Grave Measures (The Grave Report, Book 2)

by R. R. Virdi

  Petite cups were lined across a container. They were filled with something gelatinous. I placed a hand over my discontented stomach. “Pudding.”

  My stomach’s protests ceased as if hearing the word was enough to placate it.

  I put my bowls away and grabbed my share of pudding. I returned with not two, but four cups. One simply cannot eat a single pudding cup and be sated. It’s a law of life. I savored the first dollop of chocolaty goodness; the rest of the cup was inhaled. The cup of vanilla followed in the same way. I blended the remaining two into a half and half concoction in the empty cups. They were divine.

  Brushing the plastic containers to the side, I leaned over, resting on my arms as I thought. The connections were there; I just couldn’t see ‘em is all. Something linked the Shadowvores to whatever was killing people in the asylum. Shadow beings are drawn to places of fear, negativity, depression and the like. While they could feed on people, it was rare and difficult. Ghosts were the easier target and allowed them to remain out of sight. After all, who’d miss a ghost?

  The way the young woman had died didn’t offer much. A shroud of black fog hid the creature doing its work. Then there was the way it seemed alive, snaking its way up my arm and causing me to hallucinate. I sighed and got to my feet, leaving a mess of pudding cups behind.

  My mind and body ached for sleep. A fifteen-minute nap would’ve been blissful. I reminded myself I couldn’t afford to waste even that with so little clues to go on. My mental objections became verbal grunts and grumbles as I walked down the halls. I stopped when I noticed a fountain.

  I bent at the waist and brought my mouth toward the spout. I guzzled for a good while, allowing myself to become lost in the simple action.

  “Thinking?”

  I pushed myself from the fountain. “Yeah. How are you, Gus?”

  He scratched idly at his chin. “Not good.”

  “What gives?”

  “Someone else died,” he replied in a somber tone.

  “What? When? Where? How?” I blurted.

  His face contorted in confusion as I overwhelmed him. “Heart attack. This morning. I heard her screaming.” His voice grew hollow near the end.

  My hand fell on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Sorry.”

  His head sank and his gaze fell to our feet. “I thought you said you could help.”

  Such a simple sentence, but he might as well have hit me with a freight truck. It was the same damn thing from where I was standing. “I know.” My voice was that of a stranger’s, far off and unrecognizable. “I’m trying.”

  “Try harder.” His face shook a bit. He wasn’t visibly angry, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. “Good people are dying.”

  “Well, then, why don’t you help me out, pal?” Spittle left my mouth. My knuckles ached and my fingers dug into my palms. “It’s easy to stand there and tell me to try harder. Don’t you think I’m doing everything I can? If you’ve got a lead, then share it with me. Otherwise, fuck off!” I waved a hand down the hall.

  Gus may have been trying to help, but his last words had an effect on me. I was tired and without a clue. He wasn’t the only one feeling the loss. Their deaths hurt me too. How did he think I felt? I was the one who was supposed to make sure no one else died.

  It was my job.

  And I was failing.

  Gus’ mouth moved to voice his response. I didn’t give him the time. I spun on my heel and took off down the hall. He was right about one thing. I could try harder and I was damn well going to.

  Charles’ bedroom contained his unfinished drawings. Hopefully they’d shed more light on the case. And if it came to it, there was still Lyshae. Not that I was keen on another meeting with the trickster fox spirit.

  It didn’t take long for me to make it back to Charles’ room. I made a point of stopping by the rec room to grab a box of crayons. Upon stepping into his room, I realized grabbing an entire box was a good decision. Bleach hit my nose. The walls had been wiped clean—again. Everything else was untouched. The good news was that my journals were still hidden beneath the pillows. The bad news was that I’d have to highlight his work once again.

  The paranoid cynic inside me screamed the words “cover up.” The small and nearly nonexistent, logical side argued it was simple practice. Most hospitals aren’t big fans of graffiti, especially the sort that could rile up sensitive patients. It was plain that a member of the cleaning staff saw the disturbing images and scrubbed ‘em clean. It was applaudable—keeping the place clean. It also interfered with my case.

