“They transferred him to a different prison. Warden figured he killed that guy trying to get executed on purpose to ‘escape’ his life sentence. Far as I know, he spent the rest of his time in solitary.”
Earl, the huge spirit, leans back and laughs.
“Wow, that’s worse than executing him,” says the skeptic woman.
A few guys pull out digital recorders and ask questions, trying to get the spirit to answer, but Earl dissolves back into a shadowy mass and glides away. After a few minutes of letting the guys talk to thin air, the tour guides take us across the building along a series of spooky hallways. We stop in a featureless corridor covered in peeling white paint. Ten solid metal doors with tiny slit windows line each side.
“Welcome to the hole,” says Mark. “These cells were used as disciplinary tools for unruly and violent inmates, who could sometimes find themselves isolated for weeks or months at a time, often going insane by the time they were released.”
A collective shudder sweeps over the group.
“Hey new meat,” says a gravelly voice behind me. “Bring that sweet ass over here.”
I spin with a gasp, staring at a spectral head leaning through the door of an isolation cell. Lumpy face, scar over his left eye, wide nose covered in red lumps… this guy elevates ugly from a concept to a mission statement.
The older woman also turns at the voice, and cringes. Whoa. Can she actually see this guy, too?
“Not talkin’ to you.” An arm emerges from the door, pointing at Hunter.
Mark grins and looks us over, particularly the guys trying to get ghosts on video. “Anyone brave enough to spend five minutes inside?”
A twenty-something girl shakes her head rapidly and starts crying. Pretty much everyone avoids making eye contact with Mark. River waves him off with a ‘pff, no thanks’ attitude.
Hunter glances over at him, then steps forward. “Yeah, sure. I’ll do it.”
Everyone gets quiet.
“Ah. Good sport.” Mark pats him on the shoulder.
Hunter grins at me and backs into the indicated room. Mark shuts the door and locks it with a sliding bar.
Brad clears his throat to get our attention. “Over the years the Ellensburg Jail operated, nine men lost their lives in this hallway and attached isolation cells. An inmate named Wallace Jefferson, about to be put in the hole for the eighth time, killed the two guards escorting him by biting out their throats while his hands were in cuffs behind his back. He got his wish, and died in the electric chair a few months later.”
“Hey, River,” I whisper. “Why don’t you step into a cell? Or did you leave your balls outside in that fancy car of yours?”
He glares at me.
Mark opens the door. Hunter walks out looking a bit nervous, but not freaked.
“Wow, that’s messed up,” he says once he’s beside me again. “Felt like an hour already.”
“Dude, you hear any voices?” asks one of the guys who’s been trying to get an EVP recording.
Hunter scratches his head. “Maybe. Kinda hard to say what’s real and what’s in your head in that room.”
“Anyone else?” asks Mark.
A few people look pointedly at River, but he doesn’t say a word.
“Screw it,” I say, stepping forward.
“But you’re a girl.” Brad blinks at me.
I glance at him. “So?”
“The spirits react to women down here since they ain’t used to seeing them. You sure you wanna sit in there all alone?” Brad tries to sound spooky. “Something might touch you.”
“Bring it on,” I say. “My balls aren’t attached to a sports car.”
“Sarah,” rasps Ashley. “Stop it.”
I smile and send, I’ll be fine. This is nothing compared to that mausoleum for a whole damn night, telepathically. After stepping into the tiny cell, I turn to face the door and pick my eye with my middle finger in River’s direction.
Mark nudges the door closed, trapping me in a concrete-walled room covered in stains, mold, scratches, and dents. It doesn’t even have a cot or a toilet, only a small drain in the middle of the floor.
Ugh. It really would be horrible to be locked in here for days. Fortunately, I can still see. And, considering I can probably kick that door down if I really wanted to, I don’t feel too trapped. The tour guides keep talking about the murder of the two guards. A few voices from the tour group murmur about how surprised they are a ‘little girl’ had the nerve to do the solitary challenge. Most of them think I’m going to emerge crying or freak before the five minutes pass and beg to be let out.
