Tales Of The Abysmal Plane (Zoë Martinique Short Stories) (The Zoë Martinique Investigation Series)

by Phaedra Weldon

  I kept my body on the couch at home with Mom and rode incorporeally with Rhonda. She stayed in the background, blending in (LOL!), as I made my way past the cameras and anchor people to the back of the house. There I found an open door and slipped inside, happy I wouldn't have to sieve through the wood. I can go through stuff, but I don't like to. Especially not glass. Too cold.

  I stopped in the kitchen. There was equipment everywhere. Camera lenses pointed at me from every angle. Luckily, none of them were turned over and running.

  Yay.

  I moved to the hallway and the den. Fewer cameras here, and none of them looked like thermal imagers. My guess was they'd keep those in their hands as they had the night before.

  I stood in the room's center. The television in the corner was dark, the books in the shelf all in place. Maybe, since the thing had been centered in here, the fetter was, too.

  So, what would it look like? Would it glow? Jump up and down?

  Sing?

  I wanted to shout out, call to it. But not if they could actually record me. Think, think, think.

  What had SPRITE done to provoke it the night before?

  "Randall, we can't work with all those people outside." That was Herb, and he didn't sound happy. "I told you not to do that interview—not till we were done."

  They stopped right outside the den, in the hallway, where I'd been stuck the night before.

  "I thought it needed to be shown that we're not crazy people." Randall said.

  "I know we're not crazy, and so do you. Why should it matter who else did?"

  "But we actually have proof, Herb. We need to show it around."

  Did something just vibrate on that shelf?

  "Randall, just because we got something on tape doesn't mean people will believe. Hell, someone could say that was Boo we caught on the imager."

  Yep, something definitely was vibrating over there.

  "That was not Boo," Randall said a bit louder. I wouldn't have been too shocked to see him stomp his foot. "I know what I saw."

  A book sailed across the room. I ducked, and it slammed into the two-person sofa.

  "Randall, we both saw it, and we heard it, too. There's something in this house."

  "Then why are you ashamed of it?"

  Another book flew across the room, followed by a trophy. I ducked both of them and then looked at the two SPRITE members. Uh, hello? Moving objects?

  "I am not ashamed of it, Randall. Geesus." Herb put his hands in the air. "We just didn't need that circus outside."

  This time the television actually lifted in the air and sailed at the door.

  Right at them.

  "Move, you idiots!" Okay, so I think my outburst was justified, right?

  Randall and Herb both looked in time to see the television hurling at them. A few girlie screams, but the two ducked out of the way and back down the hall.

  That's when the giant squid sort of appeared. It didn't take a rocket scientist, or even a Wall Street tycoon, to grasp what I realized at that moment. The Poltergeist activity from last night wasn't fed from the Brentwoods, but from SPRITE.

  Point of sale: Randall.

  Some unresolved issues there. A little frustration and anger?

  "Christ! Get the cameras rolling! We have activity in the den!"

  I moved to the side, behind what looked like the eye of the squid. It continued to grab up random objects with its tentacles and toss them at the doorway. Keeping quiet while it was busy, I looked for the fetter. Anything that might work.

  A fetter was a leash of sorts. So, it'd have to be somehow connected to old Squidward here, right? Not around his neck, because he didn't seem to have one. So—where?

  Randall and Herb arrived then, as well as Ron, who sported a nasty bruise on his right cheek. Randall had the thermal imager in hand and was getting it geared up to point into the room. I moved to the side, out of the way and, hopefully, still out of site of the Poltergeist.

  "Anything?" Herb said.

  "No…wait. What the hell is that?"

  I moved up behind them, slipping in between the two so I could look at the imager screen. Had they seen the squid?

  "I—that's weird," Randall looked at the monitor and then up into the room. "What's so hot?"

  Ah ha! There was a hot thing in there. The fetter? I moved in a little bit closer and saw it. Some orange and red spot in the far corner of the room.

  Wait…wasn't that—

  "Is that the camera?" Herb said, as he squinted into the room.

