by J L Bryan
He knew where he was going. He'd had plenty of time to plan, while idling away long nights in his borrowed body. There was money in his pocket, and a false driver's license with a picture of Melissa on it, claiming she was twenty-two years old. A student at Melissa's school made them; the false identity cards were required for anyone under twenty-one to access Savannah's night life.
Clay had spent a bizarre few weeks with those teenagers, going to the loud, crowded, dark places, watching the young people in their shockingly revealing clothes, dancing in ways that would have raised horrified eyebrows in his time. He had reveled in the heat of densely packed bodies, the touch and smell of life and flesh, so much that had been denied him for so long.
He had almost let those temptations draw him aside from his course. After so long in the earth, adrift between life and death, why not simply perch at the back of the young girl's mind, like a spider pulling the threads of its web, and enjoy his return to the world of desire and skin and taste?
And for a time, he had considered that, had nearly been drawn into it, imagining all he could do with her body, the lovers he could attract.
But he had a greater craving, a thirst for pleasures much stronger than even the most perverse dalliances he could imagine. And now that he was flesh again, he could do so much more than he could have done in his old, trapped existence.
He smiled, imagining the crackle of burning flesh, the bodies melting down to bone, the scent of death—
A sudden sharp pain erupted in the center of his head, like someone had stabbed with a long knife through the crown of the head. As the girl's voice screeched inside his skull—
(let me go you MONSTER)
—his hands jerked the wheel of the truck to one side, hard, nearly driving the truck off the road, toward a sizable stand of solid oak trees.
For a moment, he panicked, forgetting how to operate the vehicle. He'd been depending on the girl's help, and her sudden rebellion—kicking her way out of the dark space where he'd shoved her, screaming against the gag he'd imagined in her mouth—left him at a loss.
She was driving them straight into the trees, he realized. The girl was planning to hurt him, even if it meant dealing serious injury to her own body.
At that, he felt a grudging bit of admiration.
“Be quiet!” he shouted, while he remembered that all he needed to do was slam his foot down on the brake pedal.
The truck squealed as it left the road, slowing on the final leg of its approach to the stand of thick old trees.
The front tires plowed through weeds and thumped against heavy tree roots.
A burning cloud of rubber rose from behind the truck...but the vehicle had stopped short.
Melissa had failed.
Clay smiled, looking at the rearview mirror, into Melissa's green eyes, framed in freckles and blond hair.
“Don't do that again,” he told her. “I can make things much worse for you in there. I can break you down, make you feel such agony—”
The sharp pain returned, as though Melissa were trying to kick her way out through their shared skull.
“Stop!” Clay balled up a fist and punched himself in the face, trying to drown out the pain she was causing him. He hit himself again, and again, pounding Melissa's fist into her cheek, her nose, her eye.
Finally, the pain at the center of his head subsided, and he felt the girl slipping back down into darkness, like a prisoner in a muddy pit who'd grown exhausted trying to climb out. Her little stand had ended...but he would have to be wary of her.
Carefully, he maneuvered back onto the road and resumed his journey.
Clay found the little town in time; by the time he arrived, he had no need of a map. He could feel the place ahead, waiting for him, calling him through the streets.
He drove slowly through a brick downtown, half the shops empty, blank glass display windows looking into hollow dusty spaces beyond. A few Christmas decorations had been put out, here and there, but overall the downtown area looked well past its prime, as if a number of people had left over the years. Of the shops that were open, most of them seemed to sell “antiques,” which he understood to be random odds and ends of the past that yet survived.
Perhaps he would enjoy a stroll through them, he thought, recognizing bits and pieces from his own time.
But not now. The hunger drove him on. And what the girl had just done—attacking him from within—proved that his position was not as secure as it felt.
He needed to finalize things.
And for that, he needed power.
The voices from the ring, the ancient voices, urged him on, guiding him.
He parked at his destination—a sprawling three-story house of brick and dark wood, most of its windows underscored with flower boxes full of long-withered plants.