“What are you doing in here?” asks a whispery voice behind me.
“Ghost tour,” I say, not looking.
“They let you keep yer clothes ’cause yer a lady?”
“I’m not a prisoner. It’s just a tour. This prison is shut down. You know you can leave if you want. You’re dead.” I peer back over my shoulder at an older guy with a bit of a pot belly and fluffy white eyebrows—and no clothes. Wow. He’s the living embodiment of TMI. I look away.
“I died in here,” says the man.
“Sorry.”
“Not sure what happened. Went in my sleep or somethin’. Was talking to Abner and just like that I’m able to go through the walls.”
“Abner?”
The spirit points at a dark spot on the wall. “Abner. His face used to be there, but when I got all floaty, he went away.”
Oh, this guy cracked. “Sorry your friend left.”
“So I’m dead?”
“Yep.”
“How can you talk to me if I’m dead?”
“I’m halfway dead.”
“Bah. Too young. You shouldn’t be half dead yet.”
“Thanks.”
The nude ghost evaporates when Mark opens the door. I walk out to a sea of silent faces. No one evidently expected me to be so blasé about it. Especially River.
“What?” I shrug. “It’s an empty, dark room.”
Murmuring starts.
“With a ghost,” I add, walking back to stand beside Hunter.
“He grab you?” asks some guy with an AC/DC T-shirt.
“Nope. Just whispered.”
One of the EVP dudes volunteers to go in next.
Hunter pulls me close and mutters, “You are having way too much fun trying to get under that guy’s skin. He doesn’t bother me. You don’t have to pick a fight with him.”
I lean my head on his shoulder. “I know. Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
Five minutes later when Mark opens the door, the EVP guy dashes out, pale as a sheet and shaking. Hmm. Guess that ghost spoke to him too. Hopefully, the guy’s not psychic and didn’t have to suffer that visual, too. Shudder. No one else is willing to try their nerves in the isolation cell, so the tour guides usher us along down another hallway to more cell rows.
A pudgy, bearded guy cuts Michelle off at the next doorway, almost running her over to get in front of her.
“Hey,” yells Michelle. “Jerk.”
The guy elbows his buddy, points back over his shoulder at her, and says, “Bet she came here to see where her father lived.”
Corey gives the dude the evil eye while whispering, “Just ignore the idiot. Not worth it.”
Normal Me would’ve left well enough alone. A dude that I’m eye-to-man-boob with would’ve kept me quietly hoping he forgot us and went away. Sucks for him that I’m no longer Normal Me.
“What’s your problem?” I blurt, darting in front of him. “Where her father lived? Seriously? That’s racist as hell.”
The man laughs at me. “Them people are ruining the country. They only don’t like hearin’ that ’cause it’s true. Stereotypes exist for a reason. Country’s crime rate would drop to nothin’ if they sent all the damn ni―”
Before I realize what I’m doing, I punch the guy clean in the jaw, knocking him straight over backward.
“Holy shit!” yells Corey.
“Daaaaamn,” says EVP guy.
“Uhh, that girl just broke that big dude’s face,” says the ‘ghosts are BS’ woman as she steps closer, peering at the waterfall of blood gushing from the man’s mouth and nose.
Crap. I broke his jaw. Little old me should not have been able to lay this guy out with one punch. The woman looks at me, at the guy, back at me. Her expression becomes ‘two plus two equals nine.’
The way Michelle’s staring at me mixes ‘thanks’ with ‘you just messed up big time.’ Corey is furious enough to have punched the guy himself, but he has a bit more restraint than me. Well, a bit more restraint than Vampire Me. A few months ago, I would’ve been terrified of a dude this big.
Beard is out cold. He’s not dead, but he’s quite unconscious.
Since everyone is already staring at me, I hit them all with a mental whammy. The same sort of ‘stun’ I use before feeding. Everyone except for Ash, Hunter, and Michelle.
“Give me a moment,” I mutter.
My friends nod.
“Whoa. Everyone’s standing around like mannequins,” says Hunter, poking EVP guy in the shoulder. “That’s weird.”
“What are you doing?” asks Michelle.
