Unholy Ground

by Christine Pope

  “Right.” One hand went up to touch the silver chain at her throat, and Michael realized Audrey still wore the cross and black tourmaline charm he’d given her back when all this started. She’d probably never taken the chain with its evil-repelling pendants off, actually; he knew she slept in the necklace, wore it in the shower.

  “Well,” he continued, “she didn’t have it on when Colin and I went to the morgue. The silver chain, yes — but the cross was gone. I guess I just assumed it had come off when she fell down the stairs, or maybe when they picked her up to take her away in the ambulance.” He stopped there, pausing to take a large swallow of brandy-laced coffee. “She almost always wore T-shirts, but not low-cut ones, so all I ever saw was the chain. She must have taken the cross off as soon as she could.”

  “Right,” Audrey said. “I remember looking for the cross when you told me you’d given her one, and all I saw was the chain, too. But wasn’t she taking a risk by not wearing it around you?”

  “Maybe a little — I probably would have asked her about the cross if it had been obvious that she wasn’t wearing it — but I have a feeling she was willing to take that risk because having a symbol like that around her neck would have caused her a good deal of pain.” Doubly so, because the cross — like the one Audrey wore now — had been fashioned of ultra-pure silver, .999 pure as opposed to the .925 silver used in most modern jewelry. Silver of that purity would have left obvious scorch marks on her neck and chest. And it wasn’t as though Susan could have explained it away as a nickel allergy, because there was no nickel in .999 silver.

  Now Audrey appeared somehow puzzled and skeptical at the same time, mouth pursed ever so slightly, one eyebrow lifted at an ironic angle. “I thought it was vampires that were afraid of silver. Or was it werewolves?”

  He was glad to see her looking that way, because it meant she was recovering from her brush with the entity that had swirled out of Susan’s master bedroom closet, was getting back to her usual practical self. “The lore of silver as a protective metal goes way, way back. Maybe because of its purity, or maybe because it actually does have antimicrobial properties.”

  Now she looked impressed despite herself. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Why do you think so many drinking vessels were made from silver?” Without waiting for an answer, Michael went on, “Anyway, the belief that silver can protect against vampires and werewolves probably derived from its use against demons, except of course vampires and werewolves aren’t real.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

  He couldn’t quite help grinning, even though their situation was serious enough. “Much as I would like to believe in werewolves and vampires — or Bigfoot or fairies or chupacabras — none of them are anything except stories conjured up by people who didn’t know what they were looking at.”

  “And what were they looking at? Demons?”

  “In many cases, yes.”

  The glint in her dark eyes was gone now, and she looked down into her mug of coffee, didn’t meet his gaze. “Always demons.”

  “Because they’ve made this world their battleground. The war fought in heaven is now being fought on Earth.”

  Still downcast, she bent over and set the mug of coffee on the table next to her. “You really believe that.”

  It wasn’t a question. However, he felt as though he needed to clarify things somewhat, or at least try to make her understand the sorts of stakes they were dealing with here. “I have to believe it. I have to remember it every time I visit a home that’s being oppressed, or meet someone who may be possessed. Someone might think these seem like very small battles in a war that’s being fought on a cosmic scale, but every time we lose, their side gains a little in power and strength. They can afford to play the long game, because demons are immortal, and they know we’re not.”

  “All out of spite,” Audrey murmured.

  She looked so small and forlorn, tucked into a corner of the couch, that Michael got up from his chair and came over to her, then sat down on the edge of the sofa cushion and took one of her hands in his. To his relief, her fingers felt warm, which meant the coffee and brandy and the warm throw that covered her were all doing their jobs. “Yes, from spite,” he said. “What better way to get back at God than to hurt His creatures?”

  “I guess I can see that. But….”

  “But?”

  “I don’t see why God doesn’t come here and kick some demon ass, tell them to leave us all alone.”

  “Because he’s given us the tools to defend ourselves. He hasn’t been a hands-on sort of deity for millennia.”

  For a second, Audrey just stared at him. Then the corners of her delicious mouth turned up slightly. Not a full smile, but enough to show him she wasn’t quite sure how to take that remark.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “I don’t know if I am.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, was glad to see her smile at him for real now, even if her eyes remained troubled. “I just know that we can’t stand around waiting for divine intervention, because it’s not going to happen.”

  “I figured, but a girl can hope.” Her fingers tightened on his, telling him that she didn’t want him to let go. And he wouldn’t. He’d stay here and hold her hand for as long as she needed him to.

  Would he ever be able to tell her how much this meant to him? To have someone want him not for who he was or what he might be able to do for them — too many of the women who’d come on to him at conferences and symposiums had been just as interested in his publishing-industry contacts as his body — but just because she somehow, against all odds, actually liked having him around?

  He hoped he could someday get to that place. Maybe not right away, because he’d spent far too much of his life keeping everything locked up to suddenly turn into someone who didn’t hold anything back, but he hoped Audrey knew how much he cared, how much he thanked God for sending her into his life. And even the thing he’d feared the most, that she wouldn’t want anything to do with him once she learned the truth about his identity, had turned out to be not such a big deal after all.

