Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers

by Scott Nicholson

  “Phillippe?”

  “Oui, ma cherie?” He was focused on his little mammary maneuver, inching toward raw nipple and disrespecting expensive lingerie.

  “There’s something in the boiler.”

  “The ghost thing...we already played that game. Now time for a new one.”

  He squeezed hard and bit her neck, sending a jolt through her. Not all of it hurt, and she was disgusted by the tiny hotwire of pleasure that raced to her vagina. She moaned and closed her eyes. Encouraged, he bit again, this time hard enough to leave marks. His zipper was halfway down and heat plumed from the opening.

  “Eeee-zy,” she said, knowing he was pushing the limits to see how much he could get. Men thought they were so damned clever, like they were setting the ground rules. But even if she’d wanted to bone him up, the dreary, creepy basement was jangling her nerves. She never relaxed during sex, not completely, because a girl had to stay on guard. But here, with that weird noise and the cloth thingy moving and—

  His teeth clacked together and drew blood.

  “Ow. Goddamn it.”

  Before she could consider the consequences of having an enemy on staff, she slapped him across the cheek. If his goatee were long enough, she’d have yanked his head off and tossed it into the corner for the rats.

  “I’m sorry, eez not like me....” Phillippe stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else, but she was already to the stairs, adjusting her clothing, patting the narrow gash below her ear. Her fingers were warm and wet. The heavy breathing now sounded like giggles oozing from the dark, secretive nooks of the basement.

  By the time she reached the door, she was somewhat composed. She’d been hit harder by better, and Violet Felkerson would make sure to sharpen the guillotine as soon as she became manager. Phillippe was toast, French or not.

  “Cherie?”

  “Stay down there and rot,” she said.

  Behind Phillippe, the rag thingy was crawling out of the boiler, wormy fingers clawing at the door for traction.

  Rats.

  An old hotel like this, what could you expect?

  By the time she’d slammed and locked the door, the giggling had turned into a laugh track.

  Chapter 32

  The Roach pressed back against the stones, fingering his crucifix. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness and couldn’t tell how long he’d been in the basement. Eloise’s—check that, Belial’s—blow had given him a concussion. His tongue probed a few loose teeth, and his nose was clotted with dried blood, which forced him to mouth breathe. His broken jaw throbbed and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak.

  Not even the prayers he would need.

  He awoke the first time with something touching his leg. The touch had given way to a slithery, slick stroke, all the more disturbing because it was vaguely sensual. He opened his eyes to near-total darkness, his night-vision goggles knocked somewhere across the uneven floor.

  A dull orange glow emanated from a distance, like a star trying to wink in the gathering dusk. The touch became a turgid rope, and it continued across his thigh and moved on. Seconds, minutes, or maybe hours later, he heard the skuffff of something heavy being dragged across the dirt. Then he remembered Nancy’s corpse.

  Disoriented and too sore to move, all he could was lie in the clammy dirt and assess his injuries. The scuffing lasted several minutes, followed by a meaty thunk, like encased bone hitting metal. The orange glow deepened and the fire roared to life. The woman’s body was thrown in silhouette against the bed of embers, then the fire roared to life and engulfed her flesh.

  Rodney tried to crawl away, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the bright light cast by the flames, but the going was slow and painful. Blood seeped from his nose and he had to pause every few feet to wipe it from his lips. He expected the slithering limb to latch onto him at any moment.

  Are you finished with me, God? Is this the price of arrogance?

  But as he clawed his way inch by inch over greasy dirt and protruding rocks, he wasn’t sure he’d be granted such a quick release. After all, the blood of at least eight people was on his hands. Sure, it was all part of his holy work, but that didn’t bring them back to life or give their souls peace. Like Belial and the other fallen angels who did God’s dirty work, he was a necessary evil.

  But an evil nonetheless.

  And evil masquerading as “good” was in a class by itself, and deserving of a jalapeno enema in the scorching bowels of hell.

  After the flames died down and the embers fell into a lulling pulse that made a mockery of a heartbeat, Rodney checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch. It had gone dark, along with the lamp attached to his headgear. Most of his equipment had scattered during the demon’s assault, but his digital camera was still strapped around his neck. Its batteries, too, were dead. The demon had drained all the energy from him, which explained his enervation.

  He must have dozed again, because he awoke to near-total darkness, the embers dampened as if the source was entering a long sleep. He could barely make out the stairs, and figured they’d provide some refuge until he could recover enough to climb them. He dragged himself under them and huddled with his prayers.

  “Give me a sign, Lord,” he whistled through his shattered mouth.

  And the Lord provided, as the basement door creaked open above him and He let there be light.

  Rodney thought about calling out when the woman and man descended the stairs, but he wasn’t sure whether one or both were possessed. Belial could have changed hosts, or Eloise might be manipulating people by now, spreading its profane influence like an infection.

  Rodney recognized the young woman as one of the hotel hostesses. The man was obviously trying to make a move on her, in the slick, clumsy way of someone who hadn’t mastered his own power. The source would take them both, Rodney decided, and he controlled his uneven breathing so he could watch unnoticed.

