by R. R. Virdi
Ortiz kept her heated stare on me. “Last time I bumped into someone with this tattoo, there was a monster involved.” She paused. “Monsters,” she corrected. I could see the wheels turning in her head. “That’s what’s happening here, isn’t it?” She looked at me for an answer, an honest one.
“Yes.”
A slight tremor coursed from her shoulders to her neck. I barely noticed it. Ortiz was on edge and I felt sick for causing it.
“Oh, Charles.” Her voice was a cocktail of concern, fatigue, and sadness. “How’d you get wrapped up in this?”
I shrugged. Lying wasn’t an option. “Long story.”
“One you’ll tell me later.” It wasn’t a suggestion. A bit of the old Ortiz came creeping back—curious, tough and resolved.
I gave her a weak smile. I didn’t know if I’d get the chance to. And if I did, there was no way to guarantee Church wouldn’t interfere again. The smile would have to be enough.
“So we’re going to get this thing?” It was a question, technically, but the way she phrased it she might as well have said, “What are we waiting for?”
“Damn right!” I growled.
That elicited a reaction from her. The metal returned to her eyes, strong, like they had been six months ago. She released the grip on my arm, and flashed me a wolfish grin. I responded with a smile of my own.
“Alright,” she breathed. “What do you have, Charles?”
“Squiggles.”
She shook her head, eyes fluttering for a moment. “Squiggles?”
“Yup.”
Ortiz shut her eyes. A hand went up to cradle her forehead and temple. Without answering, she walked toward the asylum.
“Wait up, Ortiz!” I jogged after her.
Ortiz stopped. “Camilla,” she said.
“What?”
“You’ve always called me Camilla.”
I swallowed. Her eyes glimmered and I could almost see the thoughts looping around her head. Smooth, Graves. “First time for everything, right?” I chortled weakly.
Ortiz watched me intently. I cleared my throat and passed her by as I made my way to the asylum. After a moment, I heard blades of grass whisking against her clothes as she followed.
“Where are you going to start, Charles?”
“Drawings,” I said.
Chapter Six
The rec room had a comforting aura about it. Maybe it was the familiar pieces that made it feel that way. Grey carpeting, the sort everybody’s seen at least once in their lifetime, spread across the floor. Clean walls with half a dozen windows let the sunshine in. Some had been opened to allow cool drafts of air inside. Tables topped with favorite childhood board games. Easels, paper and all manner of arts and craft supplies were lying around. In the corner, a makeshift theater with chairs packed tight and full of people staring at a cheap projector screen. And, most of all, it was quiet.
Not a disturbing, hushed silence. It was calming, content; you could feel it, like falling asleep under warming sunrays. Part of me wanted to nestle down in the carpet, curl up and go to sleep. But I had work to do.
Still had forty-two hours. Not too bad.
“Where did you say my drawings were?” I arched an eyebrow at Ortiz.
“I didn’t.”
I gave her a knowing look and she rolled her eyes. “There,” she pointed to a chalk-white shelf. It wasn’t lined solely with horizontal boards; it was sectioned off vertically as well, creating a series of cubes.
Ortiz followed me as I walked over to it. “So, the tattoo thing?”
I grunted in acknowledgement of her question.
“Like I said, the other guy had one too.”
Grunt.
“That like a club or something?”
“Sort of,” I answered absently. My attention was focused on the cubbies stuffed with papers and crafts, little animals made of fuzzy pipe cleaners. Some of the cubbies were hoarding crayons and markers. People really need to learn to share.
“How do you join?”
I couldn’t help it. My lips spread into a broad grin. “Go to Church.”
“What?’
Now I knew how Church felt giving answers that no-one understood. It was somewhat pleasing. I’m a terrible person. Well, technically I’m a soul, so I guess I get a pass.
I was about to give up searching when a game of pinball erupted in my head. The hard corner of the shelf dug into the tender meat of my palm as I gripped it for support. I was crouched over, struggling to keep my balance. Another vision.
