One by one, they got out of the van and were joined by Tony, the driver. He was a long beanpole of a man decked out in a Navy wool peacoat that looked a hell of a lot warmer than Joe's flimsy leather jacket.
"If the reports are to be believed, we're dealing with an entity that has no problem lashing out against the living," Gould said. "Based on the profile we put together, Selina Hill was a troubled young woman. The poor girl struggled with bipolar episodes and a string of other mental health issues, which probably accounts for her heavy drug use. In life, she was confused and angry; in death, she has become a danger to others. She needs our help."
"Hey, she sounds just like your type," Steve said to Tony, elbowing him with a grin. The tall parapsychologist shot him a withering look. Dr. Gould rolled her eyes, her impatience palpable. This wasn't the time for jokes. Her voice was empty of all humor as she continued the briefing. "Keep your guard up and stay close to Joe. He’s the only one who can actually see what might be lurking within those walls."
The team’s expectant eyes bored into him and his hands shook with the pressure of having to live up to his reputation. Even though he had only participated in two other ghost hunts before, they all saw him as some psychic superhero. Joe felt more like a man in over his head. Helping the dead was the right thing to do, but interpreting readings on a bunch of instruments was a lot less terrifying than staring into the envious eyes of a forsaken soul yearning to be alive again.
Dammit, I never wanted any of this!
Why had he let Gould talk him into this latest spook adventure?
Sometimes Joe wished that the IED had just finished him that day. Shame washed over him as soon as the dark thought slashed through his mind. Maybe Dr. Gould was right. Maybe he survived the blast that killed the rest of his unit for a reason. In a way, he felt like he was honoring his fallen brothers every time he successfully used his powers.
His breath steadying, he took in the ominous warehouse-turned-nightclub before him. Death was waiting for him inside, of that he was certain. On a normal night, muscle-bound bouncers would front long lines of club-goers while thumping techno boomed down the street. Today the structure stood abandoned, and an eerie silence permeated the block.
Joe trailed the team of ghost hunters. Dr. Gould briskly strode toward the structure, confident as ever. Tony, Nick and Steve marched behind her, troops following their general into battle.
A nerve twinged in the back of Joe's neck as he fell farther behind the scientists. Dammit, the pressure of the situation was getting to him. Most spirits were lost, confused and essentially harmless. But other ghosts envied the living. Determined to remain on this plane, their sole pleasure came from inflicting misery and pain. If the murders were any indication, the ghost of the dead model appeared to fall into a different category.
Tony stepped up to the club’s steel door and pulled it open with a loud metallic screech that sent jarring vibrations up Joe's spine. Moments later, they switched on their flashlights and entered the reception area. Joe drew a small sense of comfort from the thin beam of light emanating from his hand. Heart pounding, he swept his light over the coat-check room next to the box office and then a second door leading deeper into the shadowy club.
Nick whipped out an electrostatic locator and an electromagnetic field detector—classic ghostbusting equipment. One device measured ionization while the other could detect changes in the electromagnetic field. It was all pseudo-scientific gobbledygook to Joe. The only instrument he needed were the eyes he was born with and the psychic sensitivity triggered by his near-death experience. Beyond the next doorway was the spacious dance floor. Flashlights raked the darkness, revealing steel cages suspended from the ceiling that were normally occupied by undulating go-go dancers. Nearby stairs led to a series of catwalks overlooking the dance floor.
As the team started to fan out, Dr. Gould continued to radiate a mixture of tension and excitement. Her flashlight mapping the way, she surged toward the winding staircase leading to dance floors on the second and third level of the structure. Joe had visited enough clubs back in his day to know each room probably catered to a different type of music, when the club was in operation.
"Is anyone here?" Dr. Gould asked eagerly.
The question hung in the air.
"We know you're upset. Alone. Confused."
More silence.
"We're here to help you," Gould said. "We mean you no harm."
We may not mean the ghost any harm, but did the dead model feel the same way?
Renewed silence.
