by Liam Jackson
"Oh, God. The bastard... he killed Rita." Paul cried until exhaustion pulled him under into a dreamless sleep.
When Paul awoke a second time, the room was dark but for several long, tapered candles mounted in simple copper wall sconces. The haunting memories came back to him immediately, but he had no tears left to shed. There was nothing but an infinite void.
To his left, a short stool had been placed by the bed, and on it was a large bowl of cloudy, steaming broth. Beside the bowl was a small saucer on which lay several various pieces of fruit. There was also a pewter cup filled to the brim with something that looked like wine.
Paul realized that he was thirsty and tried again to roll over onto his side, toward the food. To his surprise, the movement caused him far less discomfort than he anticipated, and soon he was sipping a dry red wine from the pewter cup. Next, he sampled the broth and found it delicious.
Paul made short work of the broth then started on the saucer of sliced fruit. Several minutes later, having eaten his fill, Paul lay back on the bed. He glanced at his left wrist, more out of habit than for any other reason, but his watch was missing.
Rita gave me that watch last Christmas.
The door swung open and a fair-haired, slightly built man of twenty-something stepped into the room. Paul could only stare in wonder. The young man was... beautiful. Not just in a physical sense, though he was certainly that, but... in a way that Paul couldn't quite understand. If was as if someone had decided to sculpt the universal concept of grace, and the finished product now stood before him. The young man closed the door behind him and stepped closer to the bed.
"I thought I heard you stirring about," said the young man, smiling. He glanced at the empty bowl and cup and smiled. "I'm glad to see that your appetite is intact."
Paul chuckled nervously. "That may be the only part of me that's intact. I feel like I've been in a head-on collision with a freight train."
The young man laughed and Paul was reminded of crystal wind chimes.
"I'm sure you have several questions and as soon as you feel up to it, I'll try to answer them as best I can."
Paul tried to nod, and felt a sharp twinge in his neck. Grimacing, he said, "I guess I'm about as ready as I'll ever be. We can start by you telling me your name."
"That's a good start, I suppose. My name is Kiel. My... brother, Nathaniel, brought you here. You were in pretty bad shape."
"Nathaniel... he's the giant that saved me from the tall guy?"
Kiel laughed. "Oh, Nathaniel is a healthy specimen, but he's no giant. And yes, it was he and Sharaiel who intervened on your behalf."
"Sharaiel, the woman..."
"Female, yes."
"Where are they now? I'd like to thank them." Kiel dropped his gaze to the floor.
"What is it? Did I say something wrong?"
Kiel shook his head and raised his eyes to meet Paul's. "No, of course not. Nathaniel will be by later, to check on you. Shara—Sharaiel isn't here."
"Oh, dear God, it's true. She's dead!" whispered Paul. Kiel shook his head and sat down gingerly at the foot of the bed.
"Please. You mustn't think it's your fault. The battle you witnessed would have taken place eventually, with or without your participation. You need to believe that."
Paul tried to swallow, but it felt as if a bowling ball was lodged in his throat. A moment passed in silence, neither man speaking. Finally, Paul cleared his throat and said, "Kiel, I need to know what happened back there. I need... I just need to know."
Kiel laid a hand upon Paul's shoulder. "Not yet. You need more rest, to regain some strength and finish healing. We'll talk then."
Paul shook his head violently. "No!" he said. The protest came out louder than he had intended, but it made no real difference. He was determined to know.
"Look, I didn't mean to yell at you. You and your friends saved my life and I'm grateful. But I have to know what happened back there. It may be connected to other events, things and places that I still have to contend with as soon as I can be on my way. I have to know. Do you understand?"
Kiel said nothing for several seconds, and Paul was afraid the young man would refuse his plea. Then Kiel gave him a small smile and nodded his head.
"Yes, I understand. And I'll help as much as I can. I only hope you're ready for what I'm about to tell you. But first, I need to change your dressings."
"Then let's get to it," said Paul.