“As far as anyone here is going to remember, this guy tripped and fell face-first into a cell door.” I make my way around the whole tour group plus all three guides, one by one editing their memory of the last five minutes. Since it’s such a short, recent time frame, it’s pretty simple to give them the impression this jackass French kissed some bars. The guy’s buddy is a little more difficult since he has a personal connection.
Once the brain surgery is done, I haul the dude over and use his face like a paintbrush to smear some blood around, then drop him like he tripped in front of the cell.
“Now what?” Ashley blinks at me.
“We stand here and wait a minute or two. When the mental fog wears off, scream or something like the guy just wiped out hard.”
“Okay.” She nods.
Michelle squeezes my hand, both thanking me for standing up for her and asking me to scale it back a bit.
“Sorry. That guy… made me so angry hearing that shit come out of his mouth.”
“Girl, you haven’t heard anything.” She rolls her eyes. “That’s not even in the top ten shittiest things people have said to me. And the stuff they think I can’t hear is way worse.”
I give her a helpless stare.
As people begin to break out of the mental fog, Ashley yells, “Whoa! Holy crap!”
Everyone spins to look at her.
She points at the big guy. “That guy just crashed into the bars and knocked himself out.”
Mark, Vicky, and Brad run over to check on him, and have a quick deliberation. Brad winds up staying with the unconscious guy while calling 911 from his cell phone. The other two escort the group (except for the big guy’s friend) away and keep going with the tour. We circle around to the other side of the building to visit death row and the electric chair.
Oddly enough, I don’t see any ghosts in this part of the jail, but there’s a definite sense of malice in the air.
“This place has absorbed a lot of negative energy,” says the older woman.
Much to my (total lack of) surprise, no one volunteers to sit in the electric chair.
“I’d recommend against that.” The psychic woman shies away from the room. “Touching a relic like that is a great way to develop an attachment to a restless spirit.”
Skeptic woman rolls her eyes again.
EVP guy blurts, “Hey, did a ghost push that guy over back there? There’s nothing on the floor he could’ve tripped over.”
“Oh, wow, yeah,” says a thirty-something guy in flannel. “Probably. She said the ghosts were unusually active tonight. He totally got pushed for what he said to that girl.”
And just like that, my story grows legs and morphs into the sort of urban legend everyone believes because they want to. ‘Ghost shoves man on prison tour’ sounds a lot better than ‘clumsy racist idiot trips over his own feet.’
Well, that worked out. I wink at Michelle. She’s got a boyfriend she can trust, even if he is a walk on the mild side. Speaking of boyfriends, I eye River.
I’m really not liking the way he holds Ashley’s arm and steers her around. I’m liking her not biting his head off even less.
Grr. Why can’t another half-dead vampire thing try to kill me? That’s so much easier to deal with than my best friend being in a crappy relationship. Whether she wants me to or not, I will do one small thing.
When no one’s looking at me, I catch River’s eye and command him not to drive like an idiot with her in the car. It’s so tempting to send him on his way, but I can’t break Ashley’s trust like that. I’m scared for her, but if I cling to her here, I’ll only make it worse.
So, I hang on Hunter, trying not to freak out with worry.
We’ve still got another hour of jail to deal with.
12
Artistic License
Our neighbors must think we’re strange.
I mean, who runs around their backyard jumping through the lawn sprinkler in the middle of a rainstorm? Me, evidently. Since I can’t do this with my siblings when the sun’s in a face melting mood, we are enjoying the backyard during a storm. It’s not a thunderstorm—we’re weird, not stupid.
And hey, who needs a pool when the air is full of water?
Surprisingly, Mom doesn’t seem to mind Sophia’s bathing suit. It’s a purple bikini that’s a little more revealing than the outfit they wanted her to wear for the dance recital. Maybe it’s not bothering Mom because we’re not leaving our backyard. Who knows? Sierra’s is similar but a little more modest, kinda like spandex short-shorts rather than a bikini bottom. Mine is pretty much a bigger version of Sophia’s. Dad hates it. He can’t even look me in the eye when I’m wearing it. Sam’s wearing his new swim trunks, but they’re way too big on him. Every time he jumps, they slip down. He’ll probably be able to wear them next year. More like the next two years. Though, I suspect that was Dad’s master plan: buy swim trunks for a twelve-year old and put them on a nine-year-old. The boy doesn’t seem to care that he occasionally moons us. In fact, I suspect he finds it funny.