Joe sighed inwardly. What did Gould expect? That the ghost would welcome them with open arms, eager for a free therapy session? Thanks, guys, for showing up and reminding me it’s time to move on! It was all so naive. Dr. Gould's team had no idea what they might be up against. They were used to dealing with harmless, confused specters. But Joe sensed the hatred in the club, the desperation and rage that radiated off the walls and dug itself deep into his flesh like psychic fishhooks.
Joe stepped up to the long bar that ran along one side of the dance floor. Moonlight filtered through a skylight, creating a parade of flickering shadows. Normally the shelves would be lined with bottles of liquor, but they stood empty now.
Too damn bad. I could use a drink.
A sudden, ear-splitting sound tore through the space and made him nearly drop his flashlight. It wasn’t the scream of a tortured soul but the nerve-wracking noise of audio feedback emanating from a nearby DJ booth. The lights on the mixing table flashed wildly.
Here we go, Joe thought as Tony rushed toward the booth and pulled the plug. The jarring sounds died down.
A tense beat passed as they all traded glances. The temperature dropped and their breath crystallized in the ice-cold air.
It's on.
"You guys feel that?" Nick asked.
Dr. Gould nodded and produced an infrared thermometer. She held it up and eyed the readings.
"Make a note. Temperature is now—"
Gould was interrupted by a heavy wooden door slamming shut with a devastating bang. One by one, their flashlights went dark. The tense breathing of Gould's team was drowned out by another banging sound in the darkness, followed by heavy footsteps.
"Jesus, what was that?" Tony asked.
She's here, dumbass, Joe thought. He didn’t need to be a psychic to know they weren't alone now.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed movement behind the red curtain covering one wall. A second later the curtain billowed out, manipulated by a supernatural force. The animated curtain whipped itself around Dr. Gould, like a lasso, and pulled her to the wall.
Gould's piercing cry reverberated, almost drowning out a series of erratic beeping sounds. The temperature gauge and magnetic reader were going nuts.
The team of parapsychologists were still trying to make sense of what was happening when the spirit launched its second attack. Tony cried out as invisible claws sliced open the back of his coat. Blue-black burn marks streaked across the man's exposed skin. He gasped in pain, his legs giving out and his eyes widening in horror. A supernatural force yanked him off his feet and pulled him toward the ceiling at breakneck speed.
Nick and Steve stood paralyzed, caught in a tableau of terror. Only now did it seem to dawn on them what they were up against.
Tony's panicked screams were abruptly silenced by the sound of breaking bone. A second later, he landed on the dance floor, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle and his features contorted in pain.
Joe fought back his own rising panic as he took stock of the situation. Dr. Gould was out of commission, cocooned in the red curtain. Tony was unconscious and the other two men cowered in the corners, frozen in place. The hair on the back of Joe’s neck stood up and he instinctively sensed a presence lurking above him. He took a deep breath before tilting his head upward, dread welling up inside him as he faced the horror above.
He had steeled himself for the worst, but his imagination paled to the rea
lity. The dead model hung upside-down from the ceiling like a spider. Details of her inhuman appearance jumped out at him: snow-white skin, bloodshot eyes, stringy jet-black hair.
For a moment, Joe couldn't move. Screw trying to help the dead girl. She was going to kill them all.
Starting with him.
The steel chain connecting the dance cage to the ceiling snapped. As the cage hurtled toward him, Joe knew no one would be able to bring him back from the dead this time around.
Someone slammed into Joe’s side, pushing him from the path of the onrushing cage.
Joe sucked in a sharp breath.
As the newcomer to the scene jumped smoothly to his feet, Joe caught a first glimpse of his guardian angel. The bearded man wore a long, tattered trench coat over a tieless white shirt. He aimed a green, glowing pistol at the spirit lurking on the ceiling. Did he really believe a firearm could pose any threat to a ghost?
But then again, the weapon didn't resemble any gun Joe had ever seen before, and he'd seen extensive arsenals during his military days.
