Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  He was about to continue his ascent up the stairs when a glimmer of light from somewhere on the first level saw him stop cold in his tracks. Somewhere within the shadowed lobby there was a sudden flash of white light, not unlike that which came off of his cell phone. Killing his own light, Ulrich sidled up to the door and stared through the window into the lobby.

  Another flash of light removed all doubt. There was someone outside that door, navigating the lobby with a light of their own.

  And they were coming towards the door.

  8

  Ulrich had two options. Neither of them were particularly appealing.

  He realized he could either run back down to the cellar, making a mad dash for the window and, subsequently, the outside world, or he could stand and face this stranger who now approached the door to the stairwell.

  He had little time to come to a decision and so decided to try his luck. Ulrich pushed open the door and stepped out into the lobby, drawing at once the white, flickering light of the unseen occupant. He froze in the blinding glow like a deer in headlights. Shuffling footsteps echoed through the space, whose general outline was rendered in ghostly shades of grey by the moonlight that flooded in through staggered windows. To his right there was a large desk where hotel staff might've once worked. To the left was a wide open space where once there had been a lobby. He could very nearly envision the plush chairs and carpet that had once filled the space. Now only bare, scarred flooring stretched on to the dusty windows.

  But of far more interest was the stranger who now approached, appraising him furtively from beneath the edge of a drooping hood. It was a man in an oversized Carhartt jacket. His hair was long, protruding from the hood in greasy tentacles, and he wore a wild beard and mustache. The man's mouth twitched as he took Ulrich into his sights. Locked within his fist was a silver Maglite, which he raised up and shined in the investigator's eyes. The very sight of it made Ulrich nervous, and he flinched in the light, waiting to get beaned by the thing.

  Instead, the stranger spoke up in a gravelly voice. "You there. You a cop?"

  Ulrich lowered his hands and squinted through the light. "Me? No. I'm a gumshoe. A private investigator."

  Taking a moment to process this reply, the stranger took a step back, the bright light still centered on Ulrich's face with the intent of blinding him, and said, "So, what brings you out here? This property's abandoned. Been empty for a long while, so I hope you ain't coming in here to clear us out. Not working on behalf of the city, are you?"

  "No, no. Nothing like that." Ulrich gulped. "Actually, I'm looking for someone. A, uh... missing person, and I have reason to believe that they might be here in this building."

  This explanation seemed to calm the man with the Maglite down, because he lowered it with a sigh and sported a thin, yellow smile. "Oh, I see. Well, that ain't no problem, then." He motioned at the lobby to his back, hiking out a jagged thumb. "A few of us have been hanging around here now that the weather ain't so good. Figure that this place s just rotting away. Someone might as well make use of it. Couple of months ago the cops cracked down on squatters round these parts. I thought you might have been one of them. So... who is it you're looking for? I know everyone who's been staying here this winter."

  Thankful to have the light out of his face, Ulrich took a step forward. "Well, it's a woman. Her name is Vivian. Do you know her?"

  The man's lips creased in a frown. "Nah, ain't no women hanging around here. Trust me," he added with a wheezy guffaw, "if there were, I'd know it!"

  "Is that so?" Ulrich peered around the lobby, studied the cobweb-encrusted light fixtures overhead. "The woman I'm looking for went missing ten years ago. Last I heard, she was seen around this building. It would have been sometime in the last few days, as a matter of fact. I could have sworn she was staying here."

  Sticking a finger in his ear, the man shook his head. "No, I don't think I've seen no woman come in here. It's just me and a few of my buddies right now. And we've been here since the end of October, off and on." He shrugged. "Must have gotten the wrong place." The man lurched forward, looking up at Ulrich entreatingly. "Incidentally, since I've been such a sweetheart, helping you out here, I don't suppose you could, uh, return the favor, could you?" He extended an open palm.

  "You've been here since October? And you... you and your friends spend the nights here?" asked the investigator.