Charles panicked. His hands were a flurry as he tore through one the cubbies. Papers went flying—his drawings. He shoved them below another set of artwork. The name Mindy was visible in fluorescent marker.
I shook my head. That was the second time a vision had walloped me. Was something happening to me, my body, my powers? It was one helluva disturbing train of thought, one I pushed aside for the moment. Mindy’s name caught my eye. Carefully removing the stack from her cubby, I set them down and searched.
A gentle weight fell on my shoulder; strong, caring, and one I’d felt before. “You okay, Charles?”
“Yeah.” My voice was rough, partly from the vision, partly from that shoulder squeeze. I hated not telling her who I was. Nothing was stopping me of course, except maybe my fear of Church. I wasn’t so much afraid of him as I was of what could happen. Church had already told me Ortiz deserved to know the truth, to meet him even. Only, she wasn’t ready yet, whatever that meant. So I kept her in the dark. “Yeah,” I repeated.
Ortiz adopted a cross-legged position on the floor beside me. She regarded the drawings and arched an eyebrow at me. “You know, Mindy isn’t Charles, right?” She smiled and her eyes shone with amusement.
I mumbled under my breath in mock discontent, but it was nice to see her smiling again.
Two thirds of the stack were a mass of bright neon marker. The remaining bit were significantly darker. Charles hadn’t scrawled his name anywhere, but I could tell they belonged to him. Sinister lines of black marker, crayon and even paint streaked across the pages. Some of the sheets looked like they were connected, images that ran from one to another. Not squiggles, I realized—tendrils.
I had no idea what they meant, or if they were connected to the monster. It was possible, but then again, Charles was crazy. A crazy man who covered his wall in markings, was murdered, and screamed the night of his death. It was all I had at the moment. Well, not counting the wall. Everything felt disjointed. The visions were kicking my butt, and I had clues that left me clueless.
A scream tore through the room. Everyone’s attention belonged to it now. Paper crumpled as my hands balled around Charles’ artwork. I tore off in the direction of the shrieking. Ortiz followed. As I barreled out of the rec room, I realized something. Everyone else was calm. Not a single soul seemed the least bit perturbed by the noise. Two elderly gentlemen had looked up, pursed their lips, and returned to their game of checkers. A nearby nurse shook her head before motioning to nearby orderlies. I heard her say something about sedation.
How the hell were they so calm? There was a monster around. I knew it. Ortiz must’ve known it. Why didn’t they? Gus had told me too many heart attacks were occurring. Didn’t that set off bells in anyone’s head?
Guess not. My legs hammered across the carpet and onto the marble of the halls as I charged ahead. I could hear Ortiz’s breaths behind me. They were calm, the controlled breathing of a frequent runner. Pent up in here, what else did she have to do but run and train in her free time?
Another scream—louder. A prickling sensation erupted over my skin. We had made it outside the room. A normal person would’ve forced their way in. I wasn’t normal and I wasn’t stupid. The door was a pale blue steel. I couldn’t have forced my way through it no matter how badly I wanted to. So I concentrated elsewhere.
Like the rest of the doors in the asylum, this one had a pane of glass for viewing inside. Only, the keyboard-sized bit of glass needed a go
od cleaning. A substance like black paint beat and swirled against the glass. It was doing a great job of obscuring what was going on inside. That’s not normal. There was definitely a monster in the room.
Another scream. It didn’t last as long as the ones before. It had been muted near the end.
“Fuck this!” I snarled.
Charles’ drawings fell to the floor as I made a fist. My knuckles cracked right before I sent my hand into the window with ballistic force. Glass shattered. My fist sailed through the shards as somebody screamed. A heavy throb resonated through my fist and into my wrist.
There’s a reason punching things isn’t always the best option. Human hands aren’t the greatest weapons. They’re littered with nerve endings, and filled with tiny bones that are easy to break. Oh, and if you do smash the window, you let the frickin’ ominous black stuff out!
“Holy shit!” I yelped.
