The Nightmare Room (The Messy Man Series Book 1)

by Chris Sorensen

  “Larson! Open up!”

  Riggs?

  Peter threw on a fresh shirt and went to answer his old friend’s call.

  “Jeez, buddy!” said Riggs as he opened the door. “Shave much?”

  “Is everything okay?” Peter asked.

  “My friend, it’s more than okay.” Riggs pulled two laminated passes from his pocket and waved them under Peter’s nose. “Today, it’s just you, me and that brain-frying, stomach-churning monstrosity they call Tilt-o-saurus!”

  Peter put two and two together. “Hannah sent you?”

  Riggs nodded. “Grab your coat. Boss’s orders.”

  * * *

  Hannah sat amongst piles of papers, the two cardboard boxes sitting opposite her in the booth. The collection was a treasure trove of Bill Larson’s past. Rental agreements, auto purchases and sales, the occasional anniversary card. She even found a photo of Peter with his mother as she held newborn Gina in her arms. Gina had a sour look on her face even way back then.

  The folder she was looking for, anything to do with the house—auction records, tax records, any records at all—eluded her.

  She was about to call it a day when she found once again the envelope marked From the Law Offices of Moots and Perrin. An old document lay within.

  Across the bar, Mattie’s saw screamed as it cut into metal piping, but Hannah’s world had gone silent as she stared at the pages in her hand.

  “Mr. Porter?” she called. “Can you come here?”

  Pat Porter obliged, joining her at the booth. “What can I do you for?”

  She handed him the papers. “You said you knew Peter’s father back in the day. Can you explain this?”

  The man perused the pages one by one, giving away not a hint of reaction. Finally, he handed the document back to Hannah.

  “I think you’d better talk to Big Bear about this.”

  The Maple City Fall Parade, which ran the length of the downtown and marked the official opening of the festival, was not to commence for another couple of hours. Still, the carnival section of the fair was up and running—piped-in music played and the smell of fried food filled the air.

  The fairgrounds took up about four square blocks of Wilson Park at the northeast edge of town, butting up against the woods on one side and open to the highway on the other. Fairgoers were encouraged to park across the street along a stretch of grass that ran the length of the old municipal airport.

  Riggs ignored this suggestion.

  “Best place to park is the access road in the woods behind the whole shebang,” he bragged. “Learned about it when I dated a carny for a brief stint. She made funnel cakes. I must’ve gained ten pounds that fall.”

  Peter remained silent as they passed a group of chainsaw artists setting up shop, rolling out displays of bald eagles, bears and owls carved out of logs. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the festival, but the scent of hay and cooking pork assured him that part of him had not forgotten.

  “Bit of a dip here,” Riggs said.

  The Jeep veered right and down an embankment. When it rose once more, the tires tried to catch hold of gravel.

  “Hold on.”

  Riggs gunned the engine and the Jeep spat rocks. He steered the vehicle down a weed-choked path and came to a stop beneath a cluster of mulberry trees.

  “Voilà! Our own private parking lot.”

  After cutting through a patch of brush, the two reached the open field behind the Zipper—a nasty derivation of the Ferris Wheel engineered to shake change loose from riders’ pockets. It swooshed around with a diesel roar.

  “C’mon!” Riggs yelled. “This way.”

  The ache in Peter’s jaw had not abated. In fact, if anything, it was working its way into his molars. He spat on the hay-strewn ground as he walked, trying to rid himself of the sour taste building up in his mouth.

  Riggs stopped in front of the Skee-Ball tent. “Let’s start the day with an old favorite. My treat.”

  Peter indulged Riggs for three rounds, his opponent amassing handfuls of tickets which he traded in for a small mirror with a pot leaf printed on it.

  “You eat yet?” Riggs said. “I’m famished.”

  Peter had to think about it. No, in fact, he hadn’t had a bite all day. “What are you thinking?”

  “You haven’t lived until you’ve had a pork chop sandwich with waffle fries on top.”