  My forearm tingled. Another hour had passed. I couldn’t believe it; I hadn’t been back that long. The only explanation was that I was already a good bit into it upon my arrival. Nineteen hours left and a whole lot of doodling before me.

  Wonderful.

  Hot aches filled my elbows as my hands and arms blurred across the wall. Black lines quickly undid the bleach’s work. There was no measured action in my movements, just desperation. The first crayon wore to a nub after a minute of my furious tempo. The second crayon served to recreate the scene from before. The third, a pastel blue, fleshed things out a bit.

  Charles message was clear once again, only now it made more sense. I understood the mention of shadows, but the fear part still left me without an answer. Then there was the elsewhere reference. He could have been referring to the Neravene. It was a similar concept. “Follow fear down below.” That meant…something important.

  “Follow it down,” I mumbled to myself. Down where?

  Parts of it made sense. The Shadowvores operated in that manner. They may have been popping into the asylum, but they were holed up in the Neravene. The creature responsible for the deaths could have been doing the same thing. Hiding in the Neravene only to pop out to nab victims. If that was the case, things were going to be harder.

  I had already made two trips into the Neravene. Somehow, a third trip didn’t feel like it’d be a charm. I hoped I wouldn’t need it. Ortiz and Lizzie had been in enough danger. If the creature responsible was in the Neravene, the only options I had were to consult the asylum ghosts. Or I could visit Lyshae and possibly be thrown into a bottomless pit.

  I was spoiled for choices.

  I shook my head clear of the slew of ideas. My musings could wait. Charles’ drawings needed to be finished. Pale blue lines brought the faint carvings to life. The particular area I was working on became interesting as a shape began to develop. Narrow limbs came into being. It was the appearance of a slender being. A thin man of sorts. Something about it tickled the back of my brain.

  White spots danced before my eyes as a violent kick rocked my head. A fog of black blinded me, and something held me down in an iron grip. My feet kicked in the air, occasionally tapping a frantic beat on the floor. A coolness enveloped my leg as something writhed over it. It felt like a large snake had wrapped itself around the limb. I caught a glimpse of pallid flesh amidst the fog. The flesh was a chalky hue that blurred with my vision. My body felt the urge to sleep.

  I gasped as the memory faded and my vision cleared. “Holy shit.” I stood there and heaved.

  My heart drummed like a bass tester. Something crawled against the back of my throat. Setting the box of crayons on the bed, I left Charles’ room. There was a fountain nearby. The water helped as it rolled its way down my gullet.

  I blinked as I examined my hand. I didn’t remember getting a cut. A gash the length of my pinky finger ran from the base of my thumb. It was all the more bothersome when I realized the gash lengthened of its own accord. The beating in my throat picked up. Who knew my heart could jump so high? The skin of my hands—both of them—began to shed. I reeled from the fountain, rubbing my trembling hands together.

  The hell’s going on?

  More skin fell from my fingers as the color of my hand resembled that of an old corpse. My arms followed suit, going so far as to lose sensation. Every step I took sent an electric jolt through my body. My legs wobbled and I stumble
d, losing my balance. Everything was falling to pieces. I was falling to pieces. Moisture trickled from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks.

  Over all the years I’ve worked as an investigator, this was one of my fears. I was forced to inhabit the bodies of the dead by some higher power. Whatever that power was, it restored the bodies to their pre-death state so I could occupy them. That process held firm throughout every case. All of those things meant nothing if the body failed to hold itself together.

  Like now.

  Something gnawed at the inside of my head. Gasoline burned within my skull. Tears streamed from the pain, and there was a fear I couldn’t get a hold of. I lurched down the hall as my borrowed body failed me. Patients gave me puzzled looks—some were horrified. They should’ve been. Seeing a body fall to bits isn’t pretty.

  “Charles?” The voice was concerned and mystified.