Clay got out, stretched his long, muscular, borrowed legs.
Something moved in the darkness above him, vast and slow, heavy and powerful.
He looked up. It was a low bank of clouds, nothing more. Not one of them, the enormous nameless things that circled just beyond the darkness.
Shaking off his moment of fear, Clay walked up the porch steps and right through the front door.
A bell on a string clanged as he entered.
A hugely overweight balding man sat behind the small front desk, his wide suspenders decorated with small bulls. A pile of empty cellophane wrappers with traces of icing and jelly sat next to his computer keyboard. He looked Clay over and smiled.
“What can I do for you, pretty lady?” he asked, reaching up to adjust the lingering gray strands atop his sweaty dome, then adjusting his eyeglasses as if to see Clay better.
“How much is a room for the night?” Clay asked.
“Depends how many guests.” His eyes flickered past Clay to the window of the door beyond, looking out at the late-orange afternoon sunlight. “You got anyone else with you?”
“Just me.”
“Well, then...” His eyes went back to her, and he smiled, revealing a lump of black cupcake between his teeth. “Normally, that'd be seventy-nine dollars a night...but for a pretty little lady traveling all alone, I could knock it down to, let's say, sixty-nine?”
“Fifty-nine,” Clay countered.
The man chuckled. “You drive a tough bargain. I'll give you the best room in the house—number 11.” He took a key off the wall and pointed down a hallway. “It's just down there, nice and cleaned up for you. My apartment is right here on this floor, too. Only a shout away if you need something from me in the night.”
“I won't be needing anything in the night,” Clay said. “And I don't like staying on the ground floor. Is something available upstairs. Maybe on the top floor?”
“I suppose so...” His eyes narrowed, just a little suspicious now. “You could have room 32...”
“Or how about room 33?” Clay pointed at the key rack. “I see that's available.”
“Uh-huh.” The man's smile shrank to almost nothing. “You're one of them, huh?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I ain't stupid, kiddo.” The clerk opened a desk drawer and drew out a pink-frosted cupcake wrapped in cellophane. A pink fairy logo decorated the front of the wrapper; the clerk ripped it in half as he tore it open. He paused, contemplating the little cupcake, and snorted. “Let me guess. You read about this place in some old book of ghost stories. Or maybe you caught that episode of Haunted Crossroads a few years back. I told the producer not to include us on that show, and we didn't want that kind of publicity. But Bonnie went and did that interview anyway.”
“Who's Bonnie?”
“Pretty girl...not as pretty as you, though. Used to work the desk here, afternoons. Until she gave that interview, and then I fired her. She knew I didn't give that show permission to talk about this hotel, or my family, but she went ahead and did it anyway. I think she thought being on TV would lead to something big for her. She cleans shoes over at the bowling alley now.”
&n
bsp; “So your family owns this hotel?” Clay asked. “You're descended from the McClaskey brothers?”
“My wife was, Lord rest her,” the clerk said. “And she didn't care for talk about those days. It was a hundred years ago. It was just a tragedy, plain and simple.” He returned the key for room 11 to its nail on the wall.
“Have you ever seen them yourself?” Clay asked. “The—”
“Don't you say 'ghosts,'” the clerk cut him off. “I don't believe in that nonsense. I keep this place open in honor of my wife's memory. I've worked here twelve years and never seen anything strange...except for the weirdos that come in looking for ghosts.”
“I'd still like to rent out the room,” Clay said.
“We don't rent out room 33. I got 32 and 34 available right now.”
“Why don't you rent it out?” Clay asked. “You just said it's not haunted.”
“I don't rent it cause of the weirdos.” The clerk glared. “Last time I rented it was to some college kids who tried to do Lord-knows-what up there. Left candle wax everywhere, drew pentagrams on the wall, burned some awful hippie-stinking incense that lingered for weeks.” He shook his head. “Never again, not unless the whole rest of the hotel is full...and I ain't never renting it out to ghost-hunting types again.”
