Spookshow 4: Bringing up the bodies

by Tim McGregor

  ~

  “Don’t go up the driveway,” Kaitlin said. “Just park on the side of the road.”

  Tammy pulled the car to the gravel shoulder before the spiked iron gates. “Why?’

  “I don’t want anyone to hear us coming.”

  The women disembarked and walked up the long tree-lined pathway. The old house emerged from behind the branches and Tammy stopped cold, the very sight of it making her queasy.

  Jen, who had never laid eyes on the place, openly gaped at it. “My god. It’s so big.”

  “Come on,” Kaitlin urged, trudging on through the weeds.

  Tammy dithered. “Maybe we should wait for Mockler.”

  “Shouldn’t he be here already?” Jen asked.

  “He’ll be here soon,” Kaitlin said. “But we can’t wait.”

  Tammy refused to budge. “No. We should wait.”

  “We can’t,” Kaitlin scowled. “Billie’s in there. We can’t stay out here.”

  Jen scanned the expanse of the old house. “How do you know she’s in there?”

  “I don’t know. I can just feel her in there. Please.”

  “What?” Tammy sneered. “You’re psychic now too?”

  Kaitlin marched back to her friend. “You did this last time, didn’t you? You chickened out when I was inside that awful house. You let Billie go in alone.”

  Jen shot Tammy a look, one eyebrow raised in suspicion. Tammy backed away. “I didn’t,” she stammered. “I mean, I was scared, okay? Look at this place.”

  Kaitlin just glowered.

  Tammy crumbled and averted her eyes, unable to meet Kaitlin’s stare. “I’m sorry. Okay? I was scared and I’m sorry I couldn’t go in there to help you.”

  The boughs of the pines shushed as they bent under the wind. The only sound to be heard.

  Jen came alongside Tammy, wrapping an arm around the downcast woman. “Now’s your chance to make amends.” She looked up at Kaitlin and said, “We’ll all go in together. Find Billie and then get the hell out of here. Deal?”

  Tammy kept her gaze on the ground, rigid and unmoving.

  Kaitlin reached out and took Tammy by the hand. “Together. Come on.”

  The weeds were damp and their ankles were soaked by the time they reached the side entrance. Strips of yellow police tape lay coiled and wet before the open door like the shed skin of an enormous snake.

  They had but one flashlight between them, and a small one at that. Kaitlin thumbed it on and aimed the beam inside but it’s thin band of light did not cut very far into the darkness within.

  “Come on,” Kaitlin said, stepping through. “Let’s find Billie and go home.”

  Tammy took a deep breath and Jen squeezed her hand and together they followed Kaitlin into the Murder House.

  ~

  Billie wanted to scream when she realized where she was but her throat cracked and all that came out was a broken gasp. She was inside the pit in the centre of the cellar floor, in the same concealed tomb where her father’s bones had moldered for so long. How long before the planks were laid overhead, followed by the sound of mortar being trowelled overtop as her abductors buried her alive?

  She couldn’t scream because her voicebox refused to work. She could not climb out and run away because her hands and feet were numbed to dead weights at the end of her limbs. She was trapped, helpless to do anything more than watch as the timbers were sealed over her head.

  “There’s no need to be frightened.”

  A woman’s voice, drifting down from somewhere above.

  “You are not going to die,” said the voice. “That would be missing the point.”

  Billie cast her eyes up to the rim of the pit. Nothing but darkness beyond it at first and then a soft glow appeared. It grew brighter, as if someone holding a lantern was approaching but when the figure scaled into view, it was the woman herself that seemed to be glowing.

  Billie looked up at Evelyn Bourdain. The lady of the house.

  The light she was emitting twinkled from a thousand mirrored embroidery pieces on her dress, catching the available light and making the woman sparkle against the darkness. The dress was a teal sleeveless shift that cut straight until it cinched her hips. Bourdain’s hair was short with sculpted curls that accentuated her cheekbones. Radiant and beguiling, she looked like she had stepped out of a Fitzgerald novel, an enchanting contrast to the fetid space around her.