  The teasing of their coy embrace gave way to an argument. Then she mentioned the boiler and Rodney couldn’t help looking at the rusted hulk. The glow of embers had given way to a roiling pile of smoke. The tendrils of smoke looked solid, and Rodney recalled the tentacle that had brushed his leg. The woman said the things were rats, but she wouldn’t be able to know the demons for what they were.

  Only the Chosen could see.

  When the woman slapped the man and fled up the stairs, Rodney had called out for her to wait, but his mashed-up mouth could only emit a moan. After the door slammed, giggles slithered from the corners of the basement.

  After the door slammed, the man gave a slow turn at the foot of the stairs, as if only now acknowledging his surroundings. “Beetch,” he said.

  Rodney called again, this time doing a better job of wiggling his tongue.

  “Who’s there?” the man said, squinting beneath the stairs and backing up a couple of steps. Toward the furnace.

  Rodney slid a hand in the gap between the crude steps so the man could see he was human. “SSI,” he said, in a sibilant mush.

  “One of the paranormal people?” The man had a French accent.

  Rodney used his grip on the step to raise himself to his knees and moved his ruined face into the light.

  “Mon dieu,” the man said. “What happened?”

  “Belial happened,” Rodney said, though the words were unclear and he doubted the man would know the demon’s name anyway.

  The man rushed to help him, but Rodney was reluctant to leave the relative safety of his hiding place. He licked the blood from his lips and said, “She locked you in?”

  The man nodded. “What were you doing down here?”

  Rodney pointed to his camera and the meters on his belt.

  “Ah. The ghosts in the basement, no?”

  “Worse than ghosts.” His words were still a little mushy, but his tongue and lips were now on speaking terms with one another.

  “You must have fallen in the dark? The manager was afraid this might happen.”

&nbs
p; “I’ve fallen, all right.” Rodney let the man help him to his feet, and the rush of blood to his head carried an electric jolt of pain. He leaned against the steps and checked his equipment. The EMF meter, audio recorder, and thermal-imaging camera now seemed like stage props. He hadn’t needed them to detect the demons. All he’d needed was his blind faith. “Do you work here?”

  “I’m a chef.”

  “My cell phone and walkie talkie are dead,.”

  “I’ll check the door,” the man said. He thundered up the stairs and tried the handle, though they’d both heard the lock click into place after the woman slammed it. “American women. I should have heeded everyone’s advice. Don’t play where you make your pay.”

  Rodney wasn’t listening. He was studying the coal boiler at the far end of the basement, where Nancy’s body had been consumed. If Belial were upstairs, inhabiting Eloise’s body, then what entity was down there feeding?

  The man banged on the door. “Maybe one of the ghost-hunting groups will come.”

  “No,” Rodney said, fingering his crucifix. “The basement is off limits.”

  “Then why—oh. You don’t like to follow rules, either.”

  “Join the club.” Easing around the steps, holding on for balance, Rodney’s head began to clear a little. His night-vision goggles lay in the dirt 20 feet away. He retrieved them, along with his video camera and flashlight. The camera lens dangled loose and the data card was cracked, the card slot crammed full of mud. Any footage he’d taken of the encounter was likely ruined. So much for proof.

  “What do we do now?” the man said, sitting on the top step. “Wait for morning?”

  “There’s probably a service access that leads to the outside.” Rodney checked his flashlight to verify it was dead. “You want to wait here?”

  “As if she’s going to come back? No, mon ami, I have been slapped like that before.”

  “Okay, then, let’s get out of here.”

  “Your face—”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks.” It was probably worse, but he didn’t want to risk slipping into unconsciousness again. If he kept moving, perhaps the pain would keep him awake.

  “This isn’t a place for a man to be alone.” The man tried the door again and came down the stairs. “I’m Phillippe.”

  “Rodney,” he replied, without shaking hands.

  “So how does this ghost-hunting thing work?”

  “You get all this equipment out, you raise hell, and you hope you get some evidence.”

  “Have you ever found anything which convinces you?”

  “Not lately.”

  “You sure your head is okay?”

  “It only hurts when I laugh.”

  “That is funny, no?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rodney tried to recall his reconnaissance of the building’s foundation. Because of the Margaret Percival disappearance, SSI had made notes on the structure and its access points. Such maps helped debunk noises caused by wind, rain, or even someone’s inadvertently entering a hunt zone and later being dubbed a supernatural anomaly.

  Because Rodney had suspected demonic activity in the lower levels of the building, he’d paid particular attention to the stonework. If demons had been passing through on a regular basis, there were apt to be scorch marks in the cracks.

  Where there was smoke, there was fire, and where there was fire, there were demons.

  Some believed that Lucifer’s greatest trick was getting people to not believe in him. But Lucifer, like all gods, angels, and demons, needed belief in order to exist. Lucifer didn’t invest a whole lot of energy in human subterfuge. He simply didn’t care.

  In the same vein, demons were indifferent to the various classifications described by sages and scholars, from King Solomon to Peter Binsfield to modern role-playing-game companies. Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the titles didn’t matter. Evil always knew its name, and evil always knew which hearts had a little room to spare.