  "That's right. Beats the hell out of dying on the streets. We even managed to drag a few beds outta the basement down there. Got a pretty sweet setup."

  From his breast pocket, Ulrich removed the photograph of Vivian and held it out for the man to see. "And you've never seen this woman in the building? Not once in all the time you've been here?"

  Something about the photo caused the man to immediately withdraw his grubby hand as though he'd been scalded. Nearly dropping his flashlight, the squatter performed the sign of the Cross and retreated a few paces back into the shadows. "Is that the broad you're looking for?" he asked, voice low. "If that's the case, then I've got some bad news for you. She ain't... how shall I say... a normal broad, that one."

  "You know her?" prodded Ulrich, pulling out his wallet and snatching a crisp twenty out of the center pocket. "I don't suppose you could take me to her, could you?"

  The man glanced at the money in Ulrich's hand as though it were the most repugnant thing he'd ever seen. "Look, man, you aren't getting it. This woman... she ain't right. You're in here looking for someone that ain't around anymore. She was here before me and the others arrived, and I'm thinking she'll be here long after we're gone, too. Only ever seen her outside, thank God, but let's just say I want nothing to do with her."

  Ulrich was baffled. He looked down at the photo of Vivian in his hand and could find nothing upsetting about it. "She's a ghost, yes?" He uttered it flatly, as though conversations about apparitions were the most natural thing in the world. "I want to find her. Where can I do that?"

  With great hesitance, the man reached out and took the twenty that Ulrich was offering, stuffing it into the breast pocket of his Carhartt. "I wouldn't, if I were you. I really wouldn't, mister. You follow her around too long and she's bound to return the favor. A sharp guy like you oughta know that certain things in this world ain't to be fucked with. And that woman is one of 'em. Take it from me."

  "I don't understand. What are you implying? That the spirit of this woman is... dangerous?" Ulrich thought he sensed movement in one of the nearby windows and glanced over at it, only to find nothing.

  The man pointed to the photograph, still in Ulrich's hand. "Looks real pretty there, don't she? But the real thing... oh, it ain't like that at all. The face... it's all wrong, detective. All fucking wrong. If you get a look at her up-close, you'll see what I mean. Buddy of mine, Darrel, caught sight of her walking around outside the building on one of our first nights here. Thought he might try and talk to her. Well, he got up close, tried to strike up some conversation. That's when he noticed something was off. She turned to look at him and that's when he saw her true face. Poor fucker ain't slept right ever since, and I don't much blame him. I caught a glimpse of it too, and let's just say that it's the most gruesome thing I've ever fuckin' seen. And you can take that to the bank. I don't look like much, but I've seen war, mister. Fought back in Desert Storm. Saw a few injuries in my day, but nothing quite like this. Haunts your dreams. And for days after, poor Darrel thought she was still following him. Through the halls of this place, while he was out and about--everywhere. Maybe she was, I don't really know. I only ever see her briefly because I know better than to look long and hard. But maybe Darrel was right. Maybe she really was intent on watching him sleep, on crawling out towards him in the darkness."

  Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, Ulrich forced a grin. "You're not serious about all of this, are you? Where is this Darrel? Can I speak to him?"

  The man shrugged. "Beats me. Ain't seen Darrel in close to a month. He just packed up one day and to
ok off. Who knows where he went to. I know he ain't got no family to crash with. Ever since he left, the rest of us have kept far away from that demon bitch, anyhow."

  "Demon bitch?" Ulrich looked down at the photo again, struggling to justify what he knew of Vivian Poole with this man's frightened depiction.

  “Oh, yes. She ain't no friendly thing, that one. A proper monster.” The man seemed through with talking; with a crisp twenty in his pocket, he was all to eager to cut their conversation short. “I was going out to pick up a bite,” he said, angling towards the door. “Few guys upstairs, having a snooze. Wouldn't wake 'em if I was you. Light sleepers, most of 'em. Good luck with your, eh... ghost hunt, detective.” He sported a tight grin and then moved past Ulrich towards the stairway.

