by Michael West
The spot where the metal crucifix touched Kim’s skin grew hot, yet it did not burn. It was comforting, like sitting beside a warm hearth on a cold winter’s night.
“Get away from her!” the dark thing in the hall cried out, and now it sounded panicked.
Its blade cut the air, made contact with Kim’s left arm, tracing a new incision that stretched from her elbow to her wrist, striking her metal watchband with a loud clink.
The slit wept fresh blood, but Kim felt no pain, and for the first time since the bridge, no fear. She put one foot in front of the other, then she did something she hadn’t done in years. She opened her mouth and uttered a prayer aloud. The first thing that sprang to her mind was “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for the Lord is with me.”
The thing in the hall wilted, took another step back. It still held out the knife, but the skeletal hand behind it now trembled. Its voice remained low, reverberated, but its forcefulness was gone. It’s words no longer threatened. They begged. “Leave us alone.”
Anna’s words played again and again to Kim’s mind, He’ll say he loves you, but he doesn’t. It just wants to hurt!
She thought of what this thing must have done to its own daughter as a man, creeping down this same hallway night after night, crawling into bed with her ...
It fortified Kim, pushed her on, and the glow that enveloped her and the ghost-child brightened. She couldn’t recall the rest of the words to the psalm, so she switched to a prayer she knew by heart, “Our Father, who art in Heaven ...”
The monster’s knife slashed at her, but this time it had no substance; a phantom. It faded, became transparent, and passed harmlessly through her bleeding arm.
She continued her prayer, “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done ...”
Tyler followed them into the hall. Kim couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there, and that too gave her strength to go on.
“Give us this day our daily bread ...”
Sharpened fangs dulled and shrank, becoming blunt teeth in the thing’s putrid skull. Its hunch became more pronounced, its movements more erratic.
“For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours ...”
The thing that had once been Anna’s father, Anna’s murderer, growled and whimpered. It retreated back against the wall, then suddenly liquefied, dissolved into a black oil slick and was absorbed through every pore and imperfection, leaving a greasy stain on the beige paint. And after a moment, that too disappeared.
“... now and forever,” Kim finished.
She descended the stairs, careful to watch each step on the way down, and when the front door swung open, she gave a sigh of relief. She walked out onto the porch and knelt down, placing Anna beside her on the concrete.
“It’s over,” she told the girl. “You’re free.”
There was joy in Anna’s glowing face. She hugged Kim tightly, imbuing her with wave after wave of pleasant vibrations, and then she slowly pulled away, took a step toward the walk and surrounding yard.
Kim found herself wondering what it must be like for the child, to be free after so many years of pain and captivity, and her eyes filled with happy tears.
“You’ll be a great mommy,” Anna said, her tiny fingers slipping away.
Kim smiled, and the tears flowed over onto her cheeks. “I’d like that someday.”
The little girl giggled, then turned and ran. A breeze blew across the lawn, but it did not move her hair or nightgown. She grew faint before she reached the end of the walk, like a projection on wisps of fine mist.
And then she was gone.
The blue-white flames were suddenly snuffed, and the static charge, the warmth, the power ebbed away with them.
Kim felt dizzy, as if all the blood in her body had suddenly drained to her toes. She looked at her arm, saw it was painted red, then staggered blindly down the steps. She reached for the railing, missed, and fell back.
Tyler reached out and caught her in his arms. He held her to him, rocking her as her eyes fluttered closed. Consciousness retreated from Kim’s mind. She slipped into a black abyss, and his voice followed her down, echoing, growing distant, calling her name.
24
“Kim?”
She still lay motionless, unresponsive.
Tyler knelt beside her; wiped his hand across her brow. It was dry, and she was cool to the touch. Her breathing was slow, but regular. He checked her pulse again. It was strong. “Kim, can you hear me?”
Finally, her eyes opened. At first, they rolled lazily from side to side, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, the walls, the couch, but when they found his face, they became instantly alert. “Where —”
“My place.”
“How?”
His fingers combed her dark hair. “I carried you.”
One side of her lip curled up. “You carried me?”
Tyler nodded. “How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been asleep forever. What time —”
“It’s late, after midnight.”
She reached out for his cheeks; saw the gauze that now jacketed her left forearm. Her smile died and alarms went off in her eyes. “God ... the blood ...”
“Relax,” he told her. “You had a couple of nasty scratches, that’s all.”
Kim frowned. “Scratches?”
“You were lucky. They weren’t deep enough for stitches. I cleaned them up and dressed them.”
“Scratches,” she repeated.
“When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”
“I don’t know,” she said, then gave a little giggle. “Can you get tetanus from a ghost knife?”
At that, Tyler’s hand froze. “What the hell happened back there? What was it? What did you see?”
Her eyes locked with his. Her expression was that of a patient expecting a terminal diagnosis. “What did you see?”
For a moment, Tyler looked at her without speaking, unable to put into words what he’d experienced, then he said, “When you sat up in the bed, and reached out, I saw this bright flash, like you’d just stuck your finger in an outlet.”
She nodded, but said nothing.
He went on, “And for a split second ... there was someone else there in the room with us.”
