by Terri Grimes
“Well? Is he coming?” Uncertain, I tapped one foot on the hardwood floor.
“He’s swamped with problems at Waverly Hills Sanatorium this week and can’t make it.”
Timmy cocked his head to the side. “The old tuberculosis sanatorium in Louisville? That place hasn’t been open since it was shut down for patient abuse in 1981.”
“How do you know so much about it?” I asked Timmy with a smile.
“Easy.” He smiled back at me. “I have an aunt that used to live in Shively, Kentucky. You could see the old sanatorium from her kitchen window. It looms over the housing development she lived in. It’s spooky as shit, let me tell you.”
“Well then, you’ll appreciate this, Timmy. Bishop Shoal told me the new owners of Waverly Hills have had construction crews there for a month now, trying to start work on turning the old place into a five star hotel,” Sam said.
Timmy’s jaw went slack. “No frigging way. Who in their right mind would stay overnight in that spooky place?”
Sam shrugged a shoulder. “I can list off at least thirty paranormal groups that would gladly over-pay for the opportunity to spend the night there, no matter if it was a five star hotel or even a no star.”
“Are there that many paranormal groups out there to justify turning it into a hotel?” Timmy asked.
Sam responded with an amused snort. “The thirty that I just mentioned are here in the Indiana and Ohio areas alone. Paranormal investigating has become one of the hottest businesses since the advent of the computer age. Everyone with a digital camera and a voice recorder think they’re a paranormal investigator these days.”
Timmy turned to me. “Maybe we should start targeting paranormal groups, Gertie. We could be the preferred web design group for the paranormal crowd. It’s an untapped market. Do you realize that? Think of the software apps we could design!”
Bringing the business in was Timmy’s job. Mine was just to be the grunt person and do the work. I couldn’t help but remember when his favorite untapped market was the comic book convention group. I’d spent the next six months doing nothing but comic book geek web sites. Work was work though.
“It’s not just paranormal groups that seek out haunted hotels. A lot of amateurs seek out paranormally active hotels for their vacations,” Sam added. “There are big bucks in the haunted hotel business.”
“Wow,” Timmy gushed, looking up at Sam with a lovesick look on his face again. “I had no idea.”
I cleared my throat. “Guys, that’s all well and good about Waverly Hills, but we’ve got a job to do here. Are we going to head on up to the attic now, Sam?” I was sick of wasting time and anxious to get this show on the road and get my house back to normal, whatever normal was.
“Um, Gertie?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“Bishop Shoal gave me a few pointers on how he protects himself before going into a location that has dark entities.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So I think we should take appropriate precautions and protect ourselves like the Bishop recommended.”
“Okay, fine. We can take a few minutes and do that. No problem.”
“Yeah, well, that means we wouldn’t be able to confront the demon until tomorrow night. We need to fast for twelve hours before attempting something of this magnitude. And we have to meditate and pray as well along with several other things he mentioned that we should do.”
I threw my hands up in defeat as I gave a snort of frustration. “Tell me then, when can we go in the attic and get rid of this problem.
“The earliest would be tomorrow night, around this time. We would need a full twenty-four hours before confronting the demon.”
I pulled out a dining room chair and flounced down in it in a very unladylike manner. I crossed my hands over my chest, shut my eyes and pouted out my lower lip. “Wake me up in twenty-four hours then.”
“Aw, Gertie, don’t be like that,” Timmy said in a soothing voice. “Sam is just trying to protect us. He’s got our back, Gert. What’s wrong with that?”
I opened an eye. Both men were standing next to the dining
room chair I was seated in, staring at me. What could I do? I sighed and said, “Okay, tomorrow night then. Same time, same bat channel.”
