“But why haven’t I felt—”
“Be quiet,” Ellen said, roughly. “Lemme get through this.” She drew a horizontal soap line from the X across the mirror. “This is your life after you two were bound. And this…” She curved the line up and backward in a curve until it dropped down and intersected the horizontal, creating what, to Peter, looked like a shoelace loop. She drew another X at the point of intersection. “This is the moment you came back to Maple City. You see? Past and present overlap. The man in the present, the boy in the past—the thing with you at both times. This junction is very potent for both you and it.”
Peter shook his head. “This junction—”
“Jeez, I thought I was dumbing this down enough,” Ellen spat. “Two lights in a single room are brighter than one. Two packets of sugar in a coffee are sweeter than one. Two—”
“Okay, okay,” Peter said.
“This demon is stronger and more active because you’ve brought it into the same space at two different time periods.”
Peter’s throat was suddenly parched. He ripped the cellophane off of a plastic cup, filled it with water and downed it. “That doesn’t explain my goddamn amnesia about my childhood. What happened to my memories, Ellen? Living as a boy in that house, doing what I did to…” Suddenly, the phrase came to Peter as easy as breathing. “To the Old Man? How could it steal them?”
“Because it’s a mosquito.”
“Is this you dumbing it down for me again? Because if it is—”
“No, not a mosquito, but still…yes,” Ellen’s mind was whirring. “It numbs you before stinging. No. It numbs you after. It’s being kind. But a thing like it can’t be kind, so it does the next best thing. Or the worst.”
Her words were coming faster and faster, and Peter strained to keep up.
“They say biological forces blind a mother to the pain she experienced in childbirth so that she won’t avoid getting pregnant again and have another baby. It’s like that. But not really.” Ellen pounded her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Your mother bound it to you—to protect you because she couldn’t. But some of the things it’s done have hurt you.”
Like helping him kill the Old Man.
“And so, it numbs you to your pain.”
“And since my early childhood was nothing but pain—”
“It took those memories away.” She let out a deep sigh. “At least, that’s my theory.”
Peter let this sink in. “Which is why childhood doesn’t kick in for me until I’m eight years old. Until I moved to Oak Street.”
“Could be.”
Peter pulled his hand free from Ellen’s grip, which had tightened tremendously.
“What next, Ellen? How do I get rid of it?”
Ellen breathed deep. “By being strong and fighting back. The two of you are bound in blood. But I have to warn you—if you should manage to break that bond, there’s no telling what it might do.”
“Be strong? Fight back? That’s all you’ve got?”
“That’s all you need.”
Peter pressed his knuckles against his eyes until his pulse pounded in the sockets. “Then I’m shit out of luck.”
“What?” Ellen shook her head violently. “No. You and it? You’ve grown up together. It may have had the advantage of hiding in your blind spot, but that doesn’t mean you don’t know it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have a brother. Growing up, he knew everything that annoyed me. Spilled milk, certain songs, the sound of him picking his teeth. He knew how to get to me. That’s true of this thing—it knows how to get to you. Doesn’t it?”
A flash of Myrna—now no longer Mom, only Myrna—with her crow’s beak biting jumped into his head. A bastardization of his fears.
“Yes.”
“That’s a two-way street, Mr. Larson. You may not know it, but you know how to get to it too.”
Ellen fanned the back of her shirt, trying to dry it out. He grabbed a towel from the rack and handed it to her.
“Yours won’t be a physical battle.”
“Oh, no?” Peter said, pointing to his face. “It’s felt pretty damn physical to me.”
“In the end, it will be a contest of will. And in that department, you’ve got a few things going for you.”
“Such as…?”
“Love, for one. Your mother’s—your wife’s. Plus, you belong here in this world. It doesn’t. And it knows that.”
Peter raked his fingers through his hair. “Thanks for the pep talk, but isn’t there something a little…I don’t know…tangible you could suggest? Something from one of your books? Holy water, a cross, the Sorcerer’s Stone? Anything?”
“The only tangible part of this whole thing was your mother’s touch,” Ellen said. She reached out and gently drew her finger across Peter’s forehead with a tenderness that surprised him. “Still, you can confront it. Test it. Provoke it.”
“To what end, Ellen? Seriously?”
“To knock it off guard. To give you the chance to improvise. The stories in those books of mine are someone else’s. They can’t help you. You’re going to have to write your own.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“It’s the best I’ve got.”
She dropped the towel, stepped on it and mopped the wet floor with her foot.
“How will I know if you’re right?”
“Simple,” Ellen said. “It’ll leave.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Ellen shrugged. “Let’s just hope it does.”
As the drugs wore off, Ellen began to crash hard. Hannah offered her the second of the two rooms for the night.
“It’s paid for, and there’s no reason you and your friend have to drive all the way back home in the dark.”
Ellen conferred with Kevin, and they both agreed it was for the best. “I have to open tomorrow, so we’ll have to be on the road by dawn.”
