by Tim McGregor
She had kept her senses closed off the entire day but descending the basement steps again, she opened herself up to the dead. Although constantly aware of the dead around her, opening up brought them into instant focus. It also made her visible to them. Twice so far she had opened up to find one literally breathing down her neck.
The basement, although creepy in its natural state, was quiet and still. There was no ghost here, charred or otherwise. Crossing to the far corner where the utilities were, she saw the reason why. The rusty hulk of the old boiler was gone, removed after the fire. It must have taken a lot of work to dismember and haul out that cast iron beast. In its place stood a much smaller and more efficient forced-air furnace.
The cindered ghost with its carbonized flesh must have left along with the old boiler it called home. She wondered if the poor soul had met its end inside the furnace, or if its mortal remains had been incinerated there in an attempt to hide evidence. Now she would never know.
There was, of course, a small chance that she herself had gotten rid of it. It may have heeded her demands and moved on. Ultimately, she decided, it didn’t matter. It was gone and Jen would be safe. That was all that mattered.
Closing the basement door behind her, she noticed that the bar was unattended. Kaitlyn must have flitted off somewhere. A woman stood at there, patiently waiting for the barkeep to return. Billie ran back to her post.
“Sorry about that,” Billie said, reaching for a clean glass. “What can I get you?”
When the woman turned to reply, the glass in Billie’s hand slipped and smashed on the floor.
Christina leaned back in surprise and asked the clumsy bartender if she was all right.
42
“ARE YOU OKAY?” Christina asked.
Billie gaped at Mockler’s fiancee. Three nights ago she had seen this woman possessed by something evil and here she was, standing before her looking radiant. What was Christina doing here? Does she know Jen? Had she been invited? Or was it just a fluke?
“Sorry about that.” Billie straightened up, hoping her cheeks weren’t too red. “Just clumsy tonight.”
“Oh, I break wine glasses all the time,” Christina said. “I’ve almost run out.”
“What can I get you?” Billie had to force herself not to stare. The woman before her bore little resemblance to the haggard-looking wretch from the other night. Christina was tall and stunning, her dress draped perfectly over her frame. Her smile was wide and toothy and Billie forced herself to look away.
“Red, please,” Christina said. “Two.”
Billie poured, feeling the woman stare back at her. “Do you know Jen? The owner?”
“I’d bought something here a couple weeks ago,” Christina said. “An invite showed up in the mail. I didn’t even know there’d been a fire.”
Billie pushed the glasses forward. “Yeah. I’m glad she’s up and running again.”
Christina tilted her head to one side, studying the bartender. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” Billie lied. Imagine trying to explain that one.
“You look familiar.” Christina took up the glasses and stepped back into the crowd. “Oh well. Thanks.”
Billie felt her hands shaking again. Of all the dumb luck. Panic set in when she realized Christina had ordered two drinks. She was here with someone. That meant Mockler was here. Even dumber luck.
She tracked Christina as the woman wove back through the crowded shop and hand one of the glasses to a man near the front window. It was him. Detective Ray Mockler was chatting with Jen.
Feeling her guts fall through the floor, she looked for an exit. Running into the girlfriend was weird enough, Billie was in no mood to go through some awkward greeting with him. Where was Tammy? Tammy could look after the bar while she ran out the back.
“Tammy!” she hissed, pulling the woman out of a conversation. “Watch the bar for me. I gotta run.”
“Where are you going?” Tammy looked at her funny. “Hey, that guy was asking about you. The cop. Remember him?”
“Just take over for a bit. I need some air.”
“Jeez. You look a little pale.”
As usual, Tammy couldn’t take a hint or even a direct order, blathering on and now it was too late. He had spotted her. Waving at her, he squeezed through the crowd on his way to the bar.
She suddenly felt very ill. “Oh God.”
Mockler elbowed his way in, all smiles. “Hey Billie.”
Hey Billie? What were they, old pals or something? Maybe he was tipsy. The ill feeling was not going away.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” Mockler said.
“You were?”
The smile on his face dimmed to a lower wattage but didn’t leave his face entirely. “Yeah. I was wondering how you were.”
Okay, she assumed wrong. He was tipsy. She wished that she was.
“Hey, you’re the cop, right?” Tammy butted in, as graceful as a rhino. “The one that body-slammed Billie into the drink?”
“Yup.” He looked at the floor, guilty as charged.
“You remember Tammy,” Billie said. Once the handshake was over, she glared at Tammy to get lost.
“Cheers, detective.” Tammy sauntered away, batting her eyes at her friend. “See ya, Billie.”
As soon as Tammy was gone, Billie wished she’d come back. The silence was nigh awkward. “So. What are you doing here?”
“I saw the invite Christina got about the re-opening. Wanted to see it for myself.”
“Oh.”
“I figured I could check on you too. Two birds, one stone. Ya know?” He looked around the space, the crowd. “I’m glad your friend was able to re-open so soon.”
“Me too.” Billie shifted her weight to the other foot, wishing she had worn different shoes. Silence resumed and she scrambled for something to fill it with.
He looked back to her. “Have you seen your friend lately?”
“Jen?”
“Gantry,” he said.
The air went out of the room. Gantry was the last thing she wanted to talk about. Or lie about. “I think he left the country.”
“I see.”
She watched his eyes narrow, trouble leaking into them. “What is it?”
“Hmm? Nothing.”
“Come on,” she said. Whatever it was, she could tell it was bothering him. “Did something happen?”
Mockler pursed his lips, as if he was trying to keep it bottled up. “I think he broke into my house.”
