The Nightmare Room (The Messy Man Series Book 1)

by Chris Sorensen

  “No,” he said, a little too quickly. “That’s okay. We need the money.”

  “You’ll have to drive me to work.”

  “I know.”

  “And pick me up.”

  “Yup.”

  She turned her head, and the lamplight caught in her eyes, making them sparkle.

  “Tell me something about her.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah. Just one story. From when you were little?”

  Peter stared at the ceiling, and he thought the shadows froze as if suddenly aware they were being watched.

  “When I was eleven, my mom took me to Lobster Shack in the Quad Cities—just her and me. We had crab and shrimp and hush puppies. She ordered extra cornbread and gave me a sip of her wine. It might have been my birthday, but I’m not sure.”

  Hannah nodded. “That’s nice. That’s a nice memory.”

  Peter didn’t mention how Myrna had turned on a dime during the ride home, screaming at him when he threw up shrimp and cornbread all over the back seat.

  “You haven’t happened to come across any of your father’s papers have you?”

  Peter thought of the boxes marked Personal in the basement. “I don’t think so. Like what?”

  “Any paperwork your dad might have had for the house. Lillian has some interesting ideas about financing—”

  “Nope. I’m kinda tired, sweetie,” he said. “Can we chat in the morning?” The last thing he wanted to think about was sinking deeper roots in the place.

  She squeezed his shoulder. “Sure. You want me to sing to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hannah sang him a quiet, made-up tune but put herself to sleep, instead.

  Peter lay awake listening to the house’s bones creak, as if it were shaking off a dream, ready to wake.

  The boy bolted upright. He pressed back into the chair. His whole body started shivering, and he feared he would wet himself for the second time that night.

  A thought…no, a voice crept into his head.

  Coming in.

  The door quivered as if someone was leaning against it, trying to stifle a laugh. Nails scratched against the wood.

  “Dad?” the boy whispered.

  The door shuddered.

  “Is that you?” Knowing it was not.

  Coming…

  “Please don’t.”

  Coming…

  “No.”

  Coming…

  “No!”

  In.

  Peter dropped Hannah off at the Blind Rock the next morning.

  “I’ll give you a buzz when I’m done, okay?” she said as she got out of the car. “Might be a late one. Riggs has a Hump Day special going on.”

  “You call, I’ll come,” Peter said.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Hannah leaned in for a smooch, and he kissed his denim-clad gal. “Always time for a kiss.”

  He pulled away from the curb and watched Hannah disappear into the tavern in the rearview mirror.

  It troubled Peter, lying once more to his wife, but unless he could get a grip on the situation, there was no way they were staying put in Maple City.

  Get a grip on the situation? Ha. You don’t even know what the hell the situation is.

  “Shut up,” he told himself. He turned on the radio and lost himself in somnolent NPR banter as he hit Interstate 74 heading north to catch 80 West.

  * * *

  He pulled into a truck stop at the junction of 74 and 80 to gas up and grab a cup of 80’s Best coffee. Unfortunately, the coffee was stale, and he dumped it out the window as he merged onto the highway. Too bad. He was running on fumes in the sleep department.

  He mulled over how to approach his meeting with Ellen Marx. It seemed that the woman had a hunk of grudge she’d need to get off her chest before they got down to it, and he was prepared to allow time for that. Their mutual enemy, Quoth Audio, was his in with her, and he needed to gain her trust before he broached the subject of the things he’d seen in the basement.

  The books of hers he’d narrated were big on procedure and short on story where the subject of hauntings was concerned. This almost clinical approach may have had readers tuning out, it was just this sort of nuts and bolts approach that Peter was seeking. He wanted to nail down what was happening, confront it with the right tools and be done with it.

  He started losing the radio station as he crossed the bridge into Iowa, so he turned it off. Better to concentrate and get his story straight. Not that he planned on leaving anything out, but he found certain details eluded him. Perhaps the human brain wasn’t made to process such phenomena. Or maybe he’d been too damn scared to commit the nightmare to memory.

  Am I being haunted?

  That was probably the logical jumping off point. Although the answer seemed simple enough—God, yes!—he needed to approach this as he would any other problem. Otherwise, he was afraid he’d be no match for it.

  Approach this—no match for it. The vague nature of his thoughts was a buffer against the truth of what he’d experienced. But all in good time. First, he had to get his ass to Iowa City.

  80 West soon became a dueling ground between long-haul truckers, bus drivers and poor wretches like himself. The larger vehicles buffeted the Prius as they passed, threatening to turn him into roadkill. The car stammered a few times in the wake of the thundering behemoths, but it got him to the outskirts of the city in good time.

  A sign up ahead said Welcome to Iowa City! Home of the University of Iowa Hawkeyes.

  “Here goes nuthin’,” he said as he took Exit 224 to Dubuque Street.

  * * *

  Peter parked in a parking garage down the street from the coffee shop and paused to check his phone. No missed calls, and the only text message was from Lillian Dann.

  Love to have lunch soon with you and the missus.

  Peter ignored the message and locked the car. He opted for the stairs when the elevator proved to pull double duty as a restroom for the homeless.

  Stop pushing, Ms. Dann.

