Welcome to the Spookshow: (Book 2)

by Tim McGregor

  With the small arsenal tucked inside the bag, Billie went up the wooden steps of the front porch and stood before the door. She had no idea if the girlfriend was at home or if she was inside. She wished she knew the woman’s name, then decided it was easier if she didn’t know. She rang the doorbell and waited. This was the lame part of the plan. She had to make sure the house was empty. If the woman was home, she would just make an excuse about getting the address wrong and leave.

  No one came to the door. She peered through the glass but the interior was dark. She rang the bell again, just to be sure. The house remained quiet.

  First part accomplished, she now needed to get inside. This was where the plan became even lamer. On the off chance the door had been left unlocked, she tried the knob but the door didn’t budge. Stepping back, she looked over the porch. Where would Mockler hide the emergency key? There was no welcome mat to check under but there were two flower pots flanking the front door. She lifted each one but no key was hidden under them. Standing tiptoed on the door sill, she ran her fingers over the ledge of the lintel but found only dust blackening her fingertips.

  There was always the back door. Billie was about to descend the steps when a click sounded. The lock unlatched and the door creaked open.

  An invitation, one that her gut advised her to refuse. She took a breath, stepped inside and immediately felt a wave of dread wash over her. Not just dread but a sadness, acute and sharp. Billie could actually feel her heart sink as she stood inside the front hallway. The air was humid with misery and pain. How could Mockler live in this? No wonder he didn’t want to go home. Did he feel it as acutely as she did or was it amplified by her abilities?

  “Hello?” she called out. “Anyone home?”

  The house was quiet. She looked into the front living room before passing on into the kitchen. The furnishings were nice, the decorations eclectic but tasteful. A woman lived here for sure and Billie wondered what Mockler’s girlfriend did for a living. The thought of his betrothed still stung. Was the detective a bit of a player? The kind that liked to keep a woman at home while he chased skirt on the job? Maybe this was simply her lot in life, to be the other woman. Never good enough for the real thing and condemned to sideline relationships with philandering—

  She stopped cold. This sudden onslaught of doubt and self-loathing churning up inside her wasn’t real. It was this house that was doing it. Or rather, the thing hidden inside the house. She’d have to be mindful of that, to keep the false misery from swallowing her up. She had work to do.

  “Why don’t you come out?” she said aloud. Not a bellow but calm and firm. She needed to show the ghost dwelling here that she wasn’t afraid but she wasn’t angry either. Friendly was pushing it. A parley.

  “It’s just you and me. And you know I can see you. Come out so we can talk.”

  Nothing. Billie dropped her bag onto the counter island and perched on one of the stools. She hoped this wouldn’t take long, coaxing the dead spirit out into the open. How mortifying would it be if Mockler came home unexpectedly? Or worse still, his girlfriend.

  She took out the sage sticks and bottle of holy water. A soft click sounded to her left and she turned but saw nothing. A few dishes left in the sink, a mug on the counter. A message on the refrigerator door, spelt out with cheerfully colourful magnets.

  Get out

  Short and to the point, she thought. A tacky parlour trick.

  “I get it. You don’t want me here.” Be assertive but courteous. Don’t scare it off but don’t anger the damn thing either. “But I’m not leaving until you come out and talk to me. Tell me your name.”

  Quiet. The house ticked and creaked, the way old homes will. A hissing sound touched her ear and she traced it to the vent on the wall. At first she thought the furnace was running but the closer she came, the more it sounded like whispering. Kneeling down, she lowered her ear to the wrought iron grate. Like a bad phone connection, she could barely make out a voice in the hissing. One word, repeated over and over.

  Bitch bitch bitch bitch…

  Name calling. Compared to what she had seen the Undertaker man do so far, it seemed petty. What was it up to, this small potato spookshow?

  A rumble came from overhead, the sound of furniture scraping across wooden floors. Crossing back into the foyer, she stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up. The banister thinned into darkness on the second floor. Lights off and curtains drawn. The air grew humid with each step she climbed and a bad smell filtered down over her. Reaching the landing, she felt seasick and unsteady.

