Hands to his brow, Ulrich took to pacing. "What in the hell was that about?" he uttered, looking down at Beardsley, who was sitting on the sofa armrest, licking the back of his paw. "She really was here, wasn't she? I mean... you saw her too, right?" The question sat in the air for some time and the cat gave no reply.
Frightening though the encounter had been, it seemed to him that it could have been just a waking dream or hallucination. He was, after all, the kind of man who'd fallen into the habit of conversing earnestly with animals. Arms crossed, he examined the front door. Still locked. The scene in his room was a disarray, though he could find nothing within the space that hadn't been disturbed due to his own frenzied flight out.
Of course there's no trace of her here, he said, plopping down onto the edge of his bed. You're dealing with a ghost. Still, something was troubling him. Unless he'd just dreamt the whole thing up--and he wasn't so sure that he had, despite his wishes--then this was the first time that a spirit had approached him outside of a reportedly haunted locale.
Vivian had materialized in his apartment, had followed Ulrich all the way home from the site of her death. How was it possible? In the other cases he'd worked featuring a supernatural element, such things had never happened. The dead seemed ordinarily confined to the places where they'd died. That was how it'd always worked. Until now.
Why me? Why did she choose to follow me, and why did she call me a liar? Nothing made sense; the rules of the dead were still a total mystery to him, and the more he pondered this most recent episode, the more he felt in over his head. He'd bitten off more than he could chew, had walked headlong into a spiritual trap.
And it served him damn well.
Your dumb ass should have quit the case the moment you realized it was a ghost hunt. You deserve every terrible thing that happens to you from this point on. Now what will you do? Michael didn't exactly tell you what to do in the event that his dead daughter started following you around.
His head was beginning to pound. Now that the threat had passed, his body was craving sleep. His mind, though, wouldn't allow it. After what he'd seen creeping around the foot of his bed, sleep was simply out of the question. He'd need some time to wind down, to hatch a plan for putting Vivian to rest. As he sat there, working over his temples, he wondered if she wasn't still inside the apartment, watching him from some shadow-filled cranny.
The case couldn't wait. He needed to get cracking, and fast, if he was going to discover Vivian's reasons for lingering on. It was about time that he started reading about the supernatural, about the nature of spirits, and digging harder into the background of Michael, Vivian and the rest of the Poole family. Rushing to his laptop to do a bit of research, he suddenly remembered it'd been ruined, water-damaged. "Shit," he muttered, looking down at the thing. There was zero chance of his being able to boot it up in its current state. Having it repaired would take time; the local shops didn't even open till eight or nine. The library, too, was closed.
Giving the laptop a shake, he found he could still hear water sloshing around within the case. Throwing it down onto the floor with a sigh, he glanced around the room. "You've been here longer than I realized, haven't you, Vivian? It was you that ruined my computer, not the cat, am I right?"
There was only silence. He fancied he felt another wave of cold clashing with the warm air in the living room, almost as though an invisible tenant were walking past him towards the bedroom. Tensing, he peeked into the room and spotted his phone sitting under the bed near his tangled covers.
Had he wanted to, he could have put on a fresh pot of coffee and done the requisite research on his phone, though the longer he stayed in the apartment the more stifling it felt. It'd taken on the air of those terrible, haunted spaces he'd explored during previous investigations and he found himself thirsting for human contact. Dressing quickly, Ulrich booked it to the kitchen and fixed himself a coffee, pouring it into a thermos when it was done brewing.
"I guess I'm moving to third shift for this one," he told the cat with a snicker. Putting on his coat, he made certain he had his keys and wallet and then prepared to leave. Beardsley followed him all the way to the door, sniffing at his pant legs and rubbing up against him. "I'm going out for a few hours. No point in sticking around here. I won't be able to sleep till the sun's out. There's one of those twenty-four hour Internet cafes down the road, next to the grocery store. I've never been to one, but it beats sitting around here reading about spooks, don't you think?"
Beardsley mewled, laying a paw against the door.
