Spookshow: Book 3: The Women in the walls

by Tim McGregor

  Mr. Cooper stood behind the screen door. He bore little resemblance to the neighbour Billie knew. Older and worn down, as if aged rapidly by grief alone. “Yes?”

  “Hi Mr. Cooper,” Billie said. “My aunt made you some food. How are you?”

  How are you? What a stupid question to ask the man, she thought.

  He squinted at her. “Your aunt?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s Billie,” she said, realizing he didn’t recognize her. “Maggie made you some chili.”

  “Oh, Billie.” Mr. Cooper shook his head and pushed the door open. “Forgive me. I didn’t recognize you at first. Come in.”

  He ushered his guest inside and closed the door behind him. Billie stepped into the kitchen and looked over the cottage. It was small but comfortable, with a stone fireplace at one end. The mantel piece was crowded with condolence cards, a few of them having fallen to the floor.

  “How have you been, Billie?” he asked.

  “I’m good.” Billie set the tub down and turned to the widower. “I’m so sorry to hear about Barbara, Mr. Cooper. She was such a nice lady.”

  “Thank you.” His eyes were already reddening at the mention of his late wife. “She always liked you.”

  The rawness of his grief impacted her so hard she felt herself welling up. Billie reached out to touch his arm. “How have you been holding up?”

  “I seem to be in a fog most of the time.” He looked back over the rest of the house, as if someone was there. He nodded at the tub she was holding. “Your aunt has been very sweet. I think she’s worried I’ll starve to death.”

  “She doesn’t want you to worry about cooking or anything. I’ll just put this in the fridge.”

  “I don’t mind cooking,” he said. “At least it would give me something to do.”

  Opening the fridge, Billie had to rearrange a few things to make room for the tub. Mr. Cooper had been inundated with food, the fridge crammed with homemade lasagna and pies.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “I was going to make some more coffee.”

  “I’d love some. But I can make it.”

  “Go sit,” he said. “Please. Everyone’s been fussing over me, making everything. I’m starting to feel like an invalid sometimes.”

  He shuffled past her into the kitchen. Billie took a seat on the stool and propped her elbows on the counter. “You’re not used to being fussed over,” she said.

  “I hate it. Especially after the last year, with Barb.”

  She watched him fumble with the stack of paper coffee filters. “You looked after her pretty well, I guess.”

  “I tried. It was hard, the last two months especially so. But I had something important to do. You know? A purpose. But now?” He waved a hand at the house around them, as if to dismiss it all. “Now, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  “That must have been hard, looking after her.” Billie thought of her aunt and how difficult it was for her when Uncle Larry passed. “It was good that you were there. That she had you to care for her.”

  “I’m not so sure,” he said.

  “Of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Mr. Cooper let his gaze wander to the window, the tin of coffee forgotten in his hand. “I’m not the most patient man, Billie. The last months, Barb was not herself. She was either out of her mind on all the morphine or lashing out from the pain she was in. Awful things get said. My patience would snap and I’d get just as nasty. Some nights, I prayed for her to just let go.”

  Billie lowered her eyes, not knowing how to react to the man’s honesty. Any response seemed false and unnecessary in her own mind so she said nothing. After a moment, she said simply “I’m sorry.”

  The coffeemaker gurgled. Mr. Cooper stepped away. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  He shuffled from the room and Billie exhaled, grateful for the chance to compose herself. She had hoped to cheer the man up but here she was sobbing all over his kitchen.

  Sunlight from the eastern facing windows warmed the kitchen but a cold flash goosed her flesh. The woman’s voice drifted up behind her.

  “Guilt is going to kill the man if he isn’t careful.”

  She stood on the far side of the room, near the door to the back deck like she was a guest in her own home. The late Mrs. Cooper appeared opaque against the sunlight, barely visible even to the young woman at the kitchen counter.

  “It sounds awful,” Billie said. “What you two went through.”

