by Val Crowe
I grunted and I wrapped my arm around his neck, putting him in a headlock. Straining with my legs, I leaned back, pulling him with me.
He let go of Wren, and he and I both toppled backwards onto the floor. He landed on top of me, knocking the wind out of me, loosening my grip on him.
I panted.
He scrambled to his feet, going for Wren again.
She was up on the bed, scooting backwards, frightened and wide eyed. She shrieked. “Phil, no, please!”
I sprang up and grabbed Philip again.
He elbowed me in the stomach.
I doubled over, stumbling backward. It hurt.
Wren tumbled off the other edge of the bed.
Philip climbed over the bed, going for her.
I straightened, moving forward.
Wren got to her feet. She half-ran, half-staggered toward the door.
Philip reached for her.
I snatched at the back of his shirt and stopped him. “Run, Wren!” I yelled. “Get out of the house.”
Wren threw herself out the door, a sob escaping from her throat.
Philip wrenched out of my grasp.
I lunged for him again.
He turned on me. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“My problem?” I said, raising my eyebrows. “I walk in on you strangling your wife, and I’m the one with a problem. Right. Got it.” I nodded as if that all made sense.
“This is none of your business.”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “It is.”
“Why?” said Philip, arching an eyebrow. “Because if I kill her, it’ll be blood on your hands?”
I licked my lips.
“You woke us up, Deacon,” said Philip, grinning widely. “Your energy called to us. And now there are more of us, and we are so, so hungry.” He reached for me.
I backed away. “You’re not a ghost. You can’t feed on me.”
Philip chuckled.
Fuck everything. This was not good. I held up both of my hands, palms out. “Look, let’s just calm down. Let’s leave the house. We can talk out on the lawn.”
Philip was still laughing.
I looked around, frantic, and then I picked up the first thing I could find. It was a big pillar candle in a glass container. I slammed the thing into Phil’s head.
The glass shattered.
Phil’s forehead started to bleed.
He didn’t lose consciousness.
Man, they always made it look so easy to knock someone out on the movies.
But Philip’s expression changed. “What the…?” He furrowed his brow at me. “Deacon, when did you…?”
“Come on,” I said. “We have to get out of here.”
Philip touched his forehead, where he was bleeding. “I don’t think I can.”
“Yes, of course you can. Come with me.”
He shook his head. “I have to stay in the house.”
“No, Philip, you need to get out of the house. It is important that you—”
“Run,” said Philip. “Run while you can.” And then his eyes rolled up in his head and his voice became deep and distorted. His mouth twisted into something like a smile. “I want that to be the last thing you think of as you die. That you’ll never leave me.”
Damn it all.
I ran.
* * *
I found Wren on the lawn, sitting in the grass, hugging herself and sobbing.
I collapsed next to her, on my knees. “Wren, Jesus, I thought you were staying with your sister.”
She turned to look at me, her eyes full of tears. “I stayed there last night, but my sister said she couldn’t handle having me there another night. Her kids are sick, and she’s overwhelmed, and I get it. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“So, you came home.”
She nodded. “And when I got here, he was… different. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but it’s bad, Deacon. I think he’s gone insane.”
“It’s the ghosts,” I said.
“But can it really be the ghosts?” she said. “He didn’t say anything about Tex or Cheyenne tonight. He thinks I cheated on him. He thinks that the baby isn’t his. He…” She bit down hard on her lip.
“Did you ever argue about any of these things before?” I said.
“Uh… well, maybe one night, Philip got drunk after I got pregnant. We went to one of his old college friend’s birthday parties, and he had more than he usually would to drink. I guess because it’s easy to fall into old habits around people from when you were younger, you know? He said a bunch of crazy things, and I made him sleep in the guest room.” She rubbed her forehead. “But the next day he apologized, and he said that he didn’t mean a word of it, that it was just because he was freaked out about becoming a father.”
“Okay,” I said.
“It’s a thing.” She was earnest. “I looked it up. Men tend to think that maybe their wives cheated on them when they’re facing the thought of their first kid. It’s a way of trying to deflect the oncoming responsibility. It’s common.”
“Huh.” I considered this. I guessed it kind of made sense.
“At least that’s what I told myself,” she said. “But now, I’m not sure. Maybe it wasn’t because he was drunk. Maybe—”
“Listen, the ghosts in the house saw all your arguments,” I said. “It knows what buttons to push. It knows you both. Whatever is pulling Philip’s strings isn’t Philip. I promise you.”
“Where is he?” She peered around me at the house.
“I couldn’t get him to leave,” I said. I left out the fact that I didn’t actually try that hard, because I had been too afraid of the creepy voice and the rolled-back eyes and the last thought I was going to have while I died. “I, um… there’s something really bad going on with him.”
“Oh.” She burst into fresh tears.
