Haunted

by Tamara Thorne

  David took a step in the direction of the house and the boy fell in beside him.

  "Eric, have you ever seen any ghosts in Body House?"

  "Well, there's lots of stuff in there…"

  "Stuff?"

  "Yes, sir," he said patiently. "There's lots of stuff everywhere people have been, not just in that house. The stuff in there feels bad mostly, but there's some really nice-feeling stuff too. It feels sort of like a party."

  "Eric, slow down a minute, you're losing me."

  Eric appeared to be pleased. "I am?"

  "Yes. Tell me what you mean when you say 'stuff.'"

  "Stuff is…" Eric stopped walking and stared at the sea. Finally, he spoke. "It's like leftovers." Suddenly, he chuckled to himself. "Do you go to a gym to work out?"

  Last year, David had bought a year's membership at a health spa. He only went once. All those perfectly sculpted bodies encased in Spandex intimidated him so much that all he could think was that he had walked into the middle of a horror movie called The Stepford Bodies. Looking at Eric, he realized the muscular young man would fit right in. Finally, he said, "Yes, I've been to a gym."

  "Well, you know when you walk into the locker room and all you can smell is B.O. like crazy, but nobody's in there? That's leftovers. That's stuff. Body House has a lot of that stuff."

  It's not a spirit he'd told Theo last night when they had smelled the jasmine, it's a memory. He'd likened it to smelling his grandmother's sachet David thought for a moment and decided that Eric had very nearly the same take on hauntings as he himself had.

  "Did you smell the flowers?" Eric asked.

  "Yes. And something bad, too," David told him.

  "Something like the dead opossum I found rotting under our house last fall."

  "That would be the smell. So you haven't actually seen any ghosts in the house?" David wanted a straight answer.

  "Well... I don't want to ruin your dinner or anything, but..."

  "But what?"

  "There's a real ugly one in the dining room. He's been sliced down his middle, but usually you don't see that. He looks alive, but he's still really ugly. He has kind of long hair and a beard and he looks really, really dirty, fat and dirty. But he's funny. He does that President Nixon thing a lot."

  "What's that?"

  "You know, with his hand." Eric made a peace sign. "He mostly crawls around on the table. He gets on it and crawls from one end to the other. When he does that, his pants go too low." Eric snickered. "I call him Buttcrack."

  So much for dignity in the afterlife. "Fortunately, Amber and I usually eat in front of the television."

  Eric nodded approvingly. "I saw another one floating in the bathtub downstairs."

  "Another one?"

  "Another hippie. She's naked--" Eric blushed "--and real white because the water's completely red. Her guts are out of her. I saw her once when I was washing my hands. Her eyes were open. I washed in the kitchen after that. That's why I told Mr. Willard I needed to take a break. I didn't want to help him in there."

  "I don't blame you."

  "There's a man and a woman on the floor in the ballroom." He paused, blushing harder. "They're making love. And there's a little man in that red bathroom. He just likes to stand there and look at himself in the mirror."

  Drake Roberts. David was relieved to know that it wasn't just the torrid color of the room that made him uneasy. Curious to hear how Eric would reply, he said, "A lot more people died in the house. Aren't their ghosts there, too?"

  "No. Most of them don't hang around. There's a real nice one in the front room, though, that makes pretty music."

  "My daughter thought she heard piano music last night."

  "Yes, sir. I've heard it lots of times. It's usually really hard to hear, but sometimes it's pretty strong." He grinned. "I like it. It makes it easier to work."

  "Do you see a ghost playing it, Eric?"

  "I never have. I think the piano is its own ghost."

  David decided to figure that one out later. "Eric, have you ever seen a red-haired lady in an old-fashioned green dress, like in the portrait on the first floor?"

  "No, sir. It feels like Miss Lizzie's around, though, in a way. It feels like lots of people are around, but I think they're just leftovers." He grinned, probably thinking about Buttcrack again.

  "Is the flower perfume hers?"

  "No, sir."

  "Please call me David," he said again. "Is it Christabel's?"

  "I don't know ... Mr. Willard's probably wondering where I am," he said nervously.

