The Spirit Box (The Freelancers Book 1)

by Lee Isserow

  She felt guilty, for her eyes lingering on his chest, wandering up and down his pecs and abs, trying to decipher the text whilst also finding his naked flesh attractive―even with all the contorted scar tissue. Her eyes rose to his face and met his. They seemed to glow in the darkness, and she wondered once again how odd a thing it was for them both to have green eyes, albeit slightly different shades. She could recall reading that only one to two percent of people had green eyes, with up to twelve percent having 'some shade' of green, whatever that meant.

  It was in that moment, that she got a terrible feeling, a realisation, that it wasn't just him that was staring at her. Something else was there, in the darkness behind her, and a sheer terror overcame her, froze her in the moment.

  She could not will herself to turn around and see whatever other thing might have its gaze fixed on her.

  The Australian stared at her with kind eyes, a smile on his lips that was inviting. It was as if he was fixated on her and could not see the creature she could sense approaching from the rear. Ana tried with all her might to move, to turn, to shout, to scream, but she could not. The thing was already upon her.

  She could feel its fingers, long and elongated, clawed at the tips, as they navigated her body. There was nothing she could do to escape the thing's grasp, and before she knew it, she felt a rough and painful entry, an ungodly violation the likes of which she had never experienced before.

  Ana tried desperately with every ounce of her strength to move her hands, to feel for the thing behind her, to fight it. But she could not move at the speed she wished.

  Slowly, her arms responded, as if they were reaching through thick treacle for the monster that had forced its way inside her. She felt something, the skin of the thing, it was rough, and yet wet, but the texture she felt did not stay on her fingers, as if its form moved through her grasp, like some kind of smoke.

  She regained more control of her body, twisted at the waist, trying to shake the disgusting thing off her, but as her hands grabbed hold of whatever it was, the creature seemed to shrink―or not so much shrink as squeeze, as if it were a juice box being emptied out inside her, until it was all gone.

  But she could still feel it there, as it seemed to move through her body, gliding up her pelvis. She ripped open her shirt, watching hands crawl under her skin, up her flat stomach, latching on to her ribs, using them like a ladder, then moving on to her breasts for purchase, pulling itself higher up her body.

  Looking down in horror at her belly, a ghastly face appeared in the skin, hollow, dark eyes that stared right into her very soul. The face slid up, the skeletal fingers digging into the flesh of her mammary glands as it climbed up her chest, getting lodged in her throat.

  She tried to scream, but could not. There was a blockage. Tried to cough out over the lump, but it would not dislodge. Desperately wanting see her reflection, to look down her throat, it was as though the darkness responded, a crack appearing in the black, a myriad reflections of herself staring back.

  Ana leaned over to look at herself in the largest mirror, opened her mouth to see what was blocking her scream. A bright yellow eye stared back at her from the dark chasm of her gullet.

  *

  Ana woke up, out of breath, a cold sweat over her entire body. Her hands skirted across her skin in a panic, checking everything from her throat and breasts down to her belly and pelvis. There was nothing, no creature inside her.

  It had felt so real. . . And yet it was just a dream. An awful, horrific dream. The adrenaline rushing through her veins began to subside, the panic retreating, and she lay her head back down on the pillow.

  Sleep was beckoning again, but something felt wrong. There was a dull ache between her legs, a tense feeling in her body, as if something unwanted had been inside her. She reached over and hit the bedside lamp on, laying on her back and staring up at the ceiling.

  It had been a dream, nothing more. Not that the thought was anything close to comforting. Despite her best efforts to blame it on the anxiety and stress of the day, she could not convince herself to go back to sleep.

  Chapter 11

  A hell of a souvenir

  Rafe was dragged up a set of stairs by the four large men. They knocked on the door of a Portakabin at the top, and after a moment, the occupant shouted “Come in!” in a gruff cockney accent. One of the men opened the door, whilst the other three pushed Rafe inside, slamming him down in a plastic chair set out in front of a desk. On the other side of the desk, behind stacks of paperwork and a plastic tray labelled “Outbox” sat a rotund man, his hands on the desk, fingers barely able to bend because of the sheer number of gold rings packed on to each and every one of them. Grey stubble encircled most of his head, his eyes contorted into what looked like a permanent scowl, angered all the more, it seemed, because Rafe was bleeding everywhere.

  Rafe tried his hardest to stop bleeding so much, but the effort didn't appear to make the man any cheerier. “Hear yous been trespassing?” the cockney said.

  Rafe wondered if it was worth informing him that you was both singular and plural, but decided it was better not to, for the moment at least. “I wouldn't call it trespassing as such. . .”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Honestly, I was just passing through and―” A fist met with his gut, punctuating his sentence before he could finish it.

  “Ain't got time for lies,” the cockney said.

  “Sorry. . .” Rafe mumbled, amidst gasping for breath. “I was just. . . trying to get a look in a container. . . heard it might be dangerous.”

  “Whad'ya mean, dangerous?”

  “Yellow container few days back had something for a company called Xpress Delivery, came from the scene of a death in Australia, and resulted in the death of another woman here. Figured I should check it out, see if anything else they're shipping is as deadly”

  “Ain't got nothing deadly here, mate. Legitimate business this.”

