by Tim McGregor
“Lucky guess.” He slid the phone across. “Her last call was to you about four hours ago. Last text was Kaitlin.”
“Kaitlin’s the one who called me. Said Billie was in trouble.”
Gantry leaned in. “How did she know that?”
“She said she woke up with a bad feeling.”
Gantry settled back, nodding in agreement like bad feelings made perfect sense. “This gets worse. Billie’s in real danger.”
Mockler sat up. “From who?”
“The woman at the Murder House. Evelyn Bourdain.”
A vein cabled up the detective’s neck. He was sick of all this spooky nonsense. He wanted it to go away and for the world to make sense again.
Gantry studied the man’s reaction. “I know you hate this stuff, Mockler. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
“What danger is Billie in?”
“The worst kind. I thought the Bourdain woman was after Kaitlin. She’s not. She’s after Billie.”
“Why Billie?”
“Billie’s the most powerful medium I’ve ever seen. The woman straddles a thin line between this world and the next. That’s why Evelyn Bourdain wants her. It’s the same reason she went after Billie’s mother.”
Mockler craned his neck. “Go on.”
“You know the bizarro spell that the pulp writer made? The one I showed you. It was meant for ripping someone’s soul out of them. I thought Evelyn wanted her soul but I was wrong. She has no use for Billie’s soul. What she’s after is Billie’s physical self. She means to scrape Billie’s soul from her body so she can take possession of it. Permanently.”
Mockler looked at his clenched fist, the knuckles turning whiter with everything Gantry was saying. “Why would she do that?”
“She’s trapped inside the Murder House. Possessing another person, and I mean truly and wholly possessing her, will allow her to escape her prison. That’s what all the other murders were about. Evelyn Bourdain’s attempt to claim another vessel and flee. That’s why she snared the writer Albee into her plans. Same reason she lured Frank Riddel, to get a suitable candidate for the sacrifice. Someone with a connection to the other side. First Mary Agnes, but that went cock-eyed. So now she’s trying again with Billie.”
“Then why did she go after Kaitlin?”
“Kaitlin was a false start. She has some ability and that’s what Bourdain went for. But it wasn’t enough. Once Evelyn got a whiff of Billie, she wanted the real thing.”
Mockler slammed his palm against the table. “I searched the Murder House. Billie’s not there. The place is deserted.”
“So she’s lying low. She knows the cops are around. Or the blokes she has working for her. She’s waiting for you to go away so she can perform her little ritual and cut Billie’s soul away.”
“So how do I stop her?”
Gantry squared the other man in the eye. “Can you get me out of here?”
“I can’t,” Mockler grunted, suddenly aware of the prison guard at the door. “Short of pulling a gun and shooting our way out of here, I can’t.”
“I get it.” Gantry swiped a hand across his mouth. “I don’t have a clue how to stop the Bourdain woman, I honestly don’t. She’s something I haven’t quite seen before.”
“Okay.” Mockler sat up straight, ready to leave.
“There’s one thing you can do. Euchre the dead woman out of her own plan.”
“How do I do that?”
“The Murder House is her seat of power,” Gantry said. “As much as it’s a prison, it’s where she needs to perform this bastard ritual. Down in the basement where the pentacle is. My advice? Get a can of petrol and burn that fucking place to the ground now. Before she can perform her nasty little ceremony.”
Detective Mockler leaned back against the chair. He could almost feel his hair turning grey. “That’s your advice? Well that’s a shitload of help to me.”
“Mockler, as much I fucking hate you, that’s the best I can do. I know you care about her but there’s more at stake here than just her life. Do not let that Bourdain woman take her soul. If you love her, do that much for her. Burn that pesthole to the ground, mate.”
The detective glanced up at the guard standing sentry and the guard stepped alongside the prisoner, indicating that the visit was over. Gantry didn’t bother to look at the detective, rising to his feet and stepping out of the room.