Twenty Six
Although the demon had been anything but dormant since Sam and his investigation had entered my life, he had stopped the earlier behavior of touching me inappropriately. I didn’t know if this was because I was taking a stance to reclaim my house and life, or if we had the entity on the run. I couldn’t run from my problems all my life. My backbone was strengthening into a rod of steel. Sure, I would have preferred the safety and comfort of Sam sharing the large queen sized bed with me, but I could do this on my own. He and Timmy had left at the same time two hours earlier. While Timmy watched on, Sam gave me a brief platonic kiss on the top of the head and told me to call him if I needed to. I was disappointed he hadn’t made an excuse to stay but I understood he needed to go home and meditate alone before we faced the demon down. If Sam had stayed, our focus wouldn’t have been on the art of meditation.
Nonetheless, I wished with all my heart that my cousin Lori was still in the guestroom doing some serious log sawing in between stealing me blind. I stood in the small bathroom adjoined to my bedroom, slathering Noxzema on my face. I’d used the simple beauty regime of slapping on a coat of Noxzema at bedtime since I was fifteen and I had yet to get a zit. Yup, not even one. Don’t be a hater.
I heard the sound of familiar voices coming from my bedroom. My ears perked, trying to place the voices.
“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine,” Bogart lamented.
“With the whole world crumbling, we pick this time to fall in love,” Ingrid Bergman tearfully responded.
“Yeah, it's pretty bad timing. Where were you, say, ten years ago?”
“Ten years ago? Well, let's see,” she said so cheerfully I could almost picture her smile. “Oh, yes,” Ingrid said, finally remembering, “I was having a brace put on my teeth. Where were you?”
“Looking for a job,” Bogart drawled.
“Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time.”
Damn it. That turning on the television thing was beyond annoying at this point. Of all the demons to have, I would get one that has an affinity for television. A small comfort but at least we had the same taste in movies.
“Enough already.”
It would seem I had a new exercise regime of walking from room to room, turning off televisions. Was Orcas my demonic exercise trainer? I hoped he was limiting his television watching to my bedroom television this time. Not that I wanted a demon in my bedroom watching television, but more because I was lazy and didn’t want to walk around the house turning them all off.
I poked my head around the corner of the bathroom to catch a glimpse of Humphrey and Ingrid. I mean, come on, it was Casablanca. My cold cream covered hand stopped in mid slather and my jaw dropped open. Because there, lying in the middle of my bed, wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and nothing else, was Brad Pitt. Brad fricking Pitt!
My hand dropped to my side and the lotion dripped from my fingers onto the hardwood floor.
Brad averted his vision from the television and toward me as I stood in the doorway, in all my cold cream covered glory.
“I love this movie, don’t you, my precious?”
What the bloody hell? I knew that voice and it wasn’t Brad Pitt’s. I shook my head in dismay. Orcas, Horny Harry, or whatever you wanted to call him, strikes again it would seem.
“It’s you,” I snapped. “What are you doing in Brad Pitt’s body and more importantly, what are you doing in my bed?”
“Watching Casablanca, of course. I thought it was obvious. Come lay with me, my dear one.” He patted the expanse of bed next to him.
“Okay, that answers the bed part, but why are you in Brad Pitt’s body?”
“I can take on the
look of whomever I choose. One of the many perks of being a demon.”
“But Brad Pitt? Come on,” I groaned. “Isn’t that overkill?”
“You’d prefer Steve Buscemi?”
“Who?”
The demon sighed a deep put upon sigh. “That actor whom no one can remember the name of. But yet, everyone knows his face.”
“Okaaaay, you just described half of Hollywood.” I reached one hand behind me, tossing the jar of Noxzema on the counter, thankful for my accurate aim.
“Humans,” he said, shaking his gorgeous Brad Pitt head from side to side a couple of times. “Steve Buscemi starred in Fargo as well as several other Coen brothers movies.”
“Who are the Coen brothers?” I asked as I leaned against the bathroom doorway.
“Big on the Indie movie scene.”
I shook my head, not having a clue who he was talking about.
Orcas sighed again. “He played the bumbling character of Tony Blundetto in The Sopranos.”
A light bulb went off in my head.
“Ooohhh,” I squealed. “Why didn’t you say Tony Blundetto in the first place? I loved that guy!”
