Sam

by Iain Rob Wright

  Angela was almost sick when she saw what was inside.

  The room was some kind of spa room. A sauna cubicle sat back against the far wall and there was a small steam room beside that. At the adjacent wall was a partitioned changing area and in the centre of the room was a hot tub. Hanging out of the hot tub, upside down, was Graham.

  Graham’s head and shoulders lay crumpled against the carpet while his legs were still inside the bubbling tub, with his knees hooking over the lip. His arms were outstretched from his sides at strict right-angles. From where Angela was standing, Graham’s body looked as though it had been positioned into a cross.

  Or, more correctly, an inverted cross. The calling card of the Devil and his minions.

  Angela repeated a prayer quickly in her head. It made the scene in front of her a little more bearable.

  Saint Michael the Archangel,

  defend us in battle;

  be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

  May God rebuke him, we humbly pray:

  and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,

  by the power of God,

  thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits

  who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.

  Amen.

  Angela’s eyes began to pick up more details, but she had to turn away and leave the room. The sight and smell of fresh blood was just too much for her to handle – it brought back too many nightmares. Graham’s naked body was plastered with gore, but Angela had not looked long enough to figure out where it had come from.

  Mike had followed her outside, which was surprising as she would have expected Tim to be the one to check on her. “You okay?” he asked her.

  Angela walked a few steps further down the corridor, wanting to put more space between her and the room. Finally she slumped against the wall and rubbed at her eyes; suddenly they felt like lead ball bearings in her skull. “I-I…” She cleared her throat, took a second. “I’ll be fine. I just don’t like the sight of fresh blood.”

  Mike clamped a hand on her shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. “I don’t think anybody does.”

  “What the hell happened to him, Mike? I swear this whole house is fucked up.”

  Mike shook his head and looked down at his shoes. When he looked back up again he was chewing at his bottom lip. “Damned if I know what happened to him. From what I can tell, he bled to death from a gash in his genitals, just beneath his scrotum. There’s a broken whisky glass in the hot tub and a near-empty bottle on the floor. I think he had some sort of freak accident.”

  Angela shook her head. “Bullshit! He was murdered. No man accidentally severs his genital artery or whatever it is you’re suggesting made him bleed to death. This was murder, anyone can see that. Just look how he’s been positioned.”

  Mike frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been shaped into an inverted cross. His feet are submerged in water like a reverse baptism. The slicing of the genitals in and of itself could be construed as an act against God – it’s a condemnation of procreation and the spreading of the Lord’s creation.”

  Mike huffed at her. “What are you? Perry Mason’s sister? The psychological forensics is all very good, but if you’re suggesting that Graham was murdered, then who the hell is responsible?”

  Angela ran the possibilities through her mind. “Tim has been with me all night, Miss Raymeady is asleep, and Frank is gone, which just leaves Sammie – a ten year old boy – and you.”

  Mike laughed, but was obviously insulted. “You think I killed Graham? That’s rich! I’ve worked with the guy for a whole year. It’s you and Tim who are the new faces around here.”

  “I had nothing to do with it and neither did Angela.” Tim joined them in the hallway. His face was pale, but he seemed in control of himself. “But Graham was definitely murdered, and I can prove it.”

  “How?” Mike asked.

  Tim held his arm out between them. He opened up his palm to display two long slivers of metal. “Iron nails,” he explained. “I found them embedded into Graham’s feet. The tub water was mixed with blood so they were used on him while he was alive. He hung there bleeding. There’s no way he did this himself. He’s been crucified.”

  “Fuck this shit,” said Angela. “I’m going to the police. Someone in this house is a goddamn psychopath. That same person is probably behind Joseph Raymeady’s death, too, and everything else that has been happening.” Angela sighed and scooped her hair back behind her ears. “I’m sorry, Mike. I like you, I do, but you seem like the most likely candidate for this. I’m not staying around you or this house anymore. Tim, will you drive me to the nearest police station, please?”