Kim’s face relaxed. “Anna. You saw Anna.”
It had been like a camera flare going off in a cave, a small figure made visible by the surge of brightness, its features a blur, undeveloped, but it had been there. There was no denying it.
“It was just ... just a quick glimpse,” he told her.
She didn’t sound disappointed, in fact there was excitement in her voice, “What about the thing in the hall? Did you see that?”
Tyler thought carefully before answering. Did he see something in the hallway? No. He didn’t. The flashlight had died, and yet the room seemed brighter than it had when they first entered, as if a full moon had peeked out from behind a cloud. And it was in that ethereal glow that he’d seen Kim stand up and walk to the door, her hand held out to nothing in a pantomime of a lover’s stroll. He’d felt a gust of wind blow through his hair and clothing, saw Kim’s arm spontaneously open and bleed, like some weird form of stigmata, and when he rushed to her aid, he’d felt a blow to his chest that had knocked the air from his lungs and sent him reeling.
But to his eyes, there’d been nothing there.
Last night, he’d told Robby Miller that he accepted the possibility of something supernatural at work in this town, but it was not until that moment, when he flew into the furniture and fought to reclaim his own breath, that he truly believed it.
This is what Martinez must have felt, he realized, only his experience had to have been a thousand times worse.
Tyler rubbed his chest and told Kim, “I couldn’t see what you saw, but it packed one hell of a punch. It was real enough.”
She seemed satisfied by that.
But there was more he didn’t say, more he found di
fficult to grasp, much less put into some sort of wording and utter aloud, even to Kim.
Tyler had managed to pull himself up, to stumble out into the hall behind her. And as he drew near, he had this sense of ... of power. It came off Kim in waves, as if she were a walking superconductor. He’d listened to her say various prayers as she marched, calling out to God. Perhaps it was the agnostic in him, or maybe the scientist, but he was unwilling to accept that this was Christian faith made manifest. No. What she had channeled tonight was something far more ancient, more elemental, something only a small percentage of human beings were able to tap and siphon.
But Kim was one of those precious few.
He took her hand in his. “So what happened to Anna?”
Kim smiled at him, and it was a smile of complete triumph. “I helped her get away.”
He shook his head and returned a matching grin, still trying to grasp it. “Now what?”
“Now ...” She paused, as if she hadn’t thought that far ahead, then she told him, “Burke’s having us help him with a new investigation. With any luck, I’ll get another chance to help ... you know.”
“When is that?”
“Tomorrow night, actually. You don’t mind do you?”
“Not that you have to ask permission from me, but no, I don’t mind at all.” Tyler thought of an old, hopefully derelict movie theater, and of Robby Miller’s plans for an exorcism, wondering if the man still wanted his help. “I’ve got something I have to do anyway.”
Tyler gazed down at Kim for a moment, and what he felt in his heart suddenly rose unbidden to his lips.
“I love you.”
The words hung in the air between them, a silent echo only he could hear, but he was not sorry.
She reached up, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. The kiss went on for some time, neither wanting to be the first to break it, but finally, the passion receded enough for them to pull apart.
There was no need for her to say anything. Her lips had spoken volumes, but she touched her forehead to his and said, “I love you too.”
“Do I have to take you home tonight?”
She shook her head. “Can you carry me again? I want to be awake for it this time.”
He shifted his position, got his arms beneath her shoulders and her knees, then lifted. She squealed, but her eyes never left his. “Where to?” he asked.
The smile on Kim’s face was full of sensual possibilities. “The bedroom.”
Tyler was more than happy to comply.
25
Segundo Martinez’ body lay dead on a cold metal slab, locked in a drawer, chilled to slow the creeping tide of decay that would ultimately consume it. His spirit, however, remained locked within the walls of the Woodfield Movie Palace, milling its darkened halls, filling one of the empty theater seats his flesh and blood hands had tried to cart off just a few days before. There he moaned, and wept, and cried out for release.
And he was not alone.
Shelly Wells’ body lay moldering in a dark coffin, sealed within a buried cemetery vault, insects slowly crawling and creeping through burrows dug in her festering flesh, devouring it over time. But her soul still lingered in the old theater, sitting in the boarded ticket booth, climbing the carpeted stairs her flesh and blood feet had mounted so many nights before. There she sobbed, and wailed, and screamed for freedom.
And she was not alone.
There were other disembodied souls here as well, and they too had company.
The demon lorded over all of them, feeding off their energy, their combined essence, growing stronger, more dangerous with each new tenant.
It was older than religion, older than time, and it had crossed both the globe and the centuries, traveling under countless banners and numerous names. Babylonians knew it as a Veltis. Arabic tongues called it an Ifrit, or a Jinn. Long before Peter the Great came to prominence, the Russians had seen fit to dub it Kostchtchie. And when Native Americans cowered in their huts and dwellings of mud and clay, sticks and skins, they cursed it as the Manitou, or the Windigo — the evil spirit that haunted the woods and made the ground tremble with its passing. Now it was the Woodfield, a moniker as good or poor as any that had preceded it, for no name from the lips of man could fully describe or define it, just as no mortal eye could ever hope to take in its true horror.
