I could feel him carrying me, feel the rolling rhythm of his feet on the grass.
We were out in the daylight. At first I thought that it was a spirit portal, come to claim me and offer me a way into the next world, but that wasn’t it at all. It was sunlight, and I could see behind me that the building we had left was a wooden house, and a pretty big one at that. It looked old, maybe hundreds of years old if its architectural style was any indication.
Oh, and it was on fire. A tall column of angry black smoke was pushing upward into the clear blue sky. Flames were visible in the downstairs windows, licking at the upper part of the building.
And I was trapped inside a bench.
Someone must have hit the fast-forward switch on their remote control just then, because time started whizzing by at super-fast speed. Scenes from somebody else’s life flashed in front of my eyes. At first they were just fast, but pretty soon the were a blur. My bench sat in the corner of a whole lot of different rooms. Night became day which became night again, over and over, hundreds of thousands of times. I caught glimpses of the decor changing, getting newer and newer; we shot through Great Depression-era furnishings in seconds, then blinked again and it was the Sixties.
Just what on Earth was going on here?
My consciousness went through lifetime after lifetime in almost no time at all. That same dark presence came back to visit me countless times, a shadowy form that simply stood just out of my line of sight and watched me, before leaving again without ever saying a word. I got a sense of intense, burning hatred that was radiating from whoever it was — they really, really didn’t like me all that much, and that was a massive understatement.
In a flash we were up to the 80s…no, the 90s…and time slowed down again. I could see one of those huge brick-sized cordless phones sitting on a side table in what looked like the entry hall to a one big house. It was pretty dark in here: thick purple drapes hung down over the windows and on either side of what had to be the front door.
I was still a silent passenger on the back of whichever soul was bound to the heavy wooden bench. I hated being powerless. Hated it. I couldn’t read the spirit’s mind, but I could kind of guess at its intent, and right now, I was convinced that it intended to burn this place down.
The sense of repressed anger was so thick that I could practically reach out and touch it — if I was in a body that could reach out, or in any kind of body at all, for that matter. But I wasn’t. I was trapped inside a piece of furniture, bound to a spirit that was so pissed off, it was about to turn psychotic.
Based on the sparks and the crackling, hissing sounds that came from behind one of the wall outlets, I’d have to guess that it had somehow started an electrical fire. The home looked pretty old, so it wouldn’t be a great surprise if the wiring turned out to be old too. All I knew for sure was that the wall was suddenly engulfed in bright orange flames. Before long, the whole entry hall was fully involved. Great sheets of flame were climbing the walls. First grey and then later dark black smoke began to fill the big room, mushrooming up toward the ceiling and then banking down along the sides, pushing towards the floor until even sitting down on the pew, I couldn’t see anything at all in the blackness. A fire alarm was screaming out for help, and the harsh electronic cries were soon answered. Through what I figured were thin gaps in the curtains, I could see flashing blue and red lights and the outlines of human shapes moving around in front of them.
Several thuds and a splintering crunch later, two firefighters in reflective yellow gear came through the front door. I could hear the high-pitched crackle of a radio, but couldn’t make out any of the words. The firefighters were crouching low, bending at the knees and hunched over. They dragged a length of hoseline with them, but stopped as soon as they cleared the entranceway, both of them looking up towards the ceiling. I did the same. In amongst the thick black smoke cloud, long yellow tongues of flame flickered and danced like phantom snakes, poking their heads out of the darkness for just a second before withdrawing back inside it again.
The firefighter in front pointed the nozzle upward and squirted a jet of water up at the ceiling — not for long, just the barest few seconds. Then he — or she, I never did find out — duck-walked a few more steps and did it again. Step, step, squirt the ceiling…step, step, squirt the ceiling. Maybe they were trying to cool the roof down, though why they didn’t just let it rip with a long stream of cold water beats me. Either way, it wasn’t long before they had made it to the fire’s point of origin. The wall in front of them was totally ablaze. The second firefighter reached for their lapel and keyed up a radio mike, and whatever was said caused the sound of a chainsaw or some very similar high-powered tool to start chewing its way through the roof above us. I could hear it, roaring and whirring far above my head. A shingle dropped down from above, smashing into the floor in front of me.
That must have been the signal that they had both been waiting for, because now the firefighter at the front of the hose opened that bad boy up full-bore. I watched them both brace themselves, squatting down on one knee and leaning backward as the powerful line bucked and strained in their hands. A torrent of water came roaring out of the end. They fought the line hard, and it looked like they were both wrestling a giant anaconda or something just as ridiculous. The firefighter at the front leaned even further backward, and the one behind shoved a shoulder forward to support the air tank on his back. Between them, they played the line up and down the wall, shoving high-pressure water into the gaps and cracks wherever there was even a hint of orange or yellow to be seen.