  “With pleasure,” he said. “I was already out of this madhouse before someone sliced Graham’s ball bag like a joint of ham.”

  Angela hurried down the corridor, making sure that Tim was following her. She hoped he would be okay leaving his equipment to collect later. She didn’t want to be kept at the house any longer than she had to.

  They took the staircase, two steps at a time, and quickly made it down to the foyer. Mike was right behind them, shouting his protests and insisting they shouldn’t leave. “You’re needed here,” he kept saying.

  Angela ignored Mike’s pleas and headed straight for the front door. She placed her hands on the door handle and pushed.

  The door did not budge.

  Angela fumbled with the deadbolt. She tried to open the door again.

  It still wouldn’t budge.

  She spun around and faced the foyer, focused her glare on Mike. “Open this door now.”

  Mike stopped his pursuit of her and stood still on the marble floor. “It isn’t locked,” he said. “Just turn the deadbolt.”

  “I just did,” said Angela. “It won’t open.”

  Tim stepped up to the door. “Let me have a look,” he said, and began fiddling with the locks and pulling at the door. After a few attempts, he gave up with an apprehensive look on his angular face. “It’s stuck.”

  “What are you trying to pull?” Angela demanded of Mike.

  “Nothing. I haven’t touched the goddamn door.”

  Angela examined Mike’s expression. The guy seemed to be telling the truth, but there was obviously something else going on, too; something he wasn’t telling her. A brief glint in his eyes spoke of something more than pure ignorance.

  “Come on, Tim,” Angela said. “We’ll try the door in the piano lounge.”

  Panic spurred Angela to race across the marble floor so quickly that she almost slipped. Tim grabbed a hold of her arm just in time to steady her. Together they entered the lounge.

  The French doors leading to the gardens were set behind the piano. As they passed through the room Angela smelt the metallic tang of blood again. It was still a mystery where it had come from and how it had soaked the piano. Graham was dead, but he had bled to death two floors above here.

  Tim rattled the handles on both French doors. They did not open. “These are locked too,” he explained dejectedly. “Looks like someone doesn’t want us to leave.”

  Angela grabbed a chair away from the nearest table. She shot a quick glance at Mike and said, “Send me the bill!” Then she threw the chair in the direction of the French doors and watched as it tumbled through the air. It hit the glass panes with a resounding clatter.

  The chair broke into a dozen pieces, fell to the floor. The glass panes of the French doors were still worryingly intact.

  Angela looked around the room, frowning with consternation. She headed behind the bar and rifled through the various shelves. The most suitable thing she could find was a heavy crystal decanter. She hoisted it under her arm and took it back over to the French doors. Tim was still standing there, jaw agape, and she told him to take a step back. Then, with all of her might, she hurled the decanter.

  It bounced off the glass panes and came apart on the floor, just like the chair had. The French
doors remained intact.

  Tim ran spindly fingers through his hair and blew air into his cheeks before letting it out in a blustery sigh. “What the hell, man?”

  Angela picked up another chair and this time swung it like a bat towards one of the room’s windows. Again the chair broke before the glass did. “This is impossible,” she said, looking around frantically for a solution and feeling more and more like a trapped rat. Her heart raced.

  “We’re trapped here,” said Tim. “Stuck in a box with a crazy-ass, ball-slicing maniac on the loose.”

  “Let’s just calm down,” said Mike, moving up beside them. “It’s time to take a breath and stop panicking.”

  Angela glared at him. When she’d met Mike she’d had a good feeling about him, but now she felt distrustful of him – his demeanour had changed somehow since Frank had left. “If you’re behind this, Mike,” she said, “I’ll leave you in worse shape than Graham, I swear it.”

  Mike laughed. “Some spirit you’ve got there, sweetheart, but, once again, I’m telling you I had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Then who did?” Tim asked. “Who would want to keep us in this house so bad?”