Eventually, Mom calls us inside. We dry off, change, and spend the rest of the evening doing ‘family stuff,’ which translates to board games and cheesy Dad jokes.
About fifteen minutes after sundown, my iPhone pings with a text from Aurélie, asking me if I remembered our plans tonight. I fire off a, ‹Yep. I’ll be there soon› and drop the phone back on the table. Dad asks about the prison tour, and my description of it gets him thinking about taking the family there, or somewhere similar. Sophia’s a hard no. Last year, he tried to bring her to a fake haunted house and she damn near had a panic attack begging him not to make her go inside. Mom wasn’t feeling it either, so she elected to wait outside with Sophia. Can’t fault them. I came out the other end in tears. Even Sierra wound up clingy, and we all knew the ‘monsters’ were actors.
Anyway, game night winds down with each sibling going off to do their own thing for the last forty-five minutes or so before bedtime. I take the opportunity to slip off to my room and change for flight: dark colors and pants.
So, yeah. I’m dressed up like a giant doll.
After I arrive at Aurélie’s, we socialized for about an hour while sipping blood from goblets. Mostly, she wanted to hear what’s going on with me. I got the feeling she doesn’t leave her home often, so I humored her and brought her up to speed on everything. Is this what people did before television?
Eventually, she whisked me into the bedroom and put me in this elaborate gown like something old timey porcelain-faced dolls wear. At least she skipped all the crap that goes with it and let me keep my usual underwear on. In said dress, I perch on a pink divan, my bare feet poking out the hem. A few of her actual dolls join me, several stacked up on either side plus one in my lap. I’m not sure if I should feel
like another doll in her collection, or an oversized child. Still, the least I can do for all the help she provides is to tolerate her eccentricities and pose while she paints my portrait.
At least being half dead, I’m capable of holding still rather well. Though, it’s not like she’s taking my daguerreotype. A little motion won’t ruin the painting. And yeah, I do feel lame. I’m probably blushing scarlet. If anyone from school saw me, I’d never live it down. No one over the age of ten could pose like this and not be the subject of ridicule. But, whatever. I’m doing something nice for a friend.
“Aww, Chéri, you are adorable.” She winks at me from around the canvas. “Perhaps I am asking you to be a bit of a pet, but when you get to be my age, it’s difficult not to feel apart from things, like you are observing the world from outside.”
“It’s okay.” I smile. “My mother used to dress me up for holiday photos when I was little.”
She laughs.
“I had no idea you paint.”
“When you’ve spent as much time as I have in this world, you pick up hobbies. The best way to guard against losing your mind is to keep it occupied.”
For the next few hours, I sit as still as possible while Aurélie tells me a story about the ridiculous lengths a man once went to in order to court her, back before she’d become a vampire. It sounds like the plot from a historic comedy. Like whatever would pass for a ‘chick flick’ in the 1600s.
“Marcel was so sweet, but he and luck were not on speaking terms.”
“So what happened? Did he give up or did you disappear after the Transference?”
Aurélie emits a soft giggle. “The night I told him I accepted his proposal to wed, Jean-Pierre tore out his throat and gave me the fatal kiss.”
I stare at her. “Unbelievable.”
“Oui. Marcel’s luck was awful, straight to the end.” She fans herself. “At least he had a few minutes of happiness.”
Sucks to be that guy. The night the girl you’ve been chasing decides to accept your proposal, a vampire kills you. Yikes.
Aurélie hums to herself, her right hand moving so fast it blurs. With her age and reflexes, she’s probably managing something like five hours of painting effort for every hour. Perhaps more. “Oh, you are so adorable.”
Vampire Innocent (Book 3): The Artist of Ruin Page 11