  Java Joint—the meeting place Ellen Marx had selected—was only two blocks north, and he was thirty minutes early. Figuring he’d dispel the memory of the truck stop coffee before meeting the author, Peter stepped into the shop. The place was hopping. The mingled scents of dark roast coffee and fresh baked muffins welcomed him.

  He waited in line, eyeing the last blueberry scone. When it was his turn, he rattled off his order to the short, round woman behind the counter.

  “Blueberry scone and a large dark roast. Hold on...make that pumpkin spice.”

  The woman’s face reddened beneath her Java Joint hat.

  “It’s you, isn’t it? What the hell? I said noon.”

  Peter cocked his head. “Ellen?”

  She’s just a kid.

  Ellen’s voice had a flat quality that had fooled him into thinking she was middle-aged, but standing here looking at her, he guessed she was no more than twenty-five.

  She pushed up her glasses and turned to the thin barista. “Cover for me, Kevin.”

  The young woman motioned for him to follow her to a table away from the rest of the crowd.

  She pulled off her apron and cap, revealing her head-to-toe gothic attire—the look she’d planned for him to see before being taken by surprise. Her lipstick was black, as were her nails.

  The only thing she’s missing is the pierced eyebrow.

  “How did you know it was me?” Peter asked.

  “You narrated my books. I do have ears, you know.” Sidestepping any further introduction, she pulled her phone. “What have you got to tell me, Mr. Larson?” Ellen set the phone down on the table in front of him. The memo app was already running.

  “You’re recording this?”

  “I won’t use your real name if I write it up. That reminds me…” She picked the phone back up and spoke deliberately into it. “This is Ellen Marx. I’m speaking with Peter Larson.
The following interview is copyright Ellen Marx and Apparition Press, 817 East Davenport Street, Iowa City, Iowa. My interviewee concurs with my copyright.”

  She stuck the phone under his nose.

  “Yeah, sure. This is Peter Larson, 762 150th Street, Maple City, Illinois, and I concur.”

  “Good.” Ellen set the phone back down. “You were saying?”

  Peter looked around the room. Students sat typing away on laptops; a young girl was making a mess of her hot chocolate. It seemed strange to tell his story in a setting as normal as this. Still, he did his best.

  He had to double-back a number of times as the events slipped away from him. When had the drawings appeared on his tablet? Before or after he’d had the vision of Michael? Was he upstairs or downstairs when he’d first encountered the grey man?

  “I’m sorry, I’m getting a little confused.”

  “That’s all right,” Ellen said. She’d remained silent as he pieced together his recollections, but now she seemed eager to interject. “Supernatural occurrences often leave those who experience them with a sense of befuddlement. Blind spots aren’t at all uncommon.” It sounded as if she were writing her next book already. “Besides, if you had your story down perfect, I’d be less apt to continue our conversation.”

  “So, you believe me?”

  “I have a few questions.” She leaned back and tapped her black nails on the tabletop. Peter couldn’t tell if she was actually mulling over what to ask him, or if she was doing it for effect. “Number one—”

  “Do you mind if I jump in here?” Peter said, stopping her. “I don’t have a lot of time, and I don’t have the luxury of proving myself to you. Everything I told you is true. Every word. I came here because it feels like…well, like the house is cycling up again. Like it’s going back to the first track on the album. I know that doesn’t make much sense, but that’s the only way I know how to describe it. I’m afraid for myself; I’m afraid for my wife. So, given what I’ve told you, do you think you have any idea how to help me?”

  Ellen picked up her phone and stopped recording.

  “Do you prefer text or email?” She was busy typing away on her phone.

  “Email, I guess.”

  Peter sat for a few minutes as the young woman in black tapped away.

  Finally, she looked up. “I just sent you a list of ten things you can try along with a copy of my ebook on prayers for the dead. Why don’t you give those a try and get back to me?”

  Peter stuck out his hand. “Thanks. I guess we could have done this over the phone.”

  Ellen shook his hand perfunctorily. And then, a glimmer of surprise crossed her face, and she gripped his hand tight. Her eyes darted about as if she were watching thoughts flit by.

  “When was the funeral?”

  What the…?

  “Your mother’s. When was it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Her eyes danced. “And your foot. Which time did you cut it?”

  Peter fumbled. “What do you mean, which…?”

  “Did you cut it when you were alone in the kitchen or with your wife?”

  “When I was alone. I was following the grey man—”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “I…yes, I am.”

  Ellen released his hand and sat back. She sniffed, clearly rattled. “That’s a lot to process. I’m going to have to get back to you on that, Mr. Larson.”

  She rose quickly and left Peter sitting alone at the table. Donning her apron as she walked, Ellen Marx slipped back behind the counter and took the next customer’s order.

  Realizing that the young woman considered their meeting finished, Peter ordered a pumpkin spice latte and a mini quiche to go and was back on the road five minutes later.

  Riggs watched as Hannah filled the salt shakers in anticipation of the Hump Day crowd. Tequila shots were on special—not the good stuff but the Ballen’s well variety—and they’d need plenty of limes as well.

  Hannah caught him looking at her.

  “What?” she said, laughing.

