by Terence West
The bartender, in spite of himself, started to laugh out loud. "Best beer in Florida, kid."
Jackson pushed the mug away and stood up. As he turned from the bar, he just happened to glance down at the man curled up in the corner. At first, it didn't register, but he quickly did a double take. "Rivers?" He knelt down next to Rivers and looked him over. He had passed out in a pool of his own vomit. Jackson quickly filed the information away in his blackmail folder then proceeded to try and wake him. He shook his shoulder. "Rivers?" he asked again, this time a little more firmly. "Rivers!" he finally shouted.
"Damn." Fishing his cell phone out of his pocket, Jackson hit his speed dial. He listened impatiently as the phone rang. "Come on, pick up all ready."
"This is Chloe."
"It's Jackson. I found Rivers."
"I needed some good news," she said excitedly amidst the crackle and hiss of the cellular connection. "Where are you guys?"
"In a bar about a mile from the Grant House," Jackson responded. "You're going to have to send a car."
"Why?"
"Rivers is passed out, and it looks like he chummed on himself a couple of times." He wasn't sure why, but Jackson was getting a real delight out of telling Chloe this.
Chloe let out an audible sigh. "All right, I'll send the car. Just stay put."
Chapter 22
The storm had returned. The brief pause, which was the eye of the hurricane, had past. The wall of wind and weather tore through Stone Brook, destroying any attempts the citizens had made that day to repair or protect their belongings. Some of the older residents likened it to the bomb scares in the ‘50's. At the drop of a hat, they were to abandon whatever they were doing and seek shelter, as if that would actually help. The only thing missing now were the sirens, and the old-timers really didn't miss them.
Palm trees that had bent in submission against the winds the night before were now being completely uprooted and hurled from their resting places. The pelting rain pounded buildings and howling winds whipped around the streets. It was almost as if it wasn't enough. The storm had gotten a taste for blood and apparently liked it. Of course, that's vilifying an act of nature as if it had a conscience or emotions. That was giving it too much credit. It was a mindless machine of destruction. It had no other purpose. It would swoop in from the ocean on the warm trade winds, annihilate whatever it touched, then whisk away like a ghost in the night, never to be heard from again.
It wasn't fair. People spend their whole lives saving and building up their dreams. They scrape every penny and dime together in a meager savings account just so they could pay the bills that month and work toward their future. Slowly, their dreams become reality. They feel fulfilled. They can finally sit back, relax, and enjoy the things they never could.
Then it comes.
With one fell swoop, it wipes a lifetime of work away. No thought of what it's doing to the people. It's just business as usual for the hurricane. It really isn't fair.
Cane shook his head. He was letting his mind wander. He was perched inside the small white satellite van outside the Grant House. It was almost empty, except for a few consoles and a ragged baseball cap that had long since been forgotten. He looked out the sliding door at the weather. It was dark on the horizon, almost black. A portent of things to come? He ran his fingers up to his goatee and began to work them through the hairs. He found he often did this when he was overly worried about something, and right now, he was really worried.
He had no answers. To his, or the company's, knowledge, something like this had never happened before. Never had they recorded or heard of an instance where spirits, or beings, terrorized an entire town. This was completely unprecedented. It was almost if the very gates of hell had been opened…
Paranormal phenomenon, in his experience, was often generalized to one location. The sites of old, unmarked cemeteries were often the home of restless spirits, as were sacred places. Sometimes, if a person died violently, or by their own hand in a place, they appeared to be doomed to roam the halls of where they died. That was punishment, Cane was sure. The spirit was exiled from heaven, never to know rest. That’s probably why they're so angry, Cane joked.
Stepping out of the van, Cane ducked into the garage to escape the storm. He had been helping move equipment from the van to the garage most of the afternoon. The crew had decided it would be easier, and safer, if they were inside. They really didn't want to be sitting in a tiny, cramped van while the storm raged.