  The woman startled at being spoken to, her brow wrinkling in confusion.

  “Hi Barb.” Billie gave a little wave to her. “I can see you.”

  The dead woman relaxed. “Billie. I always knew there was something different about you.”

  Billie slid off the stool and opened a cupboard. “You sticking around for a while?”

  “I suppose. I’m not sure what else to do.”

  “I think you’re supposed to move on. Wasn’t there a light or something?”

  “No. I haven’t seen one yet.” The woman’s mouth twisted up. “Maybe there won’t be any light.”

  “I’m sure it will show up. Maybe you’re not ready yet.”

  “Is that how it works?”

  “Dunno. I’m just guessing.” Billie opened another cupboard.

  “What is it you’re looking for, dear?”

  “Cups?”

  “Last cupboard on your left.”

  Billie took down two mugs and poured coffee into the one with the chipped rim. “Are you worried Mr. Cooper won’t last long? Now that you’re gone, I mean?”

  “I’m worried he’s going to do something stupid.”

  Billie looked off down the hallway to see if the man in question was coming back. “Like what?”

  Barbara Cooper shook her head. “Do you know how much medication is lying around this place?”

  “You don’t think Mr. Cooper’s gonna overdose on something, do you?”

  “The guilt is eating the man alive,” the woman said. “The palliative care nurse was supposed to take all of the leftover pain medication away. Dean hid the powerful stuff before her last visit. The morphine.”

  “How much was left?”

  “More than enough,” she said. “The other night I watched him shake out all the pills onto the table and count them. Then he poured a scotch and sat staring at them for a long time.”

  “But he put them away,” Billie said.

  “That time.”

  Billie tapped her fingertips against the side of her cup. “Where are they?”

  “Back in the drawer in the nightstand,” Mrs. Cooper said. Looking up at the young woman, her eyes brightened. “Would you mind?”

  “Okay. But shout if he comes back.” She slipped out of her shoes to avoid making noise on the hardwood floor and scurried to the bedroom. The pill bottles rattled around when she opened the drawer of the nightstand. Four receptacles in all, each with complicated labels.

  “Hurry,” said Mrs. Cooper, standing in the doorway to her bedroom.

  Billie stuffed every bottle into the pockets of her jeans and then covered them with the hem of her sweater as best she could. She ran from the room on tiptoes but the pill bottles rattled in her pocket.

  Mr. Cooper stood in the hallway. “Where’d you go?”

  “Oh,” Billie said, taking slow strides to avoid the rattling sound in her pockets. “I was looking for tissues.”

  “On the counter,” he said, pointing to the tissue box in plain sight.

  “I’m going blind,” she said, snatching up a tissue and dabbing at her nose. “I should run.”

  “Thank your aunt for the food. It’s very sweet of her.”

  Billie slipped her shoes back on, careful not to make any quick movements that might jostle the stolen medication in her pockets. “You should thank her yourself. She’s only three doors down.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Take care.” She gave the man a quick hug, praying her pockets wouldn’t rattle. She t
urned to go but then stopped halfway out the door. “Say, could I ask a favour?”

  “Sure.”

  “Something’s wrong with Maggie’s sink. It’s clogging up and takes forever to drain. Neither of us can get that plug in the trap unscrewed. Do you think you could help her with it?”

  “You just need a wrench to get it open. Plyers, even.”

  “She doesn’t have one,” Billie said. “Would you mind fixing it for her?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  She said goodbye and stepped out onto the porch. The sun was trying to break through the clouds.

  “You’re a dear.” The late Mrs. Cooper stood with her hand resting on the porch railing. “Thank you.”

  “I hope it helps.”

  “At least it won’t be a temptation for him,” the dead woman replied.

  Billie waved goodbye, went down the steps and walked back home, her pockets rattling the whole way.

  After lunch, Billie took the old straw broom from the shed and swept the cobwebs from the window screens. Maggie was busy pruning the rose bush at the side of the house.

