Welcome to the Spookshow: (Book 2)

by Tim McGregor

  “You’ve been through a traumatic event. It will pop up like this, out of the blue. It’s normal.”

  “Nothing feels normal about this,” she whispered.

  “I meant the after-affects. Flashbacks, fear paralysis. That part is normal.” He dug out his phone, looked at the display and slid it back into his pocket. “You should talk to someone. A counsellor. Talking through it seems to help.”

  “Whatever. I’ll be fine.”

  “Hey.” He turned sharply. Locked eyes with her. “Don’t dismiss it. It’ll come back to bite you in the ass if you do.”

  His insistence startled her. She felt pressure on her wrist and, looking down, found it gripped in his hand. “Okay.”

  “Sorry.” He let go of her wrist.

  The hiss of traffic filled the awkward silence spreading out like a puddle. Looking to kill the dead air, she quickly said, “Is that what you do? Talk to a counsellor?”

  “Sure.” His nod shifted into a shrug. An evasion.

  “That was vague,” she said, calling him on it. “You don’t follow you’re on own advice, do you?”

  He smirked. “No. I don’t. It’s easier to dole out than to take it.”

  “You’re a hypocrite then.”

  “My secret’s out.” He looked out over the garden. “There are counsellors on call for the force. We’re obliged to talk to them. I hate it.”

  “You don’t like blabbing all your secrets to a stranger?”

  “It feels forced. Like I’m meant to perform. There’s a weird pressure to let it all out. Quickly too, before the hour’s up.”

  “Well, you’ve convinced me. I’m sure to go now.”

  A slight grin creased his face. “Do as I say, not as I do. As my old man used to put it.”

  “So it runs in the family, huh? Being a hypocrite.” Billie almost smiled back. The suffocating gloom she’d felt earlier lifted by a degree or two, bantering with the police officer. It surprised her. She normally felt uncomfortable around police officers but Mockler didn’t seem like one at all.

  “It does,” he said. “It’s a family tradition, hypocrisy. I’ll be sure to pass it on to the next generation.”

  “That’s sweet of you. Mine’s insanity, apparently.”

  “What?”

  “The family tradition. Insanity. Getting the crazies, as my aunt says.”

  “That runs in a lot of families,” he said.

  “My mom was certifiable. She was known as the crazy lady in town.” Billie blinked at her own words. She never talked about her mom. To anyone. It just slipped out this time, like it was nothing. Just another tidbit of bantering conversation.

  “She took her craziness serious, then. What town was this?”

  “Poole.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Nothing to hear about it.”

  “She still live there? Your mom?”

  “No. She’s dead.”

  “Oh.”

  Like a balloon deflating from a slow leak, the lightness of the moment evaporated with her words. She had squashed the conversation with a brick of bad news. Why had she done that? To get a reaction out of him?

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “How old you were when it happened?”

  “I was just a kid.” His condolence knocked about in her head for a spell. Not the words but the tone. Hushed and even. Was it rote with the detective? “How many times have you had to say that? In your job, like?”

  “Say what?”

  “That you’re sorry for someone’s loss.”

  He shrugged. “Never kept score.”

  “Maybe you should,” she suggested. She still didn’t understand why she felt the urge to goad the officer.

  “Who’d want to?” Turning, he studied her for a moment. “How many times have you heard it?”

  “At a certain point it becomes meaningless.” Again, the weird urge to thwart the conversation. She had done this as a teenager, lobbing grenades into a friendly chat just to watch the conversants squirm as it went off. So why now? What was she after?

  “I see,” he said, continuing his study of her. “At what point does it provoke hostility?”

  She was about to say ‘touche’ but something hooked the corner of her eye. She had almost forgotten about the phantom figure on the other side of the garden but now it sidled closer, like a wary dog looking for table scraps. A wave of cold air emanated from it, chilling her shins. She stood, the ache in her legs zapping up her muscles. “I have to go.”

  “Do you have a roommate?”

