“Looks like it’s got a kick,” he heard Jake say, sounding as though he was talking through an echo chamber many miles away.
When he opened his eyes, he was shocked to see two figures in the room standing near them, still and unmoving. Their expressions were zombie-like, dead and mindless, and their skin was a dull, sterile white – so white it was almost blue. They were watching and listening.
They’ve been in the room the whole time! Ron realized, suddenly terrified.
Are there more?
He turned to look toward the kitchen. Another figure was standing near the counter, staring down at the tiled floor. It was silent and still, as though it was glued to the spot.
Suddenly he wanted to know how many more were in the house, and where. He stood, feeling curiously light; normally his left knee would complain when he rose, but this time his knee felt fine. In fact, everything felt fine. No aches or pains, no sense of joints creaking, no balking muscles. He stopped, sidetracked by the sensation. Lack of sensation, he corrected himself, turning. He could see his body, eyes closed, sitting in the chair.
Fuck. I’m hallucinating.
He moved closer to himself, observing his face. He was sitting still, breathing slowly. His eyes didn’t register anything.
Am I out here? he wondered. Or am I in there, imagining this?
“Ron?” he heard from the tunnel, far away and echoing. He turned to his friend, sitting across from him; Jake was watching his body intently, not seeing where he actually was, a couple of feet away. “You gone, Ron? Good luck, buddy.”
Thanks, he replied, but he knew the word didn’t really form, wasn’t expressed as real sound that his friend could hear.
A shuffling noise to his right made him turn toward the ghostly figures in the room. Both of them were staring at him now, as though they were aware something had changed, some new consciousness was now present.
They realize they’re not hidden, Ron thought, beginning to grasp what was happening to him. They realize I can see.
The disorientation he felt was suddenly replaced by anxiety, as he remembered that there was a time limit to the stuff Abe had given him. What was I supposed to do? he wondered. The memory of his task felt elusive, just at the edge of his ability to focus, and that if he reached for it, it might slip farther away. He tried to eliminate all of the new stimuli, and concentrate.
Basement. Basement. I’m supposed to find a basement.
He walked, but found his feet didn’t carry weight, and they didn’t seem to touch the floor. He moved into the dining room, but moved wasn’t the right word…more like drifted. Another figure was there, a woman with beautiful, long hair that reached to her shoulders. She stood in one corner, staring intently at the dining table as though she was a paid sentry assigned to monitor it. He walked toward her, wanting a closer look. As he crossed her line of sight, she seemed to register his presence, and her eyes broke from the table, lifting to look at him.
The woman was dressed in clothes from another generation. A strand of pearls circled her neck, and her nails looked freshly painted a faint, dull red color that contrasted against the sterile blue emanating from her skin. The wrinkles on her face seemed more from decay than old age; she still had her features, although her pasty blue-white skin made her look sick. When their eyes met, Ron was worried how she might respond.
She looks confused, he thought. She doesn’t understand. She’s never seen this before, whatever I am right now. I probably looked confused, too.
Basement, the back of his mind signaled. The clock is ticking.
He looked down, seeing only the floor. How do I find it?
As he moved from room to room, he encountered more ghostly figures, all standing perfectly still, arranged like a bizarre art installation. They seemed to realize he was there, but they didn’t move from their spots. They just appeared addled, as though they weren’t sure how to respond to what they were sensing.
Nothing on the ground floor looked like anything resembling an entrance to a basement, and he realized he needed to concentrate, and stop becoming distracted by the figures that were all over the house. Basements are below the ground floor, he thought. What’s below now?
The crawlspace.
He moved to the front door, sliding across the floor. When he reached for the handle, he felt his hand pass through it, unable to grasp the metal surface. Momentum from his movement carried him forward, and his hand passed through the door, disappearing behind the wood.
Fuck me! he thought.
