by J L Bryan
“My wife's gonna kill me,” he said, holding a few twenties in his hand.
“You should have thought of that earlier.” Beryl grabbed the cash and jabbed it into the back pocket of her jeans as she approached us. She grabbed a bar napkin and wiped sweat from her face. “You'll have to excuse me. I just had to shut up Captain Bigshot back there. You said you're interested in buying a dog?”
“Are you the owner of Perky Pets?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“You know, there are dog rescue groups in every town—” Stacey began.
“My friend's sister has gone missing,” I interrupted. “She visited your shop.”
“Your sister?” Beryl looked at Stacey with interest.
“No, his.” I gestured at Michael, who held up Melissa's picture on his phone.
“Oh, yeah,” Beryl said. “She came in asking about the kittens. Two Oreo-crumble ones—black and white cats, I call 'em Oreo crumbles—and one Pumpkin Spice. That's an orange one with white stripes.”
I felt ill, thinking of the ash-covered little skeletons Willmore had found in the fireplace.
“She wanted to know how much for all three,” Beryl said. “And I said I'd give a little discount for keeping those litter-mates together.”
Stacey's face had gone white and waxy. She looked as ill as I felt. Even Jacob and Michael looked disturbed.
“So, she bought all three?” I asked, trying to keep my composure together.
“Not just yet,” Beryl said. “After she got the price, she said she'd have to ask her family about it. I said that was probably a good idea, before showing up with three new animals. So she looked around a little more. Ended up buying some feeder rats for her brother's snake. That must be you.” Beryl looked at Michael.
“Yeah, but I don't have a snake...” Michael said.
“But what about the kittens?” Stacey blurted out. “What happened to the kittens?”
“I moved them further back in the store in case she decided to buy them. Moved the puppies in their place.” Beryl frowned. “I don't guess you're really interested in buying the puppies, then.”
“Sorry if there was a misunderstanding,” I said. “Did Melissa mention where she was going?”
“Just that she was headed back home with the rats. Said her family just moved to town.”
“Well, we didn't,” Michael said.
“Why did she run off?” Beryl asked.
“We're not sure,” I said. “We'll have to ask her when we find her.”
“Where y'all from, anyway?” she asked. “She said Charleston.”
“Close enough.” I gave Beryl my business card. “If you happen to see her again, could you give us a call? We're all worried about her.”
“She seemed fine to me,” Beryl said, glancing at the card briefly before pocketing it. “Maybe she just needed some space from all of y'all. Did you think of that?”
“We'll add that to the possibility pile,” Jacob said.
“I appreciate your help,” I told Beryl. “It doesn't sound like she told you anything that was true, though.”
“So, what happened with the rats?” Beryl asked. “If you don't have a snake?”
“Another mystery,” I said. I definitely didn't want to tell her the truth. For one thing, she seemed like a nice enough lady, and there was no reason to put horrible images in her mind. For another, I certainly didn't want to deal with the torrent of follow-up questions that the truth would bring.
Besides, I wasn't really lying. I couldn't say, for sure, just what exactly Clay's purpose had been. Did he just have a powerful urge to burn something to death, but had managed to direct it towards small animals instead of humans? That would be sort of good, I supposed—certainly better than murdering people. But it raised questions, too. Was Clay holding back because he was trying to stay hidden, or was he just restraining himself while he planned something bigger?
“Maybe she got herself a snake,” Beryl said. I thought she might head back and rejoin her associates among the bar patrons, but instead she settled in on a stool right next to where we stood. “My uncle had a pet king snake, you know. Khan, he called it, after Genghis Khan, or maybe after Star Trek. He didn't keep it inside the house like people do today. Khan lived up under the porch, in the shade, and he kept watch for moccasins from the creek...”
The story went on for some time, shedding no light on our case, but I listened politely while I tried to think of any further questions for her. Beryl's story segued into another one, about her grandfather's blue tick hound, which somehow became a story about her cousin who had a porcupine. That sounded pretty interesting, actually, but she glossed over it to tell us about a parrot she'd once seen at a zoo.