  Billie rubbed her eyes, trying to dispel the vision. She knew it to be a form of glamour, this flappery beauty, for she had seen Bourdain in her true form the first time she had entered the Murder House. A dusty scarecrow of putrid flesh and dried bone, flapping down the grand staircase like a vulture croaking around a carcass. Try as she might, the glamour would not break and Evelyn Bourdain towered from the edge of the pit in her radiant champagne splendour.

  Billie swallowed hard but her throat was dry. “What do you want?”

  “You, pet,” the woman said. “I want you.”

  Evelyn Bourdain dropped from the lip into the pit, landing gracefully but with a hard thud as her heels smacked the concrete. She squatted down before Billie and Billie could smell a roil of lilacs wafting over her. The woman was even more enchanting up close, the sharpness of her green eyes beguiling. Her hands, clasped over her knees, were small and delicate like the hands of a child.

  She reached out her small hands to Billie and Billie jerked back from them as if the woman’s fingertips dripped with poison. Bourdain smiled. “I’m not going to hurt you, Billie. Don’t be afraid of me.”

  Billie shuddered as the woman caressed her cheek. The touch was soft but cold.

  “Billie,” Evelyn said. “That’s an ugly name for a girl. Sybil is much prettier, wouldn’t you agree? It’s your true name.”

  Placing her hands on Billie’s jaw, she tilted her head toward the light. Her thumb lightly traced the purpled bruise under her eye. Evelyn turned her head to address someone above the pit. “She’s banged up. I told you to be careful with her!”

  Footsteps crunched over a gritty floor. Two men appeared overhead. Both Justin and Owen lowered their heads like scolded schoolboys. “It couldn’t be helped,” muttered Justin.

  “Of course it could have,” Bourdain spat. “Stupid men. You think you can solve anything with brute force.” She swung her attention back to the young woman, petting Billie’s cheek again. “No matter. You’re young and strong. This will heal.”

  The dead woman’s touch was making her ill. Billie felt her strength run out of her as if leeched off by physical contact with the woman.

  Evelyn lifted the woman’s chin. “How old are you, Sybil?”

  Billie looked away.

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Ah! Still in your twenties. Well, small mercies.” Evelyn tilted the younger woman’s chin to the right then the left, studying her face. “You’re a bit plain Jane. A shame you aren’t a touch more striking or fuller in the hips but I suppose we can’t have everything, can we?”

  Billie shook her chin free from the icy fingers. “What do you want?”

  “Aren’t you paying attention, pet? I want you. We’re going to have a little ceremony, you see, and when it’s all over, I will be free of this wretched place once and for all.”

  The woman’s riddles were maddening. Billie tried to piece it together. “You’re trapped here. In this house?”

  “I am,” Evelyn said. “Imprisoned for my sins, I suppose. For all the awful things I’ve done. God’s little ironies. But all that will change now that I found you. I’ve waited a long time, Sybil. I’ve tried many times before to get shed of this hateful place but those attempts failed. Do you know why they failed, Sybil?”

  “Because you’re an evil bitch,” Billie said.

  “Mind yourself, girl. I can still hurt you.” The flash of anger passed quickly from the woman’s eyes. “Those previous attempts failed because the candidates weren’t up to the task. They were weak. I needed
someone strong. Someone who already straddles a line between this world and that of the shades. That’s you, Sybil. As plain-Jane as you are, you are a powerful woman. My saviour.”

  “Is that why you wanted my mother?”

  “Yes. Except that idiot father of yours couldn’t hold his temper and killed the woman before delivering her to me. That’s the problem with men, isn’t it? If you push them too hard, they all believe that might makes right. That a hard fist will put them back in charge.” She rolled her gaze over the confined space of the pit they were in. “So I showed him just who had the harder fist and buried him here in this little crypt.”

  Billie swallowed again. She was thirsty. A question burned in her throat but she wasn’t sure if she wanted the answer. “What are you going to do?”

