“Mike,” says Dakota, “relax. It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. He’s screwing with us.”
“Hey,” Preston says, jamming a finger at me from across the table. “I’m under a lot of stress too, okay? I said it was a plan, I didn’t say it was a good one. You have to sign in to use the microfiche, so I check the records every day.”
“Fake names. Or what if we’d gone to the courthouse and found what we wanted?”
Preston sighs. “I was going to wait a couple of months, or until I couldn’t take it anymore, and then come looking. I didn’t—I didn’t think it through. What else was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, but what you’re asking isn’t possible. So, yeah, I don’t care what kind of proof you have, if it’s as dangerous as you say, we don’t want any part of it.
Dakota says to me, “But what about my house?”
“Maybe you just leave it. Sell and get away.”
“I can’t,” she says. “No way I can do that to somebody else. We have to fix it.”
“Dakota—”
“Please. Not for him, for me. For everything we talked about before.”
Even with Preston’s absolutely flabbergasting bullshit, it’s impossible for me to say no to her pleading eyes.
Preston tries to convince me as well by saying, “Nobody knows I have this. Nobody but Brandon. If something happens to him and his copy of the evidence disappears, I’m mailing this damn phone to the local paper and going bye-bye. Vanishing like a ghost, so to speak.”
“Probably not the best choice of words.”
“You get my point.” He gingerly nudges his cell phone back in my direction.
Dakota says to Preston, “If I were you, I’d walk out the door right now, and don’t look back. Go start a different life somewhere. Just get away as far as you can. No matter how unbelievably ridiculous that plan was, you’re smart enough to know you’ll have a better chance of making it out of your twenties elsewhere. Move to Montana. Raise a herd of cattle. Disappear. I’m sorry, but that’s what has to happen.”
He nods, lips flattened, frowning.
She adds in a motherly tone, “If you need a voice of reason to tell you what to do, that’s it.”
I tell her, “We can’t. We can’t become a part of this. What if Healy finds out we know and comes after us? It’s a legitimate concern.”
“You’re not saying a word, are you, Preston? Because if you do, and he finds us before he finds you, I’ll have no trouble blabbing your name.”
“Not a peep, ma’am. My hand to God.” Preston puts his hand on his chest.
It doesn’t comfort me in the slightest, but Dakota seems to believe him.
Then she says to me, “At least we’ll know what we’re dealing with, Mike. Right? Séances, Ouija boards, even animal sacrifices? That sounds serious.”
“It’s damn serious. And it means I was wrong about how dangerous this thing can be. Who knows what in the hell they could’ve conjured. And I mean that literally. You mess with shit like that, you’re bringing something up from actual Hell, like proper-noun Hell. Matter of fact, I’m surprised it left so easily this morning.” I yank the phone from underneath Preston’s fingertips. “It was toying with me. Had to have been. If we’re going to do this… Whatever. It’ll be for you. Not him.”
Abject frustration and the cramped nature of this study room makes it feel like we’re sitting inside a pottery kiln.
And yet, when I hold the phone up to get a closer look, my skin goes cold.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ford Atticus Ford
The shower curtain is a dark purple color. It might as well be solid steel, an inch thick, because I can’t see behind it.
Droplets of rain slip in through the open window. I feel one splatter against my collarbone as the sporadic breeze causes the shower curtain to billow and flutter again.
I stoop sideways, bending down to lift the toilet seat and lid.
I should look first, shouldn’t I?
It can wait. I have to go. There are plenty of reasons why there’s nothing behind that goddamn shower curtain. And besides, my grandfather, in his late days when he had minimal control of his continence, used to say, “A bladder in need is a bladder to heed, my boy.”
I unzip and begin to relieve myself. Body water hammers against toilet water. I use my peripheral vision to mind my aim while warily staying focused on the purple cloth. I should’ve looked first. Dummy.
Suffice it to say, I’m certain this is the first occasion where I’ve ever given this much consideration to peeing. Tolstoy likely spent less time writing War & Peace.
Bladder empty, I zip, flush, and manage to take one step toward the tub before I hear BLAM, BLAM, BLAM behind me.
I screech and whip around, glaring at the door as Lauren says, “Ford? You okay? You need to let me in.”
“Fucking hell, Coeburn. What’re you doing out there? You scared the piss out of me.” Which isn’t entirely true since it’s already gone. She knows what I mean.
I imagine her standing in the hallway, and if she was truly trying to seduce me, maybe she’s naked. Or maybe she’s out there now, having taken the time to slip into something more comfortable. Ye olde cliché. Cue the porn music.
“You need to let me in.”
Irritated, I fire back, “Hang on. I need to check something really quick. Just a precaution.”
“You need to let me in.”
“I heard you, and no, I don’t. Whatever you’re doing, go put some clothes on. I mean, you know, if you’re naked or whatever.”
“You need to let me in.”
“I—”
Wait. Why does she keep saying that?
The pause feels like decades pass. The silence squeezes at my lungs.
I step over and put my ear up to the door. “Yo. You okay?”
There’s a soft knocking on the other side.