  “You don’t have to do that, honey,” Maggie said. “I can pay the neighbourhood boy for that.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Maggie snipped off another dead twig from the thorny stalk. “Look at all these dead shoots. I’m afraid this one won’t last another winter.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “It was that cold snap we had last April. The poor thing was just getting new shoots when that late frost almost killed it. I’m surprised it survived at all.”

  “That’s global warming for you.”

  “I suppose. If one believes in such things.”

  Billie was about to respond when a car rumbled up the road and turned into Maggie’s driveway.

  Maggie looked at the vehicle then at her niece. “Friend of yours?”

  “Not mine.”

  A man in a rumpled jacket stepped out of the car, leaving the engine running. He looked at the two women. “Sybil Culpepper?”

  “That doesn’t sound promising,” Maggie said.

  “That’s me.” Billie stood the broom against the clapboard and met the stranger halfway across the lawn.

  A folded document was in his hand. He thrust it at her. “Your court date is scheduled for Thursday. Ten-thirty AM. Consider yourself served.”

  Billie blinked at the thick wad of pages in her hand then to the man climbing back into his car. “My court date?”

  “It’s been set,” said the man. “Don’t miss it.”

  The stranger got back into his car, backed out and drove away down the empty road.

  She had almost forgotten about punching Napier’s face in. Or the fact that she was now facing assault charges. The officer who had processed her had said that she probably wouldn’t get a court date until after Christmas. It had been less than two weeks since the incident.

  “Did he say court date?” Maggie asked, rushing alongside her niece. “What in the world is he talking about?”

  Billie let out a long sigh at the prospect of explaining it to her aunt. She looked up at the sky. It was now a brilliant blue with nary a speck of cloud.

  38

  MONSTERS WELCOME.

  The words scrawled on a sandwich board on the sidewalk. The stylized arrow underneath it pointed to the church looming above. St. Mary’s Parish. The massive doors of the front entrance to the church were closed but the side door to the basement was lit up under a naked bulb. Three people stood outside smoking cigarettes.

  John Gantry read the words on the board, then looked up at the church and back to the sign again. An odd juxtaposition, to be sure. Bending down, he scanned the smaller print.

  A celebration of all things horror and occult. Books, movies, music, readings. An evening of the monstrous and the bizarre brought to you by the Hamilton Horror Society and Temperance League. 6 PM till Midnight. One night only.

  Gantry scratched his head, unsure of what to think. His gut instincts were rarely wrong but the curry he’d scarfed down an hour earlier was sitting heavy in his belly and he questioned his guts. His instincts had led him here, to this church, but the sign before him was a red flag. A half-assed horror-geek convention? Honestly.

  He looked at the church again, its spires lit up under floodlights and reaching to the heavens. An odd choice of location for such an event. He strode for the basement door, thinking maybe there was something to this.

  Pushing inside, he looked out over a mini comic-con populated by nerdists of all stripes. Here in a basement hall that usually hosted bingo nights and funeral receptions, were assembled vendors at card tables selling books and videos and zines. An overweight bloke was selling comic books next to a table where nerdy girls in glasses knitted skull-themed scarves and toques. Three separate tables were helmed by Wiccans and tattooed pagan revivalists and to his left a woman in fishnets was selling designer vampire fangs and coloured contact lenses. A DJ spun records from the far corner and the obligatory magic show was scheduled to begin in ten minutes.

  “Christ,” Gantry spat. “I’ve crossed straight into Hell.”

  “Isn’t it awesome!” squealed a young woman next to him. She was outfitted in a costume that was part Victorian debutante and biplane aviator.

  “If you’re into self-loathing,” Gantry replied, “you’ve come to the right place then.”

  “Ooh,” the woman sneered. “A snob who mistakes sarcasm for wit. How original.”

