Phantoms

by Terence West

  ****

  Rachelle looked pleadingly at the form above her. She didn't know what it wanted, or why it was here. She began to pray for compassion. The being twisted hard, breaking her neck. It felt her essence drain out of her. Pleasure rippled through the shadow. It twisted Rachelle's head again so it was facing backward, then removed all the wisps. Her body fell to the floor in a broken heap.

  ****

  Enbaugh spun around. The lights began to dim in the kitchen. Holding the pistol grip tightly, he turned back toward the door. He rushed headlong at it, this time, breaking through. The wooden frame splintered into a hundred pieces as the door flew open. Without taking a moment to look back, Enbaugh rushed through the dining room and into the living room. "Ms. Frieze?"

  Enbaugh scanned the room. His eyes focused on a dark mass at the foot of the stairs. He froze. The mass looked like a cloud of pure darkness. He blinked his eyes twice to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He watched in horror as the mass began to disappear, revealing the body of Rachelle below it. Enbaugh holstered his gun and ran toward her. Kneeling down, he glanced over her disfigured body. Her torso had been cracked open from the base of her neck to just below her abdomen. Jagged edges of her ribs jutted out from the torn flesh and her intestines had been partially uncoiled and now laid in a heap next to her. Amidst a sea of blood that was pooling in her chest cavity, he could clearly see her lungs, her stomach, and her… wait, something was missing. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he removed a small black radio. He hit the transmit button with his thumb. "This is Detective Jack Enbaugh," he shouted. "I'm at the Grant House and I need backup right now! Repeat, I need backup at the Grant House right now!"

  Looking up the stairs, he saw a pair of burning red eyes hovering motionless in the darkness. Pulling his weapon, he fired up at the eyes. The dark form dissipated as the bullets whizzed through it. Enbaugh lifted his bulky frame off the floor and took several steps back. Turning to his left, he spotted a second pair of red eyes staring at him from the dining room. "What the fuck?" Spinning around, Enbaugh raced for the front door. He grabbed the handle and threw the heavy wooden door open. Dashing outside into the rain, he stopped and turned around. The door slammed shut behind him. Enbaugh began to slowly backpedal. He wasn't taking his eyes off that house. Not until backup arrived.

  Chapter 4

  Bishop winced at the horrific sight. The three investigators had gathered around a small projection screen in their office. Cane was standing in the rear controlling the slide projector, while Dawn and Bishop were seated at the desks in front. The office was pitch black, except for the images on the screen. Only the hum of the projector's cooling fan filled the room.

  "These are crime scene photos we downloaded from the Stone Brook Police Department's main frame," explained Cane unemotionally. He tapped a button on the small black remote he held in his hand. The image on the screen in front of them faded to the next photo. "This was Dylan Grant."

  Bishop looked at the body in the photo. It had been torn in half at the midsection. The feet were aligned sickeningly toward the man's head while the torso had been cracked open like a melon. He felt a wave of nausea pass through him but quickly swallowed hard to fight it. "What did this?" he asked as he took a deep breath.

  Cane tapped the button again. "We don't know." That of a small boy replaced the image of Dylan's body. He was twisted grotesquely at the waist, allowing his feet to point up while he was face-down on the bed. "This was a normal family in Florida."

  "Any signs this points to some kind of occult ritual?" Dawn wondered as she stared unblinking at the photos.

  "Not that the Stone Brook Police Department could find," Cane replied after a moment, "but both parent's hearts had been removed."

  "Surgically?" Dawn queried.

  "No," Cane said quickly, "more like ripped out of their chests."

  "What about the boy?" Bishop asked.

  "His heart was still in his chest when they found him," Cane answered quietly. "It's odd they would take both of the parent's hearts, and not the boy's," he said half to himself. "That has to mean something."

  "Whoever did this had to be incredibly strong," Bishop conjectured. "That boy's body is twisted a full one hundred and eighty degrees."

  "Whoever, or whatever , Mr. Bishop," Cane quickly corrected him. He lifted his fingers and rubbed them over the edge of his mustache.

  "Did the police reports list anything odd?" Dawn wondered.

