He bumped into a support beam, sending a sharp spark of burning pain across the backs of his eyelids.
Go toward the light, go toward the light.
His knees ached. The progress was so slow he wondered if he were moving backward. “What is the mission, God? Please show me your purpose.”
The absurdity struck him: he was following a sewer main that began at the kitchen. Follow the shit.
By the time he reached the far wall, he was gasping and clammy. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he eased down onto his stomach in the slick soil. To the left, up a series of three crumbling concrete steps, was a wooden door. He hadn’t seen it from the outside, so it must be an internal service door. If he remembered correctly, the laundry room and access alley were behind the kitchen, so the basement didn’t extend into those areas.
The light blinked on the digital recorder. He clicked it on and said, “Yes?”
“Do you see the light?”
“Yes, I am in the light.” His mouth was a jumble of rocks and glass but it was important to communicate clearly. So much pain and misery had been inflicted because God’s messages had been misinterpreted. Rodney wanted to get this one right.
“Look beside the light.”
Rodney squinted up into the nest of floor joists, wires and pipes. Pink fiberglass insulation hung loose like cobwebs out of a Dr. Seuss nightmare. From above came the dull clangor of kitchenware, and water sluiced through the pipes with a liquid rumble. It might have been the breakfast crew, or lunch, or maybe even dinner. He wondered if Phillippe had missed a shift.
“Show me the way, Lord.”
“You already see.”
Amid the tangle of utility pipes was a dull copper line, turned green with age. It descended from the kitchen floor and angled to the masonry wall, where it went through a hole that was patched with concrete. He pictured the kitchen, with its dishwashers, counters, racks of pots and pans, and the deep fryer baskets. The stoves, with their little blue pilot lights.
Fed by propane gas.
He smiled in understanding. Lucifer had made this basement his domain, and the White Horse had become the home of demons. Take away their home, and they could no longer play. True, evil could never be defeated, but it could be delayed. And the victims he’d delivered unto them would make the six demons sluggish and susceptible. Already they thought him weak, a puny servant of God who couldn’t even stand on his own two feet in the face of adversity.
Fight fire with fire.
That wasn’t in the Bible, not in so many words, but Exodus prescribed an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, foot for a foot, and burning for burning. Close enough.
Belial owed him a couple of teeth, at least. And Lucifer had earned quite a burning. Maybe not the eternal lake of fire that God would cast him in after Armageddon, but hot enough for now.
He fiddled with his equipment belt and pulled out his multi-use tool. A wire cutter, knife, screwdriver, and more, it also contained a pair of pliers. He’d be able to work on the copper. Just as soon as he was able to stand.
Soon.
But first, sleep.
Chapter 37
“Come on, Twerp Face, I don’t have time for this.”
Dad had gotten drunk, Cody was flipping out, the panels had bought them some time but the natives were getting restless, and the last thing Kendra needed was Bruce pulling another one of his “Now you see me, now you don’t” bits.
To make matters worse, that creepy little Rochester was with him. Bruce had popped out around the corner, about fifty feet down the hall, and held out her sketch pad. “Looking for this?” he’d said.
She’d left the sketch pad in the room with Dad, but if Digger was nursing a colossal hangover, an elephant parade could have waltzed through the room without his knowing it. Rochester the Rat-Faced Boy had also poked his head around the corner, and their footsteps and giggles faded down the hall.
Rochester was dressed in oddly formal clothes, a little black jacket and bow tie that looked like they’d been scavenged from a thrift shop. It was the frilly white shirt that was most out of place, the kind of clothes any normal boy would have ditched at the first opportunity.
Kendra was winded by the time she turned the second corner. The giggling seemed to come from all over, as if the boys had separated and were hiding in places behind the walls. One of them, probably Bruce, must have reached the attic through a hidden set of stairs. Except it sounded like several pairs of feet running overhead, not just one little twerp’s.