He easily passed through the door and wound up standing on the front porch. It was early evening, still light, and he made his way around the front of the bay windows, realizing he couldn’t feel the temperature. On the far side of the porch he saw the hatch, cut into the planks. He reached out to lift it up, surprised when his fingers passed through the composite boards.
If I can’t lift it, how do I get down there?
Ah, he realized. Like the door; just pass through. Through the deck. Just go down.
He intended to go down, but nothing happened. Accustomed to motion by the use of his legs, he didn’t understand how to initiate the unusual direction he wanted, and his mind rebelled at the idea of throwing himself on the floor. He tried moving his legs again, finding this only carried him along the porch laterally.
Confused, he tried kneeling. My hand went through the door when I reached for it, he thought. Maybe it can…
He extended his hand toward the decking, surprised as it passed through to the space beyond. He kept pushing, extending his forearm, bending over as more and more of his arm passed through. Then he added the other arm, and decided if it would allow him to keep bending, he could just dive down. He tipped his head and pressed it against the boards of the patio, feeling no resistance.
A moment later, he was hovering inside the crawlspace, drifting to the wet ground. He twisted himself, trying to orient his feet downward, hoping he didn’t continue falling right into the earth itself.
Winding up in China, he thought, laughing to himself at the insanity of what he was experiencing. I am surely high. I am sitting back in the living room, high as a kite.
The ground seemed to offer something to right himself on, so he stood, finding there was about four feet available. When he was fully upright, his head rose above the decking and he could see the front porch. When he bent, he remained under it, the dark dampness enveloping his senses.
He’d ventured here once before, and he had a rough idea of the honeycomb of areas, almost like little rooms under the house. He moved through each one, scanning the ground for something that looked like a basement, or the entrance to one. Instead, all he saw was dirt and pooled water. Occasionally a section of insulation had fallen, hanging in the air from the floor above, and he made a note to come back down with a staple gun.
Nearly ready to give up and try ascending to the floor above, he reached the back corner of the house, where it looked as though raccoons might have lived; small items scattered about, torn and shredded. He was grateful that his sense of smell seemed to not work, grateful that he couldn’t detect the odor of their defecation. This needs to get cleaned up, he thought, making another mental note.
As he turned to leave, a horizontal line appeared to his right, just inside the exterior wall of the foundation. He approached it, surprised at how odd it looked; he wasn’t sure what he had expected, but he knew this wasn’t it. It wasn’t glowing, or pulsing, or emanating anything that would give away its nature; it simply sat in the air six inches off the ground, hanging like a surface-less, unreflecting rod, black and ominous and unlike anything he had ever seen.
The transition?
He approached it, wondering if it was safe. Abe said to go into the basement, he thought. I’ve got to try, regardless.
He reached out, letting his fingers touch the rod. They disappeared into it; he felt nothing beyond.
Goddamn, he thought. Am I really going to do this?
More
of his hand slipped into the void. He knew if he let himself stop and rationally consider what was happening, he’d freak out and the whole thing would be over. He’d return to himself up in the living room, look at Jake, and have nothing to show for it.
He forced his mind to let go, to relax, and stood up. His head accidentally rose above the crawlspace, and he could see into the kitchen, three inches above the tiles on the floor. He lowered himself, and the crawlspace came back. The rod was still there, hanging in the air.
Why not, he thought, stepping forward, letting a foot disappear into the transition. I’ve been on all the rides up here.
Down he went, having the sensation of steps under his feet. He had the distinct urge to hold his breath as his head passed through the bar.
The basement was about twenty feet square, lined with old wooden cabinetry. Something glowed faintly from within the wood; he wasn’t able to study much of it before the figures in the room came into focus, sending a chill down his spine. At least forty or fifty of the entities were here, crammed into the space, milling about mindlessly in the center of the room like caged zombies. Something dark moved among them, a figure that didn’t look like the others. It passed between the shambling ghosts as though it was checking on them, inspecting them.