  Rafe smiled, let out a little laugh as he put his hands in his lap, tracing out a healing glyph against his skin. The wounds administered by the thugs would start to heal pretty quickly, visibly so. He needed to distract them

  “Do all legitimate businesses work by cover of darkness?” Being glib proved itself just as clever a distraction as the cake, resulting in the cockney eyeing up one of his men, who punched Rafe in the gut once again.

  “Don't know nothing about a dead lady, nothing about dangerous cargo or whatever. Yellow containers is TransCorp, they're just couriers, mate. Shipping whatever people send, ain't no way to tell who sent what from my end.”

  “You sure about that?” Rafe coughed, tracing another healing glyph on his gut, in case he had suffered internal bleeding from the blow.

  “Very sure.”

  “You sure you don't want to help solve a murder?”

  “Don't give a damn 'bout a murder. Didn't happen on my property, ain't got nothing to do with me.”

  “Well. . . do you like money?” Rafe reached slowly towards his pocket, fingers slipping not into the pocket itself, but into a thin slit cut above the pocket of his jeans. This was where he had sewn an enchanted bag he had got a while back that was essentially bottomless, but had no mass in the Natural World. Those in the magickal community―and those who played Dungeons and Dragons―would refer to it as “a bag of holding.” He preferred to think of it as his “magickal money pocket.”

  Rafe withdrew his fingers and dropped a couple of gold coins on the cockney's desk. The man watched them bounce and spin, waiting for them to settle before he picked one up and inspected it. The insignia minted into it was one he had never seen before, the writing similarly foreign.

  “What's this?”

  “Gold. You people look like you'd enjoy gold.” His eyes dropped to the man's rings, then back to make eye contact.

  “Didn't you search 'im?” the cockney asked the four brutes surrounding Rafe.

  “Yeah boss.”

  “Not bloody well enough!�
�� He threw up his hand in a gesture that they interpreted as an instruction to search him again, and Rafe was wrenched to his feet, large hands groping around his loins trying to find the source of the gold.

  “Ohh, lookee here!” one of them said, his fat fingers tugging the magickal money pocket open.

  “Oh, don't do that.. . ” Rafe begged, but it was too late, the fat fingers grabbed hold of the sides of the bag and ripped the seams he had sewn in the pocket. This not only pulled the bag free from his pocket, but also tore a hole down the side of his jeans.

  As they inspected the bag, Rafe cast a quick call. “Tali, any chance of a door?” he asked under his breath, as he watched the magickal money pocket get handed over to the cockney, the corpulent man tipping out a mountain of gold onto the surface of his desk, eyes going wide with glee.

  “That's messed up. . .” said one of the henchmen, staring at Rafe's bare leg, the flesh covered with scars and writing etched into his skin.

  For the briefest of moments, Rafe considered a sigil, something explosive to knock the men out and take back his bag, but he had spent all damn day―let alone the days previous―using magick. There was no way to know whether he had enough juice left to make a kitten need a yawn, let alone send five massive grown men to the ground. So he turned, ran, hand meeting the door knob, and slammed the damn thing behind him without a second thought.

  The men, of course, tried to follow, but by the time they reached for the door handle, it was not the same door Rafe had used to exit, and he was nowhere to be seen in the shipping yard.

  Their boss didn't seem to mind all that much, after all, he got a hell of a souvenir from their trespasser. . .

  Chapter 12

  Grim discovery

  Ana couldn't get the images from the dream out of her head. She sat up all through the night, terrified to close her eyes again, fearing that the creature of her nightmares would return, that the hideous tactility of the imagined violation would recur.

  She knew it was just a dream, it had to have been. The stress of the night and day getting to her, likely also the culprit of the hallucinations while she was cooking. Yet, she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong physically. The dull ache was still present, less so than it had been after the dream, but it was still there.

  Despite knowing that it was probably a waste of time, she booked the first available appointment with her gynaecologist, and found herself sitting in the waiting room, all too aware of the clock in the corner ticking ever closer to two, when she would officially be late for work.

  “Miss Brooks,” the receptionist said, glancing over the top of her glasses at the handful of patients in the room.

  Ana took to her feet, and the receptionist showed her through to the examination room. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” she muttered, before doing a lighting fast turn, slipping out the door and back to her desk. Ana knew the routine well enough not to be perturbed, she sat herself on the chair and waited for the doctor to appear, eyes finding a clock in the corner, all too aware of the time continuing to slip by.

  “Miss Brooks,” said a warm deep voice.

  She turned to see the kind eyes and sweet smile of Doctor Samuels. Ana attempted to shoot a smile back, but wasn't sure if it was believable.

  “Are you doing okay? Records say you're not due a pap for another eighteen months.”

  “Yeah, I'm. . .” She wasn't sure how to explain it. Telling him she was in for an emergency appointment because of a dream didn't sound like it was the most sane of reasons. “My grandmother died.” She hated herself for using that as an excuse, but it was part of the reason she was there, and if it was to make sure she was in good health, she couldn't imagine her grandmother minding invoking her memory as an excuse. “Cancer,” she lied, hating herself just a little more. “Just wanted another check, you know? To be sure?”