  Riggs insisted on treating. He sat Peter down at a picnic bench and set off in search of food. When he returned, he had two heavy Styrofoam containers in hand. As Peter took his first bite of the sandwich, he had to admit it was pretty damn good.

  “I used to save up all summer so I could blow it at the Fall Festival,” Riggs said, slurping on his frozen apple cider slush. “This was back when they used to use real mice on the roulette table. Whichever colored hole the mouse escaped down, that was the winner. If you watched long enough, you could catch where the carny stuck the cheese. One day, I walked away with five stretched-out Pepsi bottles filled with colored water. Only made it home with three, though. What was your favorite game?”

  Peter’s headache grew twofold. Man, the guy could talk. When he didn’t answer, Riggs looked him up and down.

  “That chop not agreeing with you?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Cuz you’re looking a little green around the gills, Pete.”

  Peter looked down at his sandwich and realized he’d only taken the one bite. “I’m fine,” he said. Still, suddenly feeling as bad as he apparently looked, he set the food down.

  “I’m guessing you might not be in the mood for any loop-the-loops or spinning or shit.” Riggs’ eyes lit up. He grabbed Peter’s sandwich and tossed it in the trash. “That’s all right, my friend. I’ve got it covered. Follow me.”

  Riggs rose, shot two points with his sandwich wrapper and headed off down the fairway.

  “C’mon!”

  Peter had to quick step it to catch up, and by the time he did, he saw the object of Riggs’ attention.

  Up ahead loomed a semi-trailer adorned with a garish airbrushed facade in the shape of a mansion. A flickering sign above a large Plexiglas skull simply read Haunted House.

  Peter caught his breath.

  Riggs was taking him to the spook house.

  * * *

  Hannah punched the intercom button again.

  “Hello? Hello. Could someone please open this door?”

  A sickly buzz sounded, and she quickly pushed open the door. She stepped into Applegate’s lobby—a score of elderly faces welcomed her along with the strong scent of bleach.

  Ronnie, the young man who had taken issue with Peter on their first visit, had traded in his Star Wars t-shirt for a football jersey. He watched Hannah carefully as she headed down the hall toward Bill Larson’s room, as if ready to intervene should she cause any trouble.

  The nurse’s station was empty, and she could hear a chorus of “Happy Birthday” coming from one of the rooms. She bypassed the desk and walked straight to Room 16.

  Myrna’s bed had been stripped and stood empty. No new roommate yet. Peter’s father stood staring out the window at dumpsters where two orderlies were disposing of an old sofa.

  “Papa Larson?” she whispered.

  The old man turned. He was dressed nicely in a sweater vest and slacks, but the purple flip-flops did the outfit no favors. He held a picture frame in his hands, his thumbs worrying the glass.

  “I miss her, you know?” Big Bear Larson said as if he and Hannah were already in mid-conversation. “So beautiful. You’re sure she’s gone?”

  Hannah went to him and guided him to his chair. She took the picture frame from his hands. Its photo was missing.

  “She is, Pop. I’m sorry, but she is.”

  Hannah put the frame on his dresser next to his case of cufflinks and a small, orange Gideon’s Bible.

  A look of recognition crossed the man’s face, and he reac
hed out and tapped her cheek with his long, cool fingers.

  “Hannah Banana?”

  “That’s right. And I need to talk to you about something,” she said in the most soothing voice she could manage. “Let me get you a coffee.”

  * * *

  Riggs vaulted up the metal stairs leading to the scrawny ticket taker’s perch.

  “Shake a leg, brother,” Riggs chortled.

  Peter followed. Tinny howls and moans sounded from the loudspeaker positioned beneath the skull. With a pneumatic spurt, twin jets of steam burst from the skull’s nostrils. It was enough to make one laugh—and he was. Not aloud, but a hidden caterwaul that threatened to break for the surface.

  Riggs flashed dual fair passes. “VIPs.”

  The weary ticket taker waved them on.