It slid effortlessly through the cinema walls, flew high and silent above the seats in the auditorium, seats that were empty, yet not empty.
The souls were gathering, and the Woodfield knew the reason for their sudden congress.
The bitch is coming.
They sensed it. Her power whispered promises to them even across the miles, gave them hope of freedom, of salvation.
The demon growled, furious, and the wallboards and rafters creaked and groaned, but it was unafraid. This ... girl had a gift, had even tapped some of its potential, but she was inexperienced. She knew so little of the real world, and nothing she’d touched could prepare her for what was to come.
The Woodfield chuckled to itself, and the birds nesting in the golden chandeliers took flight. She would die before she took them away, would be added to its collection. It would gorge on her spirit, draw from her talent, and become more powerful still.
In the boiler room, fuses were thrown, igniting lights on the exterior marquee, in the lobby, and powering the booth. Platters turned, feeding film over rollers and through the projector with the constant click-clack of sprockets and gears, throwing images onto the huge silver screen for the benefit of unseen eyes.
Outside, a cool spring breeze blew through newly laden branches. It was a sound like a crowd cheering, an excited audience, ready for a great event that was about to begin.
The Woodfield opened its doors and waited.
26
Wilber Harvey, the world’s oldest living projectionist, was first to arrive.
His rusted pickup truck rolled onto the lot just before sunset, a 1978 Chevy with a short bed, a long hood that had fallen off years ago and been wired back into place, and red packing tape where taillight glass should have been. It was battered, weather-beaten, but despite its age and considerable wear, it still worked, still puttered along, just like its driver.
Wilber pulled up to the Woodfield in a fog of exhaust. He frowned, then leaned over the steering wheel and adjusted his eyeglasses.
The marquee bulbs were lit.
Now I know I switched those damn breakers off ‘fore I left here the other day.
He glanced around the parking lot. Plenty of grass and weeds, but no other cars, no kids’ bikes or skateboards propped up against the graffitied face of the building either. Unless someone had been dropped off or hiked their way out of the surrounding woods, he was the only one out here.
The mind’s the first thing to go, old horse. Just admit you forgot to flip the switch and get on with it.
Wilber shook his head and stepped from the truck. He fumbled with his keys as he walked toward the doors, searching for the one that would allow him entry. He didn’t need it. The door creaked open at the touch of his hand.
His frown deepened, his confusion rapidly yielding to a familiar sense of frustrated anger.
Damn kids.
Warning signs had been placed along the access road, had been nailed to the trunks of surrounding trees at regular intervals. NO TRESPASSING. But a few bits of tin did nothing to deter the youth of this town. They would turn the crumbling parking lot into a primitive X-Games arena, bring with them homemade ramps, drugs, and drink. And inevitably, they would dare one another to somehow get into the building and have a look around. Some just wanted to see what was inside, perhaps find something of value to pillage. Others wanted to use it as their secret love nest, littering the floor with used condoms, empty bottles and crumpled beer cans. But most knew the ghost stories and were eager to put what they’d heard to the test.
Wilber dropped the key ring back into his pocket and slipped inside the lobby. The lights were on
in here as well. And as he crossed the dingy carpet, a curious sound found its way to his ears, a sound he knew all too well.
A film played in the auditorium.
He felt the rumble of bass in his elderly ribs, heard the sound of music and dialogue blaring from cranked-up speakers. There were other voices present as well, an audience. It sounded as if every seat in the house were full, everyone carrying on their own conversations, each trying to be heard above the roar of on-screen action.
Rather than pay exorbitant rental costs, Delbert King had purchased prints of a few cult and classic films over the years. Their canisters still sat up in the booth. Wilber had seen them just the other day, piled in a corner, blanketed by dust and cobwebs. Somehow, this group had managed to get into the theater, had built up a print from those disassembled reels, and now they were enjoying their very own private screening.
Wilber ran across the lobby as fast as his aged legs could carry him. He pushed the auditorium doors open, expecting rowdy delinquents who would scurry like roaches from the light. Instead, he found ...
Nothing.
The seats were empty, covered over by years of filth. There was a picture up on the screen, however, a list of names climbing a backdrop of frozen images. If not for that, Wilber would have worried for his own sanity. His eyes moved to the exits at the rear of the auditorium.
Damn, them suckers move fast.
He was halfway down the aisle before he realized just how dangerous it might be for a man of his age to surprise these intruders. Not long ago, he’d seen a news story about a fellow senior citizen who’d discovered his car being stolen. This other man ran up to the thief, tried to talk some sense into him, and was nearly beaten to death for his efforts. In that case, there had been a crowd of onlookers who sat by and watched the entire confrontation without so much as lifting a finger. Out here, in the dark depths of the forgotten Woodfield, there wouldn’t even be an audience.
Wilber slowed his approach, entered the exit hall with more caution. A faltering bulb winked dully from its recessed socket in the ceiling, showing him the doors. They were still locked, still chained. He climbed the steps and gave them a push to be certain, hearing the rattle and clang of the metal links grating and snapping taut around the handles.