  The smile on his lips shrunk. It was still there, still kind and caring, but now it was infused with empathy. Something they're taught in medical school, Ana imagined, The ability to exude a calming aura.

  “Of course,” the doctor said. “Are you in good health generally? No coughs or colds, aches or pains?”

  She considered mentioning the dull ache, but thought it best not to bring it up, not yet at least. “No, I'm fine.”

  “Well that's good. How about you pop behind the screen and change into the gown back there, and we'll make sure everything's in tip top shape.”

  She nodded, walking over to the changing screen and undressing, her hand wandering down to her pelvis as she stood there naked, putting pressure on the ache. It could all be psychosomatic, she reassured herself, it's probably nothing.

  Returning to the chair, he lowered it back, and set up the stirrups. “Would you like a nurse present?” he asked.

  She shook her head. The fewer people that knew about her delusions and her complete waste of a doctor's time, the better.

  “Very well, place your feet up here, and we'll make sure everything is as it should be.”

  He pulled a set of drawers on wheels over as she got into position, and Ana's eyes fell on the set of tools sitting on them. A chill went down her spine at the sight of the speculum, never a comforting thing to see, even in the best of times. . .

  Putting on a pair of latex gloves, he lifted up her gown to begin the external exam.

  “Hmm,” he said, which set Ana on edge. Could he have seen something she had not when she had a look in a mirror? As far as she was aware, everything on the outside was normal.

  “Everything seems normal,” the doctor said, pulling the gown back down, and turning to the tray. “Let's take a look inside, just to make sure. Would you like me to set up the mirror?”

  The chill returned, the nightmare images swarming her mind's eye. The feeling overcame her of looking in the mirror, opening her mouth wide, seeing a sickly yellow eyeball staring back from the darkness of her gullet. It wasn't real, and she certainly didn't expect to see anything like that in the reflection of her vaginal canal and cervix. Yet she was overcome with the notion that there was some possibility of her seeing something she didn't want to see, and she shook her head. The doctor's smile stretched a little bit wider, his eyes opening a little wider too, sending out more waves of empathetic aura. He could tell she was nervous, and was trying to calm her down as best he could, with psychic reassurance rather than words.

  He pulled the gown up again and reached for the speculum. The chill over her body returned as he inserted it, and she tried with all her might not to picture the hideous creature that sneaked up behind her, its gnarled, bony fingers clutching her body. She physically shuddered at the memory.

  “Sorry, Miss Brooks, I know it can be a bit cold.”

  She nodded, trying her best to keep the shakes to a minimum. Between her legs, she could feel it open, the doctor expressing another “Hmm,” as he examined her. It felt like a lifetime, her eyes scanning the room for the clock, only to recall that it was in the corner behind her head. Ana tried to think of anything else but the procedure, picturing how much time she had spent in the chair, how much time had passed, the route she would take to get to work, and how late she would be when she got there.

  “I'm just going to perform a quick pelvic exam.”

  This was what she had been waiting for, if he hadn't seen anything in the internal exam, that proved it was a dream, nothing had been inside of her. And the pelvic exam might be able to tell her whether the dull ache she was experiencing was all in her mind or the symptom of something greater.

  She waited patiently, trying not to appear to anxious as he prepared for the final exam, and tried not to squirm as he inserted two fingers inside her, applying pressure to her belly. The ache was there, it was certainly real. Soon, she hoped, there would be answers―a logical explanation for everything that happened the previous night.

  “Well, everything seems in order,” he said, as he threw the latex gloves in a trash can that had a large BIOHAZARD sticker on
the side, which she never found comforting. “Nothing at all to be worried about.” he continued, as she removed her feet from the stirrups and sat back up.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Miss Brooks. Although, and I say this with your health in mind, you might want to tone down the vigorous intercourse.”

  A pit hollowed in her gut.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The tissue looks a little fragile to me. As I said, nothing to worry about, you might want to let it heal up before participating in anything. . . rough, shall we say?”

  “But I. . . haven't. . .”

  “I'm not here to judge, Miss Brooks. Just offering some advice.”

  The chill over her entire body returned in full force. She tried to speak, to protest, to tell him that she had close to zero sexual contact with anyone in at least a year. But she couldn't find the words, and even if she could, her throat did not feel as though it would let her speak them.

  Chapter 13

  A thousand thoughts

  Storming down the street, there were a thousand thoughts going through Ana's mind. She wondered if the doctor could have been mistaken. Maybe he was confused or saw something that he mistook for signs of “vigorous intercourse”. But she knew that he was a professional, that he had been doing his job for decades. He wouldn't just mistake one condition for another.

  This led her to a more horrifying line of thought. A jagged and abrupt line that ended on the words sexual assault.

  It wasn't true―it couldn't be true―her doors and windows were locked, nobody could have got into the house. Her dream might have been her mind's way of dealing with a traumatic experience, but it wasn't a traumatic sexual experience. It couldn't be.