“Okay,” she whispered. “Give me the address again, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.” She got a pen from her backpack and scribbled it down, and Mark quickly hung up, saying he would meet her there.
Her aunt had gone down to the hotel restaurant to get some food, and Christine scribbled a note for her and took the car keys. On her way down to the garage, she paged through the contacts on her phone until she found his number.
If she had to go and stop Mark from causing more of a problem for himself she wasn’t going to do it alone.
“Hey,” Steve said, after taking a deep cleansing breath before answering. He’d been waiting for this call, but was surprised it had taken so long for it to come. “I was wondering how you were holding up.”
“I’m fine,” Christine said, “but Mark’s lost it.”
“Yeah, I know. He came at me yesterday and--”
“That’s nothing. He just called me, rambling about how he and his Uncle got into a fight and he thinks his Uncle might be dead.”
“Oh fuck, are you serious? What happened?”
“I don’t know, but he thinks that by solving these murders he’s going to keep the cops from arresting him.”
“How the hell is he going to do that?”
“He . . . he knows stuff about this, Steve. He hasn’t told you, but he told me the other day about what he’s seen in his dreams and why this might be happening. Before he flipped out about the two of us getting together.”
“Okay, wow. Look, I wanted to tell you I was sorry about how that worked out, but--”
“So not the point! Look, he’s clearly lost it. He’s going to the house that’s supposed to be the center of the whole thing, and I need your help to try to calm him down and get him to talk to the cops.”
“It sounds like he’s not the only one who’s lost it. I’m not exactly high up on the list of people he wants to see right now. Especially if he’s gone off the deep end.”
“Look, he’s supposed to be your friend, right? How about you act like it and we try to make it up to him for what we did. For all we know we drove him nuts.”
“Are you serious? Is he that bad?”
“Steve, he said he pushed his Uncle down the stairs and he might be dead. What do you think? I’m going to give you the address, and then you can decide if you’re going to just sit around or if you are going to try to be Mark’s friend and help him out, okay?”
“Okay, hold on, hold on . . . alright, go.” He jotted down the address, which he realized wasn’t too far from him.
“I have to go, I’m--” there was a sudden blaring of a horn and screech of tires. “I’m not good at this driving and talking thing. Be there, okay? We need you.” She hung up before he could say anything else.
He looked at his phone for a minute, and then started dialing.
“What?” Jack said. He didn’t recognize the number, but that just meant it gave him free license to go apeshit on some stranger.
“It’s time.”
“Who the fuck is this?” But soon as he asked, he knew. “Really?” he managed to get past the lump in his throat.
“Are you ready?”
“Hell yeah! I’ve been waiting for--”
“Then take what you hid in the secret panel in your closet and meet me at this address.”
“Okay, hold on.”
“Don’t be late. I don’t want to have to start without you,” He hung up.
“Finally!” Jack threw the game controller he was holding in the air. He’d been waiting for what seemed like forever, and if he knew what was in the panel in his closet then he knew what Jack had been aching to do with it. He was going to be free. He was finally going to be free.
“Jackson, what’s going on up there? I’m trying to grade papers!” His father yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
“Nothing, Dad,” he called downstairs. He opened his closet door and moved the pile of clothes away from the panel he’d made to keep things from the nosy old prick. He reached in and fished out what he had been looking for. He grinned, turning it over in his hand.
“What was that?” he father called again. “Jackson, you know I hate it when you just yell across the house at me. If you have something to say, come and say it. Don’t just yell like some kind of barbarian.”
“Okay, Dad,” he said, moving towards his bedroom door. “I’ve got something to show you anyway.”
“Mark?” she called from the head of the walkway of Corwin’s house. The hedges had grown almost completely over the entryway, but she could just make out a small break in the branches. One that looked like it had been made recently.
Mark hadn’t been kidding when he said that the place looked evil. All it needed were a couple of well placed heads on spikes and it’d be a shoe-in to win Creepiest Place of All Time. She moved closer, peering through the break in the hedges and seeing the front door ajar.
“Mark?” she tried again. Still no answer.
She turned back towards the street, hoping she’d see or hear a car, a bike or anyone coming from either direction to confirm that she was still in the land of the living. She’d been waiting on the sidewalk for over five minutes, hoping that she’d beaten Mark to the place so she could try to talk him down from his crazy plan out where it was safe. She wouldn’t be surprised if the door to the place had been left open as the last people that had been there fled for their lives.
Either that or Mark was stumbling around in there right now on his crazy ghost hunt.
She walked into the yard and up the porch steps, hoping the rickety old mess wouldn’t collapse under her feet. She poked her head in as far as sanity let her and tried again.
“Mark?”
“Right here.”
“Jesus, don’t do that! This place is creepy enough.”
“It has that effect,” he said, walking deeper into the house.