  It was close. The nausea and bad smell were telltale signs but more acute was the misery pushing her down. It was like suddenly stepping into a room full of mourners at a funeral, their collective grief dragging her down with it. She needed to guard against that. And yet the gloom and unrelenting sadness felt irresistible, like slipping into a warm bath.

  The sound of running water issued from down the hall. The shower turning on in the bathroom. Billie stood her ground.

  “Enough tricks. Just come out.” A heartbeat or two, then she said “You don’t have to be afraid.”

  A new noise came from the bathroom. A woman’s voice, calling for help.

  Billie felt a zap along her spine. Was the fiancee still here? Was she hurt? Indecision clouded everything and Billie felt her gut urging her to run again. She inched to the bathroom and looked inside. Steam rolled out from behind the drawn shower curtain, water dribbling from its mildewed hem onto the tiled floor.

  Even a child knew how this plays out. Something nasty was hiding behind the curtain. As simple as that but impossible to resist, the way a ‘wet paint’ sign won’t stop one from touching a freshly painted surface. She tiptoed in and reached for the curtain. The water shut off. She took a breath and drew the curtain back.

  She had steeled her nerves for the sight of the grotesque wraith with the flies in his mouth but it wasn’t him. It was a woman, not much older than herself, coiled up in the bathtub. Her slip was soaked and her hair plastered down her face. Her eyes were lost and unseeing when she spoke.

  “Help me,” she pleaded. “He won’t let me leave.”

  “Who won’t let you leave?” Billie asked. “Where is he?”

  “Those awful bugs. They’re everywhere.”

  The woman quaked. Her eyes were bald with terror, her lips quivering wet and blue. Billie wasn’t sure if the woman even saw her or knew she was there. Was it possible for one ghost to imprison another?

  “Why can’t you just leave?” Billie kept her tone soft, not wanting to scare the woman further. “What does he want?”

  The woman coiled tighter, the wet curls falling over her mouth. “He wants to hurt me. Like he did the others.”

  “What others? How does he hurt you?”

  “Oh God. He’s coming—”

  The woman’s eyes widened in panic and Billie followed her gaze. Something dark trickled up out of the bathtub drain. Bluebottle flies crawled out of the opening and scuttled across the porcelain in their staccato march. Two or three at a time then more and more until a dark mass vomited forth in a reverse pole from the drain. They buzzed angrily over the woman in a thick swarm until she vanished as if swallowed whole.

  Billie threw the curtain back but the flies were already on her, the filthy insects creeping over her skin and buzzing into her ears. She scrambled for the hallway. Swinging the door closed, there was a glimpse of a face in the bathroom mirror before the door banged shut.

  The sound of the insects was loud behind the bathroom door and when the first of them slithered out from the uneven gap under the door, Billie fled into another room.

  The master. A big bed with decorative but useless pillows lay opposite the picture windows. The view looked out over the tree lined street and pretty houses. She wondered, almost idly, what direction it faced and whether it afforded a nice sunrise.

  Get a grip, she told herself. This thing, this undertaker man, knew how to get under h
er skin. Did it know that flies disgusted her or was that a coincidence? She needed to push the fear away and show the ghost that it couldn’t intimidate her (a bold-faced lie). She needed it to come out into the open and get it to talk. If, that is, she could stomach seeing the flies crawl in and out of the orifices of its face.

  On the opposite wall was an old dressing table with a round mirror and stool. It looked decadent and out of place to Billie, something suited to Hollywood starlets rather than working people. But there was something wrong with the mirror. It reflected what was not there. In the mirror, she saw Mockler asleep in bed. Next to him a woman but her face was turned away from the mirror. All Billie could see was her long hair fanned over the pillow and her naked back. The fact that she slept naked was irksome. The room was dark.