  That right there was evidence miracles really did exist.

  “Well, we don’t have to solve all the problems of the universe right now,” he told her, and she gave his fingers a final squeeze and then folded her hands in her lap.

  “That’s a relief.” She smiled again, her cheeks now rosy, the soft light from the fire erasing any shadows that might have still lurked under her eyes. “Then let’s just solve the problem of what to have for dinner.”

  Chapter 4

  Funny how they could share a perfectly normal evening after everything that had happened — Uber Eats brought over some enormous burgers and an equally huge side of garlic parmesan fries from Slater’s 50/50 in Old Town Pasadena, and she and Michael sat in front of the fire and stuffed themselves. No wine, just water, and that was fine, too. Afterward, they surfed around on Netflix, watched a few episodes of some silly baking show, and then decided it was time to crash. Lord knows, Audrey still felt as though she’d been hit by a truck, and figured a good night’s sleep was exactly what she needed.

  Why, then, was she lying here awake as Michael breathed deeply next to her and the digital clock glowed in the darkness, telling her that it was now exactly eleven fifty-two?

  She didn’t know. Insomnia had never really been a problem for her, except for a few weeks right after her parents were killed. Then she’d tossed and turned, trying to come to terms with the enormity of her grief, which at the time had felt like some dark beast hanging around her throat, stealing her breath when she wasn’t looking. Eventually, however, her natural sleep rhythms had reasserted themselves, and she’d been fine ever since.

  Now, though…now she couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position no matter which way she turned. She knew it wasn’t the bed, because she’d been sleeping here just fine for not quite two weeks now. And it wasn’t the sound of Mich
ael’s breaths, not loud or heavy enough for true snores, but just guttural enough for her to tell he was deeply asleep. That was good; at least she knew she wasn’t keeping him awake with her restlessness.

  The picture they’d found tucked away in Susan’s altar haunted her. Audrey couldn’t begin to guess why Susan had held on to it all these years. Had something of her true self still lurked deep inside her, and she’d kept it because it reminded her of a time when she’d been Eleanor, laughing and carefree? Or was the photo some kind of insurance policy, something she could use to keep Whitcomb in line?

  Of course Audrey had no idea, because she didn’t know if or how Susan/Eleanor had even interacted with the Whitcomb-demon recently. She’d loved him once, or at least loved what she thought was him, although of course the face he would have presented to her was completely false. Had she begun to guess something was terribly wrong, the way Whitcomb’s first wife, Alice, had? Had she tried to get away, and that was when Whitcomb sicced his demons on her?

  Audrey could try to guess, but she had a feeling she would never know the real truth. Everything Susan/Eleanor had known had died with her. And since so far they hadn’t had much luck tracking Whitcomb down — Michael’s friend Fred Peñasco, the information guru, so far had turned up nothing — it wasn’t as though they’d be able to go to the source for any answers.

  And then there was the thing that had come boiling out of the closet in the altar room. Although she felt immeasurably better now than she had when she’d first gotten home, Audrey knew it would be a very long time before she was able to forget how terrible the entity’s touch had been, the way it had sent tendrils of icy cold through her body, making it feel as though she would never be warm again. If it had gotten a really good grip on her….

  She’d been doing her best to lie still, but a shudder wracked her body. Next to her, Michael let out a loud huff of a breath, then rolled over on his side. For a second, she felt a stab of annoyance. Shouldn’t he be able to tell she was awake and in need of comforting?

  But no, that was horribly selfish of her. He needed his sleep. As she was getting ready for bed earlier this evening, she’d overheard him on the phone with Colin, speaking in the quiet, soothing tones she tended to think of as his “minister” voice. It sounded as though their former producer was having a delayed panic attack of some kind, and Michael was doing his best to calm him down. Audrey couldn’t even blame Colin; she knew all too well the horrible, out-of-control sensation of wondering how on earth she’d be able to pay her bills. And she’d never been anywhere near as leveraged as Colin apparently was.

  Michael managed to talk Colin down off the ledge, so to speak, but he’d looked even more tired when he came to bed. This was the first night since she’d begun staying in Michael’s house that they hadn’t made love, and Audrey could understand why. He probably wasn’t sure whether she would want to have sex after the experience she’d just suffered, and he was most likely worn out from having to be the caretaker for everyone around him.

  Sometimes it was all right to just sleep, although she couldn’t seem to manage even that much tonight.

  Her mouth felt dry. She thought she’d slip out of bed, go downstairs, and get a glass of water. Maybe a couple of ibuprofen, too; she knew Michael kept a big bottle in the pantry in the kitchen. Her head did ache a little, and for some reason, the mild analgesic tended to help her sleep.

  That seemed to settle things. Moving with great care, she slid out from under the covers, then slipped her feet into the flip-flops she kept by her bedside. After checking to make sure Michael hadn’t stirred — he seemed to be even more soundly asleep than before — she headed down the staircase, glad of the nightlights he had plugged into almost every available outlet. Because of them, the house was never truly dark, and it was easy enough to make her way from room to room.

