“Sure,” the one to recognize him said. “We’ll just wait over here.” He motioned for his partner to follow him, and John could hear them talking excitedly about some of the cases from past Ghost Chasers shows.
“Are you all right?” John asked Flo, taking one of her hands in his. “I am so sorry, I never wanted . . .”
She reached up with her free hand and pulled the oxygen mask down so she could speak. “I’ve never . . . never experienced anything . . . like it before,” she gasped. “The intensity of evil . . .”
Her eyelids fluttered, and he wondered if he was going to lose her again. But then they opened wide, and she looked at him.
“I need a pen and paper,” she said, pulling her hand from his.
John always carried a pen and pulled it from his pocket, then picked up a wrinkled take-out menu from the floor of the ambulance.
“I saw . . .” she began, “. . . I saw a man . . .” She was gasping again as she awkwardly scribbled on the paper. “This is where . . . where it was . . . conceived.”
She handed the paper and pen to John, then replaced the oxygen mask and closed her eyes. He stared at the paper as the paramedics moved back in and loaded Flo into the ambulance.
It was barely legible, but it was an address.
• • •
Fritz Gorham was hungry.
He hadn’t seen anything for miles on the back roads of the Rust Belt that would have provided him with a halfway-decent meal. And now he sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in a run-down motel room and wondered what he should do.
He wiggled his fingers, feeling them pop and hearing them crack. The hungrier he got, the more stiff they always became. He thought of the last time he’d had a bite to eat, in the restroom of a truck stop just outside Pennsylvania. The trucker had been tired and totally unaware when Fritz had snuck up behind him at the urinal and placed a hand on the man’s bare arm.
Fritz smiled with the memory of the truck driver’s response, surprise turning to anger, then something much more pathetic and docile the longer Fritz’s hand remained on the trucker’s arm. But his snack had been interrupted by someone else coming in to use the restroom.
The trucker had taken the edge off Fritz’s hunger, but it hadn’t been enough, and something in the man’s taste had said that he wasn’t well. Fritz wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if the man had been suffering from some form of cancer or heart disease.
Fritz had to eat, but he wouldn’t need a lot if he ate the right meal.
He stood and went to the tan, push-button phone on the nightstand beside the bed. He picked up the receiver, placed it to his ear, and pushed the zero button, listening to the phone ring on the other end.
“Front desk,” answered a cheerful voice.
“This is room 402. I was wondering if I might have a few more towels.”
“Certainly, sir,” the voice said. “I’ll send housekeeping right away.”
“Thank you very much.” Fritz was trying to do his best impression of somebody being pleasant even though he wasn’t very pleasant at all.
He hated humanity with every ounce of his being and did his damnedest to have as little interaction with his fellow man as possible.
Except when he needed to feed.
There was a pain in his body that told him he’d waited too long this time. He glanced at his hands, at the liver spots dappling his flesh. Not a good sign. He wasn’t eating enough, but he had to be careful not to draw attention to his actions. He imagined that the trucker had felt incredibly tired after their encounter in the restroom, probably taking a good long nap in the cab of his truck before hitting the road again.
Never the wiser.
It was always when Fritz got greedy that the problems arose.
There was a knock at the door.
“Housekeeping,” called a woman’s voice.
He waited a moment, not wanting to be too eager, before opening the door.
The woman smiled at him, and his stomach growled in anticipation.
“Hey,” Fritz said. He smiled pleasantly even though it felt completely wrong.
“You needed some more towels?” she asked.
“I did,” he answered.
She took two dingy white bath towels from her cart and held them out to him.
“Would you mind putting them in the bathroom for me?”
The housekeeper looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure,” she said, entering the room and pushing past him to the bathroom.
He watched her as he quietly closed the door, then pulled his wallet from his back pocket and removed a twenty-dollar bill.
“I just put them in there with the others,” the woman said cheerfully as she left the bathroom.
“Thank you so much,” Fritz said, with his fake smile as he extended his hand, offering her the twenty, enticing her closer.
She reached for the bill, and that was all he needed.
Their fingers brushed, and they became attached, like two magnets drawn to one another.
Fritz felt that initial rush of warmth, followed by the thrum of her life force as it began to stream into his body.
“Oh,” the housekeeper said, leaning into him. Fritz caught her, more flesh connecting with flesh . . . more of her life force flowing into him. She was quite delicious, not a sign of disease anywhere in her flavor.
Ordinarily, he didn’t indulge in their memories, but with this one he decided to have a little peek. She was in her mid-twenties, divorced with two children no older than six. This was a second job. During the day, she worked in the cafeteria at her children’s school.
How apropos, he thought. By day she was feeding children, and right then, she was feeding him.
Fritz actually giggled, and he realized then that he needed to stop. He was taking too much, and that would result in a whole host of new problems.
“Are you all right?” he asked, doing his best concerned-human imitation. He pushed her upright, ready to catch her again if she should fall toward him.