“Look, I’m sorry, Wren,” I said. “You need someplace to stay? You can stay with me. I live in a camper, and it’s not great accommodations, but if you’ve got nowhere else to go—”
“No, it’s all right,” she said. “I’m going to drive to my parents’ house. They live an hour away, so it’s not ideal, but I’ll do what I have to do. I just don’t know how to explain to them about Phil.”
“I’m going to get him back,” I said.
“Okay,” she said. “But how can I trust him again? And what will my parents say if I tell them—”
“Don’t tell them he tried to kill you,” I said. “Say you had a fight. If they ask questions, tell them that you don’t want to talk about it. It’s not him. I swear.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Wren. I have been under the influence of spirits before. They have made me do things that I would never do. That is not your husband.” I pointed at the house. “Anyway, I’ve got a plan. If I can find something that I think is hidden in the house, I might be able to stop everything. Maybe you’ll be able to come home tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“I can’t promise anything, but I hope so.”
* * *
After I got Wren in her car and saw her off on her drive to her parents’ house, I trudged back up the front steps and into the house again.
I knew that Philip was in here, but he was not my primary concern. I needed to find the money. As long as I was right, and this haunting centered around Cheyenne, then finishing her business would release her spirit and end the haunting.
If I was wrong, well, then we were screwed.
But I was pretty sure that I was right. Mads had felt that Cheyenne was the epicenter of everything. All of the rest of the things that were manifesting now, they were just caught up in the swirl of her energy.
The house seemed to hum as I stepped inside.
The front door slowly creaked closed on its own behind me, shutting me in.
A wary feeling settled inside me at that sound. I needed to be careful. This was a house full of hungry spirits, and they wanted to snack on me. If I let t
hat happen, then this was all going to be for nothing.
I climbed the steps deliberately, not allowing myself to think any thoughts about being followed or stalked or anything else. I went for the nursery and opened the door.
“Cheyenne?” I whispered.
I went to the wall where she usually wrote. I put my hand there and traced out the word, Murder.
“Cheyenne,” I said. “Tell me where you hid the money.”
“Yes,” said a soft voice from all around me, Tex’s voice. “Where is it, Cheyenne?”
“No, don’t listen to him,” I said. “Tex can’t hurt you anymore. All that is over. You tell me, not him. I will get the money to Kadan. I will make sure that your son is safe.”
I waited, but there was no answer from Cheyenne. She didn’t manifest.
I turned in a circle, looking around the room.
And there was someone in the doorway.
But it wasn’t Cheyenne.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kennely strode into the room, and she was a bloody mess and half naked. She was smearing the blood from her stab wound up over her flimsy bra.
I remembered her naked breasts. I remembered them spattered in blood.
I staggered back from her, feeling as though I couldn’t breathe. The spirits were getting strong. They didn’t want this haunting resolved. They wanted to put down roots and get stronger. They must be blocking Cheyenne from manifesting.
I needed to ignore what they were doing to me.
Walk through her, I told myself. Walk through Kennely and make her disappear. This isn’t about you.
“You liked it,” Kennely said. “It all turned you on.”
I squared my shoulders. Even if I couldn’t walk through her, I could stand my ground. I could keep from responding to her.
“You liked watching me topless,” said Kennely, and her voice had dropped to a sultry whisper. “Would you like me to strip for you, Deacon?”
I turned away. I was shaking. Why was this affecting me so badly?
“You liked it best when he stabbed me, though,” said Kennely. “That really got you going.”
“No,” I said, disgusted. Because I may have been fucked up, but I was not that kind of fucked up.
Kennely giggled. “There you are. I knew you wanted to chat.”
Damn it. I wasn’t supposed to acknowledge her or interact with her. Already, having done it, she had gotten stronger. She seemed more solid and firm.
Kennely continued. “We could roleplay it all. You take off all my clothes and then you could stick me with the knife.” She rubbed the hole in her stomach. “Ooh. It’s so wet, Deacon.”
“Shut up,” I growled, and I charged her, throwing my body into hers.
She dissipated, black smoke, and I was bathed in cold air.
I pushed open the door to the nursery, but when I stepped out, it wasn’t into the hallway, but into that cabin back at Sunny Day Campgrounds. Jonah, Kennely’s boyfriend, was lying on the floor, crumpled and bloody and dead. There was blood all over the floor and their sleeping bags.
I groaned and I turned away, running back into the nursery.
Kennely was there.
I let out a hoarse cry of frustration.
“You don’t want to stab me?” said Kennely.
“Stop it.” I clenched my hands into fists.
“Because you’re the one who killed me,” she said.
“I didn’t,” I said. “It was Macon.”
“You brought Macon to life,” said Kennely. “It’s your fault I died.”
“Shut up.” My voice wasn’t strong. “Just shut up.”
“And you must want to do that again,” said Kennely. “Why else would you go out on the road, sticking your nose into other hauntings and making them worse? When Wren dies, that’ll be on you too.”
I turned back to the door and hurled myself out of it again.
I stepped outside, into the grassy area between the cabins at the Sunny Day Campground.
I ran.