Clay considered arguing with the man, but it was unnecessary. In the depths of the night, Clay would be able to do all he needed.
“I'll take room 32, then,” he said.
“Full price,” the clerk said. “You might be cute in those tight little pants, but you done lost your discount with this ghost talk.”
Clay had thought Melissa's mud-stained jeans felt a little too tight. “Fine,” he said, reaching into the pocket.
“That'll be seventy-nine dollars...and Room 33 is closed and off-limits, understand? I'll call the sheriff if you try to break in. I got a cousin on the police force, so they'll treat any problems real serious.”
“I understand.” Clay thought of something else, and a smile crawled across his borrowed lips. “Is there a place to buy animals?”
“Huh? You mean a pet store?” The clerk frowned. “No pets allowed here. You got one with you, you can just shake your tail on down the road to the Motel Inn.”
“I have no animals with me,” Clay said. “I am looking to purchase a small...gift...for someone.”
The clerk sighed and tore open another cellophane snack package. This one was labeled “Pink Fairy Cub Claw,” and looked like a small cinnamon roll with yellow icing. “Perky Pets, a couple blocks down. It ain't big—not many places downtown are, anymore—but you might find something there. Tell Beryl I sent you over, if you see her.” He held out the key fob for room 32.
Clay nodded and reached out to take the key, but the clerk held it tight.
“No funny stuff, girly,” the clerk said, giving his hardest glare yet. “No Ouija boards. No candles. No looking for ghosts. Got it?”
“I have got it,” Clay said.
“Good.” He smirked, looking over Melissa's body again. “You break them rules, I may have to come up and spank you myself.”
“I recommend you not attempt that,” Clay said.
“Oh, yeah? What if I do anyway?”
“I'll burn the flesh from your bones,” Clay said, matter-of-factly. “Slowly. Your fat will ooze and sizzle like a tallow candle. You'll burn greasily, but you'll burn bright, and the smell of your roasting body will be like a pig spitted over a bonfire. The pain will be greater than you can imagine, as will my pleasure in watching your prolonged death.” He licked his lips involuntarily; he'd genuinely excited himself with the idea, and now fantasized about burning the man and the entire hotel with him...the man was ugly, and not Clay's usual taste, but it had been so long since he'd taken anyone—
The clerk was gaping at Clay, now—no longer smirking, or glaring, or letting his eyes wander up and down Melissa's body.
“What did you just say?” he whispered. His grip on the key had gone limp, so Clay pulled the key away and pocketed it.
“I wish you a pleasant evening. So long as you leave me alone.” Clay turned and walked out the door. The little bell jingled merrily overhead.
He walked along the darkening downtown, past empty windows, slowing to glance through the front window of a small clothing boutique called Maisy's. He'd brought a suitcase of Melissa's from the hotel room the previous night, sliding it under the seats in Michael's truck before going to the museum to steal the ring, but he could use a bit more clothing. Higher quality, too. Silk or satin would be nice, or Sea Island cotton.
Right now, though, Clay had other priorities.
He reached the small pet store and looked into the window. A large plastic-walled cage of kittens were for sale, all of them energetic; he watched a pumpkin-orange one pounce on a black one, which turned and swiped at its attacker. He could faintly hear them mewing through the glass.
With a smile emerging on his lips, Clay opened the door and stepped inside the store.
Chapter Eight
Ellie
The next morning began early, at least for Michael, who started knocking around in his room at about five-thirty. I heard the glugging of the coffee maker in his room, the hiss of his shower. The hotel really could have used some thicker walls.
“Grumble,” I muttered, mostly under my breath, as I pushed myself up to a sitting position. I could hardly snooze all morning if Michael was up and ready to resume the search for his lost sister.
Reluctantly, I got ready, taking time to check out my wounds, and my face in the mirror. I had bruises all over, including one on my cheek that looked particularly prominent. My burned hand still ached, despite the treatment Michael had given it.
I started the coffee, then shook Stacey, who was sleeping soundly.
