if something grabbed his foot.

  Burton’s head poked up through the access opening and he swept a flashlight across the attic until Wayne stood in its spotlight like a cabaret dancer on stage. He blinked into the light–You’re blinding me–and then glanced toward the chimney.

  The shape was gone, just as he knew it would be.

  Because it had never been there.

  We made a promise, Beth, but neither of us believed it. And lying gets easier as you get older.

  He stooped and gathered his flashlight from its bed of shredded paper. He tested it and found it still worked. “Okay, pass me a couple of the cameras,” Wayne said, pulse returning to normal.

  He was a little embarrassed at his suggestibility. He’d never considered himself a skeptic, and he wasn’t interested in all the physiological changes that caused people to hallucinate. Ghosts were good business, from campfire storytelling to blockbuster horror movies. With thousands of people running around chasing them with fancy electronics, the poor souls were probably hiding safely under ground instead of rattling chains and slamming doors.

  Burton set a plastic case on the decking and slid it toward Wayne. “Two Sony DVMs,” he said. “Hey, it’s cold up here.”

  “November in the mountains
,” Wayne said. “What do you expect?”

  He mounted the first camera so that it would catch the main section of the attic, though one wing of the hotel would not be visible. He aimed the second camera so it would take in the chimney. He connected the cables that Burton had snaked toward him, and then used the viewfinder to test the chimney cam. As he zoomed in, the camera’s auto focus fixed on a hand print in the chimney’s soot and grime.

  Made by a worker’s glove, probably.

  He zoomed out and duck-walked over to the chimney, keeping his head low. He ran his flashlight over the bricks and masonry joints. The hand print was gone.

  He went back to the camera and set it to record, the satellite hard drive in the control room capable of recording an entire weekend’s worth of footage. “Come on out and play,” he called into the dead air of the attic.

  “What’s that?” Burton called from below.

  “Nothing,” Wayne said.

  What was he expecting? Beth?

  Nothing.

  Just like always.

  Chapter 7

  Nailed him.

  These New Age flakes were too busy smoking fairy dust, drinking koo-koo Kool-Aid, and gazing into crystals to peek behind the curtain. Which gave Ann Vandooren all the power of the Wizard of Oz, and by Sunday, Digger Wilson and his band of merry pranksters would wish they’d never left Kansas, or Pluto, or wherever the hell these losers came from.

  Ann had hidden a closed-circuit television camera in the corner of the attic two days earlier, renting Room 306 so she could be across the hall from the infamous Room 318. She’d drilled a hole through her closet ceiling and surreptitiously ran two cables into the attic. One cable connected to her multiplexor to store video footage on a hard drive, while the other cable allowed remote operation of a pocket-size projector. She’d borrowed the gear from the Optical Sciences department at Westridge University, where she was a tenured professor of physics.

  The trick had worked better than she had imagined. With Duncan’s help, she’d collected footage of herself in a black gown and stage make-up, dancing and cavorting in front of a sheet while floor-level spotlights blazed up from below. In the editing process, she’d turned the image into a reverse negative, so that her body appeared almost translucent. She’d then dubbed the footage in slow motion, creating a rippling, almost sensuous ballet. It had taken an hour to aim the projector lens so that the image appeared to float across the attic, and the dust and sweat had been worth the result.

  Ann figured Digger would squeal like a pig on a hillbilly honeymoon, run from the attic, and cry “Wolf,” giving her an opportunity to retrieve her gear and let the mystery drive SSI batty for a few days. Then, after all the conference attendees had marveled over the “evidence,” Ann would come out with her own version of the facts, backed by a video recording of the hoax.

  But Digger had actually approached the image, more startled than afraid. She could almost respect him for that. After all, his sick obsession was a close cousin to her own scientific curiosity. A pity he wasted his energy and resources on bunk.

  “What did you get on him?” asked Duncan Hanratty, her graduate assistant and temporary lover. He was on the bed, propped against pillows and reading the latest issue of Popular Mechanics.

  “I’ll show you the clip later,” she said. “When the phonies stand up and start blathering, I’ll roll this out and dash ice water in their faces.”

  “You’re sexy when you’re mean.”

  “Lucky for you.” She wondered if Digger had reported the incident to his team. She might not get an opportunity to sneak back into the attic, especially if SSI got their cameras hooked up. For space cadets, they sure knew their stuff when it came to high-tech gear.

  “What do you have against these guys, anyway?” Duncan said, tossing the magazine aside and rubbing his tousled hair in that sleepy, Teddy-bear manner that made him so adorable for minutes at a stretch.

  “This pseudoscience gives real science a bad name,” she said. “We’re planning the first mission to Jupiter, we’ve mapped the human genetic code, and we’re making major breakthroughs in nanotechnology. But there’s no sense of wonder in it. People would rather engage in make-believe.”

  “Still seems like a waste of our weekend,” Duncan said. “We could be logging some lab time.”

  “You’re too young to understand.” It was her favorite taunt, though he was in his mid-twenties and only 15 years younger than she.