Paul braced himself, but the procedure proved quick and painless. Kiel probed Paul's myriad wounds, then cleansed and redressed them in soft, clean linen. When he finished, Kiel asked, "Are you sure you're up to this? It won't help or hurt to wait one more day."
"No, let's have it. Like I said, I have to know."
CHAPTER 31
Knoxville, Tennessee
Michael awoke tired and agitated from a fitful sleep. A quick glance at his Timex revealed that it was mid-morning, a few minutes before 10:00 a.m. Despite his nightmarish conversation with the thing, and his anxiety over Pam's well-being, common sense had kicked in around six a.m. He had been in bad need of sleep, and continuing on to Abbotsville in the middle of a blizzard was lunacy.
Using his cell phone, he tried calling home several times and when Pam failed to answer, he offered another prayer that she just was spending the night with one of her sisters. His attempts to reach her sisters all met with similar results.
He couldn't help but notice the low buzzing in his head each time he dialed a number. Not exactly the silent alarm, but an indication that not all was well at home.
At least the maddening phone calls from the dying cat had ceased. He forced himself to stretch out on the sofa, and close his eyes, just for a few minutes. That was more than four hours ago.
Stumbling into the bathroom, he took a long hot shower. Afterwards, he quickly dressed, gathered his gear, and checked the hallway through the peephole of the hotel door. The hall appeared empty, though he wasn't so sure that meant a hell of a lot. Michael was certain that someone or something was following him, and apparently they, or it, had the ability to disappear into thin air.
He slipped the security chain from the latch and opened the door. Michael stepped out into the hall, his suitcase in one hand, and his other hand on the butt of the Glock. The urge to reach Abbotsville was stronger than ever, but first so was the sense of foreboding. He would try again from one of the pay phones, to reach Pam.
"God, please take care of Pam," he whispered.
Minutes later, Michael stepped out the elevator and into the congested lobby. He took a moment to survey the crowd, waiting for the alarms to go off in his head, but no warnings came.
The number of stranded passengers had grown significantly since midnight. As he walked toward the main desk, he glanced to his left at the large plate-glass window that spanned the entire face of the hotel. God-awful drapes, teal-green trimmed in burgundy covered most of the glass, but he could see that the snow was still coming down.
He pulled the room key from his pocket and started to lay it on the counter when he say the young woman from the previous night. She was still sitting on the floor pallet, the infant wiggling in her arms, and the toddler intent on making his escape. With the airport closed due to the blizzard and the hotel booked to capacity, Michael knew she and the children would likely still be sitting there this time tomorrow.
Looking at his room key, then at the woman and her children, he made his decision. He put the key back into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Stepping up to the counter, he caught the attention of a haggard-looking clerk, who asked, "Yes, sir, what can I do for you?"
"Yeah, I'd like to keep my room for an additional three days. Bill the extra charges to my Visa. You already have the card information."
"Not a problem, sir. I just need to verify your account information. May I see your driver's license?"
Michael nodded, but instead of handing over his license, he gave the clerk his Kansas City P.D. identification card. The cler
k smiled and said, "Yes, sir. It's a pleasure to have you staying with us while you're in Knoxville. Will there be anything else?"
"No, that's all for the moment. Thank you." Michael started to walk away, then stopped in midstride. "Oh, wait... there is one thing. What can you tell me about a little town called Abbotsville?"
The clerk looked up from the desk. "Abbotsville? Just a mud puddle in the road, about a hundred-fifty miles southeast of Knoxville. Just take Highway One-oh-four South, then turn right on One-twelve. Got to watch your step just before you get into Abbotsville though. Old one-lane suspension bridge. You slide off the bridge and, well, let's just say that Woeful Creek would be pretty cold this time of year," the clerk said with a grin. "You have relatives in the area?"
Michael shook his head. "No. No family in Abbotsville. Why do you ask?"
The clerk smiled, revealing perfectly capped teeth. "Not much reason for going there, unless you've got relatives in the area. Say, you're not one of those spook hunters are you?