“Mark, we don’t have to do this now,” she said. “We can come back later, with help.” He was just walking slowly around the entryway, placing his hand lightly on the crumbling banister, taking in every inch of the graying, cracked and peeling wallpaper. Parts of it had come off in whole strips, showing a chalky, white, crumbling material that in some places had fallen away to show the thin strips of wood in the walls. He walked straight ahead, down the main hall towards the back of the house.
“Mark, are you even listening to me?”
“I am, but we can’t wait. I have to do this while I still can.”
She followed him down the hall and into kitchen, partly to keep an eye on him and partly to not be alone in this place for too long. They’d be lucky if it only had one ghost. Mark walked in a slow circle around the room and then finally came to a stop at a door on the far wall.
“Mark,” she said quietly. “Have you been here before?”
“Yes. In my dreams.” He was trembling, and she was thankful that he was still aware enough to be scared.
“What’s down there?”
He placed his hand lightly on the doorknob. “Down here,” he said, “is where he took them.”
“Oh god,” she whispered, her hands clenching at her sides. “We don’t have to go down there Mark. Let’s just talk about this, okay?”
“This is what it’s all about, Christine. This is where he saw it, and what he showed me in my dreams.”
“Mark, let’s wait, okay? Let’s just take a second and talk about what we’re going to do in some crazy murder basement that could be haunted.”
He looked over at one of the dirt stained windows. “It’s getting close to dark, Christine. Do you want to be here when the sun goes down?”
“I don’t want to be here at all! Will you just stop walking around and talk to me, please?”
He turned and walked down the stairs. “Sure. Let’s just do it down here.”
She waited several minutes, hoping Steve would show up. When he didn’t she headed down the steps, afraid Mark would hang himself or try to set the place on fire. Aft
er half a flight, the wooden steps came to a small landing and turned to the right for another half a flight and then coming to an end on a worn and bare concrete floor. The only light was the soft orange firelight coming from the massive furnace at the far end of the room. Mark stood in front of it, his back to her and casting a long shadow on the ground. She walked up to him, eager to be closer to the light.
“Mark,” she whispered, “what are we doing down here?”
“This is where he did it,” he said. He turned and pointed back the way they came, and when she looked back she saw the rusted pile of metal under the steps they’d walked down.
Not a pile of metal. It was the cage, the one Mark had told her about. “That was where he kept them,” Mark said. “He had them watch the furnace to make them see what he saw. That’s why all of this is happening. Because of this thing and what it wants.”
“What does it want?”
“Blood.”
“Hello? Are you guys here?”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. The voice had come from upstairs, and Christine could now hear footsteps moving above them.
“Down here!” she yelled, and Mark shot her a look. “Mark,” she said, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, but he shrugged it away, taking a step back towards the furnace.
“Mark, please, we need help! We can’t do this alone!”
He simply glared at her.
She turned back towards the steps and watched the pair of sneakers, and then jeans, descend down the steps.
“Hello?” She had recognized Steve’s voice, but seeing him come into view as he descended the final flight of steps filled her with relief.
“You,” Mark said.
“Yeah, me,” Steve said, walking towards them.
Christine opened her mouth to say something, but then shut it when she heard something else from upstairs.
Another set of footsteps.
“Steve,” she said, but he and Mark were too focused on each other.
“What do you want?” Mark said.
“You should know that, man,” Steve said.
“Maybe you should enlighten me,” Mark said. He had backed almost right up against the furnace like a trapped animal.
There was more movement upstairs and then she saw another set of sneakers begin to come down the steps.
“I see you brought company,” Mark said, his voice trembling with anger.
“I couldn’t exactly do this alone, could I?” Steve said.
The sneakers, and then jeans, made their decent down the steps, slow and deliberate. Christine’s breath caught in her throat when the man’s hands came into view and she saw one of them held a gun.
“Mark, we have to stop this,” the voice from the stairs called down.
“Oh god,” Christine said, recognizing it.
“This is your help?” Mark's voice was filled with scorn.
“I’ve always wanted to help you, Mark,” Detective Prescott said as he reached this bottom step. He kept his arms spread and held his pistol loosely in his hand, trying to be as non-confrontational as he could.
“What makes you think you can help? You don’t even have the faintest clue as to what’s going on.”
“Maybe if you told us,” Steve said taking a step forward. “I know you don’t believe me but I’m your friend and I called him because I didn’t want to see you do something stupid. Just talk to us and tell us what’s going on.”
Christine turned to look at Mark but he sprang into action, bending down for something on the floor in front of the furnace. Before she could see what it was he was back to his feet and grabbed her wrist, pulling her in front of him. She tried to scream, but was stopped by sharp steel pressing at her throat.
“Mark!” Steve shouted, and Detective Prescott raised his pistol.
“You idiots couldn’t help him before, what in the world makes you think you can help him now?” Mark’s voice hissed in her ear.
Chapter Thirty
Steve realized he must have missed the memo that said “When Detective Prescott shows up, everybody lose their fucking minds.”
With speed Steve had never seen from him before Mark picked something up from the ground and grabbed Christine. He had an arm around her waist, pinning her arms at her sides, and a blade to her throat. Detective Prescott raised his gun aiming at Mark, who peered at them with one mad eye, hunched down behind Christine’s shoulder.