She started, then snorted, keeping her eyes closed and her head down on the pillow. “But I don't even like gymnastics, Mom...” she mumbled, then turned away from me.
I may have been feeling a little grumpy, because instead of gently shaking her awake, or maybe putting on some pleasant music, I opted to flip the room lights on and off as quickly as I could, like a strobe light. And I said, “Stacey, what are you doing? You're two hours late for the big gymnastics meet! Everyone's counting on you and you're letting them down!”
“Oh, no!” Stacey gasped awake and jumped out of bed, looking around in a panic with her sleepy eyes and ruffled blond hair. Then she scratched her head and cast a puzzled look at the oversized Hummel-style figurine decorating the dresser, a big-eyed cowboy leading a big-eyed burro with a load of corn on its back. “The El Grande Chalet?” She looked at me. “Ellie, you really scared me!”
“Well, there's no gymnastics meet, just a murderous ghost out there, waiting to be found.”
“Thank goodness!” Stacey rubbed her eyes. “So what's next?”
“You just need to make sure you're ready to hit the road.”
“Where are we going, exactly?” She yawned and stretched.
“That's the first thing we have to figure out. So put on your detective hat and fire up your Sherlock pipe. It's not going to be easy to figure out where Melissa went—”
Michael pounded on the other side of the connecting door, making Stacey and me jump.
“Ellie!” He shouted. “Are you up? I know where Melissa went!”
“Ah,” Stacey said. “Sounds like he put his detective hat on extra early this morning.”
I threw open the door to see him on the other side, looking completely ready for the day—shoes on, jacket buttoned, hair combed. He'd pinned his phone to his ear with his shoulder, and he was jotting on a pad of paper.
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“It's the credit card company. Or, you know, their computer. It's calling me to check on unusual charges.” He held up a piece of El Grande Chalet stationery—watermarked with a sargo cactus growing beside an ornate clock tower—on which he'd scribbled Gatwich Inn.
“Where?” I as
ked.
“Yes,” he said, and it took me a moment to realize he was talking to the computer that had called him. “Yes. Yes.” He paused, then hung up. “She's in Oklahoma. Or at least, she rented a hotel room there with my card. And she visited a store nearby. Perky Pets.”
“That's probably a pet store,” Stacey said.
“Or a pizza place with a really misleading name,” I said.
“The Oklahoma town is called Ardmore,” Michael said. He frowned and thumbed at his phone. “So that's located about...loading...loading....man, I get sick of that little arrow circling around and around...”
“I guess I should wake Jacob up. Where's my phone?” Stacey began rummaging through our hotel room.
“....that's about a fifteen-hour drive from here. I bet I could do it in ten,” he said.
“Not in my slothful beast of a van, you couldn't,” I told him.
“She could be long gone by the time we get there, anyway,” Michael said. “I say we get going right now.”
“Uh, wait,” Stacey said. “I only just found my phone, so let me make sure Jacob's up—”
“No time,” Michael said. “I need to get on the road right now.”
“But—” Stacey began to protest.
“We'll take the van,” I said, understanding Michael's urgency perfectly well. I shared that urgency, too, but his feelings on the matter were surely more intense than mine. I hurried around the room, collecting my suitcase, keys, and jacket.
“Hey, but—” Stacey began again.
“You and Jacob can catch up with us. That shouldn't be much of a problem in your car,” I said. Stacey's green SUV was much newer than the company van, and probably more reliable for the kind of cross-country trip on which we seemed to be embarking. Unfortunately, it wasn't packed full of ghost gear like my van, gear we might need to take on Clay.
Though, really, none of it was geared toward capturing a ghost who was in possession of a living human form. We needed an exorcist. I hoped Calvin had managed to get hold of James Lachlan, my favorite ex-priest.
Once Clay was exorcised, maybe there'd be some hope of trapping him, though he'd probably had plenty of time, between possessing Michael and Melissa, to figure out how my traps worked, and other techniques I used to deal with difficult spirits.
