by Stuart Jaffe
“They’re fine, but not in any shape to help. It’s just me.”
“Okay. What can we do for you?”
“You can try to get in, but I suspect the doors won’t open. Maybe you and Libby can come through the tunnels. I doubt it’ll work, though. Milton’s got the place on ghost lockdown.”
“We’ll try anyway.”
“If that’s no good, the best thing you can do is —” The connection broke. Max looked at the phone — five bars. “Really, Milton, not even a phone call?”
Carl coughed as he rolled onto all fours. “W-Why are you talking with Milton? You working with him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That bastard is going to pay for all this. And we’re going to be fine, Carl.”
Carl maneuvered to Wayne. “I’m sure he thought he was going to be fine, but he can’t even wake up. And Jack ... Jack ...” He lowered his head to the floor and wept.
A voice, strained tight with pain, wailed from upstairs — Shawnee.
“It’s going to be okay.” Max didn’t know if he offered this to comfort Carl or himself. No comfort came.
He gazed up the stairs. That baby was coming. Premature, but it was coming. And Max had no doubt that Milton caused it all to happen. He needed a body, so he would force one out.
“Not gonna happen.” Max stomped up the stairs. Each footfall gaining him strength as his jaw set and his anger flared.
He never saw the punch coming — how could he? — but he felt it. Milton belted Max in the jaw, sending him tumbling down the stairs. The punch hit hard enough, but the stairs did the real damage. The goose egg on the back of his head split open. Blood dribbled down his neck.
Max clambered to his feet and put up his fists. A gut punch came next, strong enough to force him into the middle of the living room. Sputtering air and spit, he avoided stepping on Wayne and Carl as he searched for his opponent.
Nothing.
Finally, Max swung high then low, upper cut, right cross — but he swiped at emptiness.
Something wrapped around Max’s ankle and lifted upward. He flipped over before hitting the floor, smashing his face into the wood.
Carl screamed and scampered to the wall. “I want out of here. Get me out of here. Get this to stop. Make it stop.”
Max winced as he pushed his body back up. Carl’s losing it, and I’m plain losing. He patted the back of his head and examined his hand. Not as bad as he thought, but still bleeding. His lip swelled, too, and none of his bones felt firm.
Like a mad genius having a Eureka moment, Carl’s crazed glaze sparked with life. “Burn it. That’s what we said we should do. We’ve got to burn it down.”
Max tried to respond, but his entire body blasted straight up and banged into the ceiling. He spun like a fan turned on high. Vomit burned up his throat. The power that kept him stuck to the ceiling released. He crashed to the floor.
He rolled onto his back. Everything spun like a drunkard’s final moments before unconsciousness. Darkness clouded the edges of his vision.
Except he did not black out. And the darkness had a presence. Mean and ugly and malicious — Milton Hull.
The paint on the ceiling rippled until a pale tendril snaked down to the floor. The thought hit Max that he should move, but the ceiling snake moved first. It sprang forth and wrapped around Max’s ankle.
An icy touch slipped over Max’s feet and crept up his legs. Like sinking into a winter lake, his legs numbed. When the cold hit his knees, he cried out, his voice only matched by Shawnee’s labor cries from upstairs. He tried to sit up but lacked the strength. What little movement he managed received a blow to the chest that thrust him back down. His head lolled to the right.
Carl stared at the snake, whimpering. “We’ve got to burn it all. That’s what we’re here to do. Burn it.”
With the numbing sensations creeping towards Max’s thighs, with his mind numbing as well, the single thought repeated that Milton would kill him as a snake of ceiling paint. Then he heard a gruff and most welcome voice. With the sound, the icy grip released.
“Insurance has arrived.” Drummond stood near the front door with one hand in his coat and the other scratching the back of his neck. “Milton, I think you know my friend here, Floyd. He’s got a few choice words for you.”
Milton recoiled into the ceiling. Max permitted himself two breaths of relief before pushing back onto his feet. The plan had been for Drummond to return with Floyd so that he could talk some sense into Milton — or at least delay Milton long enough for Drummond to apprehend the bastard.