The demon rolled his eyes. “I don’t get it. Demons get a bad rap from humans, even though we can give you your heart’s desire, but gangsters you glorify. I just don’t get it.”
“Oh, pah-leese. At least gangsters don’t make you sell your soul to them, unlike demons. That’s a big difference if you ask me.”
“You’ve not read the Mafia’s bylaws, have you? Thanks to a tiny line of print known as the Satan Act, you do indeed have to sell your soul to be in the Mafia. Not that I’m bragging, but I do have some influence.” And with that, he gave a shrug of one glorious naked shoulder.
I took a deep breath. Don’t let him see my fear. That was the plan. I grabbed my towel from the back of the bathroom door and wiped the cold cream from my face and hands. I couldn’t very well face down a demon with Noxzema caked on my face.
He rubbed one hand across his buff chest with tapered fingers and smiled, his vision running up and down my figure.
“No. You can get that thought out of your nasty smut-filled demonic head right this instant. And while you’re at it, get out of my bed too. In fact, get the hell out of my house and out of my life.”
“But Casablanca is still on.”
“I don’t give a flying shit if Satan himself is on. Vamoose.” I was pissed.
“Why are you trying to get rid of me, my sweet? Have I been that unpleasant to live with?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call being locked in a bathroom a barrel of laughs,” I fumed.
His voice was silky smooth. “One minor indiscretion, precious one. Am I not allowed one faux pas?”
I placed my arms across my chest, grimly staring at the demon splayed on my bed. My lips were set tight and thin.
“You could grant me a do-over perhaps?”
“A do-over?” Was he frigging nuts?
“Yes, my precious, a do-over,” he crooned. “But this time I would lock myself in with you.” He flashed me a seductive smile.
Even though he was a Brad Pitt look-alike, if that was his version of sexy, it wasn’t doing anything for me.
“How about not locking me in the bathroom at all?”
A laugh rumbled low in his throat. “But think of all the yummy, delicious things I could do to you while we’re locked in the bathroom. I could show you carnal delights and pleasures that would make your head spin.” He waggled his Brad Pitt eyebrows in a suggestive manner.
“Great, I’ve always wanted to be Linda Blair and do the old head spin. Not! Do you supply green pea soup too?”
He smiled so wide, I was able to see Brad’s full rack of brilliantly white veneered teeth. “My dear one, I will supply whatever your heart desires.”
“My heart desires that you get the bloody hell out of my bed right now. Beat it demon.” I gave the side of the bed a vicious kick with my foot, trying not to wince in pain at the contact.
Note to self. Next time buy a bed that doesn’t feel like a brick wall when you kick the side of it.
He shook his neatly groomed, Brad Pitt look-alike, head. “Watch the end of the movie with me first, precious.”
“No. And quit calling me precious. It sounds like you are calling my Aunt Ellyn’s pug.”
He slapped his hand across his chest, clutching his breast in mock agony. “You wound me, my sweet one.”
I grabbed my handy dandy Louisville slugger from the bedside and swung it in the demon’s direction. “If you want to feel wounded I’ll be glad to oblige. Now get out.” My voice was angry and shrill.
And with that, I swung the bat wildly. I heard a sickening crack as the bat made contact with the side of Brad’s—err, I mean Orcas’s skull.
“Ow,” he hollered, clutching his head. “You don’t have to be mean about it.”
“Cut with the theatrics, demon. Get out.”
I nudged him, none too gentle, with the tip of the bat as he scrambled out of the bed and made a hasty retreat.
I slammed the door after him. “And stay out or I’ll really get violent.”
I heard a light laugh on the other side of the wood.
“I have mace!”
I was pleased to hear a horrified gasp and then the sound of footsteps running away from my room and up the attic steps. I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief when I heard the attic door slam shut.
That was okay. Let the wimp hide in the attic. I was biding my time for now. But that demon’s days were numbered. He’d picked the wrong Sugarbaker to mess with.