  The real bed remained empty and made, the fluffy pillows placed neatly over the spread. The mirror over the vanity stubbornly maintained its other night-time image of the occupants asleep in the darkened bedroom. The digital clock in the nightstand read 3:42 AM, in reverse.

  Something shifted in the reflected image of the darkened bedroom. A shadow, darker than anything in the room, slid down the wall and over the bed, slipping under the blankets between the sleepers as if seeking warmth. The spread shifted and rolled and slowly tugged down until the woman lay exposed. The dark mass bubbled over her like smoke. It solidified and took on shape until the disturbing form of the undertaker man revealed itself. It pawed and pressed down on the woman, doing terrible things to her. Then it turned its awful head and looked right at Billie, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

  “Get off her!” Billie screamed at the reflection. The real bed remained empty but in the mirror, the hideous man simply leered at Billie as he thudded at the woman, obscene and cruel. It was maddening. She wanted to smash the mirror but hesitated. She hadn’t come to trash Mockler’s home, just to get the unwanted phantom to leave.

  The floor shook, vibrating under her feet. The mirror shifted, the dark figure and sleeping couple vanishing and the round mirror reflected the bed as it truly was, empty and made.

  Pain flexed her stomach muscles. A bad smell wafted up and when something whispered in her ear, she jerked away as if electrocuted. The undertaker man loomed beside her, his mouth of blackened teeth open as if laughing but he made no sound. The only noise came from the flies launching out of his maw. His hand was outstretched from where he had touched her, his fingernails dark with grime.

  It took everything she had to simply stand her ground. Her mouth was reluctant to work properly and she stammered. “Why are you hurting them?”

  His only reply was to shamble forward.

  “This is their house. You’re not wanted here.” She had meant to stand up to this monstrosity but the moment she stepped back, she knew she had lost.

  Its jaw clamped up and down mechanically and its eyes were distilled malice. It kept coming and Billie ran but when she reached the stairs she felt a strong push and down she went. Tumbling hard and skidding along until she wedged herself between the wall and the railing. Everything hurt at once. She slid the rest of the way to the bottom step and limped for the kitchen. She wanted the holy water. She wanted anything that might fend off the thing. A baseball bat. A bazooka.

  When it lumbered through the doorway, the dead man seemed impossibly tall, a giant stooping low under the lintel, cloaked in its armour of flies. Billie half-remembered what Gantry had said about it feeding off emotions. Her own terror was making it stronger but the knowledge was useless to her. Could she choke off her fear, like flipping a switch?

  Snapping the cap off the bottle of water taken at the church, she flung it at the ghost, screaming out nonsense she remembered from a horror movie. A half-assed exorcism performed by someone who clearly had no idea what she was doing. To her surprise, the undertaker man sidestepped the spray of water. In the swarm of pests caught in the flung water, some dropped immediately to the floor. A few even smoldered as they hit the tile.

  Another hard push, tumbling her over a kitchen chair and when Billie smacked against the cold floor, she knew it was all over. The houseflies dove after her, smothering her in a black cloud. The damned things crawled her flesh and buzzed her ears, their tiny appendages sticking to her as they found their way into her mouth and nostrils. Pecking at her clamped eyelids, squirming to get in. She wanted to scream but that would only let the vermin in.

  She felt an intense chill as the thing pressed down on her, smothering her with its weight. Its voice, barely audible above the deafening buzz of the flies, whispered into her ear. It told Billie to get out. It said that those in this house belonged to him and she was the one not welcome. Stay, it told her, and I will eat you alive.

  Her revulsion hit the tipping point and the scream came full bore. Something more than a scream came out of her, pushing across the room like a wave of energy. The flies retreated and the awful weight of the wretched thing fell away. Blind with panic, she scrambled to her feet. The flies remained but were scattered, not swarmed together as before, as if her shriek had blown them around the kitchen. Billie grabbed her bag and bolted for the door in full retreat.