His rescuer squeezed the trigger, and then this battle between life and death began in earnest.
2
WHO WALKS INTO a haunted house—sorry, haunted nightclub—without any way to defend themselves?
Wannabe ghost hunters, that’s who. Less than forty-eight hours had passed since my adventure with the Horne clan, and here I was going head-to-head with a crazed ghost. My own fault, really. Instead of taking a much-needed break after facing Morgal, the demon that killed my parents, I’d thrown myself into a new case.
At the time, it had seemed like a smart move. Or perhaps my only move. Quality alone time would inevitably end with me pickling my liver and crawling into bed with some barfly who harbored advanced daddy issues. Better to channel my dark emotions into something constructive, like kicking some spectral butt and maybe saving a life or two in the process. Anything to get my mind off what happened back at the Horne estate.
I'd expected to find the club deserted except for the murderous spirit trapped inside. Imagine my surprise when I ran into a group of amateurs armed with nothing but good intentions and a bunch of useless gadgets. This wasn't my first run-in with Dr. Gould and her merry band of ghostbusters. How many times had I warned her of the potential dangers? Some folks just refuse to listen.
I made sure the man sprawled on the dance floor was okay before I jumped back to my feet, Hellseeker in hand. Forged from the steel of a blessed sword, over a century ago, the magical pistol was my most effective weapon against the forces of darkness. Under normal circumstances I would try to help a lost soul. But this particular ghost was a killer. Someone needed to send her packing, to the afterlife or wherever nasty spooks like her went next.
That someone would have to be me.
There are two worlds, I thought. The world of the living, and the world of the dead. Sometimes they overlap, and sometimes they COLLIDE.
Like right now.
Determined to wrap things up quickly, I fired two rounds, the magic-infused bullets streaking toward the ghost on the ceiling. In case it wasn’t clear, Newton's laws of gravity do not apply to the restless dead.
One bullet slammed into the spirit's outstretched arm. For a split second, the slug remained visible inside the transparent figure, vibrating at incredible speed. A beat later, the model's arm dematerialized, Hellseeker working its ferocious magic. The ghost let out a chilling howl as her body evaporated.
It was a nice trick, if you were dumb enough to fall for it. The ghost was wounded, but not banished. Though this was far from over, at least I had bought myself a momentary breather.
I eyed the downed ghost hunter again. This guy didn't strike me as Dr. Gould's normal flavor of armchair parapsychologist. The lean physique, the hardened look in his eyes—not to mention the scar that ran up his neck—gave the man an edge that the rest of Gould's team sorely lacked. This fella actually looked like he could handle himself in a fight. Just not against an enraged specter.
"You alright?" I asked.
The man stared at me with saucer eyes and nodded. He'd obviously never seen someone pump a round into a ghost. Hey, there’s a first time for everything.
Guard up, eyes alert, I swept the club with my magical revolver’s sights. Hellseeker could destroy a specter, but I would have to hit the head or another vital area. Don't ask me how an immaterial dead person can react as if they still have vital organs. It could have something to do with vestigial memories of being alive, or perhaps the mysterious laws of magic governing Hellseeker. Either way, we weren't in the clear yet.
A banshee howl tore through the club, and I clenched my jaw. Sometimes I just hate being right.
I looked up. The dead model, one arm now shorter than the other, stalked the length of the ceiling as if it were a Paris runway. Eyes glowing with rage and hatred, she sprinted past a series of nightclub spotlights with jerky, surreal speed, her form shimmering with each loping step.
I fired mechanically in controlled bursts but my magic-infused bullets missed the zigzagging spirit. A heartbeat later, she launched herself at me from the ceiling, arms extended and a shriek erupting from her distorted lips. The howling fury moved like a panther pouncing on its prey and slammed into me with overwhelming force. The impact knocked me over and I crumpled to the dance floor.
