There was a woman, some five and a half feet tall, standing now between two shelves of books. Her sweater sat askew on her sickly frame and her shoulders were hung in a permanent slump. Her chestnut-colored hair was a tangled rat's nest from whence there beamed two small, yellow eyes. And if he looked hard, dared to study the figure's face with any closeness, he could see the rest of it, too.
The skin, sanded down to pink, pockmarked rubble. The jagged cut of a mouth hanging perpetually ajar for the breakage of its seams. The tongue, trembling against a battered chin like a dying worm squirming on a fishing hook.
"What are you doing here?" he managed, legs shaking. Sequestered in the corner of the quiet shop, Ulrich couldn't be sure whether anyone else in the establishment could see her. When next he laid eyes on her, he found she'd closed the distance between them and was now several feet closer, had moved, quickly, without his even noticing it. He felt himself standing at the center of a spider's web, with its owner closing in very rapidly. Flinching, Ulrich side-stepped his own table, left his unfinished meal behind, and kept his eyes glued to her.
There was something he'd meant to do, some plan he'd hoped to enact at his next sighting of her. Everything he'd been thinking previously, though; everything he'd planned on before this moment had evaporated in a flash of terror. Now that he was faced with the phantom directly, he could think of only one thing. Like a prey animal in the crosshairs, his instinct was to run.
Sinatra was still crooning, and maybe it was just because he was closer to the speakers now, but Ulrich thought the song was unnaturally loud. The singer's voice, too, was grainy, warbled, like there was something wrong with the record. He tried to tune it out, harnessed his focus on the monstrosity between the bookshelves, but whenever he did so it just became that much louder, unavoidable.
Between every line, every verse, Ulrich swore he could hear an ominous insertion into the song.
LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR.
Vivian's voice was coming in subtly over the speaker, just as it had done back at his apartment. The specter raised one of her fingers, the lily-white appendage stiff and icy-looking, and pointed directly at him.
I'm not a liar, he thought. I've just been trying to get to the truth. I'm on her side. Why does she keep doing this to me? I'm only trying to help...
Stepping past the front counter, Ulrich earned a strange glance from the barista. A few students eyed him curiously as well. "Everything OK?" asked the bearded man working the counter.
Ulrich didn't reply. He kept backing through the place until he bumped up against the front door with his shoulder.
And then he was out, barreling into the night.
15
She was on his trail. He didn't even have to look back to know it. The air was different wherever she went, and her presence was so oppressive that it could be felt from a distance. The investigator speed-walked away from Grounds for Thought, cursing to himself. "What do you want from me?" he uttered. "I've spoken to your mother and father, both. Can't you see that I'm trying my best? They've both told me different things, but they can't both be complete liars, can they?"
He didn't get an answer to his question, except to hear the slow, shuffling march of some unseen pursuer far behind him.
Had anyone in the cafe seen her? He doubted it. There would have been an unholy commotion in that coffeehouse had the other occupants caught sight of Vivian's spirit. No, for some reason she was coming in solely through his sensory apparatus, invisible to everyone else. The psychic back in Moorlake hadn't given him a particularly good reason for why that might be the case.
But then, he'd been the one to approach her.
He'd gone back to the Prescott to seek her out, had invited her to manifest.
That was why.
Ulrich's cell phone began to chirp. Whipping it out of his coat pocket, he was dismayed to find it was a call from Michael. Answering on the second ring with roughness, the investigator tried to catch his breath and mask his terror.
It didn't work.
"Mr. Ulrich?" came Michael's voice in mock concern. That his tone might be sincere never even occurred to the investigator, not after all the lies he'd been told by the man. "Is everything all right?"
Ulrich grunted, picking up his pace. "Fine, fine. Everything is fine. I don't... I don't have much time to talk at the moment." He wanted to go on, to call attention to the lies Michael had told and to the differences between his account and Ligeia's. But he didn't. It wasn't time yet for him to show his hand. If he tipped it too early, he'd regret it.
Michael's reply was tinged with uncharacteristic gruffness. "Well, pardon me for calling, but I wanted an update. That is what I'm paying you for."
If Ulrich hadn't been so out of breath just then, he might've blurted, "You can have your fucking money back. And your ghost, too." Instead, he said, "Things are moving along. I think I'll have something for you, and soon. But I need to go, Michael. This is urgent."
"What's happened?" demanded the client. "Have you... have you seen my daughter again?"
Ulrich shuddered, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. A thin fog was beginning to lace the air between the darkened buildings, and through it, about fifty yards to his back, he fancied he saw a sole pedestrian shambling behind him. He had, in fact, seen Michael's daughter, though not in any form he would recognize. "I have, but..."
"But what? Where is she? Is she there with you now, Mr. Ulrich?" Michael was getting worked up, and could be heard to pace loudly through the room in which he stood. "Please, tell me where. I'll meet you out there right away. I... I want to see her again. Is she speaking to you?"