The alarms buzzed loudly in Michael's head. "Spook chasers?"
"Yeah, we occasionally get haunted house tour groups coming through, usually in the fall, and they always plan an outing to Abbotsville. In fact, there was a small group through here just last month asking for directions to the town."
"Uh, no, nothing like that. I'm sort of... a history buff."
"Ah, that explains it," said the clerk, nodding sagely. "Well, like I said, there's not much there anymore, but you probably know that already. The town, or what's left of it, sits well off the beaten path. But there is one old landmark just south of town, the old sanatorium. You say you're a history buff?"
Instantly, Michael's inner silent alarm went into overdrive. He'd never heard of the sanatorium, but obviously it held some significance to his quest.
"I'm somewhat of an amateur historian, yeah. A friend of mine mentioned the sanatorium and suggested that I visit the place while I'm in the area," Michael lied. "What can you tell me about it?"
Eager to share his expertise of local lore and delighted to have an interested audience, the clerk dove into the tale with relish.
"Well, you see, Abbotsville is a sad little spot in the road, not more than three or four hundred live in the area. Used to be a mining town, you know. It was a big deal back in the thirties and forties. Then, they had that scandal in the mid-fifties and the place just dried-up. Bad karma, know what I mean?"
Michael had no idea what the young man meant, but he nodded just the same.
"That's why the ghost hunters go up there. They say it's a 'hot spot,' whatever that is. The old sanatorium is the only site worth really worth seeing in Abbotsville nowadays. Started out as a leper colony, the first ever built in North America. It was founded right after the Spanish-American War, you know."
"I had no idea," replied Michael. The alarms were still going off, indicating that he was onto something. He only needed to encourage the clerk to ramble on, but the young man didn't require much prodding.
"Yeah, the sanatorium has a hell of a history. It was founded by a monastic from Scotland. They set up a tuberculosis colony, think it was around 1890, then later, turned it into a hospital for other terminally ill patients. The priests disappeared in the mid-fifties, and some German investment group purchased the property.
"The Germans converted the property into something of a mental hospital for the rich and crazy. More of a retreat, really. The owners claimed the hospital had some kind of magical healing properties, something about a network of springs and caves that ran for miles beneath the town.
"Later, they started taking in some real nutcases. The locals raised hell but the owners blew 'em off, said it would help the town's economy."
The alarms were so loud now that Michael was sure the clerk could hear them. "Interesting. Is the place still in business?"
"Oh, gosh no! The Feds started snooping around, after complaints that the staff mistreated the patients; torture, neglect, the same old allegations that plague most mental hospitals.
"The final straw came around '55. Seems a couple of the real wackos escaped and wandered into town. Abbotsville was a little larger in those days... about forty-five hundred residents. Used to be a big mining community, did I tell you that? Oh. Coal and bauxite. Anyway, these two guys supposedly climbed out through a fourth-story window and walked into town. The results were pretty gruesome. Killed a couple of kids, cannibalized the bodies. Like I said, gruesome shit, if you'll pardon my French. Feds moved in within the month and shut down the place."
"So it's been sitting empty all this time? It sounds like it must have been quite a facility at one time."
The clerk nodded vigorously and said, "You bet it was! First-class all the way. There used to be a running joke about it being the only hospital in America that served caviar with a side order of straightjackets. Some Fortune Five Hundred Italian outfit made an offer to buy it about fifteen years ago. It was in all the papers."
"I guess the owners turned down the offer?"
The clerk leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Three Italian guys drove up to Abbotsville on a Saturday morning to look over the property. They disappeared."
Smelling an urban legend, Michael gave the clerk a skeptical look. "What do you mean, they disappeared?"
"I mean disappeared. Poof. Gone. No longer to be found. The state police investigated, even called in the FBI because of them being foreigners and all. They found the Mercedes sitting in the sanatorium parking lot, but there was no sign of the Italians. The owners claimed they never showed for the meeting. Some story, huh?"