  “The ceremony? Well, the ritual can be tricky. The wording and all that, that needs to be performed precisely but the rest is quite simple. There will be a small incision to snip the root of the soul from the vessel. Like shucking an oyster, really. And then I will reach down your throat and pull your soul out like a tapeworm, leaving behind an empty shell.” Here, Evelyn Bourdain could not keep the grin from thinning her lips. “Then I crawl inside and take hold and walk out of this condemned house forever.”

  It sounded ludicrous. Billie shook her head at the idea. “You think that will work?”

  “Oh I know it will, Sybil. I’ve had lots of practise, lots of opportunities to perfect the ritual. All that was needed was the right candidate. But you’re here now.”

  “And what happens to me? My soul?”

  “What happens to the balloon when it slips from a child’s hand? It simply drifts away into the ether.” She traced the pad of her thumb over Billie’s bottom lip. “We just have to wait a bit longer and then we’ll get started.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “For the others to arrive. I need five souls to occupy the cardinal points of the pentacle. And then another to make the incision.”

  A shuffling sound came from overhead. Evelyn glanced up to find Justin leaning over the edge. “What is it?”

  “Noise outside,” he said. “They’re here.”

  “Smashing!” Evelyn clapped her hands gleefully. “Look alive, Sybil. Chin up and do me proud.” She leaned in close and kissed Billie’s forehead before leaping out of the pit with the grace of a cat.

  The chill from the woman’s kiss stole Billie’s breath, numbing her to the core.

  Chapter 31

  WHEN POSSIBLE, GANTRY PREFERRED to have a plan before pulling something dastardly. He didn’t mind improvising at the last second or charging in recklessly either but, if he had the option, a plan had less of a chance to completely fuck up on him. The plan in this case, he had to admit, was barely a plan at all. It ran something like this: Get out of jail. ASAP.

  Gazing up at the window, he still couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to not only be nicked by the filth but tossed in the big house too. Was he getting careless or just cocky? Pride goeth before a fall, as his dear old dad would say. And fall he did but events outside the prison walls were turning screwy and there was no time for boo-hoo-hooing about it.

  So, with an odd bit of hocus-pocus rigged up to deploy at a certain point in the moon’s arc across the night sky, he waited for it to trigger. The alarm that rang shrill through the prison told him that it worked. A small electrical fire in the common area, frying the works and triggering breaker switches down the line. The prisoners grunted awake at the awful racket, the staff shifting into a well-rehearsed protocol of a fire plan. Here’s where the scheme got a little vague, the idea being to nip out in all the confusion. An opportunity would present itself. One always did in his case.

  The clang of doors opening rang through the prison, barely audible over the incessant ringing of the alarm, the men marched out in groups to the yard where they could be watched. With the guards barking like drill sergeants, Gantry went single-file with the others to the chill night air of the courtyard. His bunkmate, the Ape whose face he’d smashed in, had slipped away in the confusion.

  That raised a red-flag that, in retrospect, he should have heeded.

  The men milled about the yard joking and guffawing with one another, thrilled at the break in their tedious routine. A jovial party mood swept over the prisoners as they watched the flames glow in the window of the commons. Gantry stepped up onto a concrete riser to get a better view of the situation and watch for an opportunity. The more prisoners that shuffled into the yard, the more chaotic it felt and he clocked the concern in the faces of the guards as they herded their wards into the open air. At the east end of the yard, he caught sight of his bunk-mate, Ape, with the man with the snake tattoo and the other man who simply grunted. The Queens, as he referred to them now, huddled off to themselves as if unconcerned about the flames within. Another warning sign.

  A small explosion went off inside the building, blowing out one window. The men backed away en masse, the laughter dying away as they tensed up, wary of another explosion. More guards were running into the yard and another door was propped open and the prisoners were led through to some other wing of the prison. An opportunity, Gantry mused. Now or never.