As she ran, she passed a couple of open rooms. People were getting ready for the night hunts, assuming SSI got its act together. Somebody yelled her name, but she didn’t slow down. Bruce knew all the secret nooks and crannies of the third floor, and if she didn’t rescue her sketchbook soon, she might not get it back by the end of the conference.
Then all her favorite characters would be lost—Emily Dee, the Circuit Rider, the Truth Fairy—and even though she carried them all in her head, the sketches represented months of work. They were more than her work; they were her life, her sanity.
But you saw him hanging.
Nah, that was just the ride on the koo-koo choo-choo. Sometimes you were the engine, sometimes you were the caboose.
When you opened the door to your imagination, you invited such things. It came with the territory. Creativity wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows and primary colors. Once in awhile, you scribbled with the gray crayon.
She came to a narrow door she hadn’t noticed before. It looked like a service door of some kind and it was parted a few inches, cool air oozing from the crack.
Bingo.
She opened it to find a narrow set of steep stairs that led up to darkness. The giggling grew quieter, followed by a shushing sound.
“Okay, Brucie, I know you’re up here. Just give me the sketch pad and nobody gets hurt.”
His voice came from the far corner of the attic: “Somebody always gets hurt.”
“I’m not in a real good mood right now.”
“What’s going on?” This voice was from the hall, below her.
Cody stood in the narrow doorway, gazing up at her. She was glad she was wearing black tights, or he’d have seen right up her skirt to her panties.
She shifted so that her legs were drawn together. “Just getting back some personal property,” she said, realizing how absurd she must look.
“I saw you on the camera, running down the hall.”
“That boy I told you about. He took my sketch pad.”
“What boy?”
“The one I was chasing.”
“K-babe, there wasn’t anyone. I was watching.”
“Cut the crap, Cody. He was there.” Just like when he was hanging, right?
“You’ve been around The Digger too long. You’re starting to lose it.”
“They ran up here. I heard them laughing.”
“They? Now you’re having multiple hallucinations?” Cody took a flashlight from his belt and flicked it on, angling the beam into her face. “Nobody’s supposed to use this access.”
She squinted back at him. “Are you going to let me go up here in the dark alone, after all your bitching and moaning about demons and danger?”
“Uh...guess not.” He started up the stairs, and she eased onto the dark platform of the attic before he got too close and they’d have to rub bodies. Once they were both in the crawl space, Cody played the beam around, revealing low-hanging ceiling joists.
“We have a camera at the other end of the attic, remember?” he said. “I haven’t seen any kids.”
“They’re hiding. It’s what they do. Bruce, he’s the caretaker’s kid, he knows all these secret stairs and passageways and keeps popping out of nowhere.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“And there’s Rochester the Rat-Faced Boy, whose dressed like somebody out of a funeral parlor. Then there’s Dorrie the Doughball, and—”
“Whoa. These are characters from your comic book
, right? The one you’ve been drawing?”
“No. Real people. And Bruce stole my sketchbook after I saw him hanging around in my room.” She’d bent the truth a little, but it was just a little white lie. Dad had taught her that lies were always better than promises. But sometimes they were the same.
Cody raised the flashlight so they could see one another’s face. “Okay, I know you’re under a lot of stress. Burton told me about your dad. We’re hoping we can pull off these hunts so SSI doesn’t get burned. And... your mom....”
“What about my mom?” Her lip trembled, despite herself.
“It must be weird with your dad thinking he’s run into her.”
“She’s dead. That’s all I know for a fact. The rest is just stuff for you to throw on Facebook for a laugh.”
“Kendra, I followed you because—”
“Because you feel sorry for me? Because you want to ‘help’ me? Like I’m some lost spirit that has to be guided to the light?”
“Because I—goddamn it, you sure don’t make it easy, do you?”
“Not my job. Now help me look for Bruce.”
She snatched the flashlight from his hand and navigated the uneven rows of support beams. A bed of shredded paper served as insulation on the attic floor, though a series of gangplanks allowed access through the crawlspace for needed repairs.