"Some story!" Mike agreed. "Is there anyone around the old place now that I can talk to? Caretakers? Maybe a security company?"
The clerk said, "Not sure. Might be a security guard around the place. There was a couple of small mining operations working on the backside of the property there last year. The big shots stayed here a couple of weeks. But I think they've closed the mines again."
It was some story, all right. If not for the alarms going off in his head, he would have dismissed it as a supersized crock of shit. But the alarms never rang false.
He thanked the clerk for the information, then asked if he could use the desk phone for a personal call. The clerk hesitated, explaining that guests were supposed to use the courtesy phones near the elevators, but he relented when Michael mentioned that cops never forgot a favor.
Michael punched in his home phone number and prayed that Pam would answer. He was only a little relieved when he got a busy signal. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he noticed the distinct absence of silent alarms. That could only be good news, he decided. Thanking the clerk again, he grabbed his suitcase and headed for the front door. It was time to pay a visit to Abbotsville and see this sanatorium, up close and in person. But first, he had something to do.
Michael walked across the lobby to the young woman who now was trying to spoon globs of green goo into the mouth of a vigorously protesting baby. The toddler was clapping his hands and giggling, enjoying the battle of wills between his mother and younger sister.
"Ma'am?"
The woman looked up at Michael, then set the spoon back into the jar. He saw that the label on the jar read Strained Green Peas.
No wonder, he thought. I'd put up a hell of a fight, too. "Yes?" she replied. She seemed grateful for the interruption.
"My name is Michael Collier and I'm a police officer." Michael showed her his identification card.
She looked at the card, then back at him. "Oh! Is something wrong?"
"Oh, no, not at all. It's just that... I'm checking out of the hotel this morning, and, well... my room is already paid up for the next three days. I was wondering if you'd like to have it."
The woman's eyes narrowed and she looked at Michael as if he'd just grown an extra head. "Is this some kind of gag? Because if it is, cop or no cop, I'll call the hotel management."
"No, honest! I have to check out, and the roo
m is already paid for. It's yours if you want it."
"Oh, just like that, huh? A hundred people sitting around this lobby, stranded because the airport is closed, and you pick me to give a room to. Do I look like an idiot to you?"
Speechless, Michael nodded "yes" before he realized what he was doing.
"I mean, no! Not at all! I just thought that with the kids and all..."
"Oh, I know what you thought! Look, mister, I don't know what game you're playing but I didn't just fall off the turnip wagon. I think you'd better leave me alone, before I start screaming."
Already, heads were turning in his direction, and the looks were anything but friendly. Red-faced, Michael hit the double doors, thinking that even the sanatorium had to be a step up from this nuthouse.
CHAPTER 32
Knoxville
That'll be twelve dollars and eighty-five cents with tax." A middle-aged man wearing camouflaged overalls and a Tennessee Titans baseball cap grumbled something about "being taken to the cleaners," then slid his credit card across the counter. Charlie scooped it up and swiped it through the machine. After a few seconds the credit machine flashed a message, Purchase Approved. The man signed a copy of the ticket and stalked outside without another word.
Before the front door could close behind him, another customer caught it and stepped inside, stomping snow from his boots. Charlie was happy the store traffic was picking up. She had only seen three customers spread out over the past five hours. She opened the cash register and slid the credit card voucher beneath the coin drawer.
Without looking up, Charlie said, "Come on in! Coffee is on the house, courtesy of the blizzard and my dad!"
Suddenly, the room tilted and an intense wave of nausea washed over her. Charlie squeezed her eyes shut and laid both hands on the counter, trying to stay on her feet. She forced herself to take a couple of deep breaths and relax. The unexpected attack of vertigo subsided as quickly as it struck. Seconds later, the nausea had all but disappeared as well.
Slowly opening her eyes, she let out a startled yelp. A pair of red-tinged eyes was positioned within inches of her face. "You okay, baby doll? You look a little weak in the knees."