  They began walking again and David decided to push just a little further. "Have you seen Christabel, Eric?"

  Swenson stared straight ahead as he answered. "I saw something, but I can't think about it now. I'm sorry."

  "Just tell me this: was it on the third floor?"

  "Yes sir, David. Don't go up there, that's where it lives."

  Eric was saying "it," where he'd referred to gender with the other ghosts. David asked him why, but he just shrugged. "It's not exactly a ghost."

  "Is it leftovers?"

  "No. Leftovers are nothing. Ghosts are fancy leftovers that are kind of caught up in their own world and they don't pay much attention to things we do. They usually hang around one place, like Captain Wilder, but that thing up there… it's interested. It's a bad thing and it's..." He searched for a word for a long time. "It's hungry. I think it can make ghosts and leftovers do stuff, too. And David?"

  Goosebumps trailed deliciously down his spine. "What?"

  "I think maybe it can go wherever it wants. You need to be careful not to get it excited. Billy said he saw it at a couple of windows that day when Matty got killed."

  "What did it look like?"

  "Like curtains blowing, I guess."

  "Only there were no curtains." David cleared his throat.

  "Eric, have you seen it?"

  The boy didn't answer.

  "Did you see it in the room where the paint's spilled?"

  Eric stopped walking and whirled to face David. "You went in that room?" he demanded.

  "Yes, but don't worry about the paint--"

  "Don't go in that room! Don't ever go in that room!"

  "Theo Pelinore and I were up there last night."

  The blood drained from Eric Swenson's face.

  "Don't go up there. Don't let your daughter go up there either.

  "I've asked her not to already. Why, Eric? Do you think it can hurt her?"

  Somberly, Swenson nodded. "Amber's like you, so she's pretty much safe, except up there. It can hurt anybody that goes in there."

  "Did it hurt you?"

  Eric started walking. "We need to get back."

  David walked silently. He longed to ask more questions, but knew he'd gone far enough. As they neared the house, he groaned, seeing a silver and blue telephone truck parked out front. He hoped they hadn't been there long, since he'd left no instructions.

  A moment later, they passed the truck and, to David’s relief, the engine was still clicking.

  Chapter Nine

  Body House: 1:57 P.M.

  A short, stocky man in olive coveralls stood on a stepping stool on the front porch, carefully prying boards from the fanlight above the door. He had already removed those covering the sidelights and David was rather relieved to see that these, like the fanlight pediments over the windows, were traditional art nouveau, rather than pornographic. The sidelights were a riot of brilliant colors, primarily blues and greens, and when he moved two steps nearer, David realized that the designs in the glass were an eclectic but graceful display of peacocks and scallop shells.

  "Mr. Willard?" David asked as the man pulled the last nail from the fanlight and climbed down.

  "He's a little hard of hearing," Eric said quietly.

  As David opened his mouth to speak more loudly, the man turned around and, startled, dropped the plywood on his toes. He uttered a single heartfelt "Damn!" then placed the board in a stack with
the others before looking at David. "You Masters?" he grunted.

  "Yes."

  "Willard," he said, extending his hand.

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Willard."

  "Phone man's waiting on you." Willard stood back from the door so that he could enter.

  "Thanks." David moved past him, Eric on his heels.

  "Swenson." rumbled Willard. "Take those boards to the truck and get the wood putty."

  "Yes, sir."

  A swarthy moving man with a pack of Lucky Strikes rolled into his T-shirt sleeve came from the direction of the stairwell, glanced at David doubtfully, then picked up one of the huge cartons that were stacked around the parlor, and headed back the way he'd come. David continued through the maze and into the kitchen, tracking the faint, unceasing sound of Minnie Willard's voice.

  "Well, that's how Bea Broadside is, always sticking her bosoms into other people's marriages--not that I'd say anything bad about her, she's my dearest friend. Oh, Mr. Masters, there you are!"

  The phone man, a callow youth with a sprinkling of freckles, a neat red ponytail. and an embroidered nametag that read, "Conan," toppled a coffee mug in his hurry to escape the captivity of Minnie's rampaging tongue. Coffee sloshed all over his pants and the table. "Whoa, sorry," he said helplessly.