  "You mean besides the hearts being removed?"

  Dawn nodded.

  "Not that I could find," Cane admitted. "I combed through every scrap of paper they had on this investigation."

  "When did this happen?" Bishop asked.

  Cane leaned over and began to thumb through a stack of papers he had on the desk next to him. "Late last night," he answered.

  Bishop rubbed his clean-shaven chin. "How did we find out about this so quickly?"

  "We have very reliable sources all over the country," Dawn said, finally taking her eyes off the photo. "Over the years, the OPR has built up quite an extensive network. Mostly due to the efforts of Cane and Chairman Weiss."

  Cane scoffed. "Thanks to me."

  Dawn turned to look at Cane. "It's been almost thirty years, Cane. Don't you think you should that go?"

  A devious smile crossed Cane's face. "When you get to be my age, sometimes all you have left to hold on to are the grudges."

  "Is there something I should know here?" Bishop asked innocently.

  "No," Dawn and Cane replied in unison.

  Cane looked up at the projection screen. "Back to the debriefing." He tapped his control again. The image quickly flipped to a satellite view of Florida. A large swirling cloud mass was hanging just off the western coast. "What you're looking at is Tropical Storm Katrina. Meteorologists expect this tropical storm to turn into a full blown hurricane in the next twenty-four hours."

  "Where's Stone Brook?" Dawn asked.

  Cane walked up to the screen and pointed to an area directly in Katrina's path. "Right here."

  "We're going to wait until the storm passes to go investigate, right?" Bishop asked nervously.

  "Afraid not, Mr. Bishop," Cane replied with a smile. "I hope you packed an overnight bag, because we're leaving in an hour."

  Bishop leaned back in his chair. "This isn't exactly how I wanted to start my career with the OPR," he declared.

  "Theories?" Dawn asked after a moment of silence.

  Cane shook his head. "None at present."

  Dawn tapped her long fingernails against her front teeth. "Does this area have a history of paranormal activity?"

  "Not that we've been able to find yet." Cane returned to his position next to the projector. "The records department is still trying to dig up anything they can find on Stone Brook." Cane flipped a switch on the body of the projector shutting it off. He then walked across the office and clicked on the office lights.

  Dawn rubbed her hands through her hair, "So we're going in blind." She thought for a moment. "Do we have a contact at the SBPD?"

  Cane nodded. "A Detective Enbaugh." He glanced down at his watch. "Tick, tick," he said quickly. "We better get moving if we want to catch our plane." Cane scooped up the pile of papers on the desk and held them under his arm. Turning, he walked out of the office.

  Dawn and Bishop rose slowly from their seats. Bishop looked across at Dawn. "Have you ever been in a hurricane before?"

  Dawn shook her head. "This is why I love working at the OPR. Always new experiences."

  ****

  "For Ghost Chasers, Inc., I'm Rivers Gallows," the host said in a firm voice directly into the camera. "Remember, the next paranormal experience could be yours." A serious expression crossed Gallows’ face as he stood still. The lights on the small set dimmed.

  "We're clear, Mr. Gallows," a disembodied voice said off camera.

  "About damned time," Gallows grunted. His body posture changed as he reac
hed into his black leather jacket pocket. The serious look on his face mutated into that of exhaustion. "How many takes was that? Ten? Fifteen?" he asked in a dark tone. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, he lifted open the box top and pulled one out. Depositing the pack back into his pocket, he removed a small gold lighter.

  "You can't smoke in here, Mr. Gallows."

  Gallows looked at the crew behind the camera. "Hey, when you're the star of this show, you can tell me to do whatever you want." Gallows lifted the lighter to his cigarette and took a long drag. He slowly exhaled the smoke in the direction of the crew. "Until then, you can fuck off." He reached up and loosened the tie around his neck, then undid the top button of his dark shirt.

  Gallows was a tall and well built man. He weighed in at about two hundred pounds, but most of that was muscle. He had short red hair combed neatly across his head and dark, piercing green eyes. His face was the classic oval shape with a chiseled chin. He looked as if he should be starring in the next big action movie out of Hollywood instead of hosting a show on the supernatural. Gallows ran his hand down his leather jacket and unbuttoned it. He was wearing a pair of dark slacks, a deep red shirt and matching tie under his jacket.