  She leaned back. Why was he asking that? “No,” she said. “Why?”

  “Is there someone you can stay with? A friend.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Billie, your hand is trembling. Stay at a friend’s house. Just for tonight.” He got to his feet. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift.”

  She folded her arms to hide her shaking hand. “I have my bike.”

  “We’ll toss it in the back. Let’s go.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  Stepping around the dry fountain, he took up the bicycle and wheeled it to her. “Don’t argue with me. Get your wheels and let’s vamoose.”

  The gravel of the pathway crunched under her feet as she followed him out to the parking lot. The shadowy figure under the wisteria vines tilted after her and she quickened her pace.

  12

  JEN COULDN’T MAKE coffee to save her life.

  The smell of it hanging in the air as it brewed roused Billie from a dead sleep. Anticipating that first strong sip, she sat up and blinked her eyes, wondering who had rearranged her living room before remembering that this wasn’t home. She had asked the police detective to drop her at Jen’s place.

  “Morning, sunshine.”

  Jen swept into the room with two steaming mismatched mugs and settled onto the floor before the coffee table. For reasons that Billie could never fathom, Jen Eckler was a morning person. Always chipper and eager to start the day.

  Billie grunted, still getting her bearings. “Thanks for letting me crash.”

  “My door’s always open,” Jen said.

  Billie rubbed her eyes to get them to adjust to the light but it was hard to tell which had more wattage; the sunlight coming through the window or Jen’s smile. Jen never woke up puffy-faced or baggy-eyed, which used to irk Billie to no end until she accepted the fact that some people were just radiant no matter what the hour. That was Jen.

  “Sorry you had to take the couch,” Jen smiled. “Next time I’ll make Adam sleep out here.”

  “It’s fine.” Billie swept her tangled hair up into a bun and pinned it in place with a pencil from the coffee table. “Is he still asleep?”

  “He left already. He starts early on Tuesdays.”

  Billie picked up her mug and looked at it. A yellow happy face. “I’m not making you late am I?”

  “No but I need to get moving. You’re welcome to stay. Go back to sleep if you want.”

  Billie chewed on it but the thought of being alone wasn’t appealing. “Nah. You want some help at the shop today?”

  “Sure!” Jen brightened even more.

  Billie could see the gears turning in Jen’s head as she anticipated an extra set of hands at work. She might regret it. Blowing off the steam, she sipped the coffee and tried not to make a face.

  Jen’s smile dampened. “That bad, huh?”

  “You lowered the bar this time.” Billie set the mug down. The liquid inside was brown and it was hot but any similarities to coffee ended there. “What time does Mulberry’s open?”

  Jen rose to her feet with a graceful swoop. A lifetime studying dance lent a fluid movement to her every move. “Six. Let’s hurry, before they run out of croissants again.”

  ~

  The spookshow that had tormented her the night before had had abated in the warmth of the morning sun. No mangled shamblers or creepy children to scare the wits out of her. With a dash of strong b
lack coffee on her tongue and the bright sun overhead, the world tilted back onto its normal axis, leaving Billie to wonder if she had imagined the terrors from last night.

  That still didn’t explain Gantry.

  “I don’t get it. What does he want with you?”

  Billie took her friend’s cup as Jen unlocked the door to the shop. She had related the details about Gantry’s appearance last night but left out the part about the spookshow.

  “I don’t know,” Billie said. “A bunch of kooky stuff. I think he just likes spooking people.” She was already regretting mentioning it at all.

  “Well what did the cop say? Is he dangerous or just a loser?”

  “He just wanted the details.” Billie scanned the interior of the Doll House. Everything was displayed with a sense of grace and style, which pretty much summed up the shop owner. Peeking into the cramped back room told a different story. Boxes were piled haphazardly and caster-wheeled racks were pushed against the wall. “Is this the mess you mentioned?”

  Jen sighed. “I have no room back here. Makes me panic just looking at it.”

  “What about the basement?”