* * *
It was dark, and I hurtled into the surrounding woods, running even though I knew that none of this made any sense. I couldn’t be outside. I couldn’t be in the woods. And there wasn’t nearly enough room in this house to run this far.
The ghosts here had me, and they were screwing with my head.
But all I wanted to do was to run.
The tree branches closed in on me, slapping against my skin. The path between them grew steadily more narrow.
I turned sideways to slide between them.
I made it through and into a clearing in the middle of the trees. Overhead, the moon shone down bright and round and full. It seemed to taunt me as it poured the moonlight down.
I stopped. I panted, bending over and resting my hands on my knees. I felt like crap. I felt as though I’d been running for hours. Days.
The trees parted and Macon Symonds came out.
He was wearing his bloody flannel shirt and carrying his knife. He advanced on me with a blank expression on his face. His movement was even and steady, unhurried.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
Macon was coming closer.
I straightened. “Okay, I sent you away. I convinced you that you were a ghost, and you resolved your issues and released your energy. So that means, if I’m seeing you now, you’re coming from me. You’re not the real Macon. But the real Macon wasn’t really the real Macon either.”
Macon kept coming.
“You’re a ghost!” I screamed at him.
He raised his knife and pointed it at me, cocking his head to one side.
“You’re a fucking ghost,” I said. “You’re not real. You can’t actually stab anyone, and you need to go away.”
Macon was close now. There were only a few feet between us.
I took a half-hearted step back.
And then he was on top of me, sinking his knife into my chest. It stung. It burned. I could feel it parting my ribs and my ribs were snapping, and then piercing my heart, which struggled to beat against the cold steel.
Struggled.
And stuttered.
The pain exploded throughout my body.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Not real,” I gasped. “You’re a ghost.”
He pulled the knife out of my chest.
Blood poured out of the wound.
“Not real,” I said through clenched teeth.
And it was gone, healed and fixed. I touched the place where he had stabbed me.
Macon raised the knife over his head again.
I turned and ran, back through the trees.
But the trees changed, and I found myself fighting through swinging jeans and jackets on hangers and staggering out into Wren’s and Philip’s bedroom.
The room was mercifully empty.
I hurried across the room and threw open the door.
It opened into the nursery.
Kennely was against the door, writhing, her fingers inside the wound on her stomach. She was moaning, “Harder, Deacon.”
I walked right through her and tore that door open too.
And I was back in Wren’s and Philip’s bedroom.
The door was open and I could see Kennely in the nursery on the other side.
I was trapped.
“Fuck.” I turned back to the first nursery. “Cheyenne!” I snarled. “Get your ass out here. You can stop this. You are the center of the haunting. You are the most powerful apparition here.”
“You are the most powerful, Deacon,” said Kennely from behind me. “That’s why I want you to stick me. I’m so empty. Fill me up, Deacon, fill me up.”
I screamed.
I turned back to Wren’s and Philip’s bedroom. I pushed back into the closet.
I emerged on the other side of the clothes into a tiny gray room. It was full of all of the dead people from Sunny Day Campgrounds. Kennely, Jonah, Cat, Scout, and Alice. For good measure, Oscar was there too. He looked just the way he
had when I’d found him in that maze at Point Oakes, swollen and purple from the way he’d hung himself.
They all reached out their fingers for me.
I screamed again, thrashing out at them.
But they closed in on me from all sides.
And then I felt it—a feeling like my essence was being sucked out through all my orifices—through my eyes and my nose and my mouth and my ears—through my pores. It hurt like fuck.
I tried to struggle, but there was nothing I could do once they started to feed on me.
Darkness came for me, zooming faster and faster at me until it swallowed me whole.
* * *
When I woke up the next morning, I felt like death.
I was lying on the steps in the Sanford House, sprawled out as if I’d slept there. The light outside filtering in the windows was gray and dreary.
I thought it was morning, but I checked my phone, and it was nearly two in the afternoon. It must be a cloudy day. I’d slept a lot, but that tended to happen when spirits fed on me.
I tried to stand up and felt dizzy and nauseous.
I moaned.
I settled for sitting up and leaning my head back against the wall.
Well, that hadn’t gone well. I’d let the ghosts get to me. They’d gotten in my head, and they’d manifested the things that upset me the most. They’d screwed with me for fun.
I was guilty about what had happened at the Sunny Day Campgrounds. I was guilty about how my abilities had hurt people. I had never intended for anyone to get hurt, but it seemed like whenever I was around, it just happened.
People got hurt. People died.
I hung my head, and I couldn’t help but remember the wall of grief at those funerals in the late fall, when five bodies had come out of that campground, and I had to watch the parents and siblings and children of those people sob and clutch each other because it was too much for them to bear.
I shut my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“Stop it,” said a voice.
My eyes snapped open. “Mads?”
She was sitting next to me on the steps. “You’re calling out to them, Deacon. Shut it down.”
“Where the hell have you been?” I said.
“You’re a mess,” she said. “I can’t leave you alone for a few days before you practically get yourself killed.”