The Ghost's Story: A Morgan Rook Investigation

by Kit Hallows

  Nails scratched the floorboards behind me. I span round in time to see a small, hunched form racing at me from a door I'd overlooked. The creature hissed, and its huge, milky white eyes opened wide as it skittered to a stop before me. I had no idea what in the hell it was, other than something born of darkness. Something that shouldn't be, not in this world at least.

  "Back off." I swept my gun toward it. I should have fired, should have taken it down but I hesitated. Its size made me think of a baby, especially with that swollen fetus-like head.

  It opened its tiny mouth, revealing jagged teeth, and the hissing grew as loud as a steaming kettle. Its arms were so long that its sharply clawed hands scratched the floorboards as it took a single, tottering step toward me.

  I was about to squeeze the trigger but the creature leapt, its movement as nimble as a flea's. It sprang through the air and bit the back of my hand, causing me to drop my gun.

  "Shit!" I backed away, the torn flesh on my hand smarting badly.

  The creature stared up at me like a demanding toddler waiting to be fed. It blinked slowly and began to make a strange clucking sound in its throat. And then its softly glowing eyes fell upon my gun. It leaped toward it, snatched it up, and glanced at it like it was a newfound toy.

  I backed away, striking a coffee table and upending a rolled umbrella from a pile of books. I grabbed hold and wielded it like a sword as the creature pointed the gun my way. I leaped forward and before it could react, brought the umbrella down upon its head.

  Thwack

  The gun fell with a heavy thud and the creature staggered on its webbed feet. It reached up to touch its head and gazed at its finger which was slick with liquid the color of mud. Then it threw back its bony shoulders and screamed, releasing a foul, charnel house stench. The gesture made me think of a wasp releasing pheromones to warn the rest of its colony. Were there more of them?

  I watched in stunned horror as the creature began to dissolve while wisps of brown smoke curled from the wound in its head. It spread fast until its body had withered away. And then the door in the corner of the room burst open and the patter and scratch of a small army of feet came my way.

  A dozen or more creatures like the one I'd just encountered sprang from the room and skittered across the floorboards toward me. They were smaller, and several seemed to have webs clinging to their spindly forms.

  I backed toward my gun as one of the creatures leaped through the air and landed between me and my weapon. It hissed and bared its jagged teeth and its large milky eyes bored into mine. The others skittered around in a chaotic advance and their eyes began to glow as they hissed, adding a dull red light to the room. I brought up the umbrella and waited for them to make their move.

  The wait wasn't long.

  I jumped back as one leaped. It sailed through the air, its tiny hands reaching for me. I swung the umbrella and sent it flying into a bookcase where it vanished in a puff of smoke.

  The others hissed and howled as they stalked toward me. I swung again, sending another soaring through the room like a bowling pin. The next creature sprang up and shredded the umbrella with its claws. The fabric hung in tatters as I jabbed it with the metal tip and skewered it until it dissolved.

  Two more leaped. I batted one away, but the other grabbed on and clung to the spokes before it yanked the umbrella away and dragged it across the floor.

  I side-stepped the next attack and threw myself down, skidding over the slick boards on my knees as I grabbed the pistol and fired. The roar of gunfire reverberated through the room as the rounds slammed into the three creatures that were catapulting toward me. They turned to smoke before they even got close.

  And then the entire pack scurried my way. I took out two more but the last one got too close and its claws slashed at my face. I grabbed it by its scrawny throat and clobbered it with the butt of my gun. The creature gave one final scratchy cry, and within a flash it vanished in a wispy grey cloud. I coughed as rancid air filled my lungs, its stench like stale nicotine and sulfur.

  Silence fell over the house as I took appraisal of my injuries. My clothes were shredded so there was nothing new there, but the wound on the back of my hand was deep. Still, I'd live. Or so I hoped.