  The antique butlers table in the foyer lifted off the floor and flew at her, flung by an unseen hand. It knocked her hard into the wall and she slid to the floor. She scrambled forward, clawing for an escape as even more objects hurled themselves at her. The dangling light fixture fell, smashing to the floor before her and the heavy ottoman from the living room knocked her sideways. The walls cracked and old plaster rained down in dusty chunks.

  Billie kicked and crawled and finally threw herself out the screen door, landing hard on the front porch. A car pulled into the driveway. The look on detective Mockler’s face was almost comical.

  25

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing here?”

  Billie lurched to her feet but the seasickness threw her off balance and she gripped the railing for support. Her stomach curdled at the thought of explaining herself.

  Mockler shot up the porch steps two at a time and helped her up. “Easy. Here, sit down. Jesus, you’re shaking.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, without knowing exactly what she was apologizing for. Her whole body was quaking. She didn’t want to sit, didn’t want to be anywhere near this awful house.

  Mockler settled her onto the wicker bench. He touched her bare forearm, then her hand. “You’re freezing.” The humidity of the day was peaking and Mockler’s brow was beaded with sweat. He pressed the back of his fingers against her forehead. “It’s like you’re going into shock.”

  “I just got a chill. I’m sorry.” Again, this need to apologize. She lowered her gaze to the uneven floorboards.

  “What happened?” His eyes clocked the open door then returned to hers. “Why are you here?”

  Think fast. How could she explain this? She had waltzed inside his home like she owned the place. Then the house was destroyed by a vengeful spirit. “I was passing by. Thought I’d knock on your door, see if you were in.”

  “I see,” he nodded. “And you just made yourself at home?”

  “The door was open.”

  “It was?” He looked at the door again.

  “Yeah.” That part was true. “I knocked, stepped inside and called out.”

  Mockler straightened up and stepped onto the sill, examining the door knob, the lock. “I always lock it before I go.”

  “I heard someone inside. Knocking around upstairs. I kept calling out, thinking it was you but no one answered.” The lies came a little too easily for her liking. White lies were one thing but this was different. And more lies were needed. How was she going to explain the fact that his house was trashed? Maybe that’s what she kept apologizing for.

  “Was it Christina?”

  “No.”

  “Stay here.” Mockler disappeared inside the house and Billie scrambled for some way to explain the cracked plaster and upended furniture. How bad would it be if she just collected her bike and got the hell
out of here?

  His voice called out from inside the house. “Hey. What is all this stuff?”

  Billie steeled herself for what was to come and went back inside. Everything looked absolutely normal. No broken glass on the floor, no shattered plaster or exposed cracks of lathe on the wall. The furniture that had been hurled at her was back where it belonged. Like nothing had happened. She crept in further, around a corner and saw Mockler standing in the kitchen.

  Her bag lay on the island countertop, its contents spilling out. The floor was wet, holy water puddled over the black and white tiles.

  “Is this yours?” Mockler picked through the mess on the counter, holding up the smudge stick of bundled weeds. “What is it?”

  “Sage,” she said.

  “Did you drop your water?” He reached down to fetch the discarded container. A completely normal water bottle.

  “Sorry. I’m a klutz.”

  Reaching into the bag, he lifted out something for her to see. A large brass crucifix, the figure on the cross burnished with a dark patina. “What’s this?”

  “My aunt collects those.” This was not a complete lie. Aunt Maggie did collect those and the one he held had been given to Billie as a housewarming present. It was meant to hang over the front entrance. To keep her safe, Maggie had said. Billie never put it up.

  “I’ve always found these creepy. Handy if you run into a vampire, I guess.” He put the crucifix back. “So you heard someone. Then what?”

  His tone altered, more business-like, and she wondered if this was how he spoke to people on the job. She didn’t care for it. “I heard someone upstairs. I called out but no one answered. Then there was a bang, like something got knocked over. I got scared.”

  “Wait here.” He went out of the room and she listened to his heavy stomping on the stairs. The ceiling of the old house creaked as he swept from room to room and then he stomped back down the steps again.