  “I understand perfectly,” he said. “You need to know you’re right, and you need other people to know they’re wrong.”

  Ann checked her laptop and made sure the other pieces of bait were ready. She’d planted a few digital recorders around the hotel, triggered by wireless remote signals. The recorders contained cryptic sound bites such as the one she’d broadcast for Digger in the attic. “You’re blinding me” was one of the most obvious, given that ghost hunters tended to work in the dark and carry flashlights.

  “The trouble is they don’t know they’re wrong,” she said. “They’re trying to prove a negative.”

  “Well, your scientific method is suspect, too,” Duncan said, with that infuriating smugness. Or maybe Ann was only infuriated because he had a point. “You can hardly consider your approach methodical and objective, because you hold the belief that ghosts don’t exist. Therefore, you are trying to prove a foregone conclusion rather than collect data in an impartial manner.”

  “What’s your point?” It was the common response of those in a weak position. But at least she had the authority to stop sleeping with him if necessary.

  “You’re in high dudgeon,” he said.

  “I have no idea what ‘high dudgeon’ means.”

  “Me, either, but whatever it is, you’re in it.”

  Ann scrolled through some programs on the laptop. She wasn’t in the mood to argue or play, which were usually the same when it came to Duncan. She’d seduced half her male assistants, and one of her female assistants, since securing her Ph.D., and Duncan was the first she’d actually almost loved. “You know what’s ironic?”

  “You as a NASCAR queen?” he said, his hand creeping toward his belt.

  She was wearing blue jeans and a Dale Earnhardt sweatshirt, her hair tied back in a pony tail instead of flaring in the usual defiant and deranged curls. The biggest insult was the Carolina Panthers ball cap clamped down on her forehead. But the disguise had worked when, during her preliminary scouting expedition, she’d blundered into a cramped rear room where the hotel staff sat sullen and tobacco-soaked. She didn’t quite have the wrinkled, defeated look of the permanent underclass, but she had passed for some sort of laborer, because she’d given a conspiratorial wave that said, “This place, what can you do?” One of the maids had even directed her to the service stairs, where traffic was minimal.

  “Shut up and listen for a change,” she said. “I’m trying to be objective here.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Assuming 50 people are here focusing their energy on ghosts, what if the combined electromagnetic force of their brain circuitry slightly altered the normal EMF state of the hotel? And subsequently that alteration led to hallucinations, feelings of disorientation, and a sense of being watched or touched?”

  “You mean the power of wishful thinking?”

  “Or maybe just projection or self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  “That’s the whole trouble with the supernatural,” Duncan said. “It’s beyond the laws of nature and, as such, can’t be measured, quantified, or compared. It’s like arguing religion. Say a child is swept away in a flood but gets snagged on a tree branch and survives. The rescue is called miraculous proof of God’s mercy, but what about the people who drowned?”

  “They come back as waterlogged ghosts?”

  “Have you noticed,” he asked, “that most of our conversations are in the form of questions?”

  “And this is a bad thing?”

  “You love to be bad.” Duncan rolled off the
bed and stood behind her. He kissed the back of her neck and then peered over her shoulder at the computer screen. “Hey, did the light level just change in the attic?”

  “What if we accidentally discovered irrefutable proof of the afterlife while trying to debunk it?”

  “It would be a miracle,” he said.

  Ann clicked through the files on her computer. She had five more doctored videos and a folder full of superimposed still images. She’d spent one on Digger, but she could use that one again. Maybe she’d wait until several true believers were around to witness proof of the impossible.

  She switched to the view from the hidden spycam in the attic. Light fluctuated and she wondered if Digger had returned for a second look, but the shadow fell still. She smiled. Such imaginative impressions would have sent the average ghost hunter into a paroxysm of bliss.

  “We’ve got a few hours to kill before showtime,” she said, turning to meet his kiss.

  “Want to continue this conversation in bed?”

  “Will you shut up already?”

  Chapter 8

  People called him The Roach.

  Rodney Froehmer wasn’t sure whether it was because he could fit through impossibly tight crevices or because he was likely to survive nuclear winter as the last living human in a post-apocalyptic world. Either way, he embraced the role, from the rubber gloves dangling from his belt to the mini MAG light clipped on the bill of his black baseball cap. He only had one antenna, unlike his insect namesake, and it extended from a two-way radio headset. His night-vision goggles completed the bug-eyed appearance, but at the moment, they were draped from his neck.

  All of the Spirit Seekers International crew were hooked on technology, but The Roach was in his own special class of geek. His equipment dangled from loops and straps or bulged from the cargo pockets in his jumpsuit. While the SSI uniforms made all of them easily recognizable, The Roach particularly loved the attention from the paranormal community. He didn’t have Cody’s looks or the artistic flair of Digger Wilson, but he’d carved out a niche and been photographed with plenty of ghost-hunting groupies. The coup de grace was the silver crucifix that dangled down his chest.