  "Mr. Gallows, are you ready to shoot the next segment?" the director asked from behind the camera.

  Gallows rolled his cigarette between his fingers as he stared menacingly at the director. "I think we're done for today, Jimmy."

  The director, a small, thin man wearing a blue baseball cap and white t-shirt, stood and marched toward Gallows. He stood a full foot shorter than Gallows. "We're already a full day behind because of you, Gallows." He pulled off his hat and tossed it angrily on the floor, "And my fucking name's not Jimmy!"

  "Timmy?" Gallows asked as he took a puff off his cigarette.

  "Jesus-h-tap-dancing-Christ!" the director shouted in vain. Tossing his clipboard on the floor, he walked off the set.

  "Billy?" Gallows asked again. Turning, a smug look crossed his face. "I guess we're done for the day."

  The crew began to shuffle slowly off the set, shaking their heads. A lone man stood near the back of the sound stage. He walked slowly across the set toward Gallows. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "Walter!" Gallows exclaimed. "How are you?"

  Walter James stepped into the lights and stopped. He was a thin man of about forty, wearing a dark gray blazer, a white polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans. "Don't give me that shit," Walter said angrily. "Are you trying to throw your career away?"

  Gallows wrapped his arm around Walter's shoulder. "You're my agent, right?"

  "Yeah," Walter answered suspiciously.

  Gallows began to walk toward the stage exit. "I pay you eleven percent of whatever I make, right?"

  "Yes."

  Gallows stopped and stared at Walter. "Then why the fuck am I working on some show about ghosts, when I could be making movies?"

  "Honestly?"

  Gallows nodded. "I want the truth."

  Walter stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Most casting directors think you're a prima donna, and directors just don't want to work with you. You've shot your career in the foot with this attitude of yours."

  "What attitude?" Gallows asked.

  "Don't give me that shit, Rivers," Walter snapped. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. This ego of yours is keeping you out of work. Even the producers of this show are getting tired of it. Word around here is that you've already got one foot out the door. Hell, we probably won't even get Danny to come back and direct the rest of this episode."

  "Danny," Gallows said to himself. "I knew I was close." He dropped his cigarette and crushed it out. "Look," he tapped Walter on the chest. "If the producers of this show want to get rid of me, then fuck ‘em. They can watch their show tank without me. I'll walk right now, Walter."

  "I don't think that's a good idea," Walter cautioned him.

  "Why not?" Gallows asked angrily.

  "Because this show is all you've got left." Walter let the words sink in for a moment before he continued. "If you walk, then pack your goddamned bags, because you're heading home to Iowa." Walter turned and began to walk away.

  Gallows stood in silence for a moment. "Walter!" he shouted across the stage. He watched Walter open the door and walk into the bright California afternoon. The door closed slowly behind him. Gallows ran his hand through his red hair. "Christ," he muttered under his breath. The creak of another door startled him. He spun around.

  "Mr. Gallows?" A young man asked.

  "Yes?"

  The young man nervously stopped a few feet away from Gallows. "The producer want to see you immediately."

  ****

  The interior of Enbaugh's office was cold and musty. The walls had the tell tale dark blotches of water stains over their already dingy brown color. Broken ceiling tiles from the roof lay in a disorderly pile in the far corner, swept there by a lazy janitor. The ceiling fan, a noisy contraption that could very well predate modern man, chugged overhead.

  Enbaugh sat in his padded brown wooden chair behind his small metal desk. The desk, which occupied almost a quarter of the space in this cramped office, was strewn with old reports which had never been filed and half empty Styrofoam cups of diet cola. An ancient black blotter sat in the middle of the mess.

  Enbaugh reached across and grabbed one of the cups. Lifting it to his nose, he took a quick sniff, then after he was satisfied it wouldn't kill him, took a long sip. Crushing the cup in his hand, he tossed it to the hard wood floor and watched it skip and roll until it reached its final resting place near the door. He closed his eyes and leaned back. They were haunting, the glowing red eyes he had seen earlier that day. No matter what thought he picked to occupy his mind, they were still there, burned into the very fabric of his consciousness.