“Careful,” Cody said, close behind her. “If you step through, you’re liable to keep falling all the way to the basement.”
“Shh. Did you hear that?”
They were silent a moment. Muted conversation came from below them, obviously guests getting ready for the night’s hunt.
Kendra swept the flashlight in an arc. Cody grabbed her arm and guided it, pressing against her from behind. Even in her anger and fear, she noted the contours of his body. “The chimney,” he said.
She recognized it from the video Cody had shown her. “That’s where Dad saw the ghost.”
“The rigged image, you mean. We busted those clowns. Come on, let’s find their projector.”
His breath was on the back of her neck and she closed her eyes. Emily Dickinson never had these problems. “I’m more interested in my sketch pad at the moment, thank you.”
Cody let go of her arm. “I guess we all have our priorities. Piercing the veil between life and death or a bunch of pages of cartoon doodles. Tough choice.”
“What’s with you, Cody? You used to be so cool. Now you’re starting to believe your own blog posts.” She flipped the light toward him, and the beam was waist high, shining up into his face and casting his eyes in deep red shadows.
“We’ve got some real evidence here. A lot of active readings. If we can just keep it together, we may be able to make a case.”
“You’ve been drinking Digger’s punch, huh?” The dust nearly made her sneeze, and she wiped her nose so she didn’t blow her temper tantrum. “SSI and the White Horse Hauntings. Buy the DVD, read the book, eat the goddamned cereal, and by the way, I’ll come lecture at your conference for ten grand a day. That’s what the future’s all about, right?”
“This isn’t about money or ego,” Cody said. “It’s about knowing.”
“Who cares?” The attic was chilly and she shivered, wishing Cody’s body heat would enwrap and kindle her.
“Don’t you want to know where your mom went?”
“Leave her out of this.”
“Digger told me, so don’t act like a child.”
“Damn you, I’m not a child.”
She let the flashlight sag to her side, their faces in darkness. Where they were safe.
He touched her cheek. Emily Dickinson may have been a moribund virgin but maybe she still drifted over her beloved New England meadows, places she dared not walk while alive.
Sleeping the churchyard sleep? Or searching for that missing master?
His breath was close, soft on her cheeks, and then his lips found hers. She flicked the flashlight off, afraid of his dangerous eyes.
First kiss...and it tastes like strawberries and pennies.
Giggles erupted. A child’s voice whispered, “He’s going to touch her noonie.”
Cody’s lips froze and pulled back. “What the—”
She jabbed at the flashlight casing, fumbling for the switch. The giggling swelled, as if half a dozen kids were gathered around in the utter darkness, teasing and making fun of their kiss. She finally thumbed the light on and waved it wildly around.
“You heard it?” Cody asked.
“Yeah.”
“Now do you believe me?”
“Do you believe me?”
Cody nodded. “Maybe we’re both right. There are ghosts here and this Bruce guy stole your sketch pad.”
“What kind of ghost plays tricks like that?”
“Well, it’s not a residual, because they reacted to our—you know.”
She touched her lips, which still tingled. “Yeah.”
“I hate to say it, but based on the other evidence, I believe we have a true demonic haunting.”
“A demon? Like in ‘The Exorcist’ and all that?”
“Worse. Multiples.”
“Christ. What are we waiting for? Let’s get out of here.”
“What about my sketch pad?”
“Your weakness. They’re using it to gain power over you.”
He guided her toward the access opening, his hands firm and confident on her shoulders. Cody called out to the recesses of the attic. “I’ll be back.”
Kendra thought the challenge was a little foolhardy, even though she didn’t believe in demons. She’d heard SSI talk about them, theorizing that they were fallen angels who were rebelling against God for being cast out of heaven. Why would demons bother playing such silly pranks, when they supposedly had the power to inflict real harm and destruction?