The smoke turned to steam straight away, and suddenly the giant snake was hissing its heart out, filling the entry hall fit to bursting with a billowing white cloud. The firefighters instinctively shrank away from it, but kept playing the water stream backward and forward across wall. Steam and smoke was venting up and away from the three of us, and now I saw why they had waited for the other firefighters to cut a hole in the roof before going full tilt boogie with the hoseline, because now all of that toxic crap was being sucked upward and out into the night sky above our heads. In between gaps in the cloud, I could just make out the silhouettes of more firefighters, who were poking and prodding at something with long sticks or poles that were tipped like spears. Over their shoulders, I caught glimpses of the stars, looking down on this mess in silent, ever-watchful judgment.
When the fire was pretty much out, the original two firefighters pulled out, leaving their hoseline snaking along the floor toward my bench. More came in to replace them, bringing in bright lights and massive box-shaped electric fans. The firefighters that had cut the hole in the roof had been working to enlarge it. Pretty soon, all of the smoke and steam was gone. I could see again. The building was pretty much ruined, or at least this section of it sure was. What the smoke and flame hadn’t damaged, the water sprayed by the firefighters had really gone to town on. It must have been wintertime, because icicles were already starting to form where it was dripping down from the rafters.
Still I just sat there.
Hours passed. Then days. Workmen came and started tearing the place apart. They ripped out the charred drywall, which looked to be in barely salvageable shape, and began to gut the place. I couldn’t do anything but just be there inside the same bench seat…patiently waiting, caught in a state of limbo between life and death. I hated everyone, and I hated everything.
Time passed, and that hatred grew. It seemed to take forever.
Then, one day — don’t ask me how much time had passed — a tall, thin man stepped into the ruins of the hallway and walked right up to my bench. I recognized him straight away.
It was Malachai Falconer.
Flashing that sickly grin that I was really coming to hate, he leaned in close to my field of vision.
“That was very, very stupid, old man,” he said quietly. His voice sounded calm on the surface, but there was a definite edge of malice hiding just beneath.
Two of what I assu
med were Falconer’s employees – I might sound bitchy, but he didn’t strike me as the type of guy who did friendship in any way, shape, or form – loaded the bench up onto the bed of a pickup truck and drove it to a place I recognized immediately: the Snare. Puffing and out of breath, they hauled it into the chapel. It fit in pretty well with the church pews that were already in there.
And still I waited.
I saw a bunch of teenagers bring in the white-sheeted figures and put them in position all around me, making a ghostly congregation to sit and stare silently toward the lectern and the altar. Every once in a while, just to amuse myself, I would reach out and nudge one of the mannequins, causing it to sway as if it was caught in a breeze. Whenever one of the teenagers saw it happen, they’d turn white and beat feet out of the chapel.
Most of the time, I was left alone, though…oh so very alone. The loneliness was crippling. It became my whole world. The kids that came by every once in a while, laughing and joking as they tried to scare each other, made it worse somehow, not better. I hated them, each and every one. They didn’t care that I had died all alone, with nobody to mark my passing. I had been murdered, I had come to find out: killed by somebody close to me. I felt it somehow, and although the spirit that I was bound to knew the murderer’s name, they were careful to never let it rise to the surface of their mind.
Curse those spoiled and ill-mannered children. They didn’t care that I was still stuck here, my spirit trapped between worlds, doing nothing but sit and wait and think and hate.
I sensed, rather than saw, Malachai Falconer enter the chapel. Turning around to look, I could also see that he wasn’t alone. I was with him. Me, Danny Chill, with Mom in tow. I realized that the past was catching up with the present, and felt the haze of bitterness and frustration that I’d been living in for who knows how long now begin to well up inside me, boiling and bubbling like lava inside a volcano.
The me that was Danny Chill came down the aisle and somehow, as if I was drawn there by an invisible force, chose the very same spot to sit down in that the me who was the other me was already occupying. What right did the little snot have to think that he could get away with that?
Then the volcano erupted. Summoning up every last scrap of anger and malice, I screwed it all up into a tight little ball and hurled it at myself. The Danny-me was blasted out of the pew and slammed into the back of the one in front, head-butting the soft cotton back of the mannequin sitting there.
“Get the hell out of here!” a male voice roared. At first I thought it was me, because it somehow felt like it ought to have been…except it wasn’t me, not anymore; we may have just been sharing the same space, but there was a distinct separation between us now: not-me was an older male spirit – I could see him clearly now, overweight and balding with a really bad shaggy haircut — sitting on the pew where I’d just been sitting.
Man, was he pissed.
I got it. Really, I did. Up until we’d separated just now, I was him, and though I didn’t know his name or any other specific details about him up, I knew one thing for sure: he was angry. And he was pretty much angry at everything, but most of all he was angry at the one who had taken his life. The spirit who was attached to the bench felt bitterly betrayed. It had hurt him deeply, this sense of betrayal; hurt him so badly that he wanted to vent it on the closest thing to hand.
Me.
“This is my place! Mine!” He was standing now, screaming in my face from just inches away. Without thinking about it, I took a step backward, the backs of my legs bumping into the back of the pew in front. The man was pointing his finger in my face, emphasizing every furious word with a jab. “Get. The. Hell. Out!”