Which prompted Stacey to say, “You know, you really shouldn't sell dogs and cats.”
“What did you say?” Beryl scowled.
“Well, uh, you know, rescue groups—”
“Don't you come in here and tell me about my business!” she snapped.
“I think we were just going.” I hooked Stacey's arm in mind and moved her toward the door.
“Rescue groups! Look into it!” Stacey shouted as I dragged her outside.
The night was colder and darker than ever, but the fresh air was delicious after being stuck in the dirty, smoky bar for so long.
“So he killed rats,” Jacob said, as we walked back toward Main Street. “Not kittens.”
“But I still feel bad for the poor little things,” Stacey said. “You know Clay burned them alive. Why would he do that, Ellie?”
I shook my head. “It seems like some kind of sacrifice, but I can't say what he wanted from it.”
“You mean like in the Old Testament?” Stacey asked. “Where they burned children alive?”
“The worshipers of Moloch,” Jacob said quietly, nodding.
We fell quiet again, leaving the thought of burning children and ancient demonic deities hanging in the air among us as we walked through the dark streets of the slumbering town.
Chapter Fourteen
Back at the hotel, Willmore seemed to be dozing at his desk when we opened the front door. The little bell jangled him awake. He started, then blinked at us a few times.
“Y'all get some dinner?” he asked.
“We ate all we wanted,” I said. None of us had an appetite, so we'd come right home from the bar.
“Well, good.” He rubbed his eyes, then picked up a long, narrow box of Pink Fairy Cookie-Creme Sandwiches. He gave it a shake, and the last cookie-creme sandwich came sliding out the open end. “I'll probably hit the hay soon myself. Got a couple nature documentaries on the DVR. Migrating birds. Always helps me sleep.”
“Okay,” I said. “We'll probably do the same.”
“If you need anything, just call the front desk. I'll hear it in my room,” Willmore said. “We don't serve breakfast anymore, but I can leave a few Gingerbread Fairies out.”
“Thanks. Have a good night.”
We headed upstairs to the suite, where we could all sit comfortably, as long as Stacey wasn't facing the big buffalo head in the bedroom. I fired up the coffee machine.
“I know we're all tired,” I said. “It's been a long day on the road, in the rain. But there's more to do tonight.” I checked the clock. “Let's give Willmore some time to zonk out for the night, and the ghosts some time and space to get active.”
“They're getting a little more active now,” Jacob said. “I can feel them. They have a sort of panicked, nervous energy, like something has them all stirred up.”
“Yeah, you think the kitten sacrifice thing did it?” Stacey asked.
“Rats,” I said, quickly.
“Well, it would have been kittens, if the rats hadn't been cheaper,” Stacey said. “What a monster.”
“And he killed my parents,” I added. “Plus a bunch of other people over the years.”
“Right. And that's even worse. Obviously. Um, so what else, Jacob?” Stacey seemed eager to change th
e subject.
“They died painfully,” Jacob said. “In flames. It was agonizing.”
“How many?” I asked, pushing down the memory of my parents that wanted to rise up.
“A small group. Three or four. I could tell you more if we head over there...”
“Okay, keep listening. We'll get ready.” I nodded to Stacy.
It didn't take long to unload the gear we'd smuggled in our suitcases. I strapped on my utility belt and holstered my flashlight and lock picks. I hung the heavy thermal goggles around my neck, which was like wearing a nylon necklace with a brick pendant. We made some basic plans, but a lot would turn on what Jacob discovered for us.
“Someone should go down and make sure Willmore's not up and around,” Michael said, as the time approached for our small-time breaking and entering, which was of course illegal, on top of being expressly forbidden by the hotel's owner.
“I'll do it,” Stacey said. “I was Catwoman for Halloween a couple years ago. I'll be good at sneaking around.”
“I'm not sure I find your qualifications compelling,” Jacob said.