  She adjusted her goggles and sauntered away and Gantry walked through the tables, seeing what the vendors were hawking. One burly-looking brute with massive arms was selling charcoal sketch portraits of serial killers. The pixie girl next to him offered handmade jewelry crafted from the bones of birds and small animals.

  Gantry surveyed the room a second time. It had been a long time since his instincts had led him completely astray. The whole place, with its feverish exultation of all things bizarre, made his skin crawl. There was nothing here. He ran one more pass by the tables on his way toward the exit.

  Something hooked his peripheral attention, drawing him further down the rows to a table near the back. A young man in wire rim glasses was rearranging a display of vintage magazines and dime-store paperbacks on his table. The sign draped behind him read Realms of the Fantastic; curators of fine pulp fiction. Gantry perused the garish covers of plastic-wrapped magazines from a bygone era, sifting through titles like Astonishing Tales, True Detective Stories and Weird Tales.

  “Are you a fan of pulp fiction?” asked the young man, trying not to appear too eager.

  “Not in the least.” Gantry scrutinized the vendor. He was rail thin with mincing movements like that of a bird. “People buy this stuff?”

  “Collectors and connoisseurs. The pulp era was an unprecedented time for fantastic fiction.” The young man huffed, warming up his sales pitch. He held up a magazine titled Black Mask. “Do you like crime fiction? Or detective stories?”

  “I hate detective stories.”

  Gantry smelled the desperation rolling off the man, eager to sell anything to cover his expenses. He wanted to get away but something was causing him to linger. At the end of the table was a smaller display of magazines capped with a folded title card that read: The Works of Hamilton’s own H. G. Albee.

  Something pinged his radar, echoing down into some lonely spot inside his ruined heart, causing it to skip. Rattling his memory for the name, he looked up at the vendor. “Who was this Albee bloke?”

  The lad puffed up. “One of the unsung heroes of the pulp era. A writer of real genius.”

  “Never heard of him,” Gantry said.

  “He’s still pretty obscure but his work is gaining followers all the time.” The young man gestured to the withered magazines on the table. “This is from my personal collection. I’m also the chair of the H. G. Albee Appreciation Society. We study his fiction and track down all of his work.”

  Gantry eye-balled th
e young man, unsure if he was taking the piss. He didn’t want to delve too deep into the sticky world of fandom but the name kept banging around inside his skull. “And what’s so great about him?”

  “His works transcended the genre. More than just tales of horror and the macabre, Albee created a whole mythos around the realms of the dead colliding with this world and secret societies that sought to open a portal between our world and Hell itself.”

  He’d heard enough. The fanboy vendor was getting worked up and Gantry wanted nothing more to do with him. “A real barrel of laughs then.”

  The young man twitched and went on. “He was also one of the first true paranormal investigators. An expert on the occult. What’s interesting is how his non-fiction and research often blended into his stories. It’s fascinating to compare the two.”

  Gantry looked up. “Occult?”

  “That’s right. Many experts believe he was investigating something dangerous when he vanished back in the forties.”

  “Vanished? Where was this?”

  “Here in town,” the young man said. “One of Hamilton’s more obscure mysteries.”

  Whatever had pinged Gantry’s radar was growing louder. He looked through the vintage magazines again. “Do you have any of this occult research here?”

  The vendor held up a yellowed pamphlet, the cover dense with curlicues and small typeset. “I have this one. It’s his investigation into the torso murders in Cleveland.”

  “Sounds ripping,” Gantry said. “How much?”

  The twitchy vendor looked Gantry up and down, as if tailoring a price to the man. “Two hundred.”

  “Two? Are you off your meds, son? There’s barely twenty pages here.”

  “It’s extremely rare.”

  “It’s a rip-off is what it is.” He let the pamphlet drop to the table, underscoring his contempt. “No thanks.”

  The young man twitched and scooped up the booklet like it was made of eggshells. Gantry was about to step away when he snapped his fingers, his memory finally jogged. “I’ve read something by this wanker. What was it called… We all live in the outhouse?”