~
The terror was paralysing, biting down hard as it constricted every muscle into a rigour of naked fear. Kaitlin clenched her teeth and breathed through it like she was giving birth. She could feel everything, wave after wave rolling through her. The coffin-like claustrophobia of being trapped in a trunk. The grip of hands on her, dragging her out, the cold slap of concrete as she was thrown to the floor. A hazy vision of a narrow brush painting a diabolical sigil onto a brick wall.
The vision faded, the seizure relenting slowly as Kaitlin caught her breath and tried to comprehend the fit that had taken hold of her. She was still in her hospital room but the overwhelming sensation of being somewhere else was terrifyingly real. Somehow, she was with Billie just then, feeling what she felt and, for a brief second, seeing through her eyes. Now that it was over and the terror receded, she knew it to be true. There had been a flash of otherworldly empathy, as if she had crawled inside Billie’s skin and experienced everything she had felt.
Billie was in a bad place. And she needed help.
Swinging her legs off the bed, Kaitlin let her balance realign as she stood up. The hard floor was cold against her feet but solid, reassuring. Finding Mockler’s card on the table, she dialled his number, hoping for good news. Maybe the detective had found Billie and the wave of fear she had felt was just some residual echo.
“Mockler,” answered the voice on the other end.
“Hi. It’s Kaitlin. Have you found her?”
There was a pause before the detective replied. “Not yet. But I will. Don’t worry.”
“Mockler, she’s at the Murder House. Go find her!”
“She’s not there,” said Mockler. “I searched every inch of that place.”
“But she has to be there.” Kaitlin tried to keep the panic down. “I know she’s there. If you don’t want to go, I’ll do it myself.”
The detective barked at her. “Kaitlin, do not go there! I will find Billie, I promise you. But stay out of it. Okay? I gotta go.”
He hung up on her. Kaitlin put the receiver down and paced the small room. Her stomach hurt a little as she walked but it felt good to be on her feet. There was too much pent up energy in her to be still.
Billie was in a bad place. If the cop wasn’t going to help her, then she would. Simple as that.
She picked up the phone again but hesitated. Calling Kyle was out of the question. This would drive him away for good. She punched in a different set of numbers, praying that Tammy would pick up.
“Hello?”
“Tammy, it’s me,” Kaitlin said. “I need you to come and get me.”
“They’re letting you out at this hour? Where’s Kyle?”
Kaitlin steadied herself against the table. “Tammy, listen to me. Billie is in trouble. We need to help her. Come and get me.”
Silence on the other end of the call. “What kind of trouble?”
“It’s serious. How soon can you be here?”
“Kaitlin, stop. If it’s serious, call the police. Or call that detective guy.”
“He is helping,” Kaitlin said, scrambling for a way to not sound crazy. “But she needs us there. Please, Tammy.”
There was another long pause before Tammy sighed. “Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The wind was cold and Kaitlin stood shivering outside the hospital, realizing that it had been days since she’d stepped foot outside. The light jacket she had did little to block the wind and she was about to step back into the vestibule to wait when Tammy’s dented Civic rumbled up to the curb and the passenger door swung open. Kaitlin
eased inside, mindful of the bandage under her clothes.
Tammy let out the clutch and swung back onto the street. “You sure you wanna do this? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
“Where to? Billie’s?”
“Jen’s place.”
Tammy looked at her passenger, surprise knitting her brow. “Jen agreed to go too?”
“She will.”
Tammy geared up, shaking her head. “No, she won’t. Why didn’t you call her?”
“Because it’s easier to say no over the phone. Hurry up.”
Jen’s house wasn’t far. With no traffic on the roads, they were on her doorstep within minutes. Kaitlin rang the bell again and again until she saw a light come on inside.
The screen door opened and Jen appeared, dressed for bed. “What are you guys doing here?”
“We need your help,” Kaitlin said.
“Why are you out of the hospital?”
Kaitlin took Jen’s wrist. “Billie’s in trouble. And she needs our help. Get some clothes and come.”