  “This is going to be so freakin’ cool,” Riggs promised. “You wanna go first?”

  “You go,” Peter said. “I’ll follow.”

  A voice joined the ghostly music—a bad impression of the Count himself.

  “Velcome to the Haunted House. Enter…if you DARE.”

  Riggs elbowed him. “Dracula!”

  “Let’s go.”

  Riggs practically squealed and made a dive for the entrance. Thick, black curtains quickly swallowed him up.

  Peter paused, listening to the tick-tick of a strobe light that wouldn’t be effective until the sun went down. He could almost feel the electricity that powered the place rising through the platform, tickling the nerve endings in his feet.

  “There a problem?” the ticket taker groaned, sounding like a part of the attraction himself.

  “No.”

  Peter stepped forward. He parted the curtains, and a moment later he was bathed in black light.

  * * *

  Hannah held out the document for Bill Larson to see.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  The old fellow squinted. “My glasses…”

  Hannah handed him the sheets of paper and launched a search for the glasses.

  “In the drawer. The left one,” Bill said. They were in the right.

  Reading glasses in place, the man scanned the pages. As soon as he reached the last page, he went back to the first. Hannah put her hands over his.

  “Do you know what this is, Pop?”

  Bill eyed her and offered an answer he hoped was right. “It’s Peter’s?”

  “I know. But can you tell me what it is?”

  He brought the first page close to his face.

  “Willa…”

  “Yes?”

  “Her name was Willa. She was so beautiful.”

  “Please, Pop.”

  Bill pulled off his glasses. His milky eyes had gone teary.

  “You’re sure she’s gone?”

  * * *

  The darkness embraced Peter as he trod onward down the zigzag hallway.

  Ahead, he caught glimpses of Riggs reacting to dummy vampires and zombies as they lurched forward, illuminated by artificial lightning. Each flash lit up the room, and Peter could clearly see the patched roof in those moments of clarity. Duct taped wires and hanging cords—a patchwork attempt at a nightmare.

  “This place stinks. I love it!” Riggs howled. “Watch out. You gotta step hard on this rubber mat to get the skeleton to pop up.”

  A curtain made up of hanging strips of cloth loomed up before them looking for all the world like the end stage of a car wash.

  “Banzai!” Riggs shouted and forged ahead.

  Peter came up to the cage with the faulty trigger. There was a break in the soundtrack, and then the corny music started up again from the beginning.

  He stomped on the mat, and the skeleton appeared. No fanfare—no shriek, no flashing light. He stomped again and again. Each time, the plastic collection of bones leaped up from its hiding place, but it wasn’t until his final try that he got the full effect.

  The faux skeleton jumped up accompanied by a woman’s scream and pounding lights. The thing held there, quivering—its long, black wig hanging in tatters.

  For all its flaws and artifice, it was one of the most frightening things Peter had ever seen in his life.

  He fell backward—through the car wash curtain—and into the pitch black room beyond.

  * * *

  Hannah squeezed Big Bear’s hand and girded herself for his answer.

  “Pop, who was Willa?”

  The big man shook his head, amazed he had to answer the question.

  “Why, she was Peter’s mama, of course.”

  Hannah’s mouth went dry, and she took a sip of the coffee she had brought for her father-in-law.

  She looked down at the first page of the document.

  State of Illinois, Division of Vital Records. Certificate of Adoption.

  Peter’s fall had knocked the wind out of him, and he lay on his back in the dark, struggling for air. Not that he could have risen right away—his world was spinning.

  The canned wolf howls and thunder continued to play, but bit by bit they began to recede into the distance.

  He staggered to his feet, catching himself lest he stumble. With no visual points of reference, he was having difficulty getting his bearings.

  “Riggs?” he called.

  No answer.

  He thrust out his arms, hoping to come into contact with a wall or another person—anything. He walked what seemed like minutes into the void, and yet touched nothing but air.

  As the soundtrack slipped away completely, a dim light faded up.