  “Nothing. Just make sure you don’t fill ‘em all the way to the top.”

  “No?”

  Riggs joined her behind the bar. She was wearing a leather vest with a Bourne Farm Outfitter t-shirt underneath. Damn, the girl could make anything look good.

  “Fill one all the way to the brim,” he said.

  Hannah did, spilling a good portion onto the bar in the process.

  “Now, cap it and give it a shake.”

  Hannah replaced the cap. She licked her hand and shook the shaker over it. Only a few grains of salt made it to her moistened skin.

  “Too full and the salt gets stuck.”

  “Ah!” Hannah said.

  “What usually happens next is some college kid pops the cap to try to rectify the situation, and we end up sweeping up salt for the next three days.”

  “That’s a very good tip.”

  Riggs bowed. “A little morsel of knowledge courtesy of Blind Rock University.”

  Hannah laughed again. “Where did that name come from?”

  “Blind Rock? Pat, the owner, was doing some research on the property and found out that the Parker Massacre took place on this very spot. Four families of settlers wiped out ‘cause they didn’t see what was coming for ‘em.”

  “Which was?”

  “No one knows. Maybe natives—maybe not. Anywhoo, ole Pat liked the name, and so it stuck. Better than what the kids call this place.”

  “Which is?”

  “Blind Drunk.”

  Riggs grabbed a pinch of salt off the bar and threw it over his shoulder; Hannah did likewise.

  A rumble of thunder echoed from outside.

  “Guess a storm’s rollin’ in. That bodes well for us. Rain and tequila go well together—we’ll be slammed. You ready to get your Hump Day on?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Thatta girl. Lemme go see if Devon stocked up on limes.”

  As Riggs headed for the storeroom, he stopped and looked back at Hannah. She was licking the remaining salt from her hand.

  Damn!

  The rain started falling twenty miles out of Iowa City and got progressively heavier as the minutes wore on. Peter kept a firm grip on the wheel as he did his best to avoid the water pooling on the highway. The windshield wipers could barely keep up with the deluge, and the windows kept fogging up.

  He’d only taken a brief glance at Ellen’s suggested remedies for what he now found himself referring to as his situation. The first few actions were things he could have gathered from watching movies. Smudging the house with burning sage, sprinkling holy water and his favorite, simply asking the trespassers to leave.

  Yeah, right. And close the door on your way out.

  Ellen’s further ideas were more intriguing to him. She’d given him a list of links to online videos featuring high-frequency harmonics that were intended to disrupt spiritual energy patterns, like the sonic rodent repellers they sold at Home Depot.

  Another idea she pushed was employing the practice of geomancy which was, from what Peter could deduce, simply a hooky spooky version of feng shui.

  Her final recommendation came in the form of a series of prayers spoken to and for the entities. Peter found these most interesting as they weren’t your garden variety litanies but prayers that Ellen claimed came to her while deep in a trance. Practical prayers were how she described them in her note.

  And you believe her?

  She did know about Mom’s passing.

  She could have read about that online.

  I don’t think she did.

  The buzz of his phone interrupted his inner dialogue. It was Hannah.

  “Hey, handsome, are you in the car?”

  “I am. I’m heading back from Guitar Barn over in Galesburg.” His stomach curdled at the lie.

  “Any luck?”

  “No. I’ll have to order the cables online.” He could hear the bass l
ine of a country song in the background.

  “Well, be safe on the road. It’s raining buckets here. Whoops! Gotta run. A bunch of soaked college kids just came through the door. I’ll call when I’m done. Bring an umbrella. Love you!”

  “Love you,” he said, a second after she’d hung up.

  A dull ache rose in his belly, and he hoped it wasn’t because of the quiche. He had stopped off to pick up some additional audio equipment, but it wasn’t from Guitar Barn, and it wasn’t meant to help him record. No, Ellen’s recipe for removal had given him a brainstorm, and he was eager to try it out.

  He passed half of a house on the back of a trailer, its wide load banner whipping in the wind. He pitied the poor driver—visibility was getting worse. As he overtook the house’s escort car with its flashing lights, his phone rang again. He expected Hannah but was surprised when called ID read Marx, Ellen.

  “Mr. Larson?” The young woman was out of breath. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Seems you already are, Ellen. What’s up?”

  A wave of rain blasted the car, causing it to shudder. Wet leaves plastered themselves against the windshield just outside the wipers’ path. Peter adjusted the heat. The inside of the car had gone suddenly cold.

  “I knew there was something strange about you.”

  I might say the same, Ms. Marx, Peter thought.

  “About your aura and your story and your…what’s that noise?”

  “It’s the rain, Ellen. I’m in the car.”

  “Oh. Well, I played back our interview, and I found it very disturbing. May I share it with you? I’m going to share it with you. Emailing now.”

  “Why the sudden urgency?”

  A lightning strike up ahead lit up the sky, illuminating wind turbines in the distant fields. A rasp of static garbled Ellen’s response.

  “What was that again, Ellen? I lost you.”

  “I need to you to listen to me, Mr. Larson.”

  “I am.”

  “Did you get my email?”

  Peter glanced down at his phone for a split second. Yup, there was her email.