“Easy there, Floyd.” Drummond grabbed the air in front of him and wrenched back. “We need this to remain civil. Now, Milty, you’ve suddenly taken on a bit of a shape there. I’m guessing you’re close to transforming into whatever you hope to become. Before you get all upset, why don’t the two of you have a calm chat? That would be — oh, crap.”
Though Max could not see anything but Drummond, he had no trouble understanding that Floyd and Milton wrestled each other. A lamp shattered. Books flew across the room. A hole appeared in the wall above Carl’s head. Carl screamed.
Drummond slid his hat back. “You two couldn’t make this easy.” He sauntered forward, his fingers curling into fists, and he threw a punch into the air. The wall behind his punch thudded as he hulked in closer. “I can see enough of you now, and I’m going to end this.”
Drummond doubled over and soared backwards as Milton tackled him. Drummond blocked an invisible attack with one arm while punching an invisible foe with the other. Max knew his partner could hold his own, but how long was another matter.
Snapping his fingers at Carl, Max said, “We’re going to be fine. Get Wayne to safety.”
Carl crawled over, but instead of helping Wayne, he shook his head. “We’ve got a mission.” From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter. Mesmerized, he stood and entered the kitchen. He didn’t even stop for Jack, but merely stepped around his hanged friend.
Ignoring his pain, Max rushed in to follow. Carl stood at the cellar door with a roll of paper towels in his hand. He lit the roll like a torch.
“Carl, don’t.”
But Carl tossed the burning roll into the cellar. A loud whoosh scored up into the kitchen along with a bright orange flickering glow. He stared at it for a moment, hypnotized by the dance of flames. Max thought the man might hurl himself into the fire, but instead, Carl turned around and tried to open the backyard door. It wouldn’t open. He jammed his elbow into the window. It did not break.
He looked at the growing fire, then at Max. He barreled by Max into the living room. Launching himself into the air, he attempted to cannonball through the front window. An arm of paint snapped out of the wall and swatted him back.
Carl’s head drooped. “It won’t let us out. We’re going to die.” He curled into a ball and shuddered.
Drummond appeared to fare better. He had Milton in a headlock (though to Max it looked as if Drummond had his arm looped around air). He bashed Milton’s head into the kitchen doorjamb. Before he could utter a smug comment, his head jerked back — Milton must have hit him in the chin. Drummond flailed back.
As he shook off the hit and charged Milton again, Max got out of the way. If Floyd Johnson remained in the area, he wasn’t helping. Drummond was on his own. The dead detective lunged into the wall and disappeared.
Max checked the kitchen. Smoke belched out of the cellar door and rolled along the ceiling. Flames clung to the cabinets.
Panic rose up his throat. Instead of crumbling into a ball like Carl, Max slapped himself in the face. “Clear your head, Max. You still have a plan in action.”
A pained roar cracked the air in the house, reverberating through the walls. When Max reached the front of the house, he pivoted and scurried up the stairs, staying low in case Milton managed to strike him. Thankfully, Drummond continued to do a good job of keeping Milton’s focus.
Max stepped onto the second floor and went straight for the baby�
�s room. Shawnee would be in there, of course, but he had no idea what else he would find. Part of him hesitated. The rest of him fought on. When he opened the door, however, he froze.
Shawnee floated in the middle of the room, surrounded by a bright, bluish hue. Her legs had been propped up as if in invisible stirrups. Her head and arms hung low. She spun slowly as if laying upon a rotating showroom floor.
She saw him and reached out. “Help me.” Her voice barely a whisper yet overflowing with desperation. The sound shot straight through to his bones.
He leaped forward to grab her, but when he came into contact with the bluish hue, electricity arced between it and him. The charge jolted into his skull and reverberated down to his knees. It knocked him off his feet.
He smelled the burning below. Swallowing against his panic, he scanned the room, trying to find the wards that protected Shawnee. But it couldn’t be a ward — he was a man, not a ghost. A ward wouldn’t be able to stop him from touching her. This had to be some other form of magic.
