The Wounds in the Walls

by Heidi Cullinan

  It was clear it wasn’t what Pete wanted to do, but he came forward and took the cash out of Mike’s hand all the same before moving back to his post by the wall. “All right, then. You want to know if I see little leprechauns in the ceiling? Because I don’t. They’re dancin’ in a circle in the middle of the floor. They want to know who stole their Lucky Charms.”

  The ghost, who had moved out of Pete’s way as he came back, snorted.

  Mike gave up and looked at him.

  The ghost was wearing a tweedy-looking pair of trousers held up by a pair of black braces over a pristine white shirt unbuttoned halfway down the chest. It had the half-starved look about it that it always did: its arms were a bit too skinny, cheeks too sunken, eyes a bit too pitted. But there was nothing dull about the ghost, and it grinned impishly at Mike through a messy mop of spiky hair.

  The ghost pressed its hand to its chest. “Oh dear. Are you looking to me for help?” It shook its head. “You really are getting desperate, aren’t you?”

  This didn’t make any sense. Mike had stood here just last week with the psychic, and she’d seen him. It, he corrected himself quickly. Because it wasn’t a man. It was just energy. The remnant of a man.

  But the psychic had seen the ghost. And she’d upset it, too, which was how Mike knew he was onto something. It was she who had given him Pete’s name. “Peter Eason,” she’d said, “in the black water.” She’d drawn a picture of the man standing in front of Mike: tall, broad-shouldered, rugged, simple, but clean-cut, with short, curling brown hair. His face was exact down to the little scar about his left eye. And he’d lived in Blackwater, Missouri. This had to be the Peter she meant. The Peter she’d insisted had the key.

  Except she hadn’t mentioned that not only would Pete have no idea he had the key but wouldn’t be able to see the ghost he was supposed to exorcise. And Mike wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do now.

  He crossed to the south window and ran his eyes up and down the wallpaper. Pete didn’t see the ghost, but he saw gashes. Well, then, he’d start with the gashes. “Can you come here and show them to me? Point to where this one starts and where it ends. Please.”

  Pete came over, still moving a little carefully over the creaky floor, and pointed to a spot on the wall. “About a foot above here”—he ran his hand in a diagonal path three feet down—“to here. And it’s about a half-inch thick.”

  Mike nodded, staring at the perfectly fine if somewhat faded paper in front of him. And that gave him an idea. “Describe the room for me, would you? Tell me what you see in as much detail as you can. What does it look like? What color, for example, is the paper in front of me?”

  “Green,” Pete said. “A pale green with gold designs.” He made hash marks back and forth in front of the wall with his hand. “Diagonals.”

  The paper Mike saw was gray with raised velvet fleur-de-lis. “And the furniture?”

  This earned Mike another dubious glance. “The room is empty. Unless you want to call the fallen beams from the ceiling a sofa.”

  Mike looked out across the room, taking in the red easy chair, the sagging plaid sofa, and the gaudy coffee table. He was beginning to understand why Pete had told him he needed a bulldozer. “Where’s the beam, exactly?”

  Pete pointed at the couch and the chair beside it. “There.”

  “And what’s over there?” Mike pointed to the piano in the corner.

  “A pile of crumbling wall. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. I suppose there’s no rug, either?” Pete’s expression told him that no, there wasn’t. Mike nodded. “Okay. I think we’ve seen enough here. Maybe we should try another room.”

  Pete shrugged. “So long as I don’t fall through the floor.”

  Mike led Pete to the foyer again, heading toward the kitchen. He noticed Pete frequently took circuitous routes around floor rugs and end tables, often looking worriedly at the floor.

  “You think this place is haunted, I guess?” Pete asked. “That what this is about?”

  Mike weighed how much to tell him. It wasn’t easy with the ghost standing there leering. He noticed, though, that it kept well away from Pete. It was a noticeable difference from how it behaved with Mike normally, or how it had been with the psychic. Usually Mike had been run through at least four times already. The ghost found it amusing when Mike retched afterward. But not this time. Outside of the wry remarks and the glares, the ghost was barely present.

  Maybe this was the right Peter after all.

  “Yes,” Mike said at last, holding open the door to the dining room. “I think this place is haunted. In fact, I know that it is. That’s my job, you see.”

  “You a ghostbuster?” Pete asked. But his eyes were fixed on the walls. He looked troubled.

  “Paranormal psychologist.” Mike followed Pete’s gaze, but he saw only dust and cobwebs over a metal dining table and walls coated with hideous floral wallpaper. “What do you see in here?”

  “More gashes.” He frowned and gestured at the wall above the sideboard. “All of them are there, over the fireplace. Six angry slashes, right in a row.”

  Fireplace? Mike hurried over and ran his hand over the wallpaper, then laughed out loud. “My God, you’re right! I can feel where they bricked it up.”

  “Bricked it up?” Pete repeated. He didn’t come forward, just stayed in the doorway. He looked distinctly uneasy.

  So did the ghost. But it glared at Mike.

