What a Ghoul Wants

by Victoria Laurie

  I bent to grab hold of his wrist, but my palms were sweating and I was shaking with fright. He slipped out of my grip and I had to reach for his waistband and give a tug on it. “Get up!” I commanded. “John, get up!”

  He groaned and I knew he had probably hurt himself, but his limbs were moving, so I didn’t think he’d been hurt too badly. “What the hell ha—”

  A sad low moan cut him off and that was followed by another, then another, until there were too many moans to pick out individually. They echoed up from somewhere down the stairs, out of sight, and filled the hallway beyond us. Among the moans were whispers and cries of pain and pleas for help. It sounded as if a dozen tortured souls had suddenly become aware of us in their vicinity, and they were crying out to us, but we were in no position to help them.

  John reached out and clutched my arm and with a determined pull I hauled him up so that he could get his feet under him. Still, he was wobbly on those feet and I threw his arm over my shoulders, gripping his wrist to keep him upright. I then wrapped my other arm around his waist to move him out of the hidden doorway and back into the hallway.

  Once we’d cleared the door, I reached with my free hand and pushed up on the sconce. The hidden panel closed, shutting off the noise, and we were alone in the hall.

  For several seconds we both stood with our backs to the wall, taking in great lungfuls of air. I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of the Widow or the black shadows, but as if some switch had been thrown, all sense of the malice that had haunted us from the moment we stepped into the corridor leading to my room disappeared.

  “We gotta get out of here!” John whispered.

  “Totally,” I agreed, and indicated the hallway to my left. “You took the wrong turn back there.”

  John nodded at the barely visible outline of the hidden doorway next to us. “And another one right there.”

  “Are you hurt?” I asked him, hoping he could walk, because I was now so drained I knew I wouldn’t get far if I had to support him.

  He shook his head. “No, I’m okay. You?”

  “I’m fine. Let’s get out of this wing before we’re attacked again.”

  John and I made it back to the safe side of the castle without further incident, and when we went through the door, I had him help me move a medium-sized bureau in front of the door. Heath was the last person with the key, and I didn’t want some wayward guest of the hotel taking a wrong turn into that wing.

  After the bureau was in place, we headed in the direction of our rooms. Just as we turned the corner to our section, Gopher came running down the hall toward us. He didn’t look happy. In fact, he looked quite pale.

  “What’s happened?” I asked straightaway. I knew it was bad by his expression, and I wondered if the Grim Widow had ventured past the south wing and perhaps gone on the attack again.

  “We have until one a.m. to get some usable footage or the network brass says we’re all fired,” Gopher said bluntly.

  My mind had been going in a completely different direction.

  John and I looked at each other blankly for a minute, and then John said, “I’ll be in my room, updating my résumé.”

  Gopher reached out and grabbed him by the arm. “Hey, hold on there, pal! The fat lady hasn’t sung yet. We’ve still got until one a.m., and who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and something creepy will happen.”

  I had half a mind to tell Gopher to take his handheld camera and go pull on a certain sconce in the south wing, but I held back. Instead I said, “Dude, we’re done here. I quit.” I’d start doing readings for clients again. Hell, I’d even take some sort of day job in corporate America before I’d go back for one minute of playtime with Kidwellah’s ghostly freak show.

  “What?” Gopher cried as I began to walk away. “M. J.! You can’t be serious! You can’t quit!”

  “Watch me,” I told him over my shoulder, and motioned for John to fill him in.

  Gopher called after me a couple of times, but I ignored him. All I wanted was a few hours’ sleep and then I’d go visit Heath in the hospital and deliver the bad news that the show was over and we were headed home. I hated to think what that would mean for our relationship, but I had faith in us, and that somehow we’d make it work.

  It wasn’t until I was through the door to my new room that I realized all my personal belongings and identification were still back in the old room. Heath’s stuff was also still there and we’d need our passports at the very least to get back to the States.

  I could call the U.S. embassy, I knew, but my credit cards were also still back in the south wing, and I had only about a hundred quid on me. Not enough to carry me through until we got replacement passports. “Dammit,” I swore. “How the hell am I gonna get our stuff out of there?”

  I looked down. I was still carrying three of the four magnetic spikes I’d taken into the south wing. Then I thought of something; there was another secret weapon we had at our disposal—Gilley’s sweatshirt.

  A while back we’d come up with the brilliant idea to glue thin refrigerator magnets to the inside of an extra-large sweatshirt so that Gilley could be protected from the various poltergeists that found him so oddly irresistible.

  Over the past several months we’d made a few of those sweatshirts, because they kept getting ripped or worn out from overuse. We hadn’t thought to make more than one at a time, and right about then I was wondering why we hadn’t made a whole wardrobe of them.

  Well, one thing was for sure; if I had any thoughts of retrieving our stuff from my old room, I wasn’t going to do it unless I was covered in magnets head to toe, which meant I’d have to convince Gilley to part with his sweatshirt without telling him the full story behind why I needed to borrow it. If he knew any of the details, he’d put it on and refuse to take it off again until we were out of Wales.