  I glanced toward the door the creatures had emerged from and as I did, every fiber in my being compelled me to leave that hellish place. But I couldn't, not until I'd found Richard's wife. I just hoped she was still alive. I examined the webs on the floor and the tiny wet footprints, as I wondered what in the hell these creatures were. I'd encountered all sorts of crazy things in my line of work, but these had been something new.

  I rooted through my shoulder bag, deftly bandaged my hand and reloaded my firearm as I considered taking a trip upstairs. It was either that, or investigate the lair the creatures had spawned from.

  Neither option was exactly appealing.

  I glanced past the door into the room. It was dark. All I could see were indistinct pale white bundles and the black rectangular shadow of a doorway in the far wall. I grabbed my flashlight from my bag and swept the room.

  Thick, heavy white pods clung to the walls, their exteriors formed of webbing. The stench of sulfur was so strong that my eyes began to water. I dug into my bag and tied a handkerchief over my mouth and nose before seizing my gun and flashlight.

  Clumps of webbing stuck to my shoes as I made my way across the room. I wrenched them free with each step as I continued on.

  The door in the far wall was locked and as I turned the handle, a low, heavy ache spread from my fingers to my palm, and then to my wrist. Soon my entire arm felt sluggish and heavy, like my bones had been replaced with lead. The feeling began to spread.

  It was a low level curse, and an effective one. Within moments it would root me to the spot, leaving me at the mercy of whoever, or whatever, had made it.

  I forced my other hand to move before it seized up, dug through my bag, and grasped a charged crystal in my fist. Magic seeped through my fingers and into my bloodstream and slowly counteracted the curse.

  If I had been a blinkered, the curse would have paralyzed me completely. I reached into my bag for my reinforced gloves. Their lining was embedded with thin strands of silver and iron, which made them impervious to curses like the one used to booby trap the door knob. I slipped one on, gave it a turn and slowly opened the door.

  A flight of wooden stairs led down into thick murk but a light flickered somewhere amongst the shadows. The air buzzed as I began my descent, the whisper of evil utterly chilling. Something bad had been here. Recently. And whatever it was, it hadn't gone far. I switched off my flashlight and descended in silence.

  Below the stairs was a basement filled with standard clutter; old boxes, gardening equipment, crates of books and what looked like a BBQ draped in a tarp. A woman sat on a chair facing the furthest wall. Candles flickered on the crate beside her, illuminating her long blonde hair and the bowls at her feet. One was mounded with small, withered red apples, clearly gathered from the orchard outside while the others were filled with rusty looking water. "Hello?" I called.

  Adrenaline coursed through me as she began to rock in her chair, her movements so violent I thought it would topple over. And then she began to calm as she hummed a half familiar melody. Some blinkered pop song with an infectious, vapid ear-worm like chorus that sounded wholly inappropriate in this nightmarish place.

  "Hello?" I said again as I reached the side of her chair and got a better look at her.

  She was somewhere in her mid thirties, and would have been pretty were it not for her red-rimmed eyes which stared wildly at the brick wall before her.

  "Are you okay?" I asked. The question felt stupid the moment it left my lips. Of course she wasn't okay. "Richard sent me," I added.

  The humming stopped.

  "He said you were in danger. I'm here to help."

  She shuddered with such force the chair began to rock once more. I crouched before her and looked into her eyes. They were gon
e, with not a scrap of light left in them. Perhaps I could solve that particular problem, but I wasn't counting on it.

  I reached for her shoulder to calm her but slowed my hand. There were times when I could read blinkered minds with the slightest touch, but I wasn't sure I wanted to see what was going on behind those almost lifeless eyes. Doing so would whisk my consciousness away from this room and that would leave me horribly vulnerable.

  But there was no choice. I shook my head and cursed myself for getting involved in the first place. Then I reached down and gently placed my hand on her shoulder.

  And then I saw.

  I tumbled through an ocean of static and light as a barrage of thoughts and emotions pinged through the mists of her mind. There was so much fear, so much horror that it was almost too much for me to take in.

  She'd been in this cellar night and day, for weeks. It was hard to tell exactly how long, time had lost all meaning as she sat and faced the wall, too petrified to move because of the thing behind her, whatever it was. Terrified also of defying her husband's command to stay put.