  I'd seen that camera earlier when I'd first walked in. I remembered it because it looked like something circa 1985.

  "Yeah," Ron said. "What camera is that? I don't recognize it."

  "It's one the Brentwoods found when they moved in," Randall said.

  Everyone looked at him. He shrugged. "It's a classic, and Mr. Brentwood said I could have it."

  "Why is it hot?" Herb said.

  Old camera…I moved away from the trio and eased to the left of the room around the squid. It'd been busy extending its tentacles through the house again and hadn't seen me.

  Yet.

  So the fetter was a camera. I could see the faint leash or rope or whatever that led from it to the base of the Poltergeist. I guess cameras could be a source of frustration. Especially if they'd been used in some oogy way. Like for porno? For taking pictures that shouldn't be taken?

  Ew. That was just a gross thought.

  Somehow I needed to convince them to destroy it—and from the sound of admiration in Randall's voice, that wasn't going to be easy.

  "There she is," Randall said. "Just to the left in the room. See her?"

  "Wow…you weren't kidding," Ron said.

  I turned and glared at them. They needed to stop focusing on me and focus on the squid. Why couldn't they see the squid? Didn't make any sense to me—not like I understood any of this.

  "Why'd she throw the television at us?" Herb said.

  "Because she's a Poltergeist." Randall said. He faced the room, with no idea he was less than two feet from a giant glowing squid. "We mean you no harm—why are you trying to kill us? Are you angry? Did something really bad happen to you here?" He held something in his hand, and I realized it was an MP3 recorder.

  Wow…I'd never been interviewed before.

  Something rumbled under my feet. I turned and saw the squid had turned, as well, and was looking at me with its one good eye. Yikes!

  Tentacles whipped out of every nook and cranny of the room and threw themselves at me. It looked like thousands of white ropes uncoiling my way—and I had nowhere to run!

  Within seconds, I was encased in them. They moved slowly through me as they had my ankles the night before, but this time, as some fell away, others quickly replaced them.

  I was trapped…and cold. Antarctica cold. My teeth rattled in my head, and I felt myself drop to my knees. I tried to concentrate on my cord, but I couldn't find it in all the tentacles encircling me.

  "What's—" Randall said. "What's happening? She looks like she's sick."

  "Randall…what are those snakelike things?"

  I tried to concentrate on their voices to keep from disappearing into the ice surrounding my body. "Destroy…camera," I managed to say. But could they hear me through the sound of the wind in my ears?

  Wind? There was wind?

  "Ron, did you hear that, too?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Let me rewind." I heard my voice replayed again and again.

  "Does it mean the new camera?" Herb said. Then he said louder. "Can you tell us why?"

  "Killing…me," I managed to get out. "You…asshole."

  Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have said that last part. But I was cold.

  "Killing her," Ron muttered, and even I could hear the incredulousness in his voice. "How can it kill her if she's a Ghost."

  "Randall," Herb's voice sounded a little high. I pushed and pressed on the tentacles encasing me, but they continued to pass through me, replacing themselv
es. "Look closer at the monitor. There and there…what the hell are those?"

  "Holy—" Randall said, and his voice cracked. "They're strangling her!"

  Finally! Hello? Geeks are sloooooowwww.

  I saw Herb move past me, skirting the edge of the Poltergeist's position, and grab for the camera. Two tentacles oozed through me and whipped out toward him—no—they whipped out ahead of him, as if to grab the camera.

  "Herb!" Randall called out before I could. "It's going for—"

  It grabbed the camera before Herb could get to it and slammed it against the side of his face. I felt a slight warming around me and did my best to move away from the tentacles. My mind was racing ahead to my physical body—thinking of the bruises on my ankles from a single brush with its tentacles and terrified what I'd find left on my bed after this little travel.

  Herb went down, and Randall moved into action. He dropped the thermal imager on the floor and dove for the camera. It whipped about in the air. I screamed for him to watch his left, then his right, and then it moved through me—

  And I was free.

  Wha—?