"What, you want to come along?" scoffed the investigator. "I doubt they allow animals in such places. Sorry. You're out of luck, friend." When the cat's pawing grew more insistent, Ulrich sighed. "Look, you'll probably be all right here. The ghost is following me, remember? As soon as I leave the apartment, you should have the place to yourself. Nothing to worry about."
Still, the cat persisted, running its fore paws against his leg and meowing.
Frowning, Ulrich reached down and picked him up. "You'd be singing a different tune if you knew how damn cold it was out there. Believe me." He meditated a few moments on how best to smuggle the cat into the Internet cafe with him and settled upon what he figured was the simplest method. Taking a small duffel bag out of his bedroom closet, Ulrich stuffed it with blankets, packed a small Ziploc baggie of cat food into one of his pockets and then let the cat crawl into the duffel. He zipped it most of the way, leaving just enough space for Beardsley to poke his head out.
"I guess this means I'm letting the cat into the bag, eh?" he chuckled as he locked the door and started for the parking lot.
11
Ulrich wasn't sure what to expect as he pulled into the empty parking lot of the Internet cafe. The bright sign affixed to the side of the building, which was connected also to a quickie oil change place and a shawarma restaurant, read "777 Internet and Games 24/7 Open All-Nite Food And Drinks Available".
The name of the joint was written up like the subject line of a spam email, but Ulrich stepped out of the car, duffel bag in hand, and walked up to the door. There were only a handful of cars parked in the lot, and the business itself had blacked out windows so that he wouldn't know what he was dealing with until he actually set foot inside. The exterior seemed immaculately clean, except for a handful of crushed cigarette butts littering the front walkway. Shoving open the door, Ulrich found himself entering a dark space scented chiefly with dust, sweat and the smell of warm electronics.
It was a single, large room featuring computer stations in neat rows along the four walls. There were also a handful of cubicle-style stations situated beside the front desk, where some man in bulky noise-cancelling headphones bobbed his head energetically and buried his hand in a bag of nacho cheddar Combos. Three or four of the computers along the walls were taken up by men in t-shirts and sweatpants. Their screens flashed with violent role playing games or what appeared to be Japanese hentai cartoons. One gentleman, seated near the entrance, was scrolling through his Twitter feed and didn't even spare Ulrich a glance as he walked in.
The room was more or less silent. Sounds that did register included the clacking of keys, the furious clicking of mice, the rustling of snack bags and, now and then, the creak of a chair or a subdued belch. The patrons were very much in their own worlds, digging into their games and media as though nothing else existed. Keeping the bag slung carefully over one shoulder and hoping that the cat within wouldn't start moving around, Ulrich paid the front counter a visit.
The kid working the counter, college-aged, with dark circles around his eyes and a cheddary smile, bobbed his head and pulled off his headphones. "Hey, man," he said, leaning back in his chair until his vertebrae could be heard to pop. Shaking an almost empty can of energy drink, the youth took a sip and then stood up. "I don't recognize ya. Is this your first time here?"
Ulrich nodded. "Yes. I would just like to use a computer. I have some research to do and my laptop died on me." He pulled
out his wallet. "How much--"
"You came on the right night my friend!" interrupted the man. "We've got a special for new customers going right now. I can get you signed up for a Power Card in just five minutes. That's gonna include five hours of unlimited play. You like digital slots, my man? We've got 'em. For just forty bucks, you can pick up all of that, and a free drink or snack from our bar. How's that sound?"
The "bar" was a dusty glass case featuring overpriced bags of salty snacks, candy and cans of soda. Eyeing the selections for an instant, Ulrich smiled wearily and nodded to one of the cubicle stations to the left. "How's about I just take one of those computers over there, do a bit of light reading for an hour? No games, no glitz. How much would that run me?"
The youth frowned, looking down at his computer. "Eh... well, what about a drink? We've got Monsters in stock. Every flavor. Gotta stay alert while you're doing your, uh, reading, right?"