She pulled a book from her pack and handed it to Hannah. Demonologist’s Dream by Derrick Masterson. “Give it a look-see but don’t get tied to it. I hope I helped. My address is on the inside cover. Send it back when you’re done with it.
“Thank you,” Peter said.
Ellen nodded. “Come on, Kevin.”
The thin kid snuck out after her with nothing but a nod, closing the adjoining door behind him.
Riggs swirled the last of the whiskey around in the bottle. He’d managed to polish off almost all of it.
“What’s next on the list, kids?” he slurred.
Peter picked up the TV remote and tossed it to him. “For you? HBO and a nap.”
Riggs screwed up his face. “You’re going back there, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Pete. I’m sorry I tried to kiss your wife.”
“I know.”
Riggs turned to Hannah. “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you.”
Hannah nudged the bottle. “Have another snort.”
“You’re so pretty.”
“Riggs,” said Peter.
“I mean it, Pete. She’s so pretty. Too pretty for me. Prettier than…I don’t know. I’m drunk. I’ll shut up. I…where’s that remote?”
“You put it in your pocket.”
“Yeah, I did.” Riggs sat on the bed and slouched forward. “Hey, what about my Jeep? It’s still at your place.”
“I’ll swing it by tomorrow morning. Leave it parked right outside with the keys under the floor mat.”
“You promise, Pete?”
“I promise.”
Riggs nodded. “Good.”
He switched on the TV to the Poker Channel, threw back another slug of whiskey and promptly fell back on the bed.
* * *
Peter flipped through Ellen’s book as Hannah drove. After a few chapters, he tossed it into the back seat.
“That good?” Hannah asked.
“Seeing this crap in black and white makes it seem even crazier.”
<
br /> They rode in silence for awhile—past a stretch of auto dealers, The Dollar Spot and a shuttered video rental store whose sign still touted its going out of business sale.
They passed the salvage yard next, and then they were speeding down a county road. The last of the lightning lit up the horizon as they drew closer to the house.
“What’s the plan, Mr. Larson?” Hannah asked.
“Not sure yet.”
“But you’re working on it?”
“I am.”
* * *
The rain had stopped by the time Hannah pulled the Prius up to front of the house. In his haste, Riggs had left one of the doors to his Jeep open a crack, and the dome light was on. Peter rectified that.
Hannah joined him on the sidewalk, and they both looked up at the dark upper windows, the patchwork shingles, the gnarled trees that flanked the thing.
“I’m going in alone,” Peter said.
“Like hell you are.”
“Hannah—”
“Not going to happen, so shut up.”
Peter turned to her. “This is my fight.”
“If I don’t go in, you don’t go in. End of story.”
Peter took her hand, squeezed it hard. She was here. Through all the shit they’d waded through together, she was still here.
“Wait here a sec,” he said, letting go of her hand and heading off toward the side of the house.
“Aren’t we going in?”
“There’s something I need to do first.”
* * *
As Peter approached the pond, he could see the pale overlay of the past. The man holding his mother aloft. The splash of the water. The struggle beneath the surface.
He knelt beside the matted clump of muck he’d dredged up from the depths during his fevered vision. The mound was no bigger than a dog. Spreading apart the rotten cloth, Peter peered down upon the remains of the mother he had only seen in a nightmarish vision. Willa, reduced to a pile of mossy bones. Sifting through the wreckage of the long-dead woman, Peter found what he was looking for. He ripped free a bit of wet tarp and carefully wrapped the item inside.
Something tangible, he thought.
When he returned to Hannah, there was an urgency in his step and a small bundle in his pocket.
The first thing Peter noticed upon entering the house was the decided drop in temperature. But that was to be expected, no? Cold drafts, flickering lights—all part in parcel with a haunting. He could almost hear the canned music, the soundtrack of wails and moans. The Fall Festival haunted house come to life.
What he hadn’t expected was the pain.
Two steps into the foyer, the nerve endings in his wounded cheek lit up, dropping him to his knees. The gash was on fire.
Hannah called to him, but he couldn’t hear what she said—the pain blocked out everything around him.
Peter ripped the bandage from his cheek and touched the skin with tentative fingertips. The flesh was fever-hot.
“Peter!” Hannah’s voice breaking through.
He gritted his teeth against the pain, trying to force it down, but the pulsing waves only intensified. It knew where to cut him—yes, by god—it knew.
Hannah put her hand on the back of his neck, and he threw it aside. Every inch of his skin sent signals to the nerves in his cheek, causing them to fire.
“Vodka!” he croaked, hoping Hannah would catch his meaning—hoping she would remember the giant bottle, a going away present from Hannah’s folks, that was still packed away in a box in the kitchen. When she left his side and headed for the hallway, he knew she had caught his meaning.
His molars felt like they were about to pop out, leaving him with gaping, burning holes in his jaw. In his mind’s eye, he saw a swirl of feathers, flapping insanely close to his face, threatening to blind him.
He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek and felt a divot in the flesh. He probed at it with the tip of his tongue, and the hole widened.