Sucking in the cold air through his teeth, Ulrich gave the phone a squeeze. "It's not like that. I've seen her, Michael, but it's... it's not like before. Believe me when I say you wouldn't want to see her like this."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" asked the client, pounding one of his fists against a wall. "I'm not paying you to tell me what I want. I only want you to track down my daughter and--"
"I'm doing exactly what you paid me for," interrupted Ulrich, hooking a right and starting for his apartment. "And soon enough, I'll have the answers you're looking for. You've got to trust me."
There was evident hesitation on the other end of the line before Michael finally caved and hung up with a curse. Thankful that the call was over, Ulrich pocketed the phone and began to jog towards his building, wondering just what in the hell he'd do once he got there. The night was just begun and he had no way to keep the ghost out of his home.
Earlier, escaping from the spirit hadn't been his plan. He'd intended to hang around and wait for her, have some sort of dialogue with her. What a difference this unplanned encounter had made. He was racking his brain for ways to ward the spirit off, thinking back to old movies and documentaries he'd seen for ways in which he might dissuade her from giving chase. Ultimately he came up empty-handed however, and the footsteps echoing in the quiet night grew closer.
There was nothing to do but return to the apartment and wait. He could barricade the door, block out his windows, but in the end he knew better than to think he could keep this thing out. Vivian was a force of nature, a thing so far removed from the norms of this world that he was fully at her mercy. And yet, he still ran. The human in him knew it to be futile, but the animal part of his brain insisted he flee nevertheless. He couldn't turn it off, and something about the specter, about its hideous appearance and intense, sinister aura, made it so that no amount of reasoning could shield him from its influence.
The distance between the street and the inside of his living room was covered in a frenzy of blurred terror. Staggering into the unit, he threw on all of the lights as though they might protect him and awoke the cat, who'd been napping peacefully on his pillow. "Keep an eye out, will you?" he said to Beardsley, shooing him from the bedroom. "I saw her again. She was following me home. I'm sure... I'm sure she'll be here soon."
The cat paced around the ro
om disinterestedly, stretching his front and back legs and weaving around the living room furniture on his way to the kitchen. When he'd taken care of his thirst and nibbled on a few mouthfuls of kibble, Beardsley positioned himself near the front door, staring at it through narrow eyes. Whether the cat could feel Vivian's spirit drawing near was a mystery, but he sat sentry with all the quiet majesty of the Sphinx as Ulrich tore through the room in a panic.
He hadn't taken off his shoes or jacket. Pouring himself a glass of water, he gulped it down in double-quick time and leaned over the kitchen sink until he was sure he wouldn't throw it up. His stomach was a shambles, his nerves driving his guts to contract. White-knuckling the counter, he closed his eyes and sucked in a steadying breath. She's coming, but remember that she's just a spirit. In the end, she can't really hurt you. Right? You've done nothing wrong, so she has no reason to lash out at you. The sound of someone walking around in the hallway outside, possibly another tenant, made him reconsider. Unless, of course, she frightens you to death.
Judging by the pounding of his heart, that seemed a very real possibility.
He waited for several minutes by the sink, surveying the apartment and waiting for Vivian to materialize. He watched the lights, expecting them to blink off and on like they'd done the night before. He observed the cat, whose senses seemed more highly tuned to supernatural frequencies than his own, and grew frustrated at the animal's nonchalance.
The minutes wore on and nothing happened. When the heater shut off, the apartment was plunged into a sudden and unbearable silence that only redoubled his expectation. Feeling that the quiet might make him go crazy, he switched on the television and tuned into a weather program on low volume. An animated young meteorologist pointed to various sections of a map marked in different windchill values, the powder blue pocket square in his suit matching the color of his tie. The investigator watched the broadcast absentmindedly, keeping one eye on the screen and the other on his front door.
"I'd like to tell you that things are going to warm up this week," said the weatherman, "but I wouldn't want you to think me a liar." He beamed a Colgate smile, though something in the way he annunciated that last word made Ulrich's skin crawl.
Vivian's spirit was trapped on the earthly realm, unable to move on for reasons yet unknown. Wherever she materialized, she accused him of being a liar. What lies served to anchor Vivian's grudge to the world of men? Why did she still walk in the spheres of the living despite her having passed on ten years previously? There was something she wanted in this world; something she desired so strongly that she couldn't bring herself to venture to the other side until it was set right. But what?
Maybe she just wants the truth out, for someone to know why she really chose to end her life. If that was the case, then perhaps Ulrich hadn't yet fulfilled his duties. He'd spoken to her parents, gotten two wildly different accounts of Vivian's life from them, but still the spirit was unsatisfied. Whatever happened to make Vivian commit suicide, I probably won't learn it from Michael or his ex. The psychic was right. There's only one way. I have to listen to the ghost.
The image on the television screen flickered. It was brief, would have gone completely unnoticed under any other circumstance. This was followed by a sudden blinking of the living room lamp; a display that was soon to be mirrored by the other lights in the room as well. Clawing at the armrest, Ulrich's gaze darted across the room. Beardsley, too, was noticeably agitated by this. The cat was pacing now, stalking around the front door like a tiger in a cage.
In that instant, the air became electric.
That he was about to host an unwelcome, though not altogether unexpected visitor, was plain.