“What? No.” Jen took her arm back. “Billie can solve her own problems.”
“Not this one,” Kaitlin pleaded. “She needs us. All of us.”
Jen receded into the door frame. “No.”
“You have to, Jen. I know you guys aren’t getting along but this is bigger than that. Please.”
“Why does it have to be all of us?”
“I don’t know,” Kaitlin said. “It just does. Now hurry. Get dressed and get out here.”
Jen lowered her head and didn’t move for a long moment. Then she went inside without another word and met them at the car a minute later.
Tammy backed out of the driveway and geared up quickly. She looked up into the rearview mirror to see Kaitlin. “Where are we going?”
“Up the mountain,” Kaitlin replied.
Jen turned to look at the woman in the backseat. “Kaitlin, where are we going?”
“Back to the Murder House.”
Tammy almost stopped the car. “Whoa. I am not going back to that creepy place!”
“Yes, you are.”
“This is a bad idea,” Jen complained.
“Everything’s gonna be fine,” Kaitlin said, before icing it with a lie. “Mockler’s gonna meet us there.”
~
A foul sense of dread is what brought her round. Not the cold of the floor or the dampness in the air nor the stinging pain in her cheekbone. It was the dread, the evil of the place she was in now. An abhorrent sense of corruption, putrid and obscene and pure. She needed to get out of here as fast as she could.
Billie rolled onto her side to alleviate the ache in her arm and a fresh prickle of agony needled down her side. She caught her breath and peered into the darkness to get her bearings. Candles glowed in the distance, flames tapering from the wicks and now blotted by the shape of a figure moving around in the darkness.
She was in the Murder House. The awful cavern of a cellar, in fact. The same place where she had broken through the concrete to uncover the skeletal remains of her father. Panic welled up faster than tears, the primal urge to run undeniable but her ankles, like her wrists, were bound fast with rope.
Billie went still, unwilling to alert the figure shuffling in the darkness to the fact that she was awake. She watched the form move as it passed before the candles until her eyes adjusted to the available light. He held a can in one hand, a brush in the other and appeared to be painting something on the floor. It was one of the men who had attacked her. The thinner of the pair, the one who seemed less cruel than his friend. What his name?
“Owen,” she whispered.
The man stopped moving, his hand frozen in a brush stroke against the floor.
“That’s your name, right?” Billie said in a hushed tone. “Owen.”
He turned away from her, working the brush over the floor again.
Billie wriggled her wrists against the ropes. There was a little give in the loops and she pushed and pulled against them to gain more wiggle room. Her eyes never left the man with the brush. She whispered to him again. “Why are you doing this? I’ve never done anything to you.”
He stopped again but this time he pressed his forefinger against his lips. “Shhh.”
“She’s doing this, isn’t she? Bourdain.”
“Shut up!” he hissed.
Think fast, she scolded herself as she struggled against the binding on her wrists. “Owen, listen to me. I know this isn’t you. You’re being controlled by her. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Do you?”
The rope was slackening.
The young man set the can on the floor, dropped the brush into it and scrambled closer to her. His eyes glowed manic in the candlelight. “Shut up. And don’t say her name. She’ll hear you.”
“Owen, wait,” she pleaded, intentionally saying his name again. It was something she had seen in a movie once. Use your attacker’s name, get to know them. Make it hard for them to brutalize you once you’re on a first name basis. “I know you don’t want to do this. You don’t have to do what she says.”
He hissed at her. “You don’t know shit. So just shut up. Please.” He grunted at her once before resuming his task.
The loop let out, allowing Billie to slip one hand free. She curled into a ball to make it look as if she was scared. Her fingers clawed at the knot over her ankles.
“Why is she doing this?” she asked.
“You know,” he groused. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”
Tilting up, she craned her neck to see what he was painting on the floor. Seeing the pentacle scrawled around the broken pit in the floor, she redoubled her efforts to loosen the binding on her ankles. The knot tugged out and she scrambled to get the rope off. The darkness beyond the candles was total, preventing her from orienting herself in the cavernous space. Which way was the door that led to the stairs? Could she outrun Owen, given her cramped muscles and the numb ache in her legs?