  She was struggling just to remember her own name, soon she'd let that go too, and once she did, that would be the end of her. A concept she was beginning to long for.

  She gripped the chair as the heady scent of fermenting apples washed over her. She hated the smell, almost as much as the persistent stench of sulfur. There were things in the apples, living things. Squirming things. Rotten things. Just as rotten as the thing watching from the shadows.

  Again she wondered why Richard kept bringing her apples and water, and why she had to remain in the seat. And why, after each visit he made, she felt so much worse. Like she was growing more hollow by the day. She craved his presence and yet when he was here he repulsed her and seemed to steal far more than he gave.

  I dug further through the clouds of her frantic thoughts, searching for the past and her memories so I could piece together what had happened.

  There.

  The night Richard came back. The night Alaine had been so happy. The night everything had gone so very wrong.

  It had been late. She'd been sitting up in bed, with a glass of brandy in her hand to take the edge off her anxiety. The same anxiety that had crippled her the day he'd died and had yet to go away. She’d sat gazing into the amber liquid, half wanting to throw it across the room. She hated the stuff, hated what it had done to her husband. And yet it was the only thing she had to slow the incessant thoughts.

  Alaine had been on the verge of swigging it back and turning off the light when a heavy knock had echoed up from below.

  The front door? She'd glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty three.

  Almost midnight.

  The knock came again. Loud, heavy and demanding.

  She'd swallowed the brandy down and her fingers had shaken as she'd set the glass on the nightstand. It was him. Richard. She didn't know how she knew this, just that she did. He’d come back to her, even though that was impossible. Despite the fact that she'd watched as his coffin was lowered into a hole in the ground, almost four weeks ago to that very night.

  Alaine had stood and crossed the room. She’d walked down the stairs, trailing a hand along the wall to guide her. The knock had come again, louder than ever. Her fingers had trembled as she'd reached for the lock, half regretting not switching the lights on.

  He'd stood on the doorstep, his face pale, his eyes dark in the gloom. His shirt and trousers were covered in soil and his shoes caked in mud. He'd stood there, shivering, his eyes so tired, so very sad.

  "I..." Alaine had had no words. What words were there? What could she say? None of it was right. Things like this didn't happen, and yet there he was, his eyes beseeching her to let him into the house.

  "I'm freezing." His voice had barely been a rasp. "Please, let me in."

  "Of course. I'm sorry. Come in... I... I..." thought you were dead. She'd reached over the door's threshold and pulled his sleeve, guiding him into the house. "I thought you'd gone, Richard. I thought I'd lost you." The madness of what she was saying had hit her hard, but madness be damned. She'd prayed for him to come back, and he had. And it looked like it had cost him the world to do so. "Whatever you need, my love," she'd said as she'd locked the door behind him, lest he slip away again.

  Alaine had lit a fire in the grate, the one he'd so carefully constructed from the paper and kindling in anticipation of the first frosty autumn night. She’d left it there as a reminder but she didn't need it now, because he was back, and it was a miracle and that was all there was to it.

  Richard had shuffled across the bare floorboards leaving a trail of dirt in his wake, and stood by the fire, flames dancing in his red rimmed eyes. She’d stepped back to allow him the full benefit of the heat and as she'd watched him, she'd made a decision. That even though none of this could be, it simply was. And that she'd never scrutinize this miracle, because if she allowed her cold, analytical mind to take one rational breath, reality might suffocate her and snatch him away.

  And in that moment, Richard had turned to her with a slight smile on his lips. That old, boyish smirk she'd missed so badly. They'd gone to bed then and lain together. There was no sensuality, just tenderness, and finally Alaine had fallen asleep.

  Her dreams had been feverish, and crawling with horrors. She'd woken gasping for air, convinced Richard wouldn't be there. But he hadn't left. He'd sat across the room in his old chair watching her, apple in hand.