Ulrich rose from the couch, watching as the electronics all around him took turns malfunctioning. From the turntable there came a popping and whirring, followed by the squeal of the needle as it gouged his record. The filaments in the light fixtures buzzed as though on their last legs, transitioning from white hot to dull orange in the space of an instant and leaving the room steeped in shadow. The image on the television screen wavered, the news broadcast brought in and out of focus from behind a flurry of visual snow. The meteorologist's voice was warped in kind, until his speech was incomprehensible.
At the end of this strange happening, which seemed to go on for an inordinately long while, Ulrich heard something in the hallway. A long, drawn-out ambling, as of two tired but determined feet. Rough soles grated against the carpet leading up to his door. And then came the knocks; three of them in quick, impatient succession. Without even approaching the peephole, Ulrich could picture the visitor with perfect clarity. Her bothering to knock was a mere formality; Vivian could have entered the apartment already had she so wished. The spirit was toying with him, wanted him to open the door himself to grant her entrance.
He waited a long while in doing so, frozen in front of the television and finding himself unable to look away from the door. No further knocking resounded, and the accumulating silence proved ponderous. When finally he'd amassed enough courage to approach the door, the investigator had to nudge the hissing cat aside. Beardsley, it was very clear, was not a little opposed to opening the door and took off running for the bedroom as Ulrich undid the bolt with a wince.
The cat's wiser than I am, probably. Gritting his teeth, Ulrich drew in a deep breath and wrapped his palm around the doorknob. If you want this nightmare to end, you need to get to the bottom of things. Ignoring the spirit won't fix this. Slowly, he drew open the door.
Blinking around in the dim hallway, Ulrich found himself alone. A quick survey of the hall to the right and left of his unit gave no sign of a visitor, and the thin carpet outside, which was given to maintaining the impressions of feet, bore nothing.
A chuckle formed on his lips. Perhaps it hadn't been the ghost after all, but someone visiting the wrong apartment. Leaning against the doorframe, he allowed his heart to calm and prepared to close the door.
As he did so, he glanced back into his apartment, at the spot nearest the television, where a pale, wild-haired thing clung to the wall. Standing perpendicular to the floor with all the rigidity of a dying tree, Vivian's yellow eyes glowed with ferocity even as the other lights in the apartment died out.
And this time, they didn't come back on.
16
Ulrich's legs betrayed him utterly. Slumping back against the door, he tried to feel out the light switches he knew to reside there, though his frenzied trying of them failed to generate any extra light.
The only light in the room was coming from those glowing, sickly eyes.
This was it. Though Ulrich had known she'd come, he remained unsure about the reason for the specter's visit and what would become of him when it was through. Could he fight against her? Defend against her in any way if she meant him harm? He tried to ball his fists but could barely close his hands for all their shaking.
For some time the apparition simply stared at him, seeming to revel quietly in the investigator's panic. The maniac throbbing of his heart, he felt quite sure, was loud enough to be heard even from across the room. From the bedroom he heard the sounds of Beardsley clawing his way deeper under the bed, till his slight head bumped up against the wall. Ulrich wished he could join the cat, that he could find some way to outmaneuver this hideous thing, and yet he knew better than to make any sudden moves.
Experience had taught his body that running was futile. Vivian was relentless, would track him to the very ends of the Earth if she had to. In his apartment, with all of the lights off, Ulrich searched deep within for his voice, offering her a meager, "What do you want?" to which she gave her usual reply.
"LIAR. LIAR."
Ulrich was all too thankful for the darkness that currently enveloped him, shielding him from the sight of that fractured mouth and lolling tongue which now contracted in speech. The eyes were unwavering in their penetration of him, and the refrain was repeated several times, growing in volume, until his ears rang with the necrotic tenor of
her voice.
“LIAR. LIAR. LIAR.”
It was always the same. If she was capable of expressing any other word, any other sentiment, then she had given no indication. She was a broken record, doomed to skip forever in the presence of those who were unfortunate enough to be pursued. Even in the darkness his imagination could flesh out the horrifying particulars of her visage as she spewed out that word again and again. With every repetition her mouth would open wider, her jaw would become further undone and the surrounding air would be sullied with the stench of rot.
Dizzy with terror, Ulrich met the thing's haunting eyes and wheezed out a response. "I don't know why you're following me, Vivian, but I have done nothing but try to help you move on. I... I spoke to your parents, both of them. I want to know about your life and what drove you to end it, but..."
Ulrich's mouth flew shut as the yellow eyes suddenly disappeared from view. The lights didn't come back on and in the punishing darkness that remained he could sense the distinct weight of another presence. Something could be heard to skitter against the drywall towards him.
And then came the voice, close to his ear.
It was different this time. Vivian's grating tone was replaced with something saccharine; a little girl's voice. From somewhere behind him, where the hideous figure still clung to his wall like a pale spider, Ulrich heard a series of girlish whispers. They came in from so close that he could almost feel the lapping of that bloated tongue as she spoke.
"Liars, both. I want to give them pain. I want their lives to be suffering. So wrapped up in their lies... but you, you're different." There was special delight in this latter phrase, such that Ulrich thought he could feel the specter licking her lips. "You'll listen. You'll listen to me. You'll always be listening."
Darkside Blues: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 3) Page 11