“Uh, I also took years of ballet and gymnastics,” Stacey said. “Which is what made me such a sneaky Catwoman. I just wish I had my ballet slippers. I guess I'll go sneaking around in my socks.”
“You'll need a cover story in case he catches you,” I said.
“I'll say I'm looking for the ice maker.”
“I'm not sure this place has an ice maker,” Michael said.
“Then that'll make it super-believable that I haven't found it.” Stacey slipped off her boots, which is what we usually wear when ghost hunting in strange places. “But it doesn't matter, because he won't hear me or see me. Because I'm Catwoman.”
“I'll walk you to the stairs, Catwoman,” Jacob said, getting the door for her. “You can call me...Joker.”
“You look more like the Riddler,” Stacey said, elbowing him as she walked past him and out the door.
“Second-rate villain,” Jacob muttered. “I could at least be the Scarecrow...”
The door closed, leaving Michael and me alone in the suite. He checked his phone again, refreshing the screen that showed his recent credit card charges.
“Anything yet?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing new. Either she's keeping to cash, or nothing's registered yet.”
“She used her credit card at this hotel last night, so odds are she'll use it wherever she's staying tonight,” I said. “Worst case, we'll have a lead tomorrow.”
“Which could be hundreds of miles away,” he said. “And by the time we finally catch up, my sister could be...” He made a vague gesture and left that incomplete, probably because there were a number of awful possibilities, including things we couldn't even guess at.
“We'll save her,” I said. “Whatever it takes. Facing down Clay is my fate. It was never supposed to be hers.” I hesitated, then added: “If anything happens to me, though, I just need someone to take care of my cat. That's all I'll be leaving behind.”
“You're not going to die,” Michael said, looking kind of angry now. “Nobody's going to die. Nobody else.”
“I hope not.”
After a quiet, tense moment, the door burst open and Stacey flew in, leaping halfway across the room, hands raised in a karate chops. “Catwoman!” she shouted.
“Shouldn't Catwoman do little claws?” Michael asked, demonstrating with his own fingers.
“And Riddler!” Jacob followed, making question marks with his index fingers.
“Those look like air quotes,” Stacey said.
“Says the declawed Catwoman,” Jacob said. “What are you going to do, slap me to death with your soft, cuddly paws?”
“You wouldn't be the first villain I've cuddled to death,” she said.
“So is Willmore down there or not?” I asked.
“The lobby's dark and locked up,” Jacob said. “No sign of our gracious host.”
“Yeah, it sounds like he's got his own apartment somewhere,” Stacey said. “Not on this floor, though, unless it's ridiculously well-concealed.”
“He doesn't seem to like this floor, anyway,” I said. “He probably wouldn't choose to live up here.”
“I wonder if he lives in the hotel full-time,” Stacey said. “It could be kind of neat to live in a hotel.” She glanced at the big buffalo head in the bedroom. “Not this one, though.”
“All right.” I took a deep breath and stood, tapping the bundle of lock picks on my belt as if to reassure myself they were there. “I'll come get you when the door's open.”
“I'll stand lookout for Willie,” Stacey said, and we stepped into the hall together, leaving Michael and Jacob in the room. We eased the door shut behind us.
I gestured toward the stairwell.
Stacey gestured toward the stairwell, too, then pointed at her own eyes, then nodded, then made an elaborate series of other gestures, as though directing planes at an airstrip, before finally nodding and marching out of sight around the corner so she could watch the stairs.
The hallway seemed dimmer and colder now, though none of the lamps had actually been turned off. The shadows seemed deeper, and the air felt heavy and thick, hard to breathe.
The stale stuffiness was all too familiar to me. Some supernatural presences give off foul odors reminiscent of decay and the grave.
I tested the door to 33, just to make sure Willmore hadn't accidentally left it open. No such luck.
Sighing, I knelt and unfolded my trusty leather pack holding my picks. It was an older lock on a minor interior door, so I didn't anticipate a lot of problems.