  “I hate it down there.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Billie decided. “This mess is gonna tumble over and bury you.”

  “Did the cop tell you why he’s after this Gantry guy? What did he do?”

  “No,” Billie lied. She felt little compunction to it. Jen was her oldest friend, one that she spilled everything to but something irked her about it now. Ten minutes ago, she had wanted to share the whole crazy thing to Jen but now, an inexplicable urge came hard to pull it back. To not reveal anything more of this. As weird as it was, the experience was hers and it would stay that way.

  “Cops,” Jen stated, shaking her head in regretful dismay. The dismay doubled up as she looked over the mess of her backroom. “Okay, give me a few minutes to open up, then we’ll tackle this chaos. Deal?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Jen ran off and Billie opened the door to the basement. The uneven steps scaled down in a steep grade to the bare brick cellar built over a century ago. Jen was squeamish about things like bugs and cobwebs. It was no wonder that she avoided the dungeon-like basement. She’d just have to get used to it, Billie concluded. Still, something unpleasant seemed to roil out of the opened door, like a bad smell drifting up the steps.

  The lighting didn’t help matters. A naked bulb, improperly wired into the exposed floor joists overhead, gave a harsh glare directly under it but lengthened the shadows in the rest of the space. Carrying a box down the trechourous steps, Billie surveyed the floor to plan out the storage space. The only person who’d been down here was Jen’s dad. Some of his tools were left on the decrepit workbench under the only window. A trail of sawdust had been tracked in a pathway from the bench to the stairs.

  “Dad promised he would fix this up. Put up drywall and stuff.”

  Standing on the bottom step of the wooden stairs, Jen refused to go any further. Like a bather at the end of a dock, reluctant to jump in.

  “That would be an improvement.” Billie swept up the sawdust with a straw broom. “You’re gonna need shelving to keep stuff off this damp floor. But we can move the boxes down here for the time being.”

  Jen scanned the floor joists overhead. “I asked Dad about putting a proper ceiling up but he said I’d just lose head space because the ceiling is so low.”

  “You can always paint it. Stark white might brighten it up. Keep the dust down too.”

  “Anything would help,” Jen said. A shiver rippled through her. “I hate being down here. I feel physically ill.”

  The basement was dank and smelled of dust and old brick. Something about the dark corners and exposed pipes discouraged any loitering. Jen was always a wuss about such things but Billie had to admit that she felt it too.

  “Maybe there’s mold down here.” Billie scanned the pipes running the length of the room and her first thought was asbestos. It was all too common in old buildings like this but she didn’t want to spook Jen any further. “Something toxic. You could get a building inspector in here.”

  “That’s what I thought but Dad advised me not to. He said the wiring is all wrong and an inspector might shut the place down on me. I can’t afford that right now.”

  A bell chimed from the floor above. The old fashioned kind that hung over the door, announcing a visitor. Jen loved the way it sounded.

  “I’ll be right back.” Jen turned and hustled back up the steps.

  The floor over Billie’s head creaked under every step, the old boards loud and crackling. Billie leaned the broom against the wall and reached for the dustpan on the bench but it wasn’t there. She could have sworn she just put it there. Stepping back, she spotted it in the middle of the floor.

  Going to fetch it, the broom fell over and hit the floor with a whack that startled her. Dismissing it, she reached for the dustpan but it was gone.

  Billie straightened up. It was just here, she whispered to herself. Her skin suddenly felt clammy.

  A noise. The dustpan on the far side of the room. Scraping across the gritty floor all on its own.

  Disbelieving her own eyes, Billie nonetheless watched the tin pan spin into the darkest corner of the basement where all the pipes and duct work fed to. Barely visible in the gloom was the old boiler, disconnected but left to rust in the corner. The cast iron grate across the barrel looked like teeth.

  A synaptic disconnect flared as Billie stood frozen to the spot. Her legs were itching to bolt up the stairs but her mind was puzzling out the impossibility of a dust pan moving under its own volition. Her heart already knew what would unfold if she took a closer look but, as in most crisis moments, Billie made the mistake of letting her brain overrule her instincts as she crossed the floor to the dark corner.