  I wasted no time in moving out of the way. I was free, and warm, and not rooted to the spot as I'd been the night before. I didn't know why that'd happened, and in that instant, I didn't care. I just knew I needed to somehow get that frak'n camera away from the Poltergeisty squid.

  Randall was still doing his jump-and-duck dance about the den, Herb lay on the floor clutching his head, but making a solid attempt to get up, and Ron—well he was struck dumb at the door, probably freaked out by the levitating camera. I moved to the back, able to see what Randall couldn't.

  If I looked carefully, the thing's tentacle arms moved, as well as looked, like a squid, so the lower parts attached to the body led the movement. I watched it for a few seconds to test my theory, and after two near misses at Randall's skull, I knew right where the camera would be next.

  Yelling at Randall to go right and up, I gave a good ole Georgia Bulldog Woof when he caught the thing like a football, intercepting a supernatural pass.

  "Smash it!" Herb yelled.

  "No," Randall said, scrambling to get out of the den and shoving Ron to the side. "It's an antique."

  "It's a damned fetter!" I shouted and ran around the Poltergeist, jumping over the tentacles and doing a limbo. "Destroy it."

  "I—can't," Randall said.

  And just when I thought I was going to have to do some serious tongue lashing (damn I wish I could move solid things!), Ron unfroze and grabbed the camera out of Randall's hand. He moved with it down the hall.

  A tentacle followed, and so did I. As did Randall and a stumbling Herb.

  I got there in time to see Ron set the camera on the counter. He grabbed a hammer from the junk drawer (isn't it interesting how every kitchen has one of those drawers, and they have hammers in them?) and opened a can of whoop-ass on that piece of electronic equipment.

  It was broken in two whacks, pulverized in four, and by the ninth hit, he was smacking and denting the white, gold-flecked Formica counter.

  Ohhh…Ron gets busy.

  Randall grabbed Ron's raised hammer hand and put a finger to his own lips. Everyone stopped. The hum in the house was gone (not that I'd realized there was one till it was missing). Was it…?

  That's when hell broke loose.

  Every thingie that carried a current of any kind sparked in the house at the same instant. I ducked, even though my hair wouldn't actually catch fire from the exploding microwave behind Herb. In fact, everyone was on the floor.

  Once the fireworks stopped, I stood first and moved quickly back to the den. The Poltergeist was gone—but was it really gone? As in dissolved into the Abysmal Plane?

  I didn't know. Nor did I care. I just didn't want anyone else hurt by it.

  SPRITE's electronic equipment lay on the orange and turquoise blue [what??] in smoking heaps. Ooh, they were not going to be happy about that.

  "Oh hell," Randall said as he saw the mess. "Look what that Ghost did."

  "This is going to cost us a fortune." Herb still clutched at his head as he knelt down beside the sparking remains of the thermal imager. "To think we helped her—and she does this to our equipment?"

  Me? They thought I did this?

  That's it.

  I went home.

  •••

  SPRITE did blame me, as I thought they would. All their equipment was destroyed, and in an odd twist of circumstance, the video they'd captured of me went missing. Even the copy Randall had kept was wiped clean.

  I didn't know how, and I didn't care. The Brentwoods arranged for the house to be bulldozed and sold the property for more money than they paid. Bully for them. Whoohoo.

  I did come back to my body with a series of bruises over every inch of skin and muscle. It took me a week to get back on my feet and not need a wall to prop myself against.

  Ow, ow, and ow. Rest and plenty of Mom's cooking, and I was—okay. Maybe a few pounds heavier.

  With Rhonda in tow, I tracked down the Smith daughter.

  We were sitting in a Starbucks in Augusta, Georgia, when I got the story from her. The crisp turn of cold bit at my nose as we sat outside, enjoying the break from the South's cruel and soupy heat. It was nice now, but we all knew it'd be hot again in a day or so.

  Pumpkins and corn stalks propped on hay bails still decorated the corner.

  The daughter looked less than comfortable, but she was resigned. "I used to come home from school before my parents did—and they put my uncle in charge of me. He used to take that camera out—and we'd go down into the basement—and he'd—" she licked her lips. "He used to take pictures—"

  "Whoa," Rhonda sat forward, her hands up. "You don't have to go any further. We got the picture."