Twenty Seven
The next morning as I sat at the kitchen table drinking my coffee it was as if the walls were closing in on me. It was different when Lori was here. Having someone in the house with me had fueled my bravado. I knew I should be meditating, as Bishop Shoal has instructed us to, But sitting here alone was more than I could handle. I could feel a heaviness in the air that was far too reminiscent of the vibe in the attic.
I set my half empty coffee cup in the sink and made a quick stop by the hall closet in the foyer to grab my jacket and purse. As I slid behind the wheel of my car, I wasn’t sure where I was going. All I knew was I had to get out of the house before I went crazy.
Ten minutes later, I found myself pulling into the parking lot of The Reading Nook, my favorite bookstore. I must have been on autopilot, because I had no recollection of driving there.
I was thumbing through a celebrity gossip magazine when I felt the presence of someone by my side. I glanced over my shoulder to see an attractive young woman standing next to me, shooting me an evil look with her narrowed eyes.
I lowered my magazine. “Hello Amanda,” I said in a forced pleasant tone giving her my best fake smile.
“Miss Sugarbaker,” she acknowledged with a curt nod.
She continued to stand next to me, staring me dead straight in the eye. It was obvious she was pissed about something.
“It’s a nice day, don’t you think?” I ventured.
“There’s nothing nice about this day, Miss Sugarbaker.”
“Um, okay.” I gave her a wary glance.
“There’s something I need to make clear to you. Something you seem to be having a hard time understanding.” Her tone was sickening sweet.
“What is it you feel I’m not understanding?”
“The Urban Ghost Hunter’s organization is not an escort service. You need to remember that in the future.”
My jaw went slack and the magazine slipped out of my hands, falling to the floor with a splat. “Excuse me?”
She continued, her voice low. “I know all about how you’ve seduced Sam and have been sleeping with him. This will not be tolerated.” Her tone was so icy that I shivered.
“You, Miss Sugarbaker, are a lonely, dried up, man-stealing whore.”
“Please don’t worry about offending me,” I said as I bent to pick my magazine off the floor. “Tell me what you reall
y think.”
As I stood back up her face drew so close to mine, I could smell her morning oatmeal—apples and cinnamon oaties, to be exact. “Sam is there for your paranormal problems, not to warm your bed. Are we clear on that?”
I didn’t bother to tell her it wasn’t my bed he had been warming.
“Oh, we’re clear all right,” I sneered with a dry laugh. “But I have to say, I don’t have a clue what the hell you’re talking about, lady.”
I lied.
“Don’t patronize me, Miss Sugarbaker. Give me more credit than that,” Amanda snarled, her once pretty face now an angry mask of ugly hatred as she jabbed her finger into the center of my chest. “Do you think I would confront you in a public place if I didn’t have tangible proof that you’re a man-stealing slut?”
She was one step away from getting that finger broken. I think she realized that because she took a step back.
I was beyond shocked. I couldn’t believe what a cold, conniving jealous bitch she was. Behind her sweet, fresh faced innocence laid the heart of a vicious barracuda. As pissed as I was though, I wasn’t falling into her trap and causing a scene. Drama was so not my style. We were already attracting more attention in the magazine section than I’d care to think about.
“It’s fine to have a crush on someone, but you might want to find out if his feelings are reciprocated before you fly off the handle and make a jealous ass of yourself,” I said with a false calmness.
Amanda cocked her head and arched her brow. “I was by his side long before you ever came into the picture and I’ll be at his side long after he discards you like yesterday’s trash.”
I waved a hand at her dismissively. “Whatever gets you through the night, honey.” Turning my back on her, I opened the magazine again, doing my best to ignore her.
With my peripheral vision, I saw her fold her arms across her chest with a defiant motion as she tapped her heel on the laminate floor.
“Don’t fool yourself into believing he cares for you. He’s weak, just like every man out there,” she mused. “When a whore spreads her legs, a man can’t help himself. You’re not the first slut out there to try and get a man with her crotch. I’ve seen it time and time again.”
