by R. R. Virdi
“There had better be food where we’re going,” I muttered.
Chapter Four
I hobbled to the door muttering a string of obscenities. Another latex thwap filled my ears from behind. My ass twitched and the rest of my body stiffened on pure reflex. I turned back to the nurse removing her glove. Upon catching my gaze, she shook her head and smiled.
I scowled, thinking of something witty to say. What do you say to a woman who, in essence, just violated you? A stupid grin crossed my face and I gestured with my fingers. “Call me.”
Her wry expression faded, replaced with one of confusion. An angry huff of breath left her mouth as she stumbled for a reply
Point to Graves. Suppository Lady — nil.
The scowl remained on my face as I stomped down the hall, drawing strange looks from patients and staff alike. I continued my curmudgeony walk toward a nearby water fountain. Having one of your orifices desecrated makes a guy thirsty.
I slurped down the water and came to a disappointing realization. My “check up,” was the closest thing to intimacy with a woman that I could remember. I sighed. “I need a new life.”
“What’s wrong with the one you’ve got?” asked a sincere voice. One that sadly did not emanate from the confines of my head. It would’ve been better if it had. Believe me. I reacted in the manner you’d expect from a seasoned, intrepid paranormal investigator.
I leapt away from the fountain as if my hands had been scalded, stumbled backward and adopted an awkward Kung-Fu pose. I was sorely tempted to release a shrill howl as I channeled my inner martial arts master.
The man behind the voice regarded me with simple curiosity, which is good. He was a big guy. I didn’t want him getting hostile. He was taller than the human growth hormone brothers from earlier, but softer looking. Not to be rude, but he looked like a ginormous baby. His features were cherubic—smooth fair skin, lengthy lashes, and enormous hazel eyes. Either he was smuggling Jell-O in his cheeks, or he had never outgrown his baby fat. Coupled with his shaved head, he was like a life-sized baby doll, but dressed in garb matching mine.
I straightened and held out my hand. “Um, hi?” He didn’t shake it—rude.
Hooking a thumb to his pudgy self, he said, “Gusbert.”
I struggled not to laugh. I failed. “Your name is…Gusbert? I sure hope you gave your parents hell for that!” I laughed even louder.
He joined in and I swear to God, even his laugh was like a baby’s. It was infectious. We laughed for a good while. A nurse passed by and gave us a strange look. We must’ve looked insane. Well, more so.
“You’re funny,” he said, breaking the silence as he extended his fleshy hand.
Finally, someone who appreciated my humor. I could like this guy. “Charles,” I said, shaking hands.
“Friends call me Gus,” he said with a childlike smile.
“Wow, friends already. Things are moving so fast.”
Gus let out an echoing belly laugh.
Yup, definitely liked this guy. Maybe he could help me too. A patient might’ve seen or heard something I could use to narrow down my search. Any bit of information at this point was gold because I had nothing.
I dropped my voice to a gentler tone. “Hey Gus, can I trust you with something?” He nodded. Throwing an arm around his shoulder, I led him down the hall. “With a secret?” I impressed the importance of the words with a whisper. He nodded harder. “I’m on a case, and I could use your help.”
He gasped, and his face lit up with glee only a child could muster. I showed him my tattoo, which remained a black forty-four. Good. I hadn’t chewed up an hour of my time being “poked and prodded” by the nurse.
After a moment of staring at it, he gave me a befuddled shake of his head.
“It’s magical,” I explained. He answered the way I’d expect anyone to: he raised a questioning eyebrow, debating my sanity. But then again, everyone here was some degree of crazy, so what the hell, right? I had nothing to lose but maybe, just maybe, I had something to gain. “It is. See, every hour the number changes, counting down until I solve the case or I….”
Silence. It went on until his curiosity got the better of him and overruled any logical sentiments he might have had about my magical tattoo.
“Or what?” he leaned closer, eyes wide and darting from my arm to my face and back again.
“Die.”
That had an effect. Mentioning death normally does.