“I’m good,” she said dreamily. “I am so sorry,” she apologized. “I don’t know what came over me.” She shook her head vigorously. “Wow,” she said with a small laugh and a smile. “Sorry again.”
She started toward the door, stopped, laughed, and started again.
“Maybe it’s low blood sugar,” Fritz suggested.
“Maybe,” she answered.
“Ask your kids to share one of their grape Popsicles with you, and I bet you’ll be fine.”
The woman stopped, hand upon the doorknob, and turned toward him.
“How did you know my kids like grape Popsicles?” she asked him.
Fritz had become careless, perhaps having taken a little too much from the woman.
He put on his best surprised face. “Do your kids really like grape Popsicles?” he asked her incredulously, then started to laugh, shaking his head.
“It’s their favorite, the only color they’ll eat,” she told him. “I end up eating all the others.” She laughed.
“Grape seems to be every kid’s favorite,” he said, not mentioning the fact that she hated the cherry-flavored Popsicles and always threw those away.
“I guess it is,” she said, then laughed again.
There was part of Fritz that wanted to reach out, grab her by the throat, drag her back into the room, and take every ounce of life energy she had left.
But he managed to control himself even though the smile was beginning to hurt his face.
“Have a good night,” she told him, pushing her cart of towels and toiletries down the hall.
“You, too,” Fritz said. “And be sure to buy your kids more of those grape Popsicles.” He waved cheerfully, something he’d had to practice.
Then he closed his door, immediately abandoning his at
tempts at humanity.
3
It was dark when John Fogg closed the door of his rental car and casually crossed the street to the address that Flo had given him.
A young woman with bleach-blond hair peeking out from both sides of her red hoodie walked slowly toward him, giving him the eye as she passed. He didn’t acknowledge her, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself.
The neighborhood was old, run-down, like many neighborhoods that he’d seen in his travels across the country. He imagined that at one time the houses on the street had been immaculately kept. But then residents had probably started to move away or grown too old to manage the large properties, allowing the homes to fall into disrepair.
He walked toward the house with purpose, like he belonged there, strolling up the cracked and broken driveway. A large, two-car garage stood at its end, the windows painted black. Beyond it was an overgrown backyard. John stopped and stared at the garage for a little while before turning his attention back to the main house. He headed up the walkway leading from the driveway to the front door, then climbed a set of creaky wooden steps that gave a bit beneath his weight.
He tried the door, not at all surprised to find it locked. He looked around again to make sure that he was alone, listening to the stillness of the night around him. Then, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around his hand, he gave the windowpane closest to the lock a swift punch. The putty that held the window in its wooden frame was so old and dry that the pane popped out whole, not breaking until it hit the floor inside.
John reached in through the opening and unlocked the door, quickly letting himself in. The glass crunched beneath his feet as he stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind him. It was silent, musty, and dark within the house, so he took the flashlight from the pocket of his jacket and turned it on.
He faced a long corridor with several doorways on either side. Dust covered the floor, telling him that no one had been there in a very long time. He walked down the hallway, shining the light into each room as he went, looking for something, anything that would tell him what Fritz Gorham had been up to and where he had gone.
He ended in the kitchen, having found nothing. He knew that Fritz had been there, but probably not for some time. Tired and exasperated, he leaned against the cast-iron sink and gazed out through the dusty window at the overgrown backyard.
His eyes fell on the garage, and almost immediately, the flesh at the nape of his neck tingled as if a spider had just crawled across it.
Quickly, he left the house through the back door and strode through the weeds to the garage. There were some scrapes in the black paint that covered the windows, and he stood on tiptoes, trying to see what was inside, but it was too dark.
John walked slowly around the garage, looking for a way in, and found a door at the very back of the structure. He almost yelped in surprise when the rusted-metal knob turned in his hand.
Cautiously, he pushed the door open and peered in. His flashlight beam fell on a heavy, wooden table in the far corner of the space, clear of clutter and waiting to be used. John stepped into the garage and approached the workstation. A small table lamp stood atop it, and he reached out to turn it on. Again he was surprised as the light came on, chasing away some of the darkness and allowing him a better look at the space.
Whoever owned the garage appeared to be heavily into taxidermy, for on just about every flat surface was some wide-eyed stuffed animal, a raccoon, a crow, and what looked to be a mountain lion, its black lips pulled back to reveal a mouth filled with sharp-looking teeth. John had never been a big fan of the art form, and as he looked around him, he knew his feelings wouldn’t change.
Across from the workstation stood a bookcase with boxes of old kitchen appliances stacked in front of it. On top of the boxes sat a stuffed monkey. John shook his head and walked to the bookcase. He began to slide the boxes away from it, but the movement dislodged the monkey. He reached out and grabbed it before it could hit the floor.
And it bit him.