Tap. Tap. Tap. “Ford?”
“What?”
Her voice is a whimper. “You need to let me in. I’m hungry.”
What the hell? “And you think I have food in—oh shit.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
You need to let me in. I’m hungry.
The sense of panicked realization warms my thighs, sends ripples of nausea through my stomach, waves of skin prickling up my back.
I didn’t see it. My God, it totally went right past me like it was wearing an invisibility cloak.
I slink away from the door, going toe-heel, toe-heel, as quietly as I can.
What—how did—I missed it. I can’t believe I missed it.
She’s—
BLAM. BLAM. BLAM.
She lands booming blows on the door with such ferocious intensity that I can hear the daunting sound of splintering wood.
My pulse rages in my ears, matching the sound of Lauren thrashing against weak wood.
Eyes darting around, I instinctively look for some kind of weapon or an escape route. Toothbrush in the eye? Jam the toilet scrubber down her throat? Spray that flowery smelling stuff in her face as a distraction? Will any of that have an effect?
I glance around, looking up and over my shoulder. The window is too small for me to escape. I’m trapped. A mouse in a cage with a hungry cat outside, trying to find its way inside.
BLAM. BLAM. BLAM.
“You need to let me in, Ford!”
“Go away.” I hesitate mid-step, trying to think of what to say or do next, and it costs me. The thick sole of my black boot catches on the purple rug in front of the toilet, folds underneath my foot, and trips me. I stumble backward, arms flailing, twisting, trying to catch my balance.
Reaching for the shower curtain, I clutch it in my fist, hoping that it’ll be strong enough to hold me upright.
The foolish dreams of a falling man hinge on two letters: if.
I hold tight, feeling gravity take me, unrelenting, as the curtain rod gives away. In the next gasp, I’m hurtling downward. I
throw my body forward, using my shoulder as a wedge to block my fall—not block, but temporarily pause as I linger there, hanging over the bathtub, and then it happens. The bathmat slips from underneath my foot, and I go down.
I land on something soft. I feel it give under my weight. It’s a pile of—what? It feels like there are peaks and valleys, hard and soft, as I roll onto my stomach, pushing up and away.
Please let that be dirty laundry.
Please let that be dirty laundry.
Behind me, Lauren is hurtling her body weight into the door. She’s screaming that I need to let her in, that I need to feed her.
I yank the shower curtain back and away, unable to delay this any longer; my supposedly irrational fear is coming true. Something was behind the shower curtain all along.
I feel faint, dizzy, and nauseated when I see it.
Them, I mean.
Two boys. One younger. One older. They’re dressed in the traditional black-eyed children attire of a white shirt, a black tie, and black pants for the younger, and the older one is in a hoodie and jeans. Their mouths are slightly open like they’re simply in soft slumber. Their dark hair is combed to the side. Clumps of it are missing. My eyes go down to their hands. Both of the boys bear deep claw marks on their skin, the scratches disappearing inside their sleeves. Signs of a struggle. Something, or someone, struggling against them.
Any air I have remaining in my lungs escapes me as I look into their eyes. I don’t know what I expected. It’s not this.
Their eyes are black, but not for the same reason.
The sockets are hollow, empty like freshly dug gravesites. A black trickle has dried at the corners, near the bridge of their noses.
It comes to me in a surge.
Let me in. Feed me.
The black-eyed children, when they say these things, they’re not talking only about the homes of their victims. That much is clear.
You need to let me in. They mean into the body as well as the house. They need a new host.
I’m hungry. Feed me with your soul.
My own soul, the one I’ve been trying to redeem since the night of Chelsea’s attack, curls into a fetal ball and retreats deep inside my chest. I can feel its essence pulling away.
I step back from the tub. A hand goes over my mouth.
Maybe to hide my quivering lip, maybe to hold back the vomit that’s clawing its way up my throat.
I can’t hold it in.
Wine. Cheese. Salami.
They all go into the toilet as I lose my insides to fear, disgust, and terrified understanding.
I grasp how vulnerable I am in this position as Lauren Coeburn—no, whatever that thing is—on the other side of the door rams it with her shoulder, raising her voice ever higher, demanding that I let her in. She’s hungry. She needs to feed.
What now?
I try to recall everything I’ve read in the past about the black-eyed children. Is there anything that can be done?
Not that I can remember. There’s simply not enough available information. It’s not like I can fashion a stake to drive through her heart or hope to miraculously find silver bullets for that pistol in the living room.
Now I wish I had that damn thing.
Good time to change your mind about guns, Ford?
I invited Lauren in. Goddamn it, she knocked on the front door at my condo and I let her in. I let her in here, too. She specifically said, “You need to let me in,” and I stood to the side and watched as she entered.
I’m in such deep shit here—not to mention the fact that my fear is like quicksand, dragging me further and further down. Thick, brown, gooey quicksand made of poop. That particular image doubles me over again, and I retch into the toilet again.
I wipe my mouth with a hand towel, praying the door will hold long enough for me to formulate a plan.
The two boys to my right—no, the hollow shells in the bathtub—they knocked here earlier. She let them in.