  Peter found himself standing in the middle of a bare room. Blank walls all around.

  He turned to look behind him. The curtain through which he’d fallen was gone. A trick of the funhouse, no doubt. The only way in and out of the room was a lone door set into the wall before him.

  Go with it. All in good fun. The sooner you walk through that door, the sooner you’re outta here.

  Without another moment of hesitation, Peter walked to the door and turned the knob.

  Locked.

  He tried again, but the door resisted. Great. The funhouse had obviously broken down.

  Peter was about to start shouting for the carny, for Riggs when he spied a latch positioned at the top of the door. He reached up, slid back the bolt and the door swung open.

  Like the previous room, this next was also devoid of light. It was also small—he could feel the walls on either side of him. And as he tried to step forward, he ran into something standing in his path. He grabbed the object, and his hands recognized it for what it was. A chair.

  My chair.

  Little lights began to flicker before him—equipment booting up. He heard the familiar whir of a computer’s fan powering up, and as the desk lamp flickered to life revealing his surroundings, Peter froze.

  He was in his audio booth.

  The door softly closed behind him. He tested the doorknob. Of course, it was locked.

  Am I at the fair dreaming this booth or am I in this booth dreaming the fair?

  A squeal of feedback cut his thoughts short, and he quickly adjusted the preamps controls to silence it.

  Whispers. I hear whispers.

  Were they coming from within the booth or without? Peter couldn’t tell. But as he placed the headphones on his ears, he got his answer.

  Hushed and ragged, Peter couldn’t even tell the sex of the whisperer until they finally moaned.

  “Yes-ss-ss…”

  It was Hannah.

  “Oh, Riggs…”

  It was his wife. And Riggs’ name was on her lips.

  Her sparse words were punctuated with little gasps that only a husband would recognize. And there was another here as well—lower and grunting—and when he spoke, it with the suggestive chumminess of his old friend.

  “C’mere, you. C’mere!”

  Peter could hear the rustle of clothing as if the mi
crophone recording the event were nestled down between the two ravenous lovers. The volume of their coupling grew in tandem with the pitch of his wife’s screams.

  He ripped off the headphones and tossed them aside. Gripping the doorknob tight, he turned with all his strength. The knob’s stem bent, and the thing came away in his hand. He slipped his finger into the hole, desperate to trigger the locking mechanism, desperate to be rid of the building intensity of the infidelity.

  As Peter struggled with the lock, he caught a whiff of smoke—a rank and oily smell. He felt the press of something slipping in behind him, crowding him.

  Peter felt long nails drag across the top of his head, stroking his scalp in time with the heated moans. The lights on the audio equipment danced as a voice vibrated in his head.

  Coming…

  Pounding behind his eyes.

  Coming…

  Making his temples throb.

  Coming…

  Threatening to split him in two.

  In!

  He jammed his finger into the exposed lock and felt a sharp edge of the works slice into flesh. A spring gave way with a sharp click.

  Laughter, hollow and chattering, the gleeful refrain of the insane, filled the booth. Peter shouldered the door, and it gave way with no resistance, sending him tumbling into the abyss.

  * * *

  Riggs waited patiently at the bottom of the stairs, drumming his fingers on the metal banister in time with the electronic version of “Danse Macabre” coming from the loudspeaker. The ticket taker looked on with annoyance.

  A second later, Peter burst from the exit.

  He didn’t even try to match his feet to the steps; instead, he stumble-fell down the stairs and plowed into Riggs, the force knocking both of them to the ground. Keys, change and a cheap phone spilled from Riggs’ pocket.

  “The fuck…?” It was all Riggs could manage before landing.

  In a shot, Peter was up. He straddled Riggs and delivered a powerful right to his jaw. Riggs felt something pop.

  “Christ, Pete!” Riggs howled. “Get off!”

  Peter struck again, this time with his left—a glancing blow that still managed to clip Riggs’ nose and get the blood flowing.