  With an exhausted sigh I entered my new room and lay down on the bed. I’d worry about all of that later. For now I just wanted to rest.

  Just as I was beginning to set the alarm on the small clock by the bed, I heard yelling through the walls. It was muffled, but it was loud enough for me to glean that some man was angry at a woman named Fiona for booking him into such a miserable old place like Kidwellah. I listened for a minute and could hear a woman’s voice feebly trying to defend herself, but she was cut off by the overbearing man.

  With another sigh I got up from the bed and trudged over to the wall, pounding on it as the yelling got louder. The man fell silent immediately, which gave me a tiny measure of satisfaction, but then a few seconds later I heard the door of the room next to mine slam hard. “Bastard,” I muttered, and shuffled back to the bed to fiddle with the clock again. I set the alarm for late that afternoon. I planned on going back to the hospital after I’d had some rest. Hopefully, Heath would be almost back to normal by then and we could talk about what to do next. I then turned onto my side and fell immediately to sleep.

  About four and a half hours later, I awoke to the beep, beep of the alarm, and as I sat up, I was famished but better rested. With a big yawn I pushed myself up from the bed and looked around blearily. Even though I’d had a great nap, I was still a bit sluggish and muddle-brained.

  It took me a couple of minutes in the bathroom to freshen up, and once that was taken care of, I went in search of someone from the crew. Leaving my room, I nearly bumped right into the woman staying next door, and I recognized her as the mousy woman from downstairs with that bloated bastard of a husband who’d yelled at Mr. Crunn.

  The woman backed up quickly, apologized, her face flushing crimson, and because she’d jumped back so quickly, her head struck the wall with a little thump.

  “Oh, ma’am!” I said, stepping forward. “That sounded like it hurt, are you okay?”

  The poor woman appeared very rattled and her hand flew
to her head to rub the spot where she’d bumped the wall. “I’m fine!” she insisted, her face flushing a shade deeper. “I’m a silly woman and I should be more careful.”

  I wanted to say something to put her at ease, but my attention was drawn to the inside of her wrist still raised to her head. There was a terrible black bruise in the form of a handprint clearly marked there. I stared at that bruise in alarm, and she seemed to catch on, because she quickly lowered her hand and dropped her eyes. I studied her face, and to my disgust, I could see that her nose looked as if it had been broken at least once, and her lower lip appeared to be a bit puffy on one side. Also, there was a very faint bruise on the side of her cheek hidden carefully by makeup, but the shadow of it was still there. Her face flushed even more and she said, “Please excuse me,” before shuffling past me to her door.

  I watched her with a feeling that I should say something to her, like tell her to get away from that horrible bastard of a husband, but even as the thought formed, I knew it would be useless. I was pretty sure lots of people had begged her to get away from him over the years.

  My shoulders sagged when her door closed. I felt like I’d just missed the opportunity to help her. And then I had an idea and vowed to myself to offer her a free reading. If she wouldn’t let me do one impromptu, then I’d give her my cell number—assuming I got my cell back—and assure her that she could call me anytime. Sometimes the power of hearing from our deceased loved ones is more than enough to help us find the courage to move forward with our lives. It was the only thing I could offer her that I thought might help. Well, other than introducing her husband to a certain Grim Widow.

  I snickered to myself at that thought while heading down the stairs. From that vantage point, I had a good view of the front hall, which was filled with models, bright flashes of light, and light screens. Michel was at the center of all the action, clicking away on his camera while the beautiful people struck poses. Well, most of the beautiful people. There was a short guy in the middle, wearing tons of makeup and a fedora and a rooster tail pinned to his butt. The short guy was striking the most awkward poses—Madonna-vogue-type poses—while all the other models kept spinning around him like a top.

  As I descended the stairs, I couldn’t help but duck my chin to hide a smirk—clearly the short guy didn’t realize he was the foil in the photo shoot, and I wondered what modeling agency had thought to send him over. Still, there was something a bit familiar about him. I looked up at him again as he pranced to the side and stuck his bum out—wiggling that rooster tail and playing up the flamboyant gay for all he was worth. . . . I stopped in my tracks, realizing why he looked familiar.

  “Gilley?”

  The name escaped my lips before I could stop myself. Michel and the others paused to look up at me, but Gil ignored me and struck another couture-looking pose—all elbows and rooster tail. “I’m a little busy, M. J.,” Gil called, like he was all that and a big box of Froot Loops.

  I shook my head and continued down the stairs. Obviously Gil wouldn’t be able to tell me where the rest of the crew was, as he looked like he’d been at the modeling gig for at least the last few hours.

  With a sigh I reached the landing and moved over to the counter, but Mr. Crunn wasn’t around.

  I rang the bell, but no one came into view. Eyeing the clock, I could see that it was now nearly five thirty, and I wanted to get to the hospital before visiting hours were over, so, taking one of the bus schedules displayed on a nearby table, I set off out of the hall. As I stepped outside, however, I happened to catch a glimpse of two figures embracing under the cover of a low-hanging tree. I didn’t think they knew they weren’t truly concealed, because as I moved onto the cobblestones, I could clearly see who they were, and my brow rose in surprise.