  “Excuse me,” continued the investigator. “Just one last question. How can I get out of this place? I found my way in through a window in the basement, but I'm going to have a rough time getting out that way. Any pointers?”

  The vagrant nodded. “Come with me. You take the stairs up to the second floor and there's an exterior door that leads to a fire escape. Pretty new, sturdy thing. Some recent city ordinance made it so that they had to replace all the fire escapes in these old, abandoned buildings round here. Ain't that a hoot? No one's used this building properly in a good ten years, but the city comes by every now and then to keep it up to code. Ain't that nice of 'em?” The man shuffled into the stairwell, Maglite at his side. With a groan, he took the steps two at a time, waiting for Ulrich upon the second floor landing.

  On the second floor they were met by a long, moonlit hallway. To the right there appeared a shadowy expanse where empty hotel rooms sat in rows. The left side of the hall terminated near the stairwell exit, and a propped glass door that opened out onto a fire escape greeted them. Ulrich followed the man outside, climbing down the escape until the two of them were back on the ground. “Thank you,” said Ulrich. “I appreciate your help, Mr... uh... I don't believe I caught your name, actually.”

  The man cracked a grin, scratching his bristly cheek. “Good reason for that. I don't really carry business cards around with me wherever I go, detective. Now, you have yourself a good night, yeah?” The vagrant was about to turn the corner, had taken a few quick steps towards the main road, when suddenly he halted. He let loose a loud breath, which fogged up in the air ahead of him, and began doubling back. Reaching out to grasp Ulrich's shoulder, his face had gone white. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “On second thought, let's get back inside, fella. Quick, now.”

  The pair had exited into an alley running behind the Prescott. There was nothing of note to be seen in the stretch. The dark concrete walkway was flanked on one side by the hotel and by a brick wall on the other. To their backs could be seen an abandoned dumpster, worn out of shape by the elements over the course of years. For nearly an entire minute, the investigator struggled to determine the cause of the vagrant's retreat.

  Registering just above the ragged breathing of Ulrich's disheveled companion came the sound of long, shuffling footsteps.

  “It's her...” said the man, walking up the fire escape in reverse and reaching behind him for the door. “It's the ghost.” Groping at the handle, he managed to wrench it open, slipping half-way inside. “Get over here, man. Get inside. She's comin' this way!”

  Ulrich remained in place, gaze divided between the man on the fire escape and the doubtful humanoid shape that was now entering into view at the far end of the alley they were situated in. The walk, he felt, was undoubtedly familiar. It was the same staggering walk Vivian had done during Ulrich's last sighting. So late at night however, and after all he'd been told by the grungy squatter, the investigator couldn't help but grow uneasy. “Are you sure?”

  There was no reply. The man had slipped back into the building and the sounds of his thumping footfalls could be heard as he retreated back inside.

  Meanwhile, the shuffling steps were increasing in volume, and the late-night visitant was drawing closer. That it was a woman—that it was Vivian—was crystal clear to him from twenty or thirty feet. She was wearing the same disordered clothing as before, her pale white skin catching the moonlight and glowing like a piece of ivory. The gait, too, was similarly strained, though as she approached, Ulrich noticed that she kept her head down.

  The long mane of unkempt, brown hair swayed before her with each unsteady pace, like she was looking down at her feet while she walked. Ulrich stood in the alley, stunned into silence, and consciously suppressing the will to run back into the building.

  You've dealt with ghosts before, he thought to himself. This is nothing new. Face it. Face the darkness now, instead of running away from it. That's the only way you'll get to the bottom of this.

  The figure, who'd made no effort to glance up at him as she trudged on, was within ten feet of him when he finally summoned his voice and chanced to call out her name. “Vivian? Vivian Poole? Is that... is that you?”

  To his surprise—and terror—the figure stopped.

  And then she turned her face upward to meet his.