"We still need to get the cameras out of the house," Carrie announced. She was sitting in the rear of the garage, slowly smoking a cigarette. Dropping the butt to the ground, she crushed it with her foot. "Any volunteers?"
The crew was silent.
Carrie looked angry. This shoot was turning out to be the biggest disaster of her career. "Look," she said after a moment, "if no one volunteers, I'm just going to choose someone to go."
There were still no takers.
"Fine," Carrie said with a grunt. She scanned over the crew before her, finally allowing her eyes to settle on one man. "Trent," she hissed, "since you're the camera man, you go get the equipment."
Trent swallowed hard. He had almost been hiding behind a stack of equipment, hoping not to get picked. He looked at Carrie, his eyes pleading with her not to make him go. After a moment, the stark reality of the situation set in. He had no choice.
"I'll go."
The entire crew spun around to see Cane raising his hand. An audible wave of relief passed over the crew. Someone else was going to do it.
"Mr. Cane," Carrie addressed, "are you that anxious to get back into the house?"
"No," Cane admitted, "but I don't think we should be sending one of them," he said, pointing to the crew. "I am a trained professional and capable of handling a situation like this." He almost believed himself. "It's only right that I go."
"Wow," Carrie drew the word out sarcastically. "I didn't know I was asking for the five dollar speech. I was just curious." She looked over Cane with a smile, then motioned to the door much like a stewardess would as she pointed out the exits on an airplane. "Be my guest."
Winding his way through the stacks of equipment, Cane eventually found his way to the door that connected the garage to the house. Pausing, he finally reached down and wrapped his hand around the knob. He hadn't been back in the house since earlier in the day. None of them had. He was actually surprised they wanted to set up in the garage, as it was technically part of the house. Looking behind him, he noticed the entire crew had stopped what they were doing and had turned their complete attention to him. It was a bit unnerving.
He took a deep breath and opened the door. A rush of warm air came out of the house. It was in stark comparison to the cool, damp air of the garage. Taking a step inside, Cane slowly looked around. He was standing inside a small hallway. Peering down to the end, he could see that it led into the dining room. It was no more than five feet wide. It felt like it was an afterthought. Something squeezed into the house by the architect after the owners asked for revisions. He ran his fingers along the plain, white walls. He expected, that at any moment, a creature was going to burst through the wall and devour him. This house rattled him. Something he hadn't felt since his very first investigation all those years ago. It was crawling under his skin.
Thud.
Cane jerked his head up toward the ceiling. That sound had definitely come from the second floor. He slowly turned around and surveyed the faces of the crew. From their pale expressions, he knew they had heard it as well. He quickly returned his attention to the end of the hallway.
Thud… thud.
His instincts were screaming at him to run, but he didn't. He held his position. He listened again for the muffled thump from the second floor. He began to wonder what it could be. The image of a dead body being tossed on the floor suddenly came to mind. Focus! Have to stay sharp, he scolded himself. He took a step forward. Then another. He wasn't sure if he was consciously moving, or j
ust willing himself forward. His hands braced firmly against the walls, he slowly arrived at the mouth of the hall.
The dining room and living room were quiet. Bits of gear still littered the floor and the acrid smell of burnt electrical equipment filled his nose. It was probably from his fried EMF Meter. At least he hoped so. His goals were the two cameras. He needed to know if any of the footage had survived. One had been completely knocked over, but the other was still standing.
Mustering all his courage, he let go of the hallway walls and moved into the living room. He visually scanned the area, looking for any trace of something out of the ordinary. A drop of sweat ran down his forehead. He felt it run into his eyebrow, then drip off. He hadn't realized he had broken out in a cold sweat. Dear God, he said shamefully. I’m terrified.
Thud.