BLAM. BLAM. BLAM.
“Ford!”
“Go back to hell,” I scream. “I know what you are!”
As absolutely petrified as I am, I can’t help but think this would’ve made a goddamn amazing episode of Graveyard. This would’ve topped the night we spent in that Italian restaurant in season nine, and I didn’t think that was possible.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out why Lauren would’ve let these two inside. She had to have seen their eyes and that something was wickedly off about them.
Then, I see my reflection in the mirror.
I see.
The connected dots finally form a picture.
Ellen let them in. She’s almost completely blind. Holy shit that makes sense.
She never saw them for what they were, and by then, it was too late.
Whatever is inside the bodies, it jumped from them to Lauren and—
No. Damn it, no.
As if I can bear any more, crippling regret weakens my knees.
Ulie.
I left him at the condo with Grandma Death Eyes.
I left him there to protect her.
I left him there to die.
The center of the door splinters and shatters as Lauren manages to break through the cheap particleboard. The hole is the size of a baseball, yet it’s plenty enough for the creature out there to put her black, soulless eye up to it and look in the bathroom.
She giggles and it’s so haunting, I immediately reach for my crucifix necklace.
Jesus, save me.
Is this worse than Chelsea and Craghorn’s demon?
Yeah, quite possibly. I’m all alone, unlike past experiences where I had Mike or a crew at my back. When it comes to dealing with the paranormal, there’s something to be said for reinforcements, even if it’s just a cameraman and a sound guy.
Lauren giggles again, louder this time.
“Peekaboo, I see you!” she says.
The thought that the paranormal entity, whatever inhabits her body, has been inside her and around me since she came to the condo sends my stomach twirling again. It was baiting me. Waiting patiently. Controlling her. Allowing Lauren to be Lauren until the time was right.
She watches me through the hole with that single black eye as I stand here, gulping short, shallow breaths, begging the universe, God, or common sense to hand me a logical plan.
“Ford,” she says in a lilting, sing-song voice. “You need to let me in.”
“Go away.”
Go away? Pathetic, but it’s all I have.
What happens next is both innocuous and normal, but it literally sends me two inches off the ground, accompanied by a childish yelp.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I’ve lost track of time, but it seems odd that anyone I know would be calling at this hour, and yet, it gives me an idea. I jam my hand into my pocket and jerk the phone out, only taking my eyes off the door long enough to check the caller ID.
The name surprises me. I answer and creep back toward the far corner, whispering, “Melanie?”
“Oh God, you’re alive,” she says, the relief evident in her voice.
“What?”
“I woke up from this horrible dream, and I know that it’s probably because I watched an old episode of Graveyard tonight, but wow, it was all so freaking scary. A demon had attacked you and you died and I was at your funeral with Mike. It was so real I had to call.”
“Melanie,” I whisper. “I am in trouble. Swear to God.”
“What? Are you okay?”
“Call 9-1-1 for Newport, right now.”
“Ford—”
“Hang up and call them. Get the cops here.”
“What’s going on?”
I recite the address. “If that’s wrong, tell them to look for my Wrangler. Light blue house. White shutters. They need to bring backup for a dangerous suspect.”
“Okay, just stay on the—”
I hang up. The phone goes back into my pocket as I stand, wiping my drenched, sweaty
palms on my jeans.
I have no clue what the average response time is for a call to the Newport, Oregon emergency system, but best guess says that I have to last about three to four minutes.
Black-eyed Lauren howls and throws her body at the door. The hole in the center splinters and opens wider. The entrance to my fortress isn’t going to last that long.
I only have one choice.
I crouch, weight leaning forward on my right leg, left toe of my boot planted firmly against the linoleum.
What in God’s name am I doing?
I say, “I’m coming for you, asshole. You ready for the almighty battering ram?”
Our fans would’ve loved that.
Lauren unleashes an ungodly howl and backs away to get a running start. I wait until she charges, her shoulder slamming into the door. A hinge breaks free from the molding.
With every bit of strength I have, I drive my legs forward, launching myself.
Dressed in black pants, black shirt, black boots, and with jet black hair, I’m like a goddamn human cannonball, plunging ahead, throwing every ounce of my weight into the broken door, into Lauren, and into freedom, I hope.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mike Long
I press down harder on the accelerator. I don’t know why I’m in a hurry to get back to my place. I’m in even less of a hurry to get back to Dakota’s.
“Horns,” I tell her, unable to temper my disbelief. “The thing had the most insane horns I’ve ever seen.”
“I saw it too,” she says. “Remember?”
I informed Preston that extra copies had to be out there, because of the way smartphones these days will automatically back things up to a cloud server somewhere in the middle of nowhere. He’d reminded me, then, that there were only two—now four—people with the knowledge of the events of that night. All it took was one of us to get the phone into the hands of a person with media access.
That falls to him. I refused to let him give either of us a copy.
Let me say this: Dakota is a wonderful human being, and I’m at the point where I’ll do any thing humanly possible to help her out, but I desperately hope beyond hope that this doesn’t come back to bite us in the ass.
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