I could see him working through everything, so I gave him a bit to ponder it over. Once he was done, he spoke. “Case?”
I gave a solemn nod. “I’m investigating.”
“What?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
Here goes nothin’.
Leaning forward, I matched his hushed voice. “A monster.”
His eyebrows rocketed upwards and his eyes ballooned. “I knew it!” he hissed in triumph.
Not gonna lie, his reaction surprised me. People don’t jump for joy when you tell them you’re hunting a monster. Nor do they say, “I knew it.” That’s just not right.
“Uhrm…whaa? You knew it?”
Gus nodded faster than a bobble head on crack. “Yup.”
Hell, this was easy, which made me instantly suspicious. The job was never easy, and it was definitely never this easy. Clues within the first hour? It was never that easy. A part of me wanted to believe it could be. It was the part of me that ignored caution and often got me into trouble. And yet, I listened to that rascally part and pursued the matter.
“What do you know, Gus?” I kept my features as neutral as I could. It was hard. My heart was performing a drum solo.
“People are dead.” His face hardened into a grim mask.
I figured that much. Hell, I was inhabiting one of them. But, I didn’t want to be rude. I rolled my hand in a gesture for him to continue.
“Too many heart attacks.” His gaze drifted to the ground. Shaking his head, he added, “Not heart attacks.”
Well, that was something. If Gus was to be believed, whatever this thing was, it made the deaths look like heart attacks.
My impatience got the better of me. “How many so far?”
He opened his mouth to answer. A shrill voice interrupted.
“Gusbert!” the woman snapped.
We turned our heads in unison.
It was Kat—the nurse who witnessed my Houdini-esque escape. She reminded me of a lunch lady. With her plump figure, wobbling gait, and pear-shaped head, she would be right at home slapping mystery meat on a tray. Her mouth twisted into something reminiscent of a scowl, probably because of me. I’ve been known to make people scowl.
She bustled over to Gus. Her face softened upon seeing him. Kat muscled her way between us and took hold of his arm. There was a warm, almost motherly manner in the way she treated him. “Come on, honey.” She pulled on his arm, trying to lead him away.
“Uh, Gus,” I protested, holding up a finger. He spun around, a giant grin spreading across his face. “The thing?” I shot him a knowing look.
Kat seemed intent on keeping Gus and I apart. She moved quicker than I would have thought possible for a woman her size. Whirling about, she stepped in front of Gus and jabbed a chubby, accusatory finger toward me. “You!” Her jowls trembled. “You should be in your jacket for what you did!” Kat’s hazel eyes flashed.
Which had me wondering, what the hell did Charles do?
“Stay away from Gus!” He winced as her nails dug into his pudgy arm; she stormed off with him in tow. All Gus was able to do was mouth a silent apology.
I was left alone in the hall with my thoughts. At least I had no shortage of things to think about. Gus had given me a ton of clues to mull over. There was just one issue. Too many creatures and supernatural practices can trigger a heart attack. Narrowing down the pool of possibilities wasn’t going to be easy. But it made my next course of action simple: I had to learn more about the body I was inhabiting. It was a good bet Charles’ room
could give me something to go on. At the very least, he had died there; it was possible the monster responsible left some trace.
It wasn’t hard to remember my way back to Charles’ room. That didn’t mean the trip was without its annoyances. I got my fair share of looks along the way. Some were confused stares; others were downright nasty glares from the staff. Whatever Charles had done had pissed off a helluva lot of people.
The door was open from my earlier escape. Glancing around, I fought the urge to sigh. The room was clean. Well, not counting the minor bloodstains from earlier. Nothing was out of place, no signs of struggle, but then, would Charles have struggled? He died in a straitjacket. Convenient for whatever killed him.
Bleach tickled my nose and snapped me from my reverie. The closer I got, the stronger the smell. It wasn’t the odor from before. The walls had been cleaned—again.
Why?
I placed my hands on the wall and slid the right one around, feeling for anything that seemed out of place. Pausing, I shook my head to overcome the head-jarring smell from the cleaner. The wall was soft, like a light dusting of powder coated it. No doubt worn that way from years of being drawn upon and cleaned.