  I was horrified. "Did your dad know?"

  The daughter nodded. She was still a pretty woman at forty-five. Slim. Delicate. Careful. "I hid the camera, and my uncle accused my dad of taking it and keeping the pictures for himself. Dad found out what he'd been doing," she gave a half smile. "And I never saw my uncle again. Even to this day, I don't know where he is or what happened to him. No one's seen him."

  Rhonda and I looked at each other then. Her uncle just disappeared after having a fight with his brother—her father?

  I didn't know what was going through Rhonda's brain, but mine was on the gravy train to an episode of Murder She Wrote. The house hadn't been raised yet—that was scheduled for the following week.

  Would they find it? Her uncle's body?

  Perhaps buried in a box or a bag along with the naked pictures he'd taken of his niece?

  I wasn't sure I wanted to know—but I was pretty confident that whatever came of this—I'd one day soon return to Web Ginn House and see whatever the new owners decided to build.

  Out Of The Dark

  This is a bridge novella between Wraith and Spectre, featuring Dags McConnell.

  Nurses are amazing creatures. Especially night shift nurses. Why, you ask? Because they see things no ordinary human should ever see—and they rarely ever question why. They just shake their heads and go on about their jobs of saving lives as well as doctors' asses.

  But by far my favorite nurse?

  The head nurse. The grand muckity-muck of the graveyard shift. 'Cause let me tell you—this is a force to be reckoned with. These women don't take shit off of anyone, not doctors, not patients, and certainly not half-naked orderlies standing in the middle of the women's bathroom. And I have seen one of these nurses fell an otherwise healthy young man just by yelling.

  I'd been hanging about Daniel's room so much I knew the nurse rotation. As did Mom. Hell, Mom brought cakes and brownies and homemade thigh-swelling sweet tea. She was a popular visitor on the floor—except to those who were trying desperately to keep their girlie figures.

  Yeah, like they're all so flattering in those really loose, upholstery-patterned scrubs. Though there was one lady who had teddy bears on hers. Hrm
—now those might make for comfy ice cream-eating evenings.

  Tonight's nurse was Tiarra (yep, you say it just like the crown, Tee-ar-ah) Boudreaux. Now—this lady stood a good foot taller than me. And that's saying a lot. I'm not exactly short. Her hair—sprayed upward into something resembling an ice sculpture—made up a good half-foot of the height.

  Her nails were long and painted white with black spots, and her lips were always colored like McIntosh apples. Never a smudge. And evidently she'd already had it with Mr. Bartender and his shenanigans when she walked in on him and me in the bathroom—

  Wait, lemme back up a minute.

  Where was I the last time I saw you...Oh! Yeah. Mr. Dags the Bartender had his pants down around his ankles. Naked men and all that.

  See, after getting over his shock of me walking in on him with Nancy the Nurse, he just stood there. Not moving. I wasn't doing anything but politely gawking.

  Now—this guy had been cute when I'd first seen him behind the bar at Fadó's. And he was still cute as a button with no shirt—or pants—on. I'd never seen a lower body blush before, either.

  Mental note: Awwwww.

  But he kept his hands cupped in a ball over his crotch as we stood there, eyeballing each other. Not that I could actually see the goodies as his orderly's scrub top reached below his hips. He cleared his throat. His voice cracked, and he had to swallow nervously.

  "You—you were with Detective Frasier."

  I nodded.

  He was still blushing. Still cute. "You were a Ghost—did you know that?"

  Nod again.

  He started shifting on his feet. Huh, did he have to go pee pee?

  "He ever see you sitting there?"

  I nodded again, remembering that Dags had been called away to be manly before I went corporeal before Daniel. But this pretty much proved my hunch that day, that the bartender had noticed me. But why could he see me? Was he like Mom and Rhonda? Or just plain weird?

  There was a long, awkward, strangled pause. Not for me, really. I still had my clothes on. I could stand here all night. I had no idea why he wasn't getting dressed.