  Having a really good snog fest was the fashion designer André Lefebvre and the model I’d seen attach himself to Michel. I quickly averted my eyes to give them some privacy and continued on my way, but as I walked across the large open area, I happened to spy Mrs. Lefebvre sitting on a stone bench, her eyes narrowed and the most angry look on her face as she watched her husband make out with the model.

  I winced when I saw her, not able to imagine how upset I’d be if I caught Heath making out with another guy. Cheating is cheating. It’s a betrayal of the worst kind.

  I averted my gaze from her too and tried to appear like I hadn’t seen a thing, but when I snuck a glance in her direction again, it was clear that she had eyes only for her cheating husband and the model. Or she was patently ignoring me, because she never once looked in my direction. I moved on quickly and made for the bus stop.

  The sun was waning as I made my way across the drawbridge. When I got to the hospital, I’d call the castle and leave word with Mr. Crunn about where I was so that he could pass that on to Gopher and the others. I didn’t think they’d worry about me, but in light of the serious creepy events of the past twenty-four hours, I thought it a good idea to let everyone know where I was just in case.

  It took me over an hour to reach the hospital by bus, and I was lucky that I’d had a small stash of twenty-pound notes stuffed into my back jeans pocket to pay for the ride. Gilley’s mom—who’d practically raised me as her own after my mom died—had instilled in me the need to always keep at least a hundred bucks hidden on my person. “A lady should never be without the means to get herself from here to there,” she’d said. “Always carry five twenties with you, Mary Jane. That’ll be enough to see you home without needing to depend on some man for assistance.”

  Gil’s dad had walked out on the family when Gilley was only five years old, clearing out the family’s bank account as he went. Luckily for Mrs. Gillespie, her father had been a man of significant means, and while he was alive, he’d paid all her bills; then he’d made sure that his daughter was taken care of for the rest of her days by leaving everything to her in his will. Mrs. Gillespie now lived in a grand manor-style home and she owned a ton of real estate in and around Valdosta. It made me feel good to know that someday, after that dear sweet woman passed on herself, Gil wouldn’t want for anything either.

  After exiting the bus at the stop near the hospital, I zipped into a Wimpy and wolfed down a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with chips—or fries, as I mistakenly referred to them when I ordered. Then I hustled to the hospital and up to the second floor.

  I found Heath alert and looking very nearly like his old self. Just the sight of him did a lot to set me at ease. “Hey, there,” he said with a warm smile the minute he laid eyes on me. “Have I been missing you the past couple of hours. Get your cute butt over here, woman.”

  I practically ran to his bed and threw my arms around him. He still felt a little cold, but nothing compared with how cool he’d been that morning. “God, it’s good to see you,” I told him.

  He lifted me off my feet and pulled me into bed with him, and for a long time all we did was lie there in each other’s arms. Heath hugged me very tightly and whispered, “You saved my life again. That’s one point for you.”

  I chuckled. Heath and I had been in some really harrowing situations nearly from the moment we’d met, and somewhere along the way we’d realized that we kept saving each other’s lives. That had prompted a little lighthearted banter. “What’s the score?”

  “You’re up by two.”

  I lifted my head to smirk at him. “Winning!”

  Heath laughed and it was a sweet, sweet sound, believe me. “What’d you do all day, Em? Did you get some rest?”

  That brought my mood crashing back down. In short order I told him what’d happened when John and I had ventured back into the south wing. Heath held my hand and looked grim. “Wish I’d been there.”

  “She’s already had one crack at you.”

  Heath rubbed his neck where I could see a faint bruise beginning to form. “Don’t I know it.”r />
  I smoothed away from his face the streak of bright white hair he’d gotten as a souvenir from the last evil spirit we’d encountered, and told him about the show. “The network is insisting we get some good-quality ghost footage by one a.m. tomorrow or they’re pulling the plug, and since there’s no way I’m doing any kind of a ghostbust at that castle, effectively we’re done.”

  Heath gazed at me with a lopsided grin. “You already quit, didn’t you?”

  “I’m that obvious, huh?”

  He shrugged. “It’s what I would’ve done.”

  Still, I felt oddly guilty. “Sorry,” I told him.

  “Why’re you sorry?”

  “I feel like I cost both of us our jobs.”

  “Em,” he said soberly, “if it’d been you here and me there, I wouldn’t have agreed to do another shoot. That spook is crazy powerful. No way do we want to tangle with the likes of her ever again. And if that means we both catch the first plane home tomorrow and start doing readings for private clients in Santa Fe, well, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  I sat up straight and stared at him. “Wait. . . Santa Fe? You think we’re both going to live in Santa Fe?”

  Heath took my hand and kissed it. “I know we haven’t known each other very long,” he said with a shy smile, “but I want you to move in with me.”

  My jaw dropped. “Heath. . . ,” I began, but couldn’t really figure out what to say next. “I. . . my. . . it’s. . .”