  The days that followed had been like a dream. One that had mostly slipped Alaine's memory. Except that it had been good, and they'd found a closeness they'd never known before Richard had... before he'd gone.

  And then the night came when he'd left. She'd woken up just as the front door below had softly closed. She'd rushed down the stairs, desperate to see where he was going, to ask when he was coming back. He'd turned toward her, his eyes glowing as he'd shook his head.

  He hadn't returned until dawn, and when he’d arrived there was a woman with him. A pregnant woman. He'd taken her straight down to the basement, to the very place Alaine was now.

  That was when the darkness had come, souring the house, yellowing the paint and warping the shutters. Days later, the din started. The skittering, muffled yowls that came from the room leading to the basement. The noise had driven Alaine to distraction and then despair. The cries had been so plaintive, so hungry but stifled. As if whoever was screaming had been swaddled under a heap of damp blankets. She'd tried to find out what was making the noises, but the door was always locked.

  From then on Richard went out after dark, an empty sack in hand. He'd return by dawn, his bag full of whimpering, twitching things, the canvas soaked with crimson patches that had dripped upon the floor.

  One day the cries from the locked room had been so bad Alaine decided that she had to know what was in there. And what had become of the lady he'd taken down to the basement. So she'd rifled through his coat pockets while he’d slept, taken his keys to the cellar room and unlocked the door.

  Somehow she'd managed to suppress her scream, even though it had fluttered inside her like a wild, crazed thing.

  The room leading to the cellar had been completely stripped of all the furniture they'd collected over the years, and strange pods had clung to the walls. Pods covered with spider-like webs. Things had crept inside them; dark forms the size of cats, their mewling muffled by the thickly woven strands of silk.

  Alaine had wanted to flee, to lock the door to the room and to never think of it again. To go back to her and Richard's silent understanding. But curiosity and jealousy had drawn her through the room to the basement door and down the steps. Candles had flickered along the walls like a shrine, and in the center the woman, sitting motionless in a chair.

  Her flesh had been as brown as wood, her belly hollow, her mouth frozen agape, her eyes dry lifeless things. There had been nothing left of her but a petrified husk.

  Alaine had fled up the stairs, her horror leaving her lips and
filling the air with a terrible, primal sound. She'd almost reached the front door when Richard had descended, the ominous thud of his steps so loud. She'd grasped the door handle and tried to wrench it open, but something had happened. Something had stolen her strength and replaced it with a terrible heaviness. A heaviness that had stopped her moving a single muscle.

  Richard hadn't uttered a word, but the fury in his eyes had said it all.

  He'd embraced her then, but not in a loving way. No, it had felt like she'd been engulfed. Like he was draining her very life away. The sensation had been more intense than the one that had plagued her for the last few weeks, and she'd realized in that moment that he'd been stealing her life all this time. That he’d used it, along with the dead things in the sacks, to feed the things in the pods when their mother had died.

  That was the day he'd brought her down to the basement and set the woman's husk amongst the clutter. Then he'd turned the empty chair to the wall and told Alaine to sit. She'd done as he'd commanded because there had been no more fight left in her.

  Just emptiness and the terrible crawl of overwhelming horror.

  I pulled my hand away and broke the connection between my thoughts and Alaine's. Slowly, I picked up my flashlight and shone it into the gloom.

  The body was still there, her flesh like mahogany, pain etched across her face. And while she looked like a woman, I knew she wasn't. That it was the same as the creature that had stolen Richard's body and taken it as its own.

  Thud

  It sounded like a door flying open upstairs. The entity that had worn Richard's skin had woken it seemed. And within moments it would descend and discover its dead offspring.

  And then me.

  Alaine's chair began to rock and shake. Her legs kicked out, and she tried to lift her wrists from the armrests but couldn't seem to move them. As if they were bound by some unseen psychic energy.

  I glanced up as the thudding footsteps came to a halt in the room above the cellar stairs. The creature must have noticed the empty pods, seen that its children were gone, that they’d dissolved to nothing but foul reeking smoke.