  Mike motioned to Pete. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

  Pete and the ghost backed up as one, moving in opposite directions. “No,” they said in unison.

  Mike turned to the ghost. The dark eyes were no longer dancing in mirth. The young man manifested before Mike seemed to be shrinking inside himself, but the ghost held the image firmly. It shook its head. “No,” it said again. “Take him away. Don’t keep him here. Don’t ask him any more questions. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “I’m here to help you,” Mike said gently.

  “You’re not helping,” the ghost shot back. “Just go. Get him out. And don’t let him touch the walls.”

  “I need to get out of here,” Pete said. He looked around the room, seriously worried now. When Mike started to protest, he pulled the money out of his pocket and held it out. “Forget it. Just take this. Find somebody else for this game. I’ll eat tuna and ramen for another month before I put up with this shit.”

  Mike tried not to show how excited he was. This was it! This was what he’d been waiting for! This was the breakthrough he needed. But they were both nervous, so he had to tread carefully. If only I can get them to make contact with each other, he thought. Surely that will trigger something we can really use. He held up his hands and smiled. “Hey—no problem. It’s okay. Take it easy. If the dining room makes you uncomfortable, we’ll move on to the kitchen.”

  Pete looked pissed now. “I’m going out the goddamned front door.” He swore and thrust the money out at Mike, and when Mike didn’t move to take it, he threw it down on the ground. “Fuck this.” He turned to go.

  “Wait!” Mike hurried after him, ducking around the ghost as it tried to step into his path. He dropped his coat on the ground, but he didn’t stop to pick up either it or the money. “Peter—wait! Just hold—ugh!”

  He shuddered and caught the bile in his mouth as the ghost rushed through his body. Mike felt his organs jangling with the ghost’s energy; the nausea caught up with him, and he stumbled forward, heaving.

  “You okay?” Pete came toward Mike.

  Mike tried to answer and vomited instead.

  Swearing, Pete caught him by the shoulders, hoisting him up. “Easy, buddy.”

  Nice and strong, Mike thought, and then threw up again. It was dry heaves, at least, because he’d prepared for this and not had any breakfast.

  But he was shaking now, and Pete continued to hold him up, aiming him at the door. “Easy. You’ll be all right. You just give me the keys, and we’ll go
get some tea in you or something. We’ll go somewhere fucking far away from here.”

  The ghost was huddled by the door, glaring. “Get him out. Get him out, and don’t bring him back.”

  Later, Mike wouldn’t be able to explain why he’d done it. There was no thinking at all, in fact, just some instinct he couldn’t explain. Because one moment he’d been shivering against Pete, trying to figure out how and where this had gone so wrong, and the next he was ducking from underneath Pete’s arm, grabbing his hand, and shoving it forward toward the ghost. He watched the ghost’s eyes go wide and dark, no pupil at all, not even a white, just dark slits of fear as Pete’s hand came toward it. A silent “no” formed on its lips, and as Pete touched it, the ghost shivered, then shattered.

  So did Pete. Except his shatter was less literal. He didn’t vanish, but he did seem to crumble inside. Except as Mike watched—and oh, he was watching, like a hawk—it wasn’t the despair he’d seen on the ghost’s face. In fact, Pete looked almost… sensual. It was as if the touch had been arousing, so pleasurable that it had undone him, and when he opened his eyes, staring straight ahead into the place where the ghost had been, they were dark with passion.

  All this took mere seconds. One second, in fact, the longest, most intricately packed moment in Mike’s life. The second that followed it, however, was quite different. Because it was in that sliver of time that gravity took hold, and Pete, propelled forward, continued on, all the way to the wall. In that second, Mike watched Pete’s rough, work-worn fingers brush against the floral paper.

  In the third second they were both rearing back, because the house was shaking. The house, in fact, was growling. Pete turned to Mike in alarm, and Mike looked at him in much the same way.

  This was not what was supposed to happen!

  Peter, a voice whispered. It was disembodied, coming somehow from the very walls of the house itself. I’ve been waiting for you, Peter.

  Mike heard a ripping sound. He turned in time to see the floral wallpaper peel away as gashes appeared there one after another, long, even scars forming in the wall above the sideboard.

  “Fucking hell,” Pete whispered, his hand tightening on Mike’s arm.

  “Agreed.” Mike wrenched his gaze away from the gashes still forming in the wall and pushed him at the door. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  Oh, I don’t think so.

  Mike could feel it happening before he saw it. He was running now, and so was Pete, and they were headed for the front door, but it was like a shadow was rising up behind them and extending just a few beats ahead over the carpet and toward the front of the house. It hit the front door—and the door vanished.

  Pete cried out and skidded to a halt. “What the fuck! The doorway! It’s gone! It’s fucking gone!” He turned to Mike, full of fear. But there was also rage, and it was aimed at Mike. “What the fuck did you do?” he demanded, and he reached for Mike’s shoulders.

  “I—” Mike said, but it was all he managed before Pete slammed him against the wall. Stop, he tried to say, but couldn’t. He just fought for the air Pete forced from his lungs, reaching up to clutch at the other man’s collar.