  Mike shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tim didn’t like this at all. He was locked inside a house with no power, no light, and no way out. Once upon a time he’d been in a similar situation, which had not ended well.

  When Tim and his brother, Steve, agreed to stay the night at the vacant Grey Gardens Hotel, both of them had expected to find some rational explanation for the five deaths which had occurred during the previous six months ( always after midnight). In a previous investigation of a similar hotel, Tim and his brother had found a slow gas leak in the kitchen. It had been making the staff light-headed and accident prone, which had led to rumours of the place being cursed. Of course that wasn’t the case, but Tim and his brother spun the owners a tall tale all the same. Tim fixed the broken gas main while his brother performed a dramatic séance. After “speaking” to a malevolent spirit called Lloyd who didn’t actually exist, Tim and his brother had declared the building “cleansed”.

  The pay had been decent and the owners were happy. It was on to the next job, and despite the worrying number of deaths, Tim expected to play the exact same simple prank at the Grey Gardens.

  But things hadn’t gone as planned.

  With no one in the building other than Tim and Steve, there was no need to perform a fake séance – they could just tell the owner that they’d done one anyway. Instead, they drank heavily and made good use of the hotel’s amenities. It seemed like a good gig.

  The first warning sign was when they were sipping from a bottle of the hotel’s best champagne in the bridal suite’s hot tub. Very gradually, to the point that they hadn’t even noticed it at first, the water began to heat up. The thermostat was already set to a cosy 40-degrees-C, but when Tim began sweating and glanced at it again, it was over 50. By the time he and Steve leapt out of the tub, the thermostat was reading 68C. They looked like lobsters.

  But they didn’t learn their lesson. They carried on drinking, while playing on the pool tables in the downstairs bar. Steve was twice the player Tim was, his extra five years on Earth having been spent hustling various pubs and clubs. Tim still enjoyed the game, though, despite losing constantly. It was time with his big brother.

  When the eight-ball left a long streak of blood behind it on the baize, they thought it odd, but still they did not let it bother them. They were obscenely drunk and the supernatural was a job to them, not a reality. They ignored what they were seeing.

  Tim wished he could go back in time and shake some sense into him and his brother.

  Once the evening got late, Steve and Tim retired to one of the twin rooms. Their drinking had slowed down until both of them were feeling drowsy. Tim plopped down on one of the beds and closed his eyes, while his brother took a bath. It was a peaceful ending to a wild night.

  Tim must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he checked his watch it was almost 3AM. It was then that he realised Steve was still in the bathroom.

  The lights were off, but sounds of trickling water crept out from the en suite. Tim dragged himself off the bed. He moaned in agony; it felt like an elephant was running loose inside his head. His mouth was as dry as an overfilled ashtray.

  Tim’s bare feet took him across the room. The sounds of water from the en suite grew louder. “Hey, Steve,” Tim shouted out. “You fall asleep in there?”

  The bathroom’s door was ajar and Tim pushed it open all the way. He strained his eyes to see through the darkness, and though it seemed impossible, there was a glow in the room which slowly brought everything into view.

  What Tim saw then changed his life forever.

  The monsters he invented to scam money off of innocent people were real. There was one standing before him right now.

  And it had Steve.

  Standing in the room’s bath tub was an old lady. Her ancient face was a withered mess of flaking skin and her black, sunken eyes seemed to drip crude oil. Kneeling in the bath tub at the old hag’s feet was Steve. He was half conscious and shaking with hypothermia. A pair of talon-like hands wrapped his skull, held him in place. The old woman’s crooked, brown teeth formed a smile as Tim stood in the doorway.

  “S-Steve?”

  The old hag hissed at him. Her voice sounded like an oven full of burning snakes. She yanked Steve up by his skull, lifted him in the air, offered him to Tim like a weightless ragdoll. “Taaaaakkkke hiiim. Iffff yooou daarre…”

  Tim looked at his brother’s dangling legs, and saw the pleading fear in his eyes. Steve was trapped inside some impotent hell, but he was still aware; he knew what was happening. He could see his brother, Tim, standing there and doing nothing to help him.