“Please, help me.” Another agonizing labor pain choked off her words.
Max watched her, wanting to help, but his mind went blank. He stood there, staring at Shawnee like a fool watching television. Tears welled in his eyes, and a dark thought invaded his brain — Carl’s right. We’re going to die here.
Chapter 30
Shawnee stared back at him. The plea in her eyes breaking his heart. Except the more she stared, the more Max thought she wasn’t looking at him. Rather she looked through him. He turned around yet saw nothing in the hallway. That’s when Floyd Johnson thrust his ghostly hand into Max’s head.
It had been years since Max had suffered such pain. Only once before had a ghost done this to him. And while the worst migraine would have been a delight compared to having a ghost’s hand plunged into his skull, it did allow him to see another world.
Floyd stood before him — tall, dark-skinned, strong jaw, and a hint of facial hair, an impressive man cut down at a youthful age. “Bottles,” Floyd said.
Max jumped at the sound of the voice and cried out at the extra pain his movement had caused. He couldn’t help it. The last time a ghost did this to him, it did not speak.
“Destroy the bottles. Release his hold over this house.”
Max dared not move. He stared and endured the pain.
Floyd yelled, “Go.” The ghost then withdrew his hand in one fast motion.
Max collapsed, gasping for air. He stumbled forward, getting to his feet as he moved, knowing that any time he had left ran out faster than he could maneuver.
Like a drugged-out teen, he bounced his way down the stairs, rebounding off the handrail and the walls. The single thought — destroy the bottles — consumed his aching head.
He entered the living room and immediately dropped to the floor. A thick, gray and black cloud covered the ceiling. Carl had passed out. Max didn’t see Drummond anywhere, but he and Milton had to still be fighting. If not, Milton would have killed Max by now. Another roar like thunder rattled the windows and shook the floors — definitely still fighting.
Max crawled on the floor like a new recruit under fire, until he reached Wayne. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He listened to Wayne’s chest — heart still beating. He looked across at Carl. Carl’s shoulders rose and fell — still breathing.
Max coughed hard. Every time he tried to inhale, he coughed more. The temperature rose steadily. He tried to think, but his mind moved as sluggishly as his body.
He dug his hands underneath Wayne and grunted. He rolled the big man forward. He repeated the actions two more times until Wayne lay next to Carl. Max then crawled towards the couch.
Flames snapped out through the walls and into the living room. Lifting a blanket off of the couch, Max covered his head and breathed in as much air as he could handle. He blitzed into the kitchen.
The heat blasted upon him — a furnace roaring like he imagined the fire and brimstone preachers dreamed of. He knew it would cook his body. Leaping over a burning chair, he reached the top of the cellar stairs. No bottles. They were gone.
The stairs were gone, too. All he could see of the cellar was an inferno as if looking down into Hell itself. Max turned back. Covering his hand with the blanket, he turned on the faucet. Water sizzled out. He soaked the blanket in the sink for as long as he could endure the heat. Not long at all. Mere seconds. He grabbed the wet blanket and dove back into the living room.
With the blanket, he covered Wayne and Carl. It wouldn’t be much, but he hoped it would help.
The bottles. They had to be somewhere. A part of him hoped that the flames had already destroyed them. But Milton still had power, Shawnee was still trapped upstairs, and the doors to the house would still not open. If Milton had lost his power, those things would have gone away, and Drummond would have been able to come in and calmly announce that Milton was no more.
No, the bottles were still in play. Milton had to have removed them at some point, knowing that his vulnerability could be exploited. But where?
Another contraction forced Shawnee’s screams. Max glanced up at the ceiling. Milton would put those bottles in the last place to be burned, and the most important room to him at the moment.
Back up the stairs. Only this time, flames consumed the right wall. Smoke fogged the air. Max kept to his belly as he worked his way up.
A loud ringing cut through the crackle of burning wood. He finally recognized it — a fire alarm. It had been going for a long time, but with all the confusion, his mind had never registered it.