Ezra! Ron thought, suddenly terrified as he realized he’d completely forgotten to perform Terrell’s invocation. The dark entity was moving slowly, its head turned away, drifting over the ground.
Time to leave, he thought, and turned. A set of wooden stairs was before him, apparently how he’d entered. He began to make his way up, hoping he hadn’t been detected. He was tempted to stop and look back, wondering if the entity might have seen him. The ghosts upstairs picked up on my presence, he thought. Did any of the ones down here? He resisted the temptation and didn’t turn. The sensation of running without moving crept through him as he tried to ascend; it was like a dream where traction was slight and progress was much slower than intended. At the top of the stairs only darkness appeared; he trusted they’d lead back through the transition, and kept pushing, kept trying to rise.
As his head slowly passed into the crawlspace, he felt dizzy and disoriented, as though he’d had too much to drink. He wanted to lie down, to press his head against a pillow and sleep it off, knowing his mind wasn’t far from shutting down.
He finished ascending, and the rest of his form cleared the horizontal bar that hung in the air. I won’t make it back to the living room before I pass out, he thought. For a moment he considered drifting directly up and into the kitchen, but quickly rejected the idea, fearful the effect would wear off while he was mid-way through, and he’d become trapped, cut in half by the floor.
He started the trek back through the rooms of the crawlspace, each step feeling heavy, every movement requiring tremendous effort. I’ll have to pass up through the decking anyway, he thought. That’s how I came down, drifting through the boards. I could get trapped there, too.
He stumbled forward, expecting to feel the cold ground as his face hit the dirt. Instead the images from the crawlspace receded, quickly replaced by a darkness that shut down his vision.
Moments later, he opened his eyes. Jake was sitting on the couch across from him, looking at his phone. Ron tried moving a toe, grateful to feel it scrape inside his shoe. Pushing down on his thighs, he stood. His left knee popped and sent a brief shot of pain down his leg.
I’m back! he thought. Thank god. “Good thing I didn’t need your help,” he said. “I’d hate to tear you away from Facebook.”
“I was watching!” Jake replied, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I can do more than one thing at a time, you know. Well?”
“First off,” Ron answered, “there’s two ghoulish pieces of shit in this room with us right now. One was standing there, and the other was by you, there.”
“You’re kidding,” Jake replied, his face suddenly serious, sliding on the couch in the opposite direction from where Ron was pointing. “Tell me you’re fucking with me.”
“No, not fucking with you. They’re here, no shit. There’s one or two in every room of the house.”
“Every room?”
“They just stand there, looking around. Like sentinels.”
“Fuck. That’s fucked up, man.”
“And in the basement, there’s dozens. Maybe fifty or so, all crammed together like sardines. And why didn’t you remind me to do that damned invocation thing? The Terrell thing?”
“You mean before you drank the stuff? I just figured you’d do it once you were in there.”
“I think I was supposed to do it before.”
“Were you seen? By whatever’s in the basement?”
“I don’t know. There was something else with them; might have been Ezra.”
“What did he look like?”
“I couldn’t see any features. All these ghouls were standing there, kind of shuffling around. Ezra was a little taller and darker than the others, moving around between them. When I realized I forgot the invocation, I just turned tail and ran. And then passed out.”
“So, you don’t know if you were seen or not?”
“I don’t think so. I moved fast, but I have no way of knowing for sure.” A wave of nausea hit him, along with a headache that felt like a chisel pounding into his left temple. He ran to the kitchen, arriving at the sink just in time to throw up.
Jake was at his side a moment later. “You OK, buddy? You don’t look so good.”
“I feel like shit. Let’s call Abe and get it over with…I need to sleep.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Ron sat holding his head as Jake dialed Port Orchard. Once it began to ring, Jake placed his phone on the coffee table between them. After a few moments, Terrell’s voice came on.
“Terrell,” Jake said, “it’s Jake and Ron. He went to the basement.”