  The old hag cackled, started to squeeze Steve’s skull. Tim still did nothing. Blood began to run down Steve’s temples from where the bony fingers were piercing his skull. His eyes began to bulge. Tim still did nothing.

  Tim couldn’t move. His heart was a clenched stone-fist inside his chest, his knees were stiff and useless. His entire body felt like an inanimate statue.

  Tim did nothing as he watched his brother die.

  The old hag released her grip on Steve’s misshapen skull and he tumbled to the floor like a string-less puppet. Then she turned her malevolent gaze on Tim and opened up a mouth full of rotten fangs.

  Finally Tim’s legs obeyed him. He bolted out of the room, already guilty that he only managed to move once his own life was in danger. His brother’s peril had not been enough to make him act.

  Tim lumbered across the room like a wounded gazelle, terror and alcohol making his movements clumsy. He fell against the room’s door and fumbled for the handle. He managed to get a grip on it but found that it wouldn’t budge. It was as though it’d been welded shut.

  Tim spun around. The old hag floated inches above the carpet, drifting towards him with her arms reaching out. The darkness parted before her, extinguished by a sickly green glow. The smell of death preceded her.

  “Please.” Tim begged.

  Spiteful, hate-filled cackling.

  Tim fell to the floor and cowered. He closed his eyes.

  More cackling, louder, closer.

  His watch beeped; the changing of the hour.

  Tim trembled, squeezed himself up into a ball as tight as he could manage.

  But nothing happened.

  He opened his eyes slowly. The old hag was gone.

  The hotel’s owner found Tim the next day, still cowering in the same corner by the door. A brief police investigation had determined that Steve had gotten heavily drunk and slipped in the bath tub, caving in his skull. Tim knew that wasn’t the truth. Once he’d had time to think the events through, he knew the only reason he was still alive was thanks to nothing more than fortunate timing.

  The old woman had disappeared at 3AM
exactly – his watch had beeped to tell him so – when the witching hour had ended. Timing had been less forgiving to Steve, though, and Tim would never forget his own inaction in preventing his brother’s death. He had done nothing. He was a coward.

  Two months later, after one hell of a several-week drinking binge, Tim went back to the Grey Gardens Hotel and torched the place to the ground. No one else would ever have to die there.

  But Tim had never stopped being afraid – especially of locked doors and dark rooms – which was why he was kicking himself right now, for placing himself in a bad situation all over again. This time, instead of Tim’s brother, grumpy-ass Graham was the victim.

  At least this time I’m not responsible.

  “You okay, Tim?” Angela asked him. “You look like you’re about to hit the floor.”

  Tim shook away his bad memories and tried to smile for her. “Yeah, I just don’t like being trapped. Sends me into a panic.”

  “We’re going to be okay,” Angela reassured him while patting him on the back. “Long as we watch out for one another, we’ll get out of this infernal house one way or another.”

  Tim took a seat on the bottom step of the grand staircase and winced at the frigidness against his rump. Angela paced anxiously around the moonlit foyer in front of him, while Mike tried to open the front doors.

  Tim didn’t know what to make of Mike. Someone had killed Graham, that much was obvious, and the only people Tim knew were innocent were he and Angela, which left few remaining suspects. It didn’t look good for Mike, but it was still far from conclusive that he was the killer. For all Tim knew there could be a nutcase in a hockey mask roaming the gardens. Who knew anything for sure? Right now, the only thing certain was that Mike was trapped inside the house with the rest of them. There was still a slim chance he was an ally rather than an enemy. Tim wasn’t ready to write him off just yet (even if Angela had already made up her mind). There was, of course, one other viable suspect that no one else was mentioning: Sammie.