Flipping around, Cane dashed across the living room and pressed his back against the wall. At least that way, he would be able to see what was coming… he hoped. His heart was racing. Glancing up at the ceiling, he tried to glean some kind of information out of it as to what was causing the noises, but he knew it was futile. His mind was just racing out of fear. Suddenly, an odd sensation passed over him. It was a cold chill that ran down his back, but it was strange. It was external. Cane slowly pulled himself away from the wall and turned around. To his horror, a viscous red fluid was bleeding from the top of it. It was oozing down toward the floor, where it was starting to pool on the carpet. Cane reached around and ran his hand over the back of his jacket, only to find the fluid on it.
Ripping off his leather jacket, he tossed it on the floor and stepped away. He didn't know what the red liquid was, but he knew he didn't want it on him. He noticed a small wisp of smoke flitting up from his coat. Kneeling down next to it, he was astonished to see the fluid eating through the leather like an acid. Cane stood up and glanced around. The wall was bleeding faster now. The pool was slowly approaching his position.
Thud.
That was all Cane could take. Spinning around, he started to make his way toward the hall, but stopped. The entrance was gone. There was no sign of the hallway he had entered through. In a panic, Cane ran his hands over the wall in front of him.
"This is where it was," he assured himself. "I know it."
Pounding on the wall in frustration, Cane heard a crack. Looking closely, he could see a small break where he had hit it. Finding a spark of hope, he reared back and threw his full weight into his fist. It connected solidly with the wall, and it gave under the stress. Cane peered in, only to find another wall behind it. He cursed under his breath. He wasn't losing it, he kept telling himself. This was some kind of trick.
He turned and looked back into the living room. The red fluid had engulfed most of the floor and was working its way over the furniture. Cane was transfixed for a moment. He had never seen a liquid run up before. He watched for several seconds as the red fluid charged up the side of one of the leather couches. It slowly began to disintegrate before his eyes.
Thud.
"What the hell is that?" he shouted to no one.
Snapping his head to his left, he remembered the kitchen entrance in the dining room. To Cane's surprise, the door was partially open. Moving quickly around the dining table, he pushed it open. The kitchen seemed normal except for… he wasn't sure. Something seemed a bit off, but he couldn't place it. He ran his eyes over the counters, then to the stove and refrigerator. Everything seemed to be in place. His eyes wandered down to the black floor. There was no glare on the surface. That's probably because there's no sunlight hitting it, Cane reasoned. All in all, it seemed normal.
Cane took a step forward… and connected with nothing. No floor. Nothing. He tried to catch himself on the doorframe, but he missed. He tumbled into the blackness that was the kitchen's floor. Flailing his arms wildly, he somehow snagged the edge of the island with his fingertips. Reaching his other hand up, he tried to get a better grip on the lip. He looked across the kitchen. He was hanging below where the floor would have been. It seemed very surreal to him. The island and the counters seemed to be floating in midair. There was nothing supporting them from below, only more darkness.
His mind tried to reason through the strangeness, but logic was failing him. He tried to focus, tried to bring out the scientist to examine the subject, but there was no sense to be made. He looked down again. There were no walls, no visible end, nothing. Just darkness. His mind began to put together a working theory.
He looked at his hand, the same one he touched the fluid with on the back of his jacket, there was nothing on it. No burns, and no red fluid. "If that substance can melt furniture and eat through leather, it surely would've gone through my hand like it was nothing." He was losing his grip. His fingers slowly began to slip off the lip of the island, but he held fast. "The hallway," he said to himself as he tried not to panic. "I came in through a hallway, but then it was gone… "A wry smile suddenly crossed his face. "I understand now."
He let go.
****
Enbaugh carefully poked his head out of his room. He felt like hell, but there was someone he wanted to meet. He had overheard the doctors talking about her earlier, and it had piqued his curiosity. Someone else had survived. That, in his opinion, was a miraculous thing. The hallway was clear, and the night nurse was away from her station. Enbaugh walked slowly out his door, IV in tow, his feet pattering against the cold floor.