  He pressed into the crush of stinking men as the crowd bottle-necked into the doorway, eyeing the flow of bodies and the guards shouting at them all to move faster. Somewhere in this confusion was a chance to slip away or duck out another door. All he had to do was keep his eyes open.

  With his attention focused ahead of him, Gantry didn’t see the Queens coming up behind him, elbowing through the others to get at their target. Gantry felt a push on his back, like a rabbit-punch to his kidneys. Three quick taps. He didn’t realize that he had been stabbed until the Queens elbowed past him, glancing back at him with lurid grins.

  Swept along by the surging crowd, he could already feel the blood staining the scrubs he wore, the material sticking wetly to his skin. The pain came up sharp and fast and when he stumbled to the ground, the other men simply trampled over him in their rush to get away from the flames.

  ~

  Roaring down the dark stretch of Laguna Road, Mockler slowed the car as he scanned the trees for the hidden driveway. It would be easy to miss in the darkness out here. His throat caught when something flared up in his headlights. A car parked on the shoulder before the path that led up to the Murder House.

  A late model Honda Civic. Blue Pearl colour. He eyed the vehicle as he rolled past it, recognizing the dent on the rear fender. It belonged to one of Billie’s friends but he couldn’t remember if it was the photographer or the one who owned the shop on James Street. What were they doing here?

  Trundling past it, he killed the headlights and rolled blind up the rutted path to the house itself. Another car hunkered low in the weeds there too, as if there was a party going on inside the decrepit manor. Shutting down the engine, Mockler popped the plastic cover of the dome light and removed the bulb. He didn’t want even that small light from going on when he opened the door. Climbing out, he eased the door shut and cocked one ear to listen. Not a sound from inside the house, just the gentle hushing of the wind coming through the trees around him. The other vehicle was parked further up, barely visible in the darkness.

  Opening the trunk, he lifted out the gas can and a flashlight and lowered the trunk lid with a gentle click of the latch. The cannister, filled to the brim after a quick stop on the way, was heavy and he left it on the ground next to the car. Unsnapping the holster on his belt, he approached the other car slowly. The beam of the flashlight rolled across the rear spoiler and the chipped paint of the bumper. His first thought was that the light was playing tricks on him.

  The vehicle was a Camaro, the black exterior dulled flat with a skein of dust and mud. A few twigs were lodged under the windshield wipers, wet leaves plastered to the glass. This was impossible, he thought. It was the same vehicle they had found in the ravine, the same one towed to an impound yard over on McKinstry Street. The muscle car F
ranklin Riddel had used to abduct Billie’s mother. It was like some sick joke.

  He checked the cab but it was empty and then he laid his palm flat on the hood. It was still warm.

  Detective Mockler ceased to question the logic as he felt a zing of fear rip through his guts. There was no sense trying to puzzle out the appearance of this particular car at this monstrous house on a night when children dress up as monsters. There was no denying the sickening sense of convergence here. There were no coincidences.

  Crossing through the damp weeds before the door to the Murder House, Ray Mockler drew his sidearm and stepped inside.

  ~

  From somewhere in the vast darkness of the cellar came the sound of the woman’s voice. “It’s time.”

  Hands plunged down from above the pit and seized Billie, snatching her up by the hair and the arms like some multi-armed assailant. Jerked clean out of the crypt, she caught a brief glimpse at her attackers before she was dragged across the floor. Two figures in dark robes, their faces hidden under heavy hoods. The terror was immediate. She had seen these monk-like figures before in this same place, when Kaitlin had vanished, conducting some blasphemous rite. They threw her to the ground, her head and elbows scraping sharply on the hard floor, and then the figures stepped back.

  Light, soft and amber, glowed from tall candles placed strategically at the five points of the pentacle on the floor. Standing rigid behind each tallow were more of the robed figures. Five in all, hooded and silent and identical in appearance like a quintuplet of grim reapers. A sixth figure hovered just beyond the others, barely visible in the outer darkness. The pit where she had been kept, where her father’s remains had laid undisturbed for twenty years, cratered at the very epicentre of the five-pronged star on the floor.