Ulrich lifted the thermos and gave it a shake. "Brought my own."
At this, the young man pursed his lips. "Ooh, no, I'm afraid we don't allow outside food or drink in here. Sorry about that."
Rapidly losing his patience, the investigator thumbed through the bills in his wallet and counted out two twenties. "How about this. I'll go over to one of those computers, read for an hour or so, drink my damn coffee and you'll look the other way for ten bucks instead of up-selling me on your silly cards. Here," he added, taking out an extra five dollar bill. "you can have another one of those energy drinks you like so well on me."
Considering it for only an instant, the youth reached out and took the money, nodding. "All right, mister, I'ma let you have it your way. It's a slow night, I guess. Let me tell you, though, the day shift guys would never let you get away with this, so, uh..." He winked. "Maybe just keep it between you and me, eh?"
Ulrich chortled. Every night is a slow night in this dump. They can't afford to turn me away. "I'll stay out of your hair," he said, marching off to the cubicles and selecting one that faced the front entrance. There was no one else seated near this station, and only a window to his back. Through the tinted glass he could vaguely make out the parking lot, the dark shapes of cars.
"Which computer is that?" asked the clerk. "I've gotta activate the computer you choose."
There was a piece of white tape fixed to the top of the black computer monitor. The number 33 had been scrawled onto it messily with a permanent marker. "It's number thirty-three," replied Ulrich.
With the tapping of some few keys, computer thirty-three was activated. The screen lit up and welcomed the user. A little timer in the top right corner ticked down from an hour and a half, letting him know how much time remained for his session. Setting the duffel bag down gingerly beside the metal folding chair offered at the station, Ulrich had a seat.
When he'd unzipped the bag enough to siphon a bit of kibble to Beardsley, who stirred within the confines of the bag, and had poured some coffee into the cap of his thermos, he was ready to go. Firing up the browser, Ulrich stared blankly at the screen, watching the timer count down, until he found the right search terms.
"GHOSTS" delivered more hits than he knew what to do with. Scrolling down the page, he quickly grew fed up and attempted to narrow his results. "GHOST IS FOLLOWING ME" was his next input, and though it narrowed the results by a considerable margin, the best he could find was a story on an internet message board that seemed like nothing more than juvenile role-playing. He scratched at his ear and took a sip of coffee, the fatigue behind his eyes making it more difficult than usual to focus. Keep your head in the game.
Upon further thought, looking more deeply into the history of the Poole family seemed the choicest route in finding answers, and so Ulrich decided to look into the elusive figure that was Ligeia Poole, Michael's first wife and Vivian's mother. According to Michael, Ligeia had died in a car accident years ago, though a thorough search of the name yielded no obituary; a rather strange thing for a name so distinctive as hers. The best he could find was a phone number and address listing for a Ligeia Poole living out of Kentucky, dated to two years prior.
This made him take pause. If the woman had died during Vivian's childhood, then why did she still have recent contact information floating around on the web? It was possible, of course, that this was a different Ligeia Poole, though the longer he thought about it, the more he doubted that to be the case. The name was one in a million, too rare for that. And so Ulrich decided to jot down the details in his notebook, just in case.
Still, if Ligeia was alive, it provided quite the problem for Ulrich. Michael had told him that Ligeia was dead. If that wasn't actually the case, then why had he seen it fit to lie? What had he been hiding? Michael had characterized his ex-wife as a neglectful woman, something of a monster, who couldn't bear the burden of caring for her daughter.
It wouldn't have been the first time that Michael lied to him in regards to the nature of this investigation. He'd withheld the fact of Vivian's death initially, leading Ulrich to believe that he was searching for a flesh-and-blood woman, rather than a phantasm.
Beardsley crunched up his food pleasantly, sticking his head out of the bag now and then to have a look around and then returning to the nest of blankets with a purr. Ulrich poured himself more coffee and started looking once again into the subject of the supernatural. Usually when faced with a subject he knew little about, he preferred to consult an expert. This was a special case, however. Experts on the paranormal weren't especially common. Outside of television programs, he had only members of the clergy at his disposal, or perhaps local new-agey types who'd try to sell him any number of "cures". What he really needed was someone who'd seen this sort of phenomenon before; someone who knew about the dead and who could pinpoint the reason why Vivian had decided to latch onto him.