“Hold on, I’m at Abe’s…let me go get him,” Terrell replied, and the phone became muffled for a moment. Soon Terrell’s voice returned. “Alright, Abe’s here. Go ahead.”
“Tell me what you saw,” Abe added.
Ron leaned forward to speak. His head was pounding and he wanted to lie down, but knew he needed to soldier through and finish with Abe first. “I found the transition; it was in the crawlspace like you guessed. Went down into it. There were forty or fifty things in there, they…”
“Things?” Abe said, cutting him off. “Be more specific.”
“I don’t know, ghosts. Ghouls. They were shuffling around like zombies, pacing like they had nothing to do.”
“Like animals in a cage?”
“Kinda like that. Drugged up animals.”
“OK, go on.”
“They all looked the same; faintly glowing, bluish, a little translucent…”
“So, like ghosts?” Abe asked.
“I guess,” Ron answered, feeling frustrated. “What the fuck do ghosts look like, exactly? I don’t know.”
“Did they look like the entities you’ve seen before, the ones you saw outside the house at night?”
Ron thought back. “Yeah. They did. They almost look like a projection, like there’s a movie projector somewhere, making them appear. But there’s no screen.”
“Ghosts,” Abe confirmed. “Continue.”
“Anyway, there was something moving between them. It was dark, like a shadow. Blocked the light. Couldn’t make out features, but I think it might have been Ezra.”
“The thing you saw in the bedroom the night Terrell was there?”
“Yes, exactly like that.”
“OK, think…was there anything else?”
Ron replayed his visit downstairs in his mind. The pain in his head made it unpleasant; requiring his brain to function in a specific way was at odds with what his mind currently wanted to do. “I don’t know, it was all so weird…”
“Did you see anything else in the room?” Abe prompted. “Was there anything unusual about the space?”
“Yeah, there w
ere wood cabinets along the wall,” Ron replied, the image of them returning momentarily. “They were glowing too, but it was different.”
“How, different?”
“They weren’t the cold blue of the ghosts…it was warmer, yellow, or orange.”
“The cabinets were glowing?”
“No, not the cabinets themselves…it was something in them, in the wood. Some kind of writing.”
“Symbols?”
“Might have been. But it seemed more like cursive writing, complete words. I don’t remember what any of them said.”
“You probably wouldn’t have been able to read them, anyway. That’s good enough, Ron. I think it confirms a few things.”
Ron leaned back in his chair. The movement made his head pound more.
“Great,” Jake spoke up. “Confirms what, exactly?”
“Well, I have constructed several theories about what might be happening,” Abe replied. “You could have seen any number of things in that basement. Based on what you’re telling me, it leads me to consider one of my theories as the most likely explanation. It was the one I suspected would be the case, but we had to be sure.”
“Which is?” Jake asked, looking up at Ron, who had his eyes closed.
“I think you’re dealing with a tactic of war,” Abe replied. “Or, more precisely, the remnants of a tactic.”
“War?” Jake repeated. “What war?”
“A war between that other family on your mountain, what were their names?”
“Coldwater,” Ron offered. “And the Hugheses.”
“Yes,” Abe continued. “From the stories you told me, they had quite a dispute years ago. It seems likely to me that a war was launched between the two, and one of the weapons deployed by the Coldwaters is still active and working, kind of like an old, undetonated World War II bomb. People found many of them in fields, you know, years after the war ended. Very dangerous.”
“A bomb?” Ron repeated, sounding a little confused. “The things in the basement are a bomb?”
“Not a bomb exactly,” Abe answered. “They’re a remnant, like a left over bomb. They’re still working, performing their function…to scare away anyone living there. Even though the house they originally inhabited is gone, they’re still there, protected in that basement, which is where I suspect they were originally staged. They’re able to emerge from there and continue their work, and return to it for safety. The dark figure you saw, the one you said is named Ezra, he’s in charge of them. He’s like the captain, tending them, keeping them in line and ready to work.”
The Coldwater Haunting Page 26