  The dust pan remained where it lay, a banal tool of boring housework. The closer she came to it, the colder her skin felt and her heart clanged loudly in her chest in protest to its being overruled.

  The old boiler clinked, the iron drum vibrating as if the rusty parts inside were clanking back to life. Another clang and the round door creaked open on its rusty hinges. Darkness within, where an inferno had once burned to heat the building above. Noise tumbled from the aperture. As if something was moving inside it. Trapped.

  Fingers emerged and gripped the lip of the opening. Dark as charcoal, the flesh carbonized to the bone. Behind the burnt hand came a flash of eyes, twinkling in the pitch dark of the boiler.

  Billie back-pedalled for the stairs, the sudden vertigo knocking her unsteady. She pounded her feet on the steps as loud as possible to avoid hearing the dry crackle voice coming from inside the cast iron belly of the boiler but some of it filtered through.

  Please, it whispered.

  Please don’t burn me anymore.

  I promise to be good this time.

  13

  “DON’T GO IN the basement.”

  That was all Billie had said as she fled the shop. Jen, busy helping a heavily-tattooed woman decide between two cocktail dresses, stood open-mouthed as Billie hurried out onto the street, clanging the bell over the door. Jen cracked a joke to her customer about having a flaky employee, hiding her shock at Billie’s bizarre escape.

  The terror dissipated with every step she put between herself and the awful thing in the basement. The humidity had shot up, cloying in her lungs as she tried to cool down her breathing. It was all too real.

  Any notion that she had dreamt or imagined the terrors from the other night were immediately quashed after seeing the blackened hand slither from the boiler. The thing’s awful voice would not go away. She hadn’t hallucinated these things, the freak pageant was not the byproduct of a head injury. She could see the dead. Just like John Gantry had claimed.

  As much as she disliked the idea, she needed to talk to Gantry again. She needed to understand what it meant. Marching briskly down James Street, the thought occurred to her that s
he had abandoned Jen with a ghost in her basement. Could it hurt her? What was she supposed to do about it now? Gantry hadn’t said anything about that but she had no way of getting in touch with the slippery creep. He just popped out of the ether when she least expected him to.

  Billie stopped in her tracks. Should she go back and warn Jen? To do what, exactly? Close the shop? Move? Jen had never mentioned any weird incidents or spooky stuff. What was the term for it? Unexplained phenomena. More to the point, what exactly did the restless dead do? Rattle chains and moan, like in the movies? Move the furniture around and pop lightbulbs? Even if Jen hadn’t experienced anything odd, she knew in her gut that something was wrong. That explained her reluctance to go into the basement. It had nothing to do with dust and cobwebs.

  She needed answers but without Gantry, Billie had no idea where to turn.

  ~

  The web, as usual, spewed up too much information. Pages and pages of ghost hunters and psychics, ghost sightings and self-professed experts in paranormal phenomena. The first half dozen sites she clicked through were so amateurish and gaudy that she closed the laptop and pushed it across the kitchen table.

  Home was the last place she wanted to be now that she understood the truth about the spookshow. It meant that the disturbing half-boy from the other night was real and she did not want to run into him again. Stepping back inside, Billie turned on every light switch and opened all the curtains to let in as much sunlight as possible. She had a notion, true or necessarily delusional, that the spookshow only came out after dark. Either way, it felt safer with the lights on.

  The cold sweat brought on by the spookshow left her skin feeling grimy and it was difficult to think straight. A scalding hot shower and clean change of clothes, then maybe she could sort this out.

  It was the quickest shower she’d ever taken, one eye constantly on the door. The shower head was old and a third of the nozzles were blocked but the jet spray scalded away the grime from her skin and she hated to end it so quickly. Towelling off and scooting to the bedroom, she banged the dresser drawers and hummed loudly, as if constant noise would keep anything nasty away.