  "That's all right, dear." Brandishing a paper towel, she passed by the puddle on the table and headed for his crotch.

  He sidestepped with the alacrity of a bullfighter and snatched the towel from her. "Thanks, ma'am. Mr. Masters? Where do you want your phones?"

  David led Conan out of the room. "I'd like a wall outlet in the kitchen, but that can wait until she's done in there." The phone guy nodded gratefully.

  "Let's start with my office. I need two separate lines in there."

  "Cool."

  Fortunately, there were old-fashioned phone outlets all over the house, the surface wiring skillfully hidden amongst the trim. With David helping, the modernization went quickly and they were soon working on the second floor.

  "So, like, is that your mother down there?" Conan asked as he tested the new outlet in the hall by the stairwell.

  "My mother?" David asked, puzzled. "Oh, you mean Minnie."

  He chuckled. "No. She's my housekeeper."

  "Better you than me, man." the phone man said, shaking his head.

  "You're not from around here?'' David asked.

  "No. I just moved up here from Phoenix."

  "Have you heard anything about this house?"

  "Huh? Like what?"

  "Oh, anything. Anything at all."

  Conan thought a moment. "No. So tell me about the house, man. What should I have heard?"

  I'm not going to get another chance like this. David smiled broadly at the only person he was likely to run into who had never heard of Body House. Thank you, God, for sending me this man! "You haven't noticed the stained glass, then? The house is famous for it."

  "Sure, it's real pretty." Conan glanced briefly at the cabinetry above, then finished screwing in the new phone outlet.

  He rose. "Where else?" he asked, looking a little more closely at the glass arch at the top of the shelves.

  "My room. It's this way."

  Conan squinted at the cabinets once more--from looking at the glasswork in the hall here he couldn't decide if it was Georgia O'Keefe-style orchids or dew-dropped vaginas. David smiled, watching him. The art was too subtle for the man to say anything, even though he obviously suspected something.

  A moment later, in David's bedroom, Conan stared at the unobscene fanlight topping the window and shrugged. "It's nice, but you can see stained glass anywhere."

  "True. Look at the glass on that wardrobe over there."

  "Okay." Glancing over his shoulder at David, he crossed the room and stared closely at the glass for about thirty seconds. Suddenly, he whistled appreciatively between his teeth. "Whoa! Nice tits on your furniture, Mr. Masters!"

  David stifled a laugh. "That's why the glass is famous."

  He paused. "You really haven't heard of Body House before?

  You haven't read about it or seen it on television?"

  "Huh uh, no! Body House, that's what it's called? I can see why!" He studied the twist of feminine bodies on the wardrobe. "Body House. Is there more like this?"

  "Yes. And many different patterns, too."

  "Those flowers out in the hall, man…"

  "I don't think they're flowers," David said, smiling beneficently. He doesn’t know, he really doesn't know! This was a dream come true.

  "Body House," Conan said again as he bent to install the outlet. "Body House."

  "I'm really surprised you've never heard of it." David wanted to give him every chance to remember.

  "I don't watch much TV. I like tunes." He made a face.

  "And I hate to read. It's such a big waste of time. I just put my earphones on and my CDs and listen to my tunes." He stood up, put his screwdriver in his belt, and grinned. "Any more lines to go in?"

  "One more. It's this way."

  David led Conan down the hall and into the corridor between the terrace and ballroom. In the daylight, the orgiastic stained glass was impressive. David could see the gleaming wood of the ballroom floor and wondered where the coupling ghosts were located. Finally, Conan let himself be led to the stairwell and they mounted the steps to the third floor.

  "The room's still messy," David explained. "A can of paint was spilled and we haven't cleaned it up yet. Forgive the mess."

  "No problem."

  David held the door and the phone man entered and looked around the room. "We have a problem," he said, scratching his carroty hair.

  "We do?"

  "There's no wiring in here. I'd have to run it in from..."

  A whiff of jasmine permeated the room. "Is something wrong?" David asked innocently.

  Conan turned to face him, his flushed face split by a sheepish grin. "No, nothing's wrong. I feel really good. I guess I just had a stained glass flashback. Wow."

