The Impossible Coin (The Downwinders Book 2)

by Michael Richan

  He reached out with his right hand and felt the wood – it seemed so close, as if there were only inches between his face and the side of the shaft. He tried not to panic, but he could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, betraying how anxious he felt. As he drew in his next breath, it seemed labored, difficult. I’m running out of air! He suddenly thought. I’m trapped in here, and I’ll die. It’s like being buried alive!

  His heartbeat increased and he felt himself gulping for air. He pressed against the wood, trying to force it apart, to make the sides of the chute burst open so he could escape. The wood held firm, and his arms began to ache. He knew it was a useless move, but he kept pressing anyway, unable to control the panic he felt.

  “Help!” he screamed. “I’m trapped! Help me! Marty! I can’t breathe!”

  He felt defeated, trapped like an animal in a tube. He pressed harder against the wood, feeling absolutely no give. His shoulders began to ache.

  Although it made no difference to what he could see, he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would ease his discomfort at the idea of the chute so close to his face. He’d never felt this level of anxiety before. Even crawling through caves with Brent, it had never been like this. I might as well be trapped in a coffin underground, buried alive! he thought. No air. No way to get out.

  But there were ways to get out. Drop, and find out what had covered the bottom of the chute. Or, continue up. Keep going.

  Out of sheer desperation, he began pushing himself back up the chute, scraping his back against the wood as he forced his torso to rise within the shaft. Soon he’d raised another couple of feet, and focusing on the movement made him feel a little better, lessening the feeling that he was trapped. His legs were the primary way of going up – he could get the most leverage with them, and he used his arms to keep himself stable within the chute after each rise. He felt like an inchworm, moving barely a foot at a time.

  After what seemed like an eternity, his hands slipped over an opening in the chute, right in front of his face. He pressed his hand into the opening; it was only a couple of inches deep. He pushed on the wood inside the recession, and a small door, hinged at the bottom, dropped down away from him, exposing the first floor of the house to his view. This must be the door to the laundry chute on the ground floor, he thought. The opening was small, but he might be able to go through it. The chute continued to rise above him to the other floors, but he was not going to stay in it any longer than necessary. If he could squeeze through this opening, he was going to do it.

  He reached through the opening with both arms and pulled, feeling his head and shoulders pass through it, and he knew he’d be able to make it. With his arms now on the outside of the small door, he pressed on the walls of the room the door had opened into, and extracted the rest of his body from the hole, sliding down a couple of feet to meet the floor.

  Out! he thought, taking big breaths. So that’s what people mean by claustrophobia. I’ll never go into something small like that again, if I can help it. Never.

  He stood and looked around the room, reaching into his pants pocket. The plaster on the walls had fallen, revealing old slats that you could see through to other rooms. There was a pile of broken furniture in a corner, stacked up long ago, with chair legs jutting out.

  He turned on the flashlight and walked out of the room, watching his step. Piles of plaster and wood were here and there, and he saw nails sticking out of some of the boards, which made him paranoid of stepping on one. He weaved his way through the debris and into larger rooms on this level, where sunlight from outside tried to enter the house through separations in the wood that had been used to board up the windows. Looking for a stairwell, he crossed through the room and toward the front of the house. Sure enough, a large wide staircase was there, leading up. It looked old and ready to cave in. He stepped onto the first step and waited to see how it handled his weight, then he took another step, again testing the wood’s integrity. It seemed to hold him. He carefully walked up, the lower rooms disappearing, and the flooring of the next level coming into view.

  He could hear people talking. It sounded like they were outside, their voices faint. A man and a woman, discussing something. He stopped walking and tried to listen. The sound went away.

  The house creaked around him, adjusting to the heat of the day. Then, footsteps overhead, on the next floor up. Someone was up there.

  The vorghost, he thought. That’s the ghost up there.

  At the stairwell landing a hallway proceeded to his right and left. Down the hallway to the right he could hear more movement, and he expected to see people walk out of the doorways at any second. He wanted to find the next set of stairs that would lead up to the third floor, and he assumed they’d be behind him, stacked on top of the stairs he’d just come up. So he turned left, ignoring the hallway. Sure enough, a second set of stairs appeared.

  There was a part of him that wanted to stop and explore the second level, check out what was in the rooms down that hallway. He knew it was unlikely that there’d be real people in them; ghosts, most likely, like the images he saw in the basement. He didn’t know if they were real, or just images put there by the vorghost. But the same inquisitiveness that had drawn him into the cave with Brent years ago made him want to stop and check out the rooms. Then he thought about Marty, trapped in the basement, and knew he had to get to his goal as quickly as he could. The vorghost was supposed to be in the attic, above the third level. Maybe after he was done and he and Marty were safe, he could explore the house more. He started up the stairs.

  The third level came into view, looking a lot like the second. He turned around the broken banister at the top, and checked out the hallway to the left, hoping he’d find another stairway up, but there was none. He’d reached the top of the house as far as normal stairs were concerned. Turning back, he saw the hallway running down past open doorways – laid out exactly like the second floor.

  Well, he thought, I guess I get to explore this level. Got to find the way up into the attic.