And how to get her to stop.
In the search results for "TOLEDO GHOST EXPERT", one name kept coming up. Madame Zarnubius. She was a psychic operating out of Moorlake, a college town some thirty minutes away from Toledo, who spoke at length on her website about overcoming spiritual obstacles through the balancing of chakras or other woo. There was an enthusiastic review on Yelp, penned by a local girl named Lydia in early November, about how the psychic had helped her and one of her friends break a "curse". Though it left a bad taste in his mouth, he scribbled down her phone number as well and considered the possibility of driving down to Moorlake to meet with her in-person.
There was still a bit of time left on the clock, but Beardsley was growing restless. The cat's purring had ceased somewhere along the line, and he was now half-way out of the bag, staring at the tinted window behind them intently. Now and then, a curious noise would rise up in the feline's throat; not quite a growl, but most certainly a noise meant to relay discontent. Ulrich peered down at the animal now and then, urging him to quiet down, to no avail.
Ulrich was considering where next to direct his attention when the cat began to hiss. Quietly at first, but then with gusto. Ulrich was thankful that everyone else in the place was wearing headphones. If they hadn't been, they'd have surely heard Beardsley's savage noises. Bending down, Ulrich tried to pet him, to offer him more food, but the cat only seemed to grow more agitated as it focused on the window.
Sparing a glance through the tinted glass and eyeing the parking lot outside, Ulrich's pulse suddenly exploded. He nearly fell out of his chair, and had to grip the chintzy particle board desk to keep from toppling over.
Standing outside the window was a person. The tinting of the glass mercifully shielded him from the particulars of the individual's appearance, though from the strange, slumping posture, the wild hair, the accusatory finger pointed towards him, he knew damn well who it was.
"What is she doing here?" he asked under his breath, slowly standing up and lifting the duffel bag. Beardsley slipped back inside willingly, and Ulrich didn't even bother powering down his machine before making a run for the exit.
The clerk was standing in his way, however
. "Hey, you leaving already?" he asked. "I noticed you were running low on time and was going to give you another hour at a decent discount, if you're interested."
Ulrich shook his head, gaze moving involuntarily to the window, where the figure of Vivian waxed dominantly. "N-no, I don't think it's a good idea."
The young clerk turned, squinting at the window. Then, he smiled. "Oh, I see how it is. The old lady found ya, did she?" Guffawing, he leaned against the counter. "Happens all the time. Wife was afraid you'd gamble away all the money, eh? Robert over there had the same thing happen to him last weekend. Ain't that right, Rob?"
The clerk's words went ignored by the bald, paunchy man who slumped over his keyboard with a pair of headphones on. He was playing the digital slots like his life depended on it, and had an assortment of empty, crumpled snack bags strewn across his station and on the floor around his sagging chair.
"I... I've got to go," blurted Ulrich, dashing towards the door and starting into the cold night. He paused only long enough to find his car in the lot and then barreled towards it, the sound of labored, shuffling footsteps reaching his ears even as he panted.
When he'd set down the bag in his passenger seat and let Beardsley out, Ulrich jammed the key into the ignition and made the Passat roar out of the parking lot. In his periphery, Ulrich spotted a shambling form, its toxic yellow eyes dissecting him even from a distance. He drove over the curb and thumped out across the main drag, crashing through a yellow light and heading towards the highway.
The dull green clock on the dash wasn't telling him what he wanted to hear.
There was still plenty of night left.
Still plenty of time for him to stay awake.
Still plenty of running left to do.
He couldn't even be sure that she'd leave him alone by day. It was entirely possible that Vivian would hound him even after sunrise, till he gave in and lost his mind. Or his heart gave out on him.
Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3) Page 8