I rubbed more of its surface, pretty much molesting the wall as my hands slid over it. It seemed odd, feeling up a blank wall, but something was there. Call it a gut feeling, but in all my years as an investigator I’ve learned to trust those instincts. I haven’t been steered wrong once.
My hand ran over something subtle. A slight canal in the wall. It was the shallowest of scratches. No, not scratches.
I traced the faint grooves with my index finger. These were more than angry cuts in the wall. This was a carving—a message! I all but buried my face in it, examining the faint lines with laser-like precision. I was close enough to taste the bleach, but my focus paid off.
A black fleck of something caught my eye. I dug at it with a fingernail, managing to get it out. It was a scrap akin to the remains of a sharpened pencil, save for the color and texture. Dull, black, and waxy. I compressed the material between my thumb and forefinger, smearing it across the tips.
Crayon?
A sharp pang lanced through my skull. The force was strong enough to rock my head. I took a step back, pressing my palms to my eyes. Everything turned pixilated and my vision blurred. What I saw next wasn’t before me; it took place in my mind. But it might as well have been happening in real time.
A hand darted across the walls in a frenzied panic. A pointed black tip protruded from its grip. The crayon darted across the light grooves carved into the wall, giving color to shapes. It was like a rudimentary children’s drawing, simple wavy lines that meant...something important.
Knuckles cracked as my fingers formed a fist tight enough to bury my nails into the soft tissue of my palm. I struggled to control the overwhelming desire to soften up that wall a bit more. Something needed punching! This entire case, like many of my cases, was throwing riddles in my face.
I hate riddles.
Still, I had gotten some information. A memory from Charles, a handy gift I possess. Whenever I inhabit a victim’s body, I gain access to a slew of their memories. Of course, I have no control over when and how they’re triggered. Not to mention how deep they take me, or how frickin’ painful they can be. That last one hurt like seven kinds of hell.
With a vigorous shake of my head, I banished the thoughts and pain. I had work to do. Dropping to my knees, I swept the floor with manic desperation. I scampered across the sandalwood carpet. My hands clawed its thick mossy fabric. Frayed bits of material went airborne as I searched for the item from my vision. Something rolled against my fingertips and slid from my grip. I buried my hand into the carpet around the small cylinder with such force the tops of my fingers stung.
As much pain as I’ve endured over the years, carpet burn still smarts.
I willed the itchy pain away and thrust the dark crayon into the air like I had freed Excalibur from a boulder. “Ha!” Bounding to my feet, I nearly flattened the colored piece of wax in my exuberance. I pressed it against the wall and matched the frenzied motion from my vision.
Dark lines filled the shallow grooves and suddenly, the walls weren’t so clean. Those wavy lines from Charles’ vision stood out, spreading across the drywall like streams of black ivy. There were dozens of the damned lines.
I sighed. “You couldn’t have just left a message…with words?” I resumed my frantic tracing, nearing the end of the carvings. Or so I thought. Upon reaching the end, I realized there weren’t dozens of lines etched into the wall.
There were tens of dozens. My teeth ground.
Hundreds of waves stretched across the wall and I had only colored in a few dozen. This was going to take time, a commodity I was never given a lot of. I needed to solve this case and fast. I was tired, violated, and clueless.
Peering at the wall, I tried to make some sense out of the mass of curving black lines. Nothing.
Squinting at something doesn’t help you understand it any better. All it does is make you look incredibly stupid—or constipated. Knowing all of that didn’t stop me from doing it though. Minutes passed. I still had no answers and had essentially just lost a staring contest with a wall….
Coolness arced across the back of my knees and my legs snapped rigid. The metal frame of the bed sent chilling waves through my lower body. I tried to get a different and larger perspective of the surreal scene in front of me. Staring at it for a bit longer, I finally came to understand it.
“Squiggles.” I sighed to no one in particular. “It’s just fucking squiggles.”