Arctic coolness assaulted my fingers. The bones in my hand froze as numbness coursed upwards. My forearm grew distant, like it was no longer part of my nervous system. The black whatsit snaked up my arm, leaving frigid paralysis in its wake. Worse, there seemed to be no end to the stuff. The mass that shot out of the window did nothing to diminish the amount of fog in the room. I couldn’t see a damn thing.
“Ackh!” I spat as my free hand beat my ick-covered arm. Squelch squelch squelch went the tar-like goop each time my hand slapped it. Every time I pulled away, wisp-like threads of gunk trailed between my arm and hand. Talk about being clingy.
Spreading my fingers into a clawed grip, I attacked my gook-covered arm, digging through the black gunk. My good fingers slowed, growing rigid as the substance congealed around them. A snarl left my throat as I worked through the numbing chill. My hand tensed and I tore at the blackened, jelly-like substance in a savage manner. It fought back, refusing to be parted. Just when I managed to rip the first hunk of the stuff off, something went wrong.
Go figure.
A flash. A vision. A brutal one, but I glimpsed something. Black tendrils writhed and flailed toward me. There were hundreds of them. A pale mass at the center, too bright to be seen properly, contrasted violently against the shadowy backdrop. One of those industrial crushers reserved for junkyards worked on my head. The pain brought water to my eyes.
And then it was gone. That was by far the most painful and quickest vision to course through my head. I had just seen the black tendrily masses of frickin’ Cthulhu!
Everything around me had a submerged look to it once I could see again. Stupid tears. A strong grip under my arms hauled me up.
“Erngh,” I groaned as Ortiz helped me to my feet. I wasn’t aware I had fallen. A spasm erupted in my arm. I felt it again and looked down to see it was clean.
I shot Ortiz a “what gives?” look.
She shrugged. “It sort of…went away.”
“What?”
Ortiz’s face twisted into a mask of horror. I stumbled as she let go of me and shoved her face toward the window.
“No!” I grabbed her and pull her away.
The room was empty, save for the body inside.
Every bit of the ominous black fog was gone. Whatever it was, it had done its job. The creature had claimed another victim.
She was pretty, the type that attracted men old enough to know better, as well as ones too young and stupid to care. She was at an age hovering between late teens and early college. Ringlets of wheat flowed to a hidden length behind her shoulders. Pale skin—tall. The gal could’ve modeled if she had chosen to. Only now, her face was frozen in anguish and terror. Her eyes were wide open. Trickles of moisture hung down her cheeks.
I looked at Ortiz. Her face mirrored the young woman’s. It’s never easy finding a dead body. It’s worse when you could’ve done something to stop it. Ortiz had helped me through a situation like this six months ago. Someone had died and I felt responsible. It was my turn to help her, but first we had to move.
I laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Come on.”
Ortiz turned and stared.
“We can’t do anything for her.”
She kept staring, her face pained.
“Look, orderlies might show up any second now. We’re standing in front of a dead body and a broken window.”
She remained silent.
I was angry. So was she. I could feel my features harden and my eyes followed. “We will get this thing. I promise.”
That galvanized her. The silence was replaced by a steadfast, fiery look I’d seen in her before. “Let’s go,” she agreed.
Scooping up Charles’ scattered works, I bolted. She followed. We hoofed it until we were several halls away. Ortiz rested on one leg, bracing herself against the wall. Her breathing was cool, calm and effortless despite sprinting. That was impressive.
It was quiet. That happens after you see a monster murder somebody. The worst part was that we didn’t even see the monster. All I saw was endless black obscuring whatever killed the poor girl. That wasn’t much to go on, but it was more than I had an hour ago. Tendrils, Charles’ drawings, heart attacks, and black fog. Not to mention the unfinished Pollock back in his bedroom.
The hell was this thing?
Ortiz had the same idea—great minds and all. “What the hell was that thing?”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly,” she said.
“I have no clue.” I gave a fractional shake of my head.
“Yeah, neither did the last guy with one of those tattoos.”