  The glass she’d used earlier for water still sat on the kitchen counter. Audrey retrieved the glass, then went over to the refrigerator to fill it from the door. A few swallows of water helped to soothe her throat, and so after setting her glass back down on the counter, she headed to the walk-in pantry to fetch the big bottle of Costco-brand ibuprofen Michael kept next to his various supplements. Two tablets of ibuprofen in hand, she turned and left the pantry, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Someone was standing in the kitchen over by the sink…someone she knew right away wasn’t Michael.

  The pills slipped from her hand and plinked against the tile floor.

  His eyes met hers, and her heart seemed to miss at least one beat, if not several.

  Jeffrey Whitcomb.

  Not, she realized after a second of terror so overwhelming, she didn’t think her vocal chords would have cooperated even if she’d tried to scream, the Whitcomb-demon, but the older, ghostly version of himself.

  Still, he shouldn’t have been here. The house was warded and protected six ways from Sunday.

  “You have no need to fear me,” the ghost said. He sounded resigned and sad…rather like Michael had when he’d ended the call from Colin.

  Audrey blinked, wondering if she actually was asleep after all, whether this was another astral journey she hadn’t realized she was even on. “What are you doing in here?” she asked. Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper, and she cleared her throat. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

  The corners of the ghostly Whitcomb’s mouth lifted. The effect wasn’t so much a smile as a grimace, and she couldn’t help taking a step backward.

  “This house is protected,” he said. “But not against the likes of me. I am not a demon.”

  Audrey reflected that she needed to have a talk with Michael about exactly what kind of protections he’d raised around his house. Clearly, they didn’t go far enough.

  “True,” she replied. “But still, it’s not considered good form to invade people’s houses in the middle of the night.”

  “You were already awake.”

  Was that why he’d thought it safe to come here? Or was he somehow the cause of her sleeplessness?

  “No,” he said, as if guessing at her thoughts. “I had nothing to do with that. After everything you’ve suffered today, it’s not so strange that you wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

  “You knew about that?” Audrey demanded. “About what happened at Susan’s house?”

  A nod.

  “Did you know she wasn’t really Susan Loomis?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t think to warn us?”

  A shrug. He wore the same black frock coat as always, and in it, his slim form looked almost skeletal. Audrey couldn’t help but compare his appearance now to the way the Whitcomb-demon had looked in uniform. The possessed version of himself seemed to be probably fifteen to twenty pounds heavier, broad-shouldered and vigorous. No wonder Eleanor had fallen for him.

  “You didn’t ask.”

  Anger flared. Audrey stooped to pick up the ibuprofen tablets from the spot where she’d dropped them on the floor, then resignedly put them on the counter. She’d figure out later whether she wanted to get herself some more.

  “It’s kind of hard to ask a question when you don’t know what you’re supposed to be asking about.” Pausing, she narrowed her eyes at the ghost, then added, “I assume you were dead when he married this Eleanor person.”

  “Yes.” Whitcomb paused, frowning slightly, as if he wasn’t quite sure of his response after all. “That is, he had complete control of my body by then. My spirit no longer inhabited it.”

  “Why did he marry her?”

  Another lift of his thin shoulders. “Because he wanted her, I assume. Demons can be quite carnal creatures, you know.”

  Unfortunately, she did know. She recalled how the Whitcomb-demon had mocked her with his tales about sleeping with Alice Whitcomb while in her husband’s guise…how he had held Audrey herself down on the bed in his Colorado mansion and threatened to do the same if she didn’t cooperate.

  A shiver went thr
ough her, even though she’d gone to bed in her sweatshirt and yoga pants and the house was still quite warm, thanks to the fire they’d had in the living room earlier. “You don’t have to marry someone to sleep with them.”

  “No, but that was a very different time. And why would a demon care about a piece of paper? He would let Eleanor have her husband, knowing that he could leave any time. Or,” the ghost added, “take over her mind and heart, and make her yet another of his slaves.”

  Which seemed to be exactly what had happened. Audrey crossed her arms, forcing back another of those shivers. “How is it that Susan only looked as though she was in her early forties when she actually was twice that age, if not more?”

  “Being a demon’s minion has its perquisites,” Whitcomb replied. “He slowed her aging but couldn’t stop it completely. Still, there are probably quite a few people who would sell their souls to look so much younger than they actually are.”

  Sadly, Audrey knew he was probably right. Getting older here in image-conscious Southern California wasn’t something to be celebrated, but rather mourned.

  “And that thing in the closet?”

  The ghost went very still. “I can’t speak of that,” he said, his tone flat.

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Even if I could, I wouldn’t.” He glanced away from her. “Just know that it is very good that you made your escape.”

  Thank you, Captain Obvious. Voice even, she said, “I kind of already guessed that.”

  “At any rate,” he went on briskly, “none of that is why I’ve come here tonight.”

  “Why have you?” Audrey asked. “To tell me I’ll be visited by three ghosts?”

  His lips, never full at the best of times, thinned almost to invisibility. “I suppose you think you are very amusing, Ms. Barrett.”

  “No,” she replied. “Just tired of all the oblique comments. It’s past midnight, and I want to go to sleep.”