  9

  Gripped by terror and staggering backward, Ulrich turned and began sprinting in the opposite direction, racing down the alley, past the crunched-up dumpster, and towards the nearest street. Just how long he'd stood there, taking in the horrid details of that face was impossible to say. There was simply no similarity between the face in the photograph and the face of the ghoulish specter whose footsteps continued their scraping cadence as he fled. The face that had greeted him was that of a monster.

  A demon. That's what the squatter in the hotel had called her.

  And he'd been right.

  A visage whose exterior had been largely worn away by trauma had looked up at him from behind that tangled brown mane. With a mouth whose hinges had been broken loose and all other features effaced by injury, hers had been the face of something that should not exist in the world of men. Where eyes should have been he saw only two beady lights, yellow, like the dying glow of an old Christmas tree bulb. No trace of a nose could be found, save for the fleshy stub where one had once been attached.

  It was the face of a woman who had leapt from the roof of a ten-floor hotel building and landed on the pavement. If he focused on the rawness of that visage enough, he swore he could almost hear the sound of her connecting with the ground, even so many years later. The rending of flesh, the tearing of connective tissues, the crunching of bone...

  As he fled, Ulrich's heart felt close to bursting. More than once he nearly lost his footing on patches of ice and avoided a wipe out by throwing his hands out and catching the brick wall to his right. It's happening again... it's happening all over again. This is real. You've encountered another one. Another spirit. Charging onto an open street that he recognized as Myrtle Drive, he whirled around and bumped into a lamp post, looking into the alley behind him.

  It took a few moments, however in the alleyway there did slowly materialize the outlines of the grotesque phantom he'd run from. Slouched, lurching steadily, the yellow glow of two dim-burning, beady eyes cut into him even from afar.

  She was following him still.

  Disoriented, Ulrich left the sidewalk and barreled into the street, navigating towards the intersection and trying to remember where the Star Diner was situated. When he finally gained his bearings, he broke into a jog and focused solely on returning to his car. He needed to get away from this place. Far away. His commitment to Michael, to solving this case and communicating with Vivian's spirit, all vanished in an instant. He was no longer interested. Something with a face and manner like that could not hope to impart anything but terror.

  The vagrant in the hotel had known it, had told Ulrich as much. He'd said, too, that the spirit had a habit of following those that it encountered on its nightly strolls. Ignoring the cold, the investigator glimpsed his Passat in the distance ahead and didn't stop running until he'd landed in the driver's seat. Fumbling for some time with the keys, his fingers too numb to
manage the ignition, Ulrich finally got her started and turned out of his space with more quickness than the old car could bear. The engine made a terrible noise as he peeled away from the Star Diner and mashed the accelerator.

  It didn't matter where he was going, so long as he was distancing himself from that thing.

  Gripping the edge of his rearview mirror, Ulrich searched now and then for the shape of the specter in the dark roads behind him. No trace turned up, though whenever he closed his eyes, there was the raw visage of Vivian Poole.

  White-knuckling the wheel, Ulrich drove all the way across town in a frenzy of horror, stopping finally when he reached a well-lit Tim Horton's.

  Ordinarily Ulrich was too snobbish a coffee drinker to enjoy the brew at a place like Tim Horton's, however the well-lit building, crowded with studying college students, and the promise of warmth, was enough to lure him. After washing up in the bathroom and staring at himself in the mirror for a long while, there was one thing that the harried investigator felt reasonably sure of.

  You aren't going crazy.

  The memory of Vivian's disfigured face sat heavily in his mind as though it'd been burnt into the wrinkles of his brain. Impossible as it was to believe however, it'd been real. He was far past the point of denying such a thing, of pretending that the dead did not sometimes mingle with the living. Still, judging by the roiling in his gut and the racing of his pulse, he wagered it was the sort of experience he'd never be able to normalize. Every time, he feared, would be like the first, and the attendant feelings of terror and despair would always turn up with the spirits.