Okay…that was a low blow and she didn’t even know it.
“Do you have anything we could go on?”
“Apart from what we just saw and these”—I broke off as I held up Charles’ drawings—“not much.”
Her lips twitched. She wasn’t happy, but then again, neither was I. An innocent young woman had been murdered and neither of us had a clue what had done it.
“My bedroom. Come with me,” I said as a notion crossed my mind.
Apparently the wrong one crossed Ortiz’s. “What?” She crossed her arms, tilting her head and eyeing me askance.
“I have an idea,” I tried to clarify.
“I don’t think I’m going to like it.”
“Just come on.” I left to make my way back to Charles’ bedroom.
With a push of her heel, she rocked off the wall and followed behind. During the walk, Ortiz kept asking questions. I answered them with traditional ambiguity. It’s the way to go on questions you don’t want to—or can’t—answer. By the time we reached Charles’ room, Ortiz was knotted in frustration.
“Are all you tattooed guys assholes?”
I turned, flashed a smirk, and waggled my fingers in a mysterious gesture.
Scowling, she huffed and twisted her hips. Ortiz’s heel bounced off the metal door.
Charles’ room was still in the mess I had left it. Trails of black crayon covered the wall opposite the bed. The fact Charles had scrawled across the wall meant he was aware of the creature, at least in some regard. He must’ve known about it for some time. There’s no other way he could have left so many signs.
The worst part was that Charles had known and still died. If he had asked for help—told somebody—who would listen? He was a patient in a mental institution. Seeing monsters was common enough here. Hell, this creature was ingenious. An asylum was the perfect ground for claiming victims.
While I was busy working things out, Ortiz surveyed the room. “Interesting décor.” The corners of her mouth quirked.
“Yeah,” I muttered, not really paying attention. “I call it Pollock and The Paranormal, one of my seminal works.”
“Cute,” she said in an offhand manner.
“I can be,” I shot back, cracking the joke on pure instinct.
Ortiz froze. She stared hard at me.
Shit. I turned to regard the wall again, trying not to break into a cold sweat. Ortiz’s eyes burrowed a hole into the back of my head. Me and my big witty mouth.
Staring at nothing for a long time is a heckuva job. Well, there were squid-like appendages to stare at, but I couldn’t at that moment. I was too wrapped up in the fact that Ortiz might have figured me out. So I remained motionless. It was like that scene from Jurassic Park. Don’t move and the T-Rex won’t spot you. I also resolved to never let Ortiz know that I had compared her to a dinosaur. I’d seen her angry before. It wouldn’t end well for me.
After an uncomfortable amount of time spent in silence, she stepped beside me, looking right at me. Something was at work behind her eyes; I could see it. She was starting to put things together. Maybe she wasn’t there yet, but if I didn’t shut up, she’d get there a whole lot sooner.
Church would be pissed.
Changing the subject seemed like a good idea. I pointed to the marked-up wall.
Ortiz shook her head in confusion. “What is it?”
“A clue.”
Ortiz’s lips folded and I saw her fighting to hold back the smile. Her eyes danced with amusement. “I can see that,” she said, adopting the tone a mother would take when dealing with a child who had just stated the obvious. “What is it?”
“Tendrils.”
“What?”
“Tendrils.” I waved my arms in a fluid wavy kind of manner. “You know, tendrils, squids, octopuses—”
“Octopi.”
I scowled. “Whatever. Tentacles of doom!” My voice took on the ominous tone reserved for cartoon villains.
“Tentacles of doom?” Her lips twitched and an eyebrow arched in amusement.
I ignored her. Tentacles of doom sounded appropriate to me.
She gestured to the wall. “Why’d you have to draw so many? Couldn’t you have just written tentacles?”
I couldn’t answer that question without revealing myself, and I couldn’t lie to Ortiz. She was a walking polygraph test.
So I ignored her.
Walking over to the bed, I retrieved the crayon from earlier. I turned and thrust it toward Ortiz.