That kind of talk was for later, in the safety of a well-lighted room with a cup of herbal tea in her hand. She’d get Cody to tell her about it, asking enough questions that she could gaze into his eyes for hours, maybe luring him into another kiss or two. She was nearly to the square of light marking the access when the door below slammed shut.
“Cody?”
“Right behind you, kid.”
She turned and Cody was nowhere in sight, but Rochester seemed happy to see her. He grinned like a rat wallowing in contaminated cheese.
Chapter 38
He hadn’t seen Kendra in three hours.
Wayne Wilson splashed cold water on his face, his stomach finally settled enough for hunger to emerge. He cupped his hands and drank from the bathroom sink, watering down the bile. The erratic pulse had given way to the occasional tha-dump of a skipped beat. He winced as he studied his reflection, adjusting the top hat that now felt foolish, as if he were Bugs Bunny pulled out of some magician’s ass. His face was pale but he’d be able to fake it.
“Showtime, Digger,” he said. “It’s a new day.”
Bury the past yet again.
His last clear memory was sitting next to Cristos at the bar and making the decision to go for that third drink. After that, only flashes remained, a jigsaw puzzle of his night he’d never be able to reassemble: the hostess, Violet, waving from across the bar...a Bud Lite commercial featuring Mike Ditka...the cryptic message “Yaz manchoo” scribbled on the wall above the urinal...Kendra taking his boots off...and…
No. Please, God, you didn’t let her see me like that, did you?
And what if Beth had been watching? His encounter with her swirled in with the broken memories of his binge and the shards of frantic dreams, until he couldn’t sort one from the other. But maybe there was no difference.
Wayne changed the batteries in his walkie talkie and pressed the button. “Burton?”
“Aye, Kip-tin,” Burton answered, in a Scottish brogue parody of engineer Scottie from “Star Trek.”
“How’s it looking?”
“Assembling for night hunts.”
“I’ll be in the control room shortl
y. Over and out.”
“Roger.”
Professional, controlled, relaxed, just the way Wayne had taught him. And everything Wayne wasn’t.
The trip to the door went smoothly. He made it just fine to the stairs, greeting a couple of ghost hunters and smiling as if to say, “Sure, I’ve been around all day, you just haven’t seen me.” His head swam a little as he ascended, but nothing too unmanageable. Based on distant past experience, he’d have pegged his consumption at between a quart and a half gallon. Only his bar tab knew for sure.
He was nearly to the top of the stairs, breathing hard and wobbling, when one of the guests confronted him. He recognized her face but she wasn’t wearing her name badge. Her clothes were rumpled and dirty, as if she’d been ghost-hunting in a basement somewhere. But it was her eyes that got him.
“Where’s the party, Digger?” she said.
“In the control room. We’re gathering for hunts.”
“I don’t need a group.”
He remembered her now. Eloise Lanier, one of the panelists for “What’s My Line?,” a discussion of why some people were more attuned to supernatural and psychic phenomena than others. He made a polite step to one side to indicate he was in a hurry. His throat was already dry despite the glass of water he’d downed. “Well, ma’am, we can’t accommodate solo—”
She shoved him against the railing with enough force to knock his top hat over the side and twenty-five feet down to the landing below. Off balance, he grabbed at the slick oak rail. “Ma’am, if you’re upset—”
Eloise grabbed a fistful of his ruffled shirt and shook him. Even though she outweighed him by a good eighty pounds, he was startled by her strength. “Upset? Why should I be upset?”
He gripped her wrist with both hands, forcing himself to remain gentle despite the pain. “I’m sorry if—”
“I’m not upset, I’m grateful.” Her voice changed and deepened. “Thanks for inviting me to the party.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re having fun,” he said. “But we also hope to get some serious data on the White Horse Inn.”
She leaned her face closer, spittle flying from her broad, dark face as she hissed. “You want answers, Wayne Wilson? Do you really want to know?”
Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers Page 85