  There was a thump from the floor below. It sounded as if a body had fallen to the floor. It resurrected his feelings of being trapped, as though his way out was now cut off. For a quick second he thought about bolting back down the stairs and leaping headfirst into the chute, diving down it as quickly as possible. But then what? Marty, stuck in the ground? Would they be able to leave?

  He looked down the hallway, the flashlight starting to sputter. He banged it against his hand, and the light returned to full intensity. Then he started down the hallway, sticking his head into each room as he passed, lighting the ceiling, looking for an opening.

  More talking, outside. People. They were talking about using the side of the house for target practice. Shit! he thought. I could get shot in here!

  Another thump! From downstairs, followed by steps on the stairs. Something was coming up.

  This is all the vortex, he thought. Playing tricks, like Ida said. Just keep searching for the way up to the attic.

  But the sounds were damn hard to ignore. He heard the crack of a rifle, and the sound of splintering wood below him. Three more shots in quick succession.

  As he turned into each room he expected to encounter something horrible, an image of a murder, or some grisly apparition coming at him. But the rooms were always empty. The horror he felt was from the sounds he was hearing, and the things his mind was creating in response to those sounds.

  There’s nothing here, he thought. I’m just scaring myself. Like in the chute.

  Whatever had been ascending the stairs now fell onto the landing. He could hear it dragging itself along the floor down the hallway. After it turned a corner, it’d be within eyesight. He tried to increase his pace, moving from room to room more quickly. There weren’t many more rooms to cover.

  Then he saw it: an opening cut into the ceiling, surrounded by a wooden frame, in a room near the center of the house. The opening was covered over on the attic side by a large piece of pa
inted plywood. Winn studied it with his flashlight – he didn’t see any hinges, so it didn’t look like a door. The plywood might just be lying loose on top of the opening, he thought. He considered dragging some of the junk in the room underneath it to make it easier to reach; instead, he tried jumping, and found he could just barely touch the plywood with his hand, feeling it rise up as he made contact with it. He kept jumping, hitting at the plywood, sliding it a few inches each time he made contact. After the twentieth jump, the edge of the plywood had cleared the opening, and he could see through to the attic, which looked black. He jumped at the plywood a couple more times until most of the opening was clear, then he took a running jump and landed his hands up and over the edge of the opening. He felt splinters enter the skin of his palms and fingers as he pulled himself up and through it. Once inside, he removed his hands from the lip of the opening, and tried to pull at the small shards of wood that were sticking out from his hands. Then he looked around.

  It was unlike anything he’d ever seen in his life – in real life, or in a movie.

  The entire room was in motion, dark blue and purple streaks of fog and clouds, slowly spinning counter-clockwise. There were no walls reigning in the scene – the vortex of movement was large, well beyond the physical boundaries of the attic or the house. The dark blue light illuminated dark shapes that were sitting in the swirl of mist, causing the clouds to rise slightly or go around the obstructions. Some were below the surface of the fog, but others rose above it a few feet. Winn couldn’t make out what the shapes were – they were too dark. It unnerved him that they were all about the size and shape of humans.

  He looked up, and saw stars – more brilliantly displayed than he’d ever seen. He recognized the constellations – everything was in its place. The vortex seemed to eliminate the sunlight, providing a perfect viewing of the night sky.

  There was something wrong with the air here. Winn felt he couldn’t take normal breaths, just short ones, and it smelled bad, as though there was some caustic chemical in the air. He knew he couldn’t stay long.

  He stood up and walked away from the opening, his feet moving through the swirling blue fog. He switched on his flashlight, but it wouldn’t light up. He hit it a few times, but nothing happened. Ida made it sound like once I reached the attic, the vorghost would approach me, he thought. So far, nothing.

  Winn walked to one of the dark objects. It rose out of the mist a couple of feet, the fog slowly swirling past it. As he approached he saw that it looked like something that had been cocooned – wrapped up in some kind of dark webbing that didn’t reflect light. There were facial features, but they were slight, the result of being under layers and layers of some kind of dark thread. He reached out to touch it, and immediately jumped back when the object moved under his touch. He heard a muffled cry coming from inside.

  There’s someone in there! he thought.

  Hands off, he heard. It was a thin, wispy sound.

  Instinct told him to drop into the River, and the moment he did, he saw the face in the fog, several feet away, watching him. It was just below the surface level of the mist, and it was twice the size of a normal, human face. A representation, he thought. Of the vorghost.

  He turned to look at the cocooned object next to him, and was horrified to see that the dark webbing was now translucent. He saw the wide open eyes of the person inside, staring at him. It was a woman, and her mouth was covered with more webbing, making it impossible for her to scream. Winn could see the horror in her eyes. She was terrified, like she was pleading with him to find a way to release her from the strange binding that held her.

  Noticing movement, Winn turned back to where he’d seen the face in the fog, and saw that it was gone. It reappeared closer, now just feet away, still just under the surface of the blue fog, its features half obscured.

  I said: hands off, he heard, but this time it wasn’t a thin, wispy voice. It was low and deep, filled with menace and threat. Winn took a step back from the trapped woman, her eyes opening wider as he moved away, desperate for him to help her.