Holy fuck.
He pressed his fingers against the outer side of the cheek—hot and wet with discharge—and felt the rough tickle of his tongue.
The hole went straight through.
He withdrew his tongue and was surprised to feel a pincered nip at his finger. As he ran his fingertips along the slick surface, he felt another bite.
Peter screamed as the beak pressed forward from inside his mouth, ripping his face. A rasping caw filled his ears as his wound gave birth to the bird.
It tumbled to the floor with a wet splat, seizing and flapping, staining the floor red.
Hannah returned with the bottle and stopped dead.
“Stay back!” Peter gurgled, his mouth full of blood.
He lurched to his feet. The thing on the floor clawed and bit—legs, wings and beak, all broken.
Peter raised a foot over its head and brought it down. He ground his heel into its skull and felt a satisfying crunch. The bird kicked. And as he continued grinding his shoe into the mess, the thing began to dissipate, and soon he was no longer crushing it underfoot. Its body turned insubstantial like smoke rising from a campfire.
Then it was gone.
Hannah quickly uncapped the vodka and handed it to Peter. He took a big swig, swishing it about in his mouth—feeling the burn but not feeling the divot. Search as he might, the hole in his cheek had vanished.
He raised the bottle over his face.
“I wouldn’t,” Hannah said.
He did it anyway. The burn was unbelievable. He kept pouring until the bottle was empty and his shirt soaked. He tossed the bottle aside.
“What was that, Peter?”
“My old friend letting me know he’s here.”
“We need to bandage that.”
“Later,” he said, gathering up his bundled tarp. “After I end this.”
* * *
Picking his way down the creaking, wooden stairs, Hannah behind him, Peter felt the presence instantly. He had carried Ellen’s promise with him into the basement—her assurance that confrontation would trigger something within that he could use. Give him some sort of advantage.
Right.
It was the touchy-feely advice of an ebook author, and now as he and Hannah stood at the bottom of the stairs, he had a sinking feeling that Ellen’s promise was bunk. That he had delivered himself—and his wife—into the arms of the beast.
Too late now.
“Let’s get to the booth.”
He led the way, weaving around the scattered junk, gripping her hand tight, memories of his younger self racing through the dark basement flooding back.
My room. It’s always been my room.
The air was electric here—static building up before the shock. Time to move fast.
He opened the door to the booth, and the breathless sounds of his last visit, the thumping groans from deep within the bowels of the nightmare funhouse insinuated their way into his consciousness. The betrayal that it had conjured, that it had wanted him to hear.
This was no place for Hannah. He should have insisted she stay behind, forced her to take the car and get as far away from him as possible. But there was no stopping his wife when she set her mind to a thing.
The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, and Peter knew what he had to do.
“Peter?” Hannah stood nervously awaiting his instructions.
“Get in.”
She slid past him into the crowded space.
“Sit.”
Once she was set, Peter flipped on the power to his equipment. The lights blinked, and the monitor hummed.
“What do you want me to do?” Hannah asked.
Peter placed her hand over the mouse. “When I say go, I want you to right click once. You got it?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Right click.”
“Once.”
The skin on his neck tingled. It was now or never. Peter locked eyes with Hannah, and the
connection gave him away.
“No,” Hannah said.
Peter stepped back and closed the door. He reached up and slid the bolt into place, securing Hannah inside.
“Peter, no!”
She would be safe, locked away inside. Or so he hoped.
He raised a finger, making sure she could see him through the window. The gesture was firm and deliberate, and it calmed Hannah enough to watch and listen.
Peter smiled at her—his wife, his partner, his friend.
He dropped his finger.
“Go.”
Hannah clicked the mouse.
A choir of overlapping prayers and electronic harmonies blasted from the speakers, the sound surrounding the booth, disturbing the basement’s silence.
The attack was instantaneous.
A black mass poured into the room. Peter spun about just in time to duck one of its inky appendages. The thing swarmed about the rafters over his head, clawing its way around the room like an enormous bat.
Off!
The thing hissed and spat, pained by the sound of the prayers.
Off!
“Not a chance,” Peter said.
The darkness rushed around the booth like a great white circling a shark tank. It didn’t lash out, only raged about the room. But then, there wasn’t blood in the water. Not yet.
Peter saw Hannah cowering, her feet up and planted against the door. Her lips were moving. She was either praying her loving head off or letting loose a barrage of expletives—knowing his wife, he bet it was the latter.
Off!
The swirling blackness howled, reaching out to swipe at the booth, pulling back in pain. Great shreds of the demon tore loose and floated behind it in the air like ashes escaping the flame. Peter took advantage of the moment to scurry out of the room and into the open expanse of the basement.
This better work. If not, I’ve abandoned Hannah to that thing.
For the first time in his life, Peter reached out to his mother. Not Myrna—not the beater of children and the curse of his father’s life—but Willa. A woman who had used her last breath to summon a protector. A beast of the ether to keep the grey man, the Old Man at bay.
The Nightmare Room Page 17