  Shaking his head, he sat up and looked toward the window. Rain was pelting the weathered glass panes. He took some comfort in the sound of it, its almost rhythmic dance as it hit and then slid down. They had seen nothing but dark gray clouds and rain for the past week here in northern Florida, which in itself wasn't unusual for this time of year, but this storm seemed particularly bad. Enbaugh couldn't explain why. It had an evil element to it. He couldn't put his finger on it.

  A knock at the door pulled him out of his trance. Blinking twice, he looked away from the window toward his open door. A soft smile crossed his face. "What's up, Montoya?"

  Montoya was leaning against the brown trim of the doorframe, her hands buried in her pockets. Her black trench coat was gone, leaving only her black blouse and slacks. The brown leather holster for her weapon was attached neatly to her belt. "Can we talk?"

  Enbaugh nodded. He could already tell there was something on her mind. "What's the matter?"

  Montoya slid into a waiting chair in front of Enbaugh's desk. She fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment before finally coming to rest with her legs crossed. She brushed a stray lock of blonde hair away from her face as she looked at her partner. "What happened out there?"

  "What do you mean?" Enbaugh replied, playing the fool. He didn't want to talk about it.

  "What do I mean?" she asked awestruck. "I mean why the hell do we have another member of the Grant family lying in our freezer downstairs?"

  "Look," Enbaugh said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I don't want to talk about it."

  "I don't give a shit what you want, Jack," Montoya snapped. "We've got four dead people on our hands. All of them died within twenty-four hours of each other in the same place!" Montoya uncrossed her legs and sat forward, "And the only answer I have is a pair of red eyes. What the hell is going on here, Jack?"

  "I–"

  "Have you been hitting the bottle again?"

  "Fuck you." A dark scowl crossed Enbaugh's face. "I have been clean and sober for six years now."

  "Then what the hell aren't you telling me?" Montoya pleaded.

  "Nothing!" Enbaugh sent a stack of papers crashing to the floor as he sprung up. Walking aro
und the desk, he pushed his office door closed and leaned up against it. Most of the older offices in the building weren't equipped with locks. "That's what I saw! Those fucking red eyes in the darkness."

  Montoya stood up to face Enbaugh. "I think you're a good cop, Jack, don't get me wrong, but I think your losing your Goddamned mind! Don't you sell me some bullshit about glowing eyes in the darkness, tell me what really happened!"

  "Christ o'mighty!" Enbaugh shouted. "I've told you the truth three times now. Why won't you believe me?"

  "You're full of shit, Jack." Montoya pushed past Enbaugh and grabbed the door handle. Throwing open the door, she stood with her back to him. "A person killed and mutilated an entire family on our watch, and they're still out there. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" She walked away before Enbaugh had a chance to answer.

  Enbaugh took a few steps across his office, then stopped. Lashing out, he knocked the rest of the papers and trash from his desk. Standing tall, he took a deep breath into his nicotine stained lungs and tried to relax.

  "Detective?"

  Enbaugh spun around to see a shapely young brunette woman standing in his doorway. He instantly recognized her as one of the receptionists, Julie he thought. "Yes?"

  "Captain Thomas wanted me to inform you that you have guests on the way," she said in a sweet voice.

  "I don't understand," Enbaugh admitted.

  "The Office of Paranormal Research is paying the town of Stone Brook a visit and you are to extend every courtesy to them."

  Enbaugh slammed the butt of his hand against his desk.

  Chapter 5

  "How long have we known each other, Rivers?" Stephen Edwards asked rhetorically. Stephen was the Executive Producer of Ghost Chasers, Inc. He had been there since the very first day of shooting, and even well before that. He was a middle-aged man with a thin graying beard and a receding hairline that was retreating faster than the Germans did when they tried to invade Russia during the winter. He was a thin man and his body was beginning to show the wear and tear of stress. "Long enough to know your fucking name isn't Rivers," he said with a laugh.