  And then the ghost was there, brighter and more vibrant than it had ever been. It reached out and touched Pete’s arm. “Stop,” it said. “Stop, Peter, and come with me.”

  Pete stopped. He pressed Mike hard against the wall and turned, eyes wide, face draining of blood as he took in the ghostly form beside him.

  Well, Mike thought, as darkness closed in around him, at least now they can see each other.

  There was a ghost standing beside Pete.

  He tried to tell himself he was just seeing things, but after what had happened first in the dining room and now to the front door, hallucinations were a hard sell. Either these things were actually happening, or hallucinations had taken over to the point they might as well be.

  The ghost’s hand was cold on Pete’s arm, but it was definitely there. It squeezed gently in reassurance. “Can you carry him? Because we need to get out of here, and we’re going to need him.”

  Pete nodded and hefted Clarke up. He was a big guy, but Pete was no slouch, and it was only a little strain to heft the man over his shoulder. Clarke groaned, but other than that he stayed quiet. Feeling only marginally bad for knocking him out, Pete turned back to the ghost, waiting for further instructions.

  He was looking at Pete, impressed. “You’re stronger than I thought you’d be.”

  “You said you knew a way out?” Pete prompted.

  “Of the house? No. That’s not going to happen now. But I can get us somewhere safe. Can you get him upstairs?”

  Pete looked in apprehension at the dilapidated stairway.

  “They’re in better shape than they look to you, I promise,” the ghost said. “Can you?”

  It wasn’t just the construction of the house that was upsetting Pete. There was… something. Something waiting. He felt silly, even after all that had happened, and he couldn’t look at the ghost while he said the words. “There’s something bad up there.”

  The ghost didn’t seem to find him silly at all. “Yes. There’s something very bad up there. But I promise I won’t let you go to those places.” He held out his hand. “Will you trust me?”

  Pete did, almost completely, and that unsettled him. “Why couldn’t I see you before?”

  “Because I was hiding.” He looked sad but also curious as he tipped his head to the side. “You can really see the wounds?”

  Wounds? “You mean the gashes in the walls?” The ghost nodded, and Pete looked around him. The walls were heaving, moving in and out like lungs. And yes, the gashes were here, too, though they weren’t as deep or half as upsetting as the ones in the dining room. They were random like the ones in the parlor, and they barely cut through the paper. “I see them. How’d they get there?” Why do you call them wounds?

  The growling started up again, and the ghost reached out and took Pete’s hand. “Come on. We can’t stay here. It’s mostly bluster, but it can do damage enough.”

  Pete wondered what “it” was, but as soon as the ghost led him forward, the feeling of foreboding increased. He stiffened, and the ghost glanced over his shoulder to give him a gentle smile.

  “Just up the stairs and down the hall.” He tugged and ran a cold thumb across the back of Pete’s hand. “Come along, Peter.”

  “Pete,” Pete whispered, but he came along, cold sweat breaking across his brow.

  The stairs held them fine, but Pete noticed the ghost didn't touch the railing or the walls. In fact, he kept very firmly to the middle. Pete decided it would be best to follow his lead.

  “Do you have a name?” Pete asked.

  “Everybody has a name,” the ghost said. But it was five more steps before he said, “Call me Ara.”

  The careful phrasing caught Pete’s attention. “Is that your name?”

  “You have some pointed thinking for someone who wants everyone to think he’s just a clumsy laborer.” The ghost paused on the stair and gave Pete a rather focused look over his shoulder. His thumb moved absently over Pete’s hand, and he smiled a slow, knowing sort of smile that did funny things to Pete’s insides.

  “How come I can feel you, if you’re a ghost?”

  “Because you’re special,” the ghost replied, “and after Michael’s stunt downstairs, I suppose I am too.” He squeezed Pete’s hand. “Come. We’ll speak more when we get to safety.” He turned and started back up the stairs. “No, Ara isn’t my name. But I like it, and it will do well enough.”

  “But why can’t I call you by your own name?” Pete dogged.

  “Because we can’t both be called Peter,” Ara replied.

  Pete suspected that was some sort of dig against him, and he glowered at Ara’s back. “My name is Pete.”

  “Hmm,” Ara said, amused, but then the growling started again, and his amusement faded. “Come on. Have you still got hold of him?”

  Pete nodded
and hurried up the stairs as best he could with two hundred pounds of man on his shoulder.

  The second floor was very dark, and it unsettled Pete far more than it had a right to. There was nothing remarkable about the darkness. No lights flashed, no ethereal ooze came out of the walls—nothing, really, except that it was dark and dull and stuffy hot. But Pete found he couldn’t look at the darkness very long, because if he did, cold terror welled up inside him and threatened to send him to his knees. If it weren’t for Ara’s cold hand leading him, guiding him, he didn’t think he could have made it.

  “Go ahead,” Ara said quietly. “Close your eyes. It might help.”

  “Why—what—?” Pete whispered, but he couldn’t even finish the sentence.