When he reached the landing, he watched Drummond pass through a wall into the hallway. Another form followed — Milton. Black smoke curled around his ghostly visage, massive and powerful, as he punched Drummond in the head. He jumped onto Drummond, attempted to strangle him, and shoved him down further. Against such a huge adversary, Max couldn’t be sure how much longer his partner would be able to hold out.
Even as Milton held Drummond down, he had the strength to look away, to look at Max. He hissed and thrust out a smoking fist. The swirling black cloud stretched down the hall with all the speed of a jab thrown by a well-trained street fighter. He caught Max on the cheek. A glancing blow off to the side, but it still packed enough power to force Max back a few steps. As Milton wound up for another strike, Drummond reached over and grabbed Milton’s neck.
The distraction was enough for an escape. Max sped into the baby’s room, but he had to pause a moment. The room was substantially cooler. No smoke. No fire. Whatever magic Milton held, he used a lot of it to protect this newborn he wanted as his vessel. If not for that, Max suspected Milton would have already slaughtered them all. Max inhaled deeply and spewed out black phlegm. Shawnee screamed at him, her pain and fear making her words unintelligible.
“Hang on. I got an idea.” He skirted around the blue field and entered the closet.
Pressing his back against the door jamb and his feet on the opposite side, he shimmied upward towards the ceiling. Once high enough, he reached out and shoved open the attic access panel. All of his muscles scolded him as he tried to gain purchase to pull himself further up.
His fingers slipped. He slammed into the floor.
He took a second to wipe blood off his eye before standing again. Though a fiery pain ran along his side, he tried again — shimmied back up, reached out, grabbed the lip of the access hole. This time his fingers caught the lip. He swung over and up, pulling himself into the attic.
The crate of blue Casper bottles sat in the middle of the floor. Max hurried over, snatched one, and smashed it on the wood floor — the same wood that had formed Unger’s General Store decades ago.
A howl erupted throughout the house. Louder than the raging flames, louder than the piercing alarms, or the screams of Shawnee’s pain. The howl ripped through, shaking the foundations of the building.
From a distance, Max could hear Drummond’s voice. “That’s it, Max! Do more of whatever you did.”
<
br /> Max grabbed another bottle and shattered it. Another howl. Only this one weaker.
He reached for the whole crate, but the wood floor around it splintered open. Milton’s smoke hand poured out. Max stepped back, looking everywhere for a weapon, but dusty boxes of old memorabilia wouldn’t stop a pissed-off spirit. The smoke-hand darted at him, snagged his shirt, and yanked him to the side.
It shoved him upward, banging his head into the slanted wood of the roof. Max wondered how many times it had taken for Jack’s head to break through the kitchen ceiling. Each blow dazed him, and soon he knew he would learn the answer.
The cold smoke-hand slithered up and around Max’s throat. Max tried to shove it away but his hands slipped through the smoke. His head throbbed as if he wore a helmet of bruises beneath his skin. He saw the crate, out of reach, and smelled the charring house drifting into the attic. He thought of Sandra and closed his eyes.
“Quit sleeping on the job,” Drummond said, startling Max awake. Drummond crashed through the attic floor. He grabbed Milton’s arm and bent it backwards.
Max dropped forward. Coughing and gasping, he went straight for the crate of blue bottles. He picked up the entire crate and tossed it down the access panel onto the baby’s closet floor.
The quake that struck felt like a giant had grabbed the house and rocked it from side to side. Max tried to steady himself but he couldn’t hold his balance. He toppled over, tumbling into the closet, and onto the blue glass below. He felt shards dig into his back.
Heat and smoke poured into the baby’s room. Quivering on the floor, Shawnee held her stomach.
“You did it, Max! You did it!” Drummond hovered overhead, beaming. “Wish you could see this — all of the Unger ghosts are flying away. I can see them. They’re saying Thank you and man, they look relieved.”
Max closed his eyes. He smiled, but he knew it was too late. He had no more strength, he had lost too much blood, his bones were broken — no way could he get out of the house.
“Don’t give up on me, Max. I’m telling you. You’re going to be okay. The Ungers — they’re coming back.”