My body felt heavy, stretched thin, and wobbly. I sat on the bed and let my palms rest on either side of me. The mattress compressed a bit. It wasn’t some unforgivable slab, but it wasn’t memory foam either. I’d like to think it was a happy medium, but it wasn’t. Thank God for that. I leaned more toward the squishy and oh-so-comfortable side. I could almost feel my ass utter its thanks after sinking into the bed. There was still a hint of resistance. It was a box spring set-up, one where the springs had gone soft with years of use.
I released a comfortable groan. My head thudded against something like thick cardboard. Frowning, I rose and twisted around to see what I had hit. There were two books, the smaller of the pair stacked on top of the other. The larger one was about the size of a boxed DVD case. Its leather matched the brown hue you’d find in high-end European sports cars. The quality however was nowhere as nice. Rough, ragged bits of leather sprung and curled from its surface. The journal was battered. And it would be. It’s been through a helluva lot with me.
It was the journal I’d used through innumerable cases. Inside was every bit of supernatural knowledge and lore I’d ever come across. The pages were a mess, festooned with newspaper clippings, pages torn from old mythology books. Yes, I’m a heathen like that; I’ve torn pages from books. It was for the greater good. Pictures—taken, drawn and printed out—were paper-clipped throughout it. In it, my greatest weapon—knowledge.
Knowledge. Is. Power.
Knowing what a creature is, what it feeds on and how—you can find a way to stop it. This was a ‘how to gank ‘em’ manual.
The thinner journal was more along the lines of a pocket notebook. It was bound under another leather cover, the sort of burgundy found in darker wines. Church had given it to me during my last case in New York. It was so I could record my cases and keep my memories straight. As you can imagine, bouncing through dead bodies and picking up bits of their memories hasn’t been so great for my own. I’ve lost a great deal of my original ones that way, along with them—my original name. This little book was to ensure I kept my mind from becoming “it gets the hose again” crazy.
I racked my brain on how Church had gotten into the room to leave the journals, or how he had ditched me earlier without making a sound. Failing to figure it out, I cast his ninja moves from my mind.
My face broke into a grin. Picking up the journals, I cast my ga
ze to the ceiling. “One of these days, Church, I’m going to figure out how you pull this Batman shit.” My hand spasmed. The books slipped from my grasp.
Oddly, the one with all my lore and information landed flat. The other one was a different story. It plopped to the floor and splayed open to the first page. With measured precision, I slid my index finger beneath the spine of the book, lifting it up to see.
I frowned. Stuck to the page was a small Post-It note. It read: “No you won’t.” It was Church’s handwriting. My forefinger and thumb rubbed against it as I thought for a moment. Adhesive peeled away from paper as I yanked the smartass note from my journal. Tearing it up may have been a petty indulgence, but it felt damn good. I flung the shredded bits of paper across the room without ceremony.
Content with my paper butchery, I fell back onto the mattress. Flipping through my journals was going to take time, but it’s not like I had anything else to do. If I kept staring at the incomprehensible squiggles, I would lose my mind and need a stay in the asylum for real.
With a flick of my finger, I flipped my mythology journal open. Less than a third of the pages tumbled by. There was too much lore and knowledge on monsters for me to start from page one. I had heart attacks as a clue; it’d have to be enough.
As I perused, I came across something old—familiar. A name and a bit more. I frowned, hoping it wouldn’t be necessary, but memorized the information written there.
Footsteps, fast, hard and getting louder, prompted me to act. I snapped the larger journal shut and tossed them both under the pillow. Bounding to my feet, I took a position facing the door, brandishing the whittled down crayon like a weapon.
The source of the footsteps entered the room…and he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to me. My feelings were seriously hurt.
I would’ve pegged him at about average height if he could keep a decent posture. His shoulders sagged. The strength in his upper back seemed nonexistent. He was a wiry guy, Ichabod Crane-looking. Clad in a white coat that screamed, “doctor”, the middle-aged man with the beaky nose continued to ignore me. His bespectacled gaze was focused on the clipboard in his slender hands.