The rope fell from her ankles. She took two deep breaths and then eased up onto all fours. Owen had his back to her.
She sprinted away on her toes, trying to be silent. No idea if she was running in the right direction, the need to flee being her only compass. Her legs buckled in spasms from the cramps but she stumbled on and Owen still hadn’t noticed. Escape was within reach when she slammed face first into something hard. A muscled chest and knotty collarbone, the impact bouncing her off.
Billie landed with a whallop on her back and her breath cut short as a boot heel slammed against her throat.
Justin hovered over her, leering down with a perverted grin. “You sit tight now.” Justin reared up and barked at his friend. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
Owen stammered, unwilling to disagree. “I was distracted.”
Justin swung his gaze back down to the woman under him. “Actually, I’m glad you’re awake, Billie. I was afraid you were gonna sleep through the whole thing.”
“Oh shit,” Owen whined, whipping his gaze about him. “Is she here?”
“Yep,” Owen said, his eyes locked on Billie’s. “And she’s dying to meet you.”
Billie felt something clammy pass over her bare arms like a cold north wind, guttering the flames of the candles as it passed. The mistress of the house. Panic bubbled up and she scrambled to get away only to feel the man’s heel slam down hard on her throat.
Chapter 30
HER BICYCLE WAS STILL leaning up against the porch when Mockler returned home. Unlocked bikes didn’t last long in his neighbourhood, even ones parked squarely within a front yard. A minor concern, given what had occurred in the last twenty-four hours. Still, Billie loved her bike. He’d hate to tell her it was stolen if she returns.
When, he scolded himself. When she returns.
Bypassing the front door, he walked past the house to the garage at the end of the driveway. The lock in the door was gimmicky and took some coaxing before it yielded. One more thing to fix in a house
he increasingly cared little for now. Pulling the barn door wide, he left it open and crossed back to the porch and rolled the bike into the garage.
Flipping on the single bulb on the overhead rafter, he searched through the mess for the thing he’d come back for. It was tucked near the back, next to the broken down lawn mower. A five-gallon gas can, dusty with neglect, its red plastic smudged with grease stains. He hoisted it up and shook it, gauging its weight. Half full. He’d stop somewhere on the way and fill it.
Was five gallons of gasoline enough to do the job? It was a big house. Maybe he’d buy a second can and fill it too.
Hauling it out to the car, he put the can in the trunk and returned to the garage. Rifling through the mess on the workbench, he could find no matches but there was the barbecue starter, a plastic stick with an extended stem. Clicking it, he saw the flame burn up in a long taper. It would have to do.
Was he really going to do this? The Murder House was still an active crime scene, the sight of numerous unsolved homicides. Was burning it to the ground the right thing to do? What if Gantry was wrong? He had few options left and, if he was honest with himself, the thought of burning that evil place to the ground filled him with a sense of mad glee.
The glee momentarily displaced the wretched sting of guilt clawing up his spine over Billie’s disappearance. How could he have failed her like this? How could he have let Billie down when she needed him the most? It wasn’t bad enough that he had almost killed her once, knocking her into the harbour that night back in June. He remembered the awful dread he had felt seeing her sink below the dark waves. She weighed next to nothing but limp and unconscious, his lungs had almost burst bringing her back to the surface. He had felt responsible for her welfare ever since and swore he’d never let any harm come to her.
And what had he done? Left her alone and vulnerable to some otherworldly threat that he could not see and did not understand. He deserved to have his head split open for being so careless.
He locked up the garage and returned to the car, tossing the barbecue lighter onto the passenger seat. Without a doubt, he concluded. Burning the hated Murder House to the ground was the best thing to do. A blind man could see that. Firing the engine, he backed out and pushed the Charger toward the house up the mountain.