John gasped, feeling the burning sting of the bite as he flung the stuffed animal away from him. It landed amongst the boxes at the far end of the garage, but John suddenly realized he had other things to worry about.
They were all moving. The raccoon stood up on its back legs, pulling its feet free from its base. The crow flapped its ebony wings and fixed John in its sights with an odd tilt of its head. The mountain lion had begun to pace back and forth, also watching him with its shiny glass eyes.
How could I have been so stupid? he thought. Of course, anything important would be protected. There must have been some sort of magickal alarm set inside the garage, triggering the taxidermied guards. Very clever but also quite telling.
John looked for something to defend himself with, grabbing an old metal pot by the handle and pulling it from a box with a clatter.
“All right,” he said, his focus on the mountain lion because of its sheer size.
The monkey sprang from behind, landing upon his back. John spun around, swinging the pot uselessly as the monkey sank nasty teeth into the nape of his neck. He felt the skin pop and the blood start to flow as he propelled himself backward, toward the closest section of wall, crushing the monkey against it.
The stuffed animal didn’t make a sound as it dropped from his back, its limbs broken from the force of the impact. John put his hand to his neck, and it came away stained red. The thing had bitten him good.
The flutter of wings was close, and John spun around, swatting at the stuffed raven as its clawed feet reached for his eyes. The pot hit the bird, knocking it flailing to the ground. John didn’t waste a second, stomping on the thing’s sawdust-filled body, revealing a hint of what had brought the animals to life.
“Watch out!” somebody screamed, and he reacted, barely dodging the mountain lion as it sprang at him. One of its claws got him as it passed, multiple bloody furrows dug into the meat of his upper arm. Clutching the bleeding gashes, he stepped back, ready to deal with whatever might be coming at him next, and that was when he saw her.
The young woman was standing just inside the back door. At first, he hadn’t a clue as to who she was but then realized that it was the woman with the bleach-blond hair he had passed on the street before coming into the house.
“You need to get out of here!” he warned the young woman, who couldn’t have been any older than nineteen.
The raccoon was slowly sauntering across the floor toward her.
“Open the door and go!” John screamed at her, trying to keep an eye on her as well as the mountain lion, which appeared to be getting ready to spring at him again.
She gave him a look as she backed up toward the door. He thought she would be leaving, but instead, she closed the door firmly behind her and stared at the advancing raccoon.
“What the hell are you doing?” he screamed at her, just as the mountain lion came at him, charging across the floor, snowplowing boxes out of its way as it attacked.
John managed to dive from its path, knocking over a stack of boxes, shattering dishes over the concrete floor. The lion was turning around, its body low to the ground as it readied to spring. John grabbed the shard of a dinner plate and met the lion’s attack.
The lion was on top of him, its teeth burying themselves in his upper shoulder, and John cried out, using the piece of plate like a knife and jabbing it into the stuffed animal’s side, again and again.
There was as a commotion from the other part of the garage that he couldn’t see, and he could only imagine what was happening with the girl. He pushed the disturbing thoughts from his mind, focusing on staying alive. The lion bit harder, starting to shake him mercilessly as he continued to stab—but he was weakening. John fought to be free of the big cat’s clutches, kicking out with his feet as he tried to get the upper hand, to flip the reanimated corpse onto its back.
He man
aged to angle himself in such a way that he did manage to drive the cat onto its back. It was incredibly painful, but he was able to wedge his hands into the cat-thing’s mouth and pry it open wide enough for him to pull his shoulder free. Able to move more freely, he dropped his full weight on the mountain lion, bringing the makeshift knife down on the animal’s chest, hacking it open to reveal what he had suspected.
There was another creature inside the stuffed body, a kind of lesser demon that often inhabited the bodies of the dead, reanimating them. Some serious magick was at work here.
“What the hell is that?” came her voice again.
Still straddling the struggling lion, John turned and was surprised to see the girl standing there, watching what he was doing.
“I thought you were dead,” he said to her, reaching his hand into the stuffed chest cavity of the animal.
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed.
That surprised him as his hand found what it was looking for, and his fingers wrapped around a squirming body.
John pulled the demon from its nest within the lion. It resembled a kind of starfish, its limbs waving languidly in the air.
“Gross,” the girl said. “That’s fucked up.”
“It is at that,” John said, speaking a few lines from a Sumerian text of banishment and watching the creature begin to shrivel and dissolve in his hand.
“Whoa,” the girl voiced.
“You like that?” he asked, shaking clinging oily black smoke from his hand as he got off the desiccated lion on the floor and began to stand. “You should see my card tricks.”
He saw what was left of the raccoon on the ground near the door; it looked as though it had been torn into a million pieces, and the lesser demon’s body was nowhere evident.
“What the hell did you do?” he asked her.
“I didn’t do a thing,” she said.
He could see that she was waiting for him to continue the questioning, but there wasn’t any time for that.
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