Unleashing another piercing shriek, the phantasmagorical vision straddled me with inhuman strength. What can I say: I have a way with women. A pair of legs that didn't seem to end wrapped around my torso like tentacles, and I came face to face with her sinister presence. Death had both preserved the model’s beauty and given it a repulsive quality; every living cell inside me instinctively revolted against her unnatural state.
And then her lips found mine in a hungry kiss, turning my stomach while solidifying the link between us...
The world around me changed in a burst of metaphysical light.
I was still in the club, but it was now filled to capacity. A mass of writhing bodies swirled around us, moving to the pounding hip-hop beat. I glanced down at myself, eyes going wide. I was staring down at a long, lean torso and killer legs wrapped in a miniskirt and knee-high leather boots.
Realization hit me. I was inside the model’s head, reliving her last moments before she overdosed at the club.
Turning away from the bar, she fought her way through the bobbing crowd. Her movements became more uncertain and erratic as the drugs kicked in. She kept glancing at her cell and re-reading the fateful text message from a guy named Dean that must've driven the poor girl over the edge: It's over. I'm sorry, babe.
Breakup via text message. Talk about class, Dean.
Guys smiled wolfishly at her from the surging throng of dancers, lusty hands reaching for her body. She bounced from one embrace to the next, oblivious of the effect she was having on males of the species. Only one man mattered to her, and he'd just kicked her to the curb.
A violent tremor passed through her body, and blood exploded from her nose. Her trembling arms sought support, legs growing shaky, but suddenly no one wanted to touch her. She was going into convulsions... and she was taking me with her.
"Let go of him now!" a male voice shouted. The wave of clubgoers disappeared in another burst of brilliant spiritual light, putting an end to the model's trip down memory lane. I was once again looking at an empty dance floor. I let out a pain-filled gasp, still reeling from the vision of the dead girl's last moments in this world, and staggered to my feet.
Glancing up, I spotted my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar and took a shocked step back. The fellow staring back at me was in bad shape. My eyes resembled bloodshot craters, tainted by the spirit of the deceased model. Along my neck, bluish-black burn marks discolored the flesh where the entity touched my skin. Unhealthy perspiration beaded my haggard features. Reliving the death throes of an overdose victim can work wonders for your complexion.
Skulick's long-ago words slashed through my mind. Don't e
ver look a ghost directly in the eyes or allow them to touch you. It can trigger horrific hallucinations or make you relive their final minutes on Earth. It ain’t pretty. Most of them didn't check out in their sleep.
No kidding, buddy.
My magical ring, the Seal of Solomon, might protect me from a full-on possession—a nasty little trick both specters and demons have been known to pull—but it couldn't stop a determined ghost from playing mind games. At least now I knew that a broken heart was keeping this suicide case trapped in our world. Not that it changed anything.
I tried to take another step and collapsed, spent from the excruciating effort of breaking free of the ghost's hold on me. This was one of the dangers of being blessed with a sixth sense. It might allow you to chat up the dead, but it also acted as a beacon to them. In a way, I couldn't blame them. Wandering around for all eternity, invisible to most of the world, could transform the best of us into a bunch of clingy stalkers with separation anxiety and anger management issues.
In the end, we all just want to be heard and understood.
I saw the model turn toward the ghost hunter I’d saved from being pancaked by the steel cage. He was the one who shouted, forcing the entity to let go of me. Like myself, this latest addition to Gould's team could interact with ghosts, clearly, and that could mean only one thing—he was a psychic. Poor bastard. That would definitely explain why Gould brought him along on this little expedition into the unknown. The man obviously possessed more guts than smarts. Unarmed, he didn't stand a chance against the model's ferocious spirit.
But his bravery or foolishness, depending on how you wanted to look at it, was drawing the ghost's attention. This distraction gave me the opportunity to fight back.
I catapulted back to my feet, Hellseeker ready. My steely gaze cut through the club as I tapped into the bastard part of myself. "Hey, you want to know why Dean dumped your chunky ass?"
Shadow Detective Supernatural Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (Shadow Detective Boxset) Page 13