  I looked up. Doctor Eric Cartwright’s features twisted into something out of a zombie flick. His skin stretched into pale leather pulled tight over too large a surface. Strips of flesh were missing and what bits remained were gangrenous. His hair thinned, matted and frayed, hanging to his shoulders. Bile built in my throat but I held it back.

  My head panged as I envisioned a memory from Charles. It was the same one from earlier: Charles taking the doctor down. My ears pumped with blood. My skull throbbed and my knuckles popped. Charles had attacked the doctor before and no good had come of it. I had no proof the doc was a monster. All I had was Charles’ anger.

  “Charles?” The doc sounded like he was underwater. He extended a wary hand.

  I slapped it away, stumbling back as I did. My hands flew to my ears. I turned and hobbled away as fast as my deteriorating body could take me. My vision clouded every few seconds before snapping back to clarity. The floor seemed uneven. Every step, no matter how measured, caused me to fight for balance.

  Come on, Graves. This isn’t real. The pressure increased. A familiar feeling filled my head. It wasn’t real. I just had to convince myself of that. My abilities and borrowed bodies have never failed me. There was no chance they’d start now.

  There was one notion that carried me through—Church. He wasn’t the sort to let crap like this happen to me. The last time something had tried, he’d intervened. That may not have seemed like much to most people, but for Church to actively get involved in a case was major. He was more of the quiet, on-the-sidelines type of guy. If Church wasn’t rescuing me, there wasn’t nothing I needed to be rescued from.

  Something hard jarred my knees. Floor tiles. I sank to my side. My teeth ground as I gritted through the pain. I pinched my nose shut in an effort to still my frantic breathing. Seconds later, I released my finger and thumb, allowing myself to take in several slow breaths.

  “Hey,” someone said. I couldn’t identify the voice.

  Hands took hold of my shoulders and stopped my shaking. Their grip was surprisingly strong and yet gentle as they helped me to my feet. I blinked away the hazy clouds and let my eyes settle. “Gus?”

  The baby-faced man nodded. “Sorry.”

  I arched an eyebrow the best I could. “For what?”

  “Earlier.” He rolled his shoulders.

  “Oh, that.” I blinked owlishly. “Yeah,” I said, my voice gruff. “Me too.”

  An awkward silence hung in the air. Men aren’t programmed to deal with the process of making up. There’s too many emotions and thinking involved for our brains. Hugging it out isn’t an option.

  We shrugged in unison and Gus spoke. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just tripping. I think the Lucky Charms are loaded with acid.”

  “Stay away from the mushroom marshmallows,” he said in solemn tones, but the corners of his mouth twitched in something near a smile.

  I let out a sharp bark of laughter and realized something. The pain had faded. My body wasn’t falling to bits. I laughed harder. People underestimate the power of a good laugh. It’s a salve for the worst of things. Laughter is pure. It can help you through a great deal.

  “What are you doing?” The gruff voice seemed strained from stringing so many words together.

  “Oh…you.” My eyes narrowed on light-skinned gorilla orderly. “I’m having a conversation and a laugh. You know what those are, don’t you?” I scowled.

  His eyes narrowed to match mine. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or straining his brain to understand my reply.

  “Aww, what’s the matter? Mongo not like big words?” I teased. “Too many syllables?”

  “Calm down,” Gus whispered.

  I looked over my shoulder to him. “Fine.”

  The orderly followed my gaze to Gus, then glanced back at me. He shook his head in disgust. “Nut job.” With his half-baked insult uttered, he waddled his meathead self away.

  Nut job? Me? Like hell! Just because I was in a mental hospital didn’t mean I was crazy. “Asswaffle,” I sneered as he left.

  Gus gave me a curious look. “Interesting word.”

  “What can I say? I’m a creative genius when it comes to the art of cussery.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” I growled.

  Gus opened his mouth to speak, but a scream carried through the halls—or tried to. Something cut it off. I was already in motion. My rapid breathing strained my haggard throat. I didn’t know where the scream had come from, only the general direction. I kept my eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary as I ran.

  Another scream and a series of thuds rang out. The source seemed to be a room a few doors ahead of me. I sprinted toward the door, thrusting my face up to the small viewing pane. The room was shrouded in black.