  Rodney gave the furnace plenty of distance, navigating around the crumbling block wall that marked off the newer wing of the hotel. Phillippe followed close behind.

  Beyond the support wall, the basement was darker, with only a couple of dangling bare bulbs for illumination. Above them came the muted thunder of footsteps and the throbbing of bass and drums.

  “We’re under the bar,” Phillippe said. “They’re past closing time.”

  “I don’t think it’s closing at all tonight,” Rodney said. Belial had already poisoned the conference. The disintegration would be subtle and insidious, but that was how evil performed its best work.

  “The kitchen is back there,” Phillippe said, motioning to the right.

  “Is there a service access? You probably have to deal with rats and grease drains and things like that.”

  “No rats,” Philippe said. “We run a clean ship.”

  Rodney leaned against a support post, letting his head settle a little. He considered shedding his equipment belt, but he might need the gear later. The basement was lower in the newer wing and they’d had to crouch as they looked for an access. “You think all this is a bunch of crap, don’t you?”

  “Strange things happen. Like a woman gives up a chance with me. Crazy world.”

  Rodney’s walkie talkie sputtered. Batteries that appeared drained sometimes contained a last reserve. Or maybe he’d moved beyond the immediate influence of Lucifer and back into the good graces of God. He spoke into it. “Roach here.”

  “You’re not finished,” came the response.

  “Who is that?” Phillippe said.

  Rodney looked at the power level on the walkie talkie. It was flat. Whatever had brought the device to life had provided its own power source. “The boss.”

  “Mr. Wilson?”

  “A higher authority.”

  “More,” came the crackling voice from the walkie talkie.

  Rodney fingered his crucifix, sweating despite the moist air of the basement. When God spoke, he had no choice but to obey. He freed the long silver crucifix from its clasp.

  “What ees thees?” Phillippe said, losing his carefully controlled English.

  “Strange things happen.” Rodney brought the crucifix sweeping upward before Phillippe could detect the motion in the dark. It pierced his throat.

  “Gak,” the Frenchman uttered, spouting blood from both the wound and his mouth. He wobbled around for a second, clutching at the crucifix. He slid it out with a thip and looked at it with wide eyes, not comprehending why Jesus would want to share the torments of the cross.

  “Jesus died for our sins,” Rodney said. “Now you get to die for yours.”

  Phillippe collapsed and Rodney wiped the crucifix on his victim’s shirt. He didn’t know how the body would be retrieved—maybe the ropy tentacles would slither across the floor, or maybe the wires overhead would carry it back to the furnace. Rodney wanted to be out of the basement before that happened.

  Lucifer’s greatest trick wasn’t getting people to believe he didn’t exist. His greatest trick was playing God better than God ever had.

  Chapter 33

  Morning dropped like a bag of broken rocks.

  The thirst was the first thing he noticed, and his tongue felt like a wool sock. His skull throbbed, each sluggish heartbeat punching through taut, angry arteries. He found himself lying on his back, but the bed was floating. He touched his forehead, afraid to open his eyes.

  God, why did you make me wake up?

  The Digger had done it again. He wasn’t sure where he was or how he’d gotten here, or even if he was anywhere at all. If someone would yank the vibrating screwdriver out of his temple, maybe he could remember.

  There was one other option. Maybe he was dead. This might be his afterlife, his condition forever and ever. Not even a glass of water, not even enough bile in his stomach to puke.

  A clacking sound rattled his ears and then light poured over him, sharp enough to slice his eyelids.

  “They’ve be
en looking for you, Dad.”

  “Who?” The word tasted like dirty pennies.

  “SSI, the hotel people, the hunters, everybody.”

  “What...time is it?”

  “Don’t worry, I told them you were having a nervous breakdown. Saw your dead wife and it blew you mind. They’ll cut you some slack.”

  He gave an experimental blink and found the room was fuzzy. “You shouldn’t—”

  “Cover for you. I know.”

  Digger was in his rumpled clothes, still wearing his boots. He rolled away from the sunlight that sluiced through the window like an accusing finger. He swallowed down nails, fiberglass, cobwebs, and sand, and dry acid slithered back up. His pulse was erratic and fluttering.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Could be worse.”

  “How could it be worse?”

  “I’m not sure, but it could be. Mom could be dead or something.”

  Digger opened his eyes. Kendra sat on the opposite bed, fully dressed, the box of registration information beside her.

  “Shouldn’t you be downstairs registering people?”

  “Registration’s ended.”

  He licked his chapped lips. “It goes until noon.”

  “It’s nearly two.”

  He tried to rise, but a sit-up position brought too much blood to his head, so he flopped on his side and rolled up on one elbow. His knuckles were bruised. He hoped he hadn’t punched anyone. “I blew it again.”

  “Nah,” Kendra said. “The show must go on. Burton and Cody are leading the panels, and Holmes and the others are looking for Roach.”

  “Roach?”

  “He’s missing.” She peered at him. “Guess you don’t remember that part, huh?”

  He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, and the nausea hit him almost instantly. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it to the bathroom. “Besides Roach, how is everything else going?”

  “A lot of people are mad about the messed-up hunts. A couple asked for refunds.”

  “What did you tell them?”