He slowly ran his hand over his sore neck. The muscle relaxer the nurse had given him earlier had relieved some of the pain. At least he was able to turn his head more than an inch now. That was a relief. With every step he took, the pain worsened. He could feel every stitch in his body acutely as if they were tugging at his very flesh. This was important, though. He needed to speak with this woman, if only to reclaim his sanity.
He paused at the end of the corridor. He knew she was on this floor, but wasn't sure what room she was in. Enbaugh just knew her name was Kelley and she had survived. That was enough for him. He slowly turned the corner after making sure it was free of doctors and nurses. He knew he would have to call on his detective skills to find this woman. It wasn't going to be easy–
He stopped. Looking to his left, he peered into a darkened room. Glancing up at the chart hanging on the wall, he quickly read the name. Amazingly, it was her room. Or, he thought, I could just rely on dumb luck.
Taking a step into the room, he quickly pulled back. Maybe this woman wasn't ready for visitors, he reasoned. She’s been through a traumatic experience. Enbaugh pondered his course of action for a moment. Maybe I should knock. Reaching up, he tapped his knuckles on the open wooden door.
"You can come in," came a voice from the darkness. "I mean you're halfway there already."
"I'm sorry," croaked Enbaugh, "I didn't mean to disturb you."
"It's okay. I think I could use some company right now. I don't really want to be alone."
Walking into the room, Enbaugh reached for the light switch.
"I prefer it dark," Kelley warned him.
He pulled his hand away from the switch. "Sorry." Moving around her bed, Enbaugh slowly sank down into a small plastic chair. His body groaned in protest as he moved in ways he hadn't for days. He reached out a hand toward Kelley. "My name's Jack."
Kelley was sitting Indian style in the center of her bed. She had the covers partially pulled over one knee and two pillows propped up behind her back. Her blonde hair was partially matted to her head from sleep, and she didn't care. The light blue hospital gown was hanging lazily off her left shoulder, exposing the edges of several cuts on her chest. "Mine's Kelley." She slowly reached out and shook his hand.
"Are you okay?" Enbaugh asked carefully.
Kelley shook her head. "No. You?"
Enbaugh smiled. "I've been better." He wasn't sure if he should just jump straight into his questions, or try and gain her trust with small talk. He scolded himself, again with the detective shtick. This is not a criminal you're interrogating, he r
eminded himself. This is a scared young woman who just needs a friend at the moment. "Have you tried the food here yet? Horrible."
Kelley smiled. "That lovely piece of meatloaf we had today looked more like cardboard than meat."
"So what do you do for a living, Kelley?"
"I work here," she replied calmly. "I'm a nurse at this hospital."
"Is it strange being on the other side of the stethoscope?" Enbaugh wondered.
"A bit," Kelley admitted. "I understand a little more what the patients are going through." She looked over the wounded man in front of her. His injuries were as extensive as hers. "What happened?"
"What do you mean?"
Kelley pointed at the bandage around his throat. "How did you end up here?"
"I was in a car accident during the hurricane."
"How did it happen?"
"It was just a mess," Enbaugh admitted. "The storm was really bad and I wasn't paying as much attention to the road as I should have been."
"I'm sorry," Kelley said sympathetically. "I hate to see bad things happen to good people."
Enbaugh wasn't sure if she was talking about his accident, or reflecting on her situation. "How do you know I'm a good person?"
Kelley smiled softly. "I can just tell."
Enbaugh let that one slide. He had seen enough voodoo creepy shit these last few days to last him another lifetime. He really didn't want to find out this girl was a witch or something. He didn't think he could handle it. "So, what happened to you?"
Kelley paused.
Enbaugh pulled back. He realized he had pressed the panic button. "I shouldn't ask. I'm sorry."
"No," Kelley retorted after a moment, "It's okay. It's fair. I asked you what happened, so you have the right to ask me."
"If you don't want to talk about it, I will understand. It's no big deal."