  There, Winn said in his mind. I’ve stepped back.

  Are you prepared to give me something in return? he heard. He saw the lips moving on the face under the fog, but they were so obscured he wasn’t entirely sure the sound had come from them.

  You know what I want? Winn said.

  Only since you drove up, he heard. Before that, no.

  What do I give up? Winn asked.

  It depends on what I want the most, the entity said. The face dipped from view, blue mist washing in where the face had been. Winn saw movement under the fog, and he turned, watching as the entity shifted to a new position. I doubt you’ll miss what I’m going to take. I expect you’ll hardly ever use it. Since I’m taking so little, I want a commitment from you, as well.

  What? Winn asked, trying to keep up with the movement under the fog. It stopped and surfaced again, not more than three feet in front of him.

  A future commitment, of my choosing. If you’re called, you come, and do what I ask. If you fail to come, your friend comes back, perhaps permanently, and I keep whatever I’ve already taken. Those are the terms.

  Winn felt a little cheated. If the vorghost was going to take something from him, like he’d taken Ida’s control, why should he also have to give up more for the same favor? It felt unfair, and he felt like dickering.

  What if I’m in the middle of something? What if I can’t just drop whatever I’m doing and come here to you? he asked.

  You come, or your friend will come back, he heard.

  And what are you going to have me do if I come? Something dangerous? Something that maybe isn’t worth it?

  I occasionally have things I need done in the real world, he heard. You’ll do one of those things for me. It might be dangerous, it might not be. Those are the terms.

  Winn thought it over. It still felt unfair – the vorghost hadn’t conceded anything. Ida had said it wouldn’t be a fair trade. Still, he had to try.

  I can’t have Brent’s return looming over me my entire life, he said. That’s almost as bad as him being around in the first place. How about we limit the time frame? You use up my obligation to you within five years, and if you don’t use it in that time, I’m free – it expires, no more commitment. Brent stays away forever.

  Twenty years, he heard. As long as you plan to honor your commitment, you should have no fear of your friend returning. Only if you ignore my request will that happen; you have control over that. Twenty years. I’ll send someone to you when I want you – you’ll come back here and we’ll talk. No more bargaining, those are my terms, take them or leave them.

  Winn looked into the face below him in the fog. Alright, he said. I agree.

  Do you have something of his? I need something he owned.

  Winn reached into his pocket, and pulled out the nickel. He saw it shine with a blue hue, and he held it out to the entity. This was his, he said. I gave it to him. He was holding it when he died. It’s the reason I’m here.

  The face rose up and out of the mist, enlarging as it left the swirling clouds. For a moment it had regular features, but then its mouth opened and kept opening. It moved toward him, and Winn realized it intended to swallow him. He closed his eyes as the mouth descended upon him, and he felt suddenly light, as though he was floating, anesthetized. He felt himself rotating backwards, floating in space, the stars gone. He couldn’t move any part of his body, and his mind felt as though he could focus only on one thing, the fact that he was still conscious. Everything else felt numb. In the back of his mind he worried that in this state, the vorghost could take anything or everything about him, and he was powerless to stop it.

  My soul is under the knife, he remembered thinking, just as the tiny amount of consciousness he had left collapsed into nothing, and he stopped being aware of anything.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “When I woke, I was in the basement, and Marty was reviving me,” Winn said. “
He’d been released, and right after that, he saw me appear on the floor. I told him I made the deal, and he ushered me through the basement window and back to his car. We drove back to Tucson, and I told him the whole story of what happened after I went up the chute. We went back home, and that was that.”

  “So Brent was gone? He never came around again?” Deem asked.

  “No,” Winn replied. “The vorghost was true to its word. I’ve had dreams that involved him, but no appearances like before. Not a single one since I made the deal.”

  “And the price you paid,” Awan said, “was the part of you that made you a blank? Whatever that is?”

  “Whatever it is,” Winn said. “I spent years trying to figure out what it had taken from me, and nothing seemed obvious. I began to think it hadn’t taken anything, and my obligation to a future commitment was the real price. But thanks to Lyman, now I know. There’s some kind of blind spot inside me. It came into play with Ninth Sign. I don’t know if it’ll ever impact anything else I do, because I just don’t know much about it.”

  “It was an asset with Ninth Sign,” Deem said. “Strange to think that something it took from you could wind up being a good thing.”

  “It was only good because someone else knew how to manipulate it,” Awan said. “It isn’t something you have control over, is it? It takes other people to make use of it. It’s useless to you.”

  “You’re right,” Winn said. “I didn’t know it was there. I still don’t. It isn’t anything I can identify.”

  “Anything you can identify at the moment,” Carma said, rising from her chair and walking to the dimmer. She raised the light level a little. “You may be able to learn to manipulate it over time.”

  “Really?” Winn asked.

  “The ability to keep an object concealed, even around powerful creatures like Ninth Sign?” Carma said. “Yes, I’d consider that a valuable ability! I’d want to explore it and learn how to control it, to use it to my advantage when I need to.”