  “Bingo, you son of a bitch!” I snarled as my hand slipped over the door handle. I was rewarded with a full turn instead of a click of resistance. As soon as the lock disengaged I wrenched the handle. It flung open, bouncing off the door guard. I dove into the murky fog in search of whatever it concealed.

  “Bwah.” I flailed as chilling tendrils of the black gunk clung to me. I was not ready for another paranormal drug trip. “No, no, no.” I growled as I swept my hands in wide arcs, trying to feel my way through. My fingers brushed against something smooth, cold and moving.

  “Whoa—oof!” Something struck my midsection—something strong. The air was knocked out of me. A hint of paper-white flesh stood out within the dark mist. It moved with startling speed.

  Groggily, I righted myself and plunged further into the darkness. I grabbed only air. There was a clang above me. I couldn’t see what exactly made the noise. The muck was taking hold. I lost track of time and visions flooded my mind. Colored spots danced in front of me as ten kinds of pain wracked my head. Sharp stabbing sensations, dull aches. Something pummeled my noggin with blunt force.

  Faces swam before me, people I knew. Not me—people Charles knew. A young woman with fairer shades of hair than Charles. She was creamy-skinned and freckled. His daughter. A portrait of a woman resembling his daughter, older, smiling. A lone lily sat before the picture. Charles’ wife. My heart throbbed in remembrance. It panged shortly afterwards.

  He had a family. I had never thought about that. The poor guy had lost his wife, then his own life. His daughter was alone out there somewhere. Something boiled inside me. This monster had taken a father away from his daughter, and not long after she had lost her mother.

  Screw this. I set my teeth and thrashed. I became dimly aware of something restraining my frenzied motions.

  “Calm, Charles. Calm,” someone urged.

  I stopped my fit and my breathing slowed. The visions faded and I found myself staring at the ceiling. There was a face in the corner of my view. It had lost its zombie look but that didn’t make it anymore welcoming of a mug.

  I coughed. “What’s up, doc?”

  His mouth formed a thin line. “Charles, what are you doing here? This is not good.” His head sank. He looked tired. “Tragic,” he muttered.

  My head lolled like a n
ewborn as I looked around. I wanted to ask what he was talking about, but a metal square caught my attention. In the far corner of the ceiling was a barred grate, large enough to accommodate a child.

  The ventilation system. That’s how the bastard was moving through the asylum. It had to be small in stature to pull that off. Most ventilation systems, contrary to Hollywood, aren’t large enough to fit a full-grown man.

  “Charles?”

  “Yeah.” I swallowed a fit of coughs.

  “You didn’t answer me. What are you doing here?”

  I groaned as he helped ease me into a cross-legged position. I told him the truth, most of it anyways. “I heard screaming and came to help.”

  “That was nice of you.” He gave me a thin, patient smile. “But you shouldn’t have done that. Andre suffered a heart attack. His problems got the worst of him, I’m afraid.”

  Yeah, a heart attack caused by a frickin’ monster.

  “Andre was a paranoid schizophrenic. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes.” I tried to keep my tone from becoming scathing. It wasn’t easy.

  “He thought he heard voices, had delusions of monsters, ghosts, and God-knows-what other horrible things.”

  “What if he was right?” I eyed the doctor askance. I wish I hadn’t.

  Doctor Cartwright blinked. It took a few seconds for him to collect himself. “Charles, there are no monsters.”

  “Right.” I didn’t see the point in arguing.

  “Good,” he said more to himself than me. “Let’s get you up. You should go get yourself checked over by the nurse. You were out of sorts when I found you.”

  “Sure.” My ass twitched at the mention of the nurse. I wasn’t interested in going back.

  “Good.” He nodded to himself.

  I blinked.

  His skin was losing its color. His sockets recessed and his eyes sank deeper. The irises darkened into pools of black. His skin had bleached to the purest of whites. Every trace of hair was gone. He looked every bit a monster. I knew it had to be a lingering effect from my exposure to the fog.