Her back stiffened up. He knows. He knows what happened that night. Play it cool. “Why do you think that?”
“He left me a note.” He produced a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “I woke up on the couch one morning. This was in my hand.”
Billie unfolded the paper and read the simple message scrawled there;
You owe me.
G
That dickhead! How did that slippery eel leave a note in Mockler’s hand without her seeing it? Of all the stupid things to do. Billie handed the note back. “You sure it’s from him?”
“Who else would it be?” He folded the paper back into a pocket. “He also stole a bunch of paintings.”
She had almost forgotten about that. “Oh?”
“Christina’s stuff,” he said. Then he leaned in to share a secret. “To be honest, I was glad to see it go. She’d been painting all this spooky stuff. I’m happy to have it out of the house. I just don’t know what the hell he’d want with it.”
“Why does Gantry think you owe him?” she asked.
“Who knows?” Mockler tried to stifle a shudder and failed. “The thought of that sociopath in my house. Jesus.”
He helped save your behind, she thought, but could never say to him. It was torture. “I saw Christina here. How is she?”
“She’s good,” he said, a little too quickly. “A lot better actually.”
“I’m glad,” she said. The lies came quick and clean now. But she ne
eded to know. “What happened?”
“Beats me. She’s just— I dunno. Different now. Not so depressed all the time.” He took a healthy slug on the wine. “Hell. Maybe it was all those paintings disappearing. Christ, I really do owe that English asshole.”
The small laugh she gave up to his joke was fake and her gut felt queasy. Gantry said that ghosts feed on energy and foment drama within a household which gives off more energy to devour. A cyclical round of misery. By ridding Mockler of the man with the flies, she had removed the pall hanging over his home. He and Christina were clearly happier and if the detective owed anyone, it was her. The real joke was the irony of it and how she had shot herself in the foot. Typical.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” she said.
“That’s a relief. I wouldn’t want that hanging over my head.” Tilting up, he scanned over the heads of the crowd. “I should probably find her before she buys up half the shop.”
“Sure.” A fresh ripple of panic pulsed through her belly, not ready to end the conversation. Words tumbled and crashed out. “Hey, about the last time I saw you. Uh, I’m sorry if it seemed crazy—”
He cut her off. “Don’t worry about that. Whatever it was, you wanted to help. That means something to me.” He turned to leave, shrugging like he wanted to stay but had no choice. “Take care of yourself, Billie.”
“I will. You too.”
Mockler slipped into the fray of elbows and sloshing cocktails and then called back to her. “Call me if your slippery friend comes back!”
She watched him steer his date away from the guests and out the door. And then he was gone.
Billie deflated, queasy from all the lies and all the phoniness she had put out. Now that he was safely out of the picture, she allowed a tiny bubble of truth rise to the surface. She liked Ray Mockler. A lot, if she stopped to consider it. She had no idea why. Not that it mattered. He was spoken for and she would steer well clear of him from now on.
She looked over at the little makeshift bar. Tammy had stepped in after she drifted away and was doing a lousy job, completely ignoring the thirsty guests while she chatted up some guy.
Billie barged her way in, grabbed a glass and filled it to the brim with red. “Bar’s open, folks, so serve yourselves,” she announced before spilling wine all the way to the front door to get some air.
The night was cottony with humidity as Billie swam onto the street like a deep-sea diver. She plunked herself down on the curb and watched the street. The booming racket flared up as the door opened behind her and the sound of high heels clacked smartly on the sidewalk.
She was surprised to see Jen slipping out of her own party. “Hey.”
“Billie!” Jen’s smile was huge and it was bubbly. She eased herself down onto the curb, bumping into Billie. “I’m so glad you’re here.” Tipsy, she threw her arms around her friend.
“Me too,” Billie said. “What are you doing out here?”
“I just needed some air. Did everything go okay?”
Billie said “I abandoned my post. Surrendered the bar to the barbarian hordes.”
Jen laughed and then they sat quiet for a spell. A car rumbled past.
“Congratulations, Jen. For getting the shop back up and on its feet.” Billie raised her wine to toast but Jen didn’t have a drink so they both sipped from Billie’s glass. “You should be proud of yourself.”
Jen tried to shrug it off. “Thanks. You know, this might sound nutty but, in a way, I’m glad the fire happened.”
“You’ll have to explain that one.”
“The place always had a weird feeling. It’s hard to explain. It just felt odd. Or cold.” Jen shook her head, the words failing to hook her meaning. “But since the fire, it’s different. It feels better. Like it belongs to me.”
Billie nodded her head but didn’t respond.
Jen looked up at the night sky. “Sounds crazy, huh? I wish I could explain it better. There’s nothing logical about it. It just feels right.”
“I’m glad,” Billie said.
The din from the party flared and dulled as the party-goers drifted away. The two women sat quiet for a moment. Sighing, Jen turned to her friend and then startled. “Billie?” she said. “Why are you crying?”
Thanks for reading Welcome to the Spookshow. If you have a moment, let me know what you think in a review. Even a few lines would be greatly appreciated, as reader feedback (good or bad) is extremely helpful. If you would like to get in touch, please stop by Ink Spatter. I’d love to hear from you.
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By the same author
BAD WOLF
PALE WOLF
LAST WOLF
KILLING DOWN THE ROMAN LINE
OLD FLAMES, BURNED HANDS
SPOOKSHOW - Book One
Available on Amazon US here
Available on Amazon UK here
Copyright © 2014 Tim McGregor.
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Tim McGregor is an author and screenwriter. He lives in Toronto with his wife and children.
Table of Contents
Contents
title page
August 1994
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