  "Did you see something?"

  "No. I just got this rush." His eyes strayed downward and David noticed the erection straining against Conan's pants before the young man dropped his hands to hide it.

  The jasmine scent strengthened, became edged with decay.

  "Man, get another air freshener. Whatever you're using up here is foul." He stopped talking and, momentarily, a blank expression came over his face. "Whoa. I gotta get out of here." With that, Conan left the room.

  David followed, pulling the door securely closed behind him. "What's wrong?" he asked the phone man as ingenuously as he could.

  "Man, I don't know. I got cold and, you know, hot." He shook his head, but didn't stop walking. "It felt like somebody was stroking me off." They were on the stairs now. "I'm sorry--you won't tell my supervisor I said that?"

  "Don't worry. You thought somebody was touching you?"

  "Yeah. For a second there, I thought I was gonna spew, man." They reached the second-floor landing. "God, I'm rattled, Mr. Masters, I wouldn't talk like that if I wasn't. Please don't--"

  "I won't tell." He smiled, leading Conan down to the first floor. "I'd noticed something like that myself, but not so strongly."

  "Well, you're kind of an old dude," Conan said sympathetically.

  "It's harder to get it up when you're so old."

  "I'm forty-one," David said defensively.

  "Yeah, an old dude."

  "Let's get that kitchen connection in," David told him. Fifteen minutes later, it was done. Conan had tested the line by phoning his girlfriend and making a date for "the sooner the better."

  As David saw him out the front door, Amber pulled up behind the moving van. She got out and David watched the book-hating phone dude as he took in her dark blond hair, glistening in the afternoon sun, her long legs encased in stretch jeans, and her well-proportioned torso, covered by a white shirt tied just above the waist so that when she moved, a flash of skin showed.

  "Wow,
" said the phone dude.

  "That's my daughter," David growled in his ear.

  Conan went rigid. "Gotta go." He strode purposefully toward his truck, turning his head away as he passed Amber, who stared curiously after him.

  "What's the matter with him?" she asked, coming through the door. She fixed David with a look, her hand on her hip.

  "Daddy, did you tell him I'm your daughter?"

  "Well, you are." He grinned at her. "Aren't you?"

  "Daddy, I'm going to be forty years old and still living with you because of the way you tell guys you're my father."

  "Did you pack a phone in the Bronco like you were going to, kiddo?" David didn't feel like being chewed out right this minute.

  She nodded.

  "Well, go get it and you can call your friends and tell them you're still alive." Bad choice of words, Masters. But she didn't seem to notice, just turned and ran for the truck. Leaving the movers to Minnie and the repairs to the taciturn Mr. Willard and Eric Swenson, David went to his room and turned on his laptop computer. By the time he finished entering everything pertinent that had happened since their arrival at Ferd Cox's store twenty-four hours ago, two hours had gone by and Amber had given the phone the workout of its life.

  Chapter Ten

  New York City: 7:46P.M.

  Melanie Lord was trying her damnedest to get Harry Rosenberg drunk, but the Dorner Books editor seemed to be a bottomless pit. He'd had three scotch-rocks and showed no signs of melting down. As the waiter passed, she signaled him. "Two more, please." Then she cocked her head coquettishly, so that her short auburn pageboy shimmered around her face. Batting her lashes, she said, "Harry, I hope you don't mind my ordering more drinks--"

  "No, no. Not at all." He drained his glass and sat forward.

  "So, let's talk about someone besides Meat Blaisdell. He's just not what I'm looking for."

  Melanie studied Rosenberg. This guy was very high up in the publishing feeding chain and she'd been pleased as hell when he'd accepted her invitation for drinks after she'd sent over Ray's latest proposal. She thought that maybe she was going to get over that last hurdle and hit the big time if Rosenberg went for Ray.

  Ray "Meat" Blaisdell was a science fiction writer trying to go straight, or as he put it, he wanted to "pull a Masters." More than half the genre writers she represented, no matter what their specialty, talked like that. "Masters writes horror," one would say. "No, he writes science fiction," another would argue, and a third would insist he wrote thrillers. They argued on and on about why he was so lucky and how they themselves could get that way.