While I worked at the lock, I began to feel like someone was in the hallway with me, watching me.
I looked around, but didn't see anyone. That didn't mean nobody was there. I've learned not to ignore such feelings, no matter how subtle. Sometimes it's the only warning I get before some awful dead thing shambles up and grabs me.
“Hello?” I said to the shadows in the cold hallway. “I know you're there. You may as well show yourself. No touching, though.” I hate when they announce their presence by pressing their clammy invisible fingers to my neck and back.
Something flickered at the edge of my vision. There was nothing there when I turned toward it, but a small oval mirror hung on the wall at about the spot where I'd seen the movement.
Maybe it had been a trick of the light, my eye catching a reflected glint off one of the lamps. Maybe not.
I stood and walked down the hall, dimming each lamp to its lowest setting, turning a couple of them off altogether.
“Uh, Ellie?” Stacey asked from around the corner, in response to the lights going down.
“Shh,” I whispered.
“Okay. It's getting kind of spooky in here, though.”
“That's kind of the idea.” I walked back up the hall in near-darkness, hoping I didn't bark my shin on some antique chair or settee.
I slowed as I passed the little oval mirror. Little candlesticks extended off either side of it, each holding nubs of wax that had been cold so long dust had gathered on them. A cobweb spanned from one of the candlesticks to the wall behind it.
My shadowy reflection looked back at me. My features were barely visible in the dim, near-black mirror. It reminded me of the Spirit Mirror, a little-remembered product from the 1970s that had attempted to compete with Ouija boards, promising glimpses of the ghosts and ghoulies—provided you turned off the lights, lit a candle or two, and said some spooky mumbo-jumbo to prime the supernatural pump.
Still, things like that could actually work, from time to time, especially if used in a location with a sufficiently active haunting.
I found myself staring at the mirror for a long moment. I couldn't see my eyes or nose, but I could just discern the outline of my hair, pulled back in a ponytail.
The dark pool of the face began to shift.
The shadowy reflection moved slightly, seeming to look from side to side. Had I
moved? I didn't think so.
The face area in my reflection went just a little lighter. The upper half of the face remained dark, but I could start to discern a nose and cheeks. They looked unfamiliar, the nose rounder and wider than mine.
My dark reflection had changed, just enough so I could tell it wasn't my face looking back at me.
I tilted my head to the left, then to the right.
The shape in the mirror didn't move at all.
My skin began to crawl. Keep it together, Ellie.
“Hello,” I whispered, trying not to let my voice tremble, though my body was definitely feeling the electric, unsettling presence of something unnatural. “Who's there?”
My dark reflection didn't move. I tested it again, raising my hand, and a dark copy of it appeared in the mirror. It was possible my eyes had been playing tricks on me.
I wanted to try lighting one of the candle stubs, perhaps feeding the spirit a little dab of raw heat to help it manifest more clearly...assuming it was there at all. I didn't have any matches with me, though; I try to avoid starting fires in old buildings. I did have some with my ghost trap over in our hotel room, but I didn't want to risk breaking contact with the entity.
So I moved closer to the mirror, and my shadow-reflection moved closer, too.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
I reached out and touched the mirror with my fingertips. It was ice cold.
The faint traces of light within the mirror turned red and flickered, like candlelight.
The dimmed lamps in the hallway around me did the same, flickering and sputtering as if their bulbs were about to blow out.
In the mirror, the face suddenly became clearer and closer.
Though it remained pale and ghostly, the color of frost, I could make out more of the features. The round, wide nose and generally wide face was not mine at all. The hair was cropped short and thick, mushroom-shaped, making her head look even wider. Her eyes were faint and white inside her eye sockets.
She stared back at me, her expression blank at first.
Then her mouth and eyes gaped open in a look of horror, as though something monstrous had appeared just behind me.
I turned to look, my hand going instinctively to my holstered flashlight, but nothing stood behind me.