“Drop the sword, Mark,” Detective Prescott said.
“Oh, by all means Detective,” Mark sneered at them. “After I slit this girl’s throat and make you watch.”
“Mark!” Christine struggled, but she held still when Mark pulled the blade tight enough against her throat to draw a thin line of blood.
“I would stop that if I were you. This blade, while very old, is still razor sharp. I’d hate to see you slit your own throat on it before I was through with you.”
“Why are you doing this?” Prescott said, taking a cautious step forward.
“You’re the detective, figure it out,” Mark said. “While you do, try to figure out how many more steps I’ll let you take before I kill her.”
“Mark,” Steve said, trying to find his voice. “Just . . . just take it easy, man! You don’t need to do this. We can stop whatever is happening, just--”
“Are you really that stupid?” Mark yelled, turning his gaze to Steve. “He knew you weren’t that bright, but seriously!”
“Steve,” Prescott said, not taking his eyes off Mark. “Go up stairs, get out of here.”
“He moves and she dies!”
“Mark--” Steve started.
“Mark’s not home right now, you little idiot. I’ll be dealing with him in a little while, but first I want the Detective to drop his weapon and kick it over here.”
“That’s not going to happen. Are you Corwin, is that it?” Prescott said.
The thing in Mark’s body laughed, a long, drawn out cackle that echoed all around them. “Oh God, you are so brilliant, Detective. Honestly, you’ve really got me figured out. Now that you’ve cracked the case, be a good boy and kick your weapon over here.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I believe he said drop the gun, cop,” a voice from behind them said, followed by a metallic click just behind Steve’s head. “Drop it, or this little shit dies.”
Steve turned slowly, and found himself staring past the barrel of a revolver and into Jack’s grinning face.
“Oh you’ve got to be shitting me.” Steve whispered.
“No joke you little fucker. Move and die.” Steve realized there were tiny spatters of red on Jack’s cheek, and looking down he could see that Jack’s t-shirt was splotched with even more. He was just at the foot of the steps, angled to keep Steve between him and Detective Prescott.
“About time,” Mark snapped.
“Hey,” Jack chuckled. “I had some family business to attend to.” Jack stopped, realizing who he was talking to. “Are you serious? Are you . . . are you really him?”
“What do you think?” Mark said. And Jack just nodded, his smile growing wider.
“Detective, I’m going to count to three, and then . . . Jack, is it? Then Jack is going to put a bullet in that little fool’s brain. You can avoid that by dropping your gun and kicking it over to me. Are we clear?”
“Super clear,” Jack said, and Steve could see the anticipation glittering in his eyes.
“One.
“Two.
“Thre--”
“Okay! Okay!” Prescott said, lowering the hammer on his pistol and lowering it to the floor with one hand.
“Kick it over. And no games.”
Keeping his hands up in the air, Prescott kicked the gun towards Mark. It skidded to a stop about a foot away from Mark’s feet.
“Now,” the wolf in Mark’s clothing said to Christine. “I’m going to pick up that pistol, but you are going to remain perfectly still, because this blade will still be at your throat. I assure you I can
slice you open with just a flick of my wrist. Ask your brother. Understand? And that goes for you as well Detective.”
Christine nodded as much as the blade would allow her too.
“Good,” Mark said, releasing his grip on her waist, and stepping away from her. He kept the blade steady as he bent down to retrieve the pistol, his eyes never leaving Detective Prescott. He picked the gun up on the first grasp and stood, moving himself away from Christine but keeping the point of the blade at her throat. She was up on her tiptoes, chin pointed to the ceiling to keep the blade from piercing her skin. Mark circled around, using it to position her directly in front of the small chamber at the front of the furnace. He drew back the hammer of the pistol and pointed it at Prescott.
“Open the door,” Mark told Christine.
Christine reached out for the door, and then yelped with pain when she touched the handle.
“Be careful,” he said, “It’s hot.”
It took a few tries, but after tentatively grasping at it she finally got it open. The roar of the flames, heat and a musky smell Steve didn’t want to identify filled the room.
“That’s more like it,” Mark said with a smile. He motioned towards the furnace with the pistol. “If everyone would be so kind as to take a place in front that would be lovely.”
“Just tell me what you want,” Prescott said, slowly moving towards the furnace.
“What I want,” he said, finally stepping away from Christine and taking the sword point from her throat, “is for the three of you to die, and by doing so give new life to something far greater and more powerful than you could possibly imagine.”
When Steve didn’t move, Jack gave him a shove to get him started. He took his place between Christine and Detective Prescott. “Are you okay?” Steve whispered to her, and she just shook her head.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one.”
Jack and Mark stood side by side, both of their pistols trained on the group. “You’re not going to be able to come back from this, you know.” Prescott said. “You can fight this thing Mark, you can. This isn’t you.”
Shadow of the Past Page 23