“Oh dear,” said Falconer, with what I thought was fake concern. “Is something the matter?”
“Honey, are you okay? You seem a little…frazzled.” I had no doubt that Mom’s concern was genuine.
“I’m fine, Mom.” I edged sideways out into the aisle, stepping carefully over the white cotton skirt of the closest mannequin. The last thing I needed now was to fall flat on my face in front of His Royal Highness there.
“Only you seem quite flustered,” he added, favoring me with a sheepish grin.
My eyes tracked sideways to where the dead man still stood, fists planted on hips, giving me a glare that would curdle milk.
“I said I’m fine.” It came out harsher than I intended. “This place just creeps me out a little.”
“Splendid!” Falconer clapped his hands together enthusiastically. “That is precisely what it is intended to do.”
“I think it’s time that we were heading back to the hotel.” There was no mistaking the firmness in Mom’s tone. I’d heard it before, and knew that it meant no arguments.
“I’m sorry that you have to cut the tour short.” Falconer seemed crestfallen. I couldn’t tell whether he had genuinely enjoyed showing off his own little kingdom to us, or whether he was just faking disappointment at us having to leave. Then he looked me straight in the eyes. There was something unspoken there, but I had no idea what. Finally he said, “You seemed to be really enjoying yourself, Danny.”
I wasn’t going to let him push me around, even in a really passive-aggressive way like this.
“I was. I just love this kind of stuff.”
“Then perhaps you should consider joining us as a volunteer…for as long as you’re staying in town, at least…” Was that an implied threat? He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to me smoothly. I took it and gave it a quick glance.
Malachai Falconer.
Proprietor.
The Snare of Souls.
There was no address, just a cell phone number.
“Do please feel free to call me if you are interested in becoming a part of our little enterprise,” Falconer said silkily as he ushered Mom and I out of the chapel, down a long corridor, and out into the street. It was getting dark already. We passed a bunch of kids heading into the Snare, laughing and joking with each other. I guessed that they were volunteers, getting ready to be costumed and made up for the night’s scares.
“Yeah, I might just do that.”
Falconer extended a hand. I shook it awkwardly, then tucked his business card into my back pocket. The hand was cool to the touch, and a chill ran up my arm when our skin made contact. He smiled at me over the rims of those creepy-looking glasses. The smile still never reached his eyes though, which were even colder than his skin had been.
“Madame, it was a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I noticed that he didn’t say it was a pleasure to make my acquaintance, but I didn’t say anything as he took Mom’s hand and kissed it. She was still lapping this crap up, after all. This wasn’t just a charm offensive — it was starting to look more like an all-out war.
She giggled. My heart died a little inside.
“Farewell.” Falconer bowed. He actually freaking bowed, then went back inside the Snare and closed the door behind him. I blew out a long sigh.
“What a douche.”
“Daniel!”
“What?”
“Mr. Falconer was really quite gracious and charming.”
“Yeah,” I grumbled. “Tell me about it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Mom seemed a little annoyed.
“He was all over you, Mom! I mean, kissing your hand and bowing, for—”
She dismissed my argument with a wave of her hand. “He’s British, Daniel! He’s just being British! They’re polite like that.”
“Maybe a hundred years ago they were,” I countered hotly, “but don’t try and tell me that people are walking around the streets of London kissing each other on the hand like that! Besides, how many Brits do you actually know?”
“Well, none,” she admitted, “how many do you know?”
“Uh…”
We looked at one another in silence for a moment. It slowly dawned on us both just how ridiculous the argument was. We were standing
in the middle of a strange town, fighting about whether people thousands of miles away kissed each other on the hand or not. Mom and I both started laughing at the same time, cracking up at the stupidity of it all. We hugged. The tension fizzled out and disappeared.
Mom let me go, and suddenly her expression changed to one of recognition.
There, coming towards us with a look of disbelief plastered across her face, was Becky.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Danny!”
It was more of a yell than a question. I could feel my heart surging in my chest when I saw her. Becky was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a dark blue jacket. She had her long hair pulled back into a ponytail that bounced as she walked toward me.
She did not look happy to see me.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, hands on hips.
“I, uh, well…basically I came here to see you.”
“To see me,” Becky repeated. “You don’t think that’s a little weird? Maybe a little stalker-y?”
“No! It is totally not stalker-y, I promise.” The conversation wasn’t even thirty seconds old, so how was I already on the defensive?
“I said we’d talk when I got back. Nobody asked you to drive all the way out here from Boulder—”
“I know, I know.” I held up my hands in an attempt to placate her. “Look, I’m not trying to creep you out or anything. That’s not it at all.”
“Then why did you come?” she demanded.
“To apologize,” I said loudly, then lowered my voice and added, “and there’s something else I need to tell you, but I can’t do it in front of…” I gave the slightest nod of my head in Mom’s direction. Becky didn’t seem to be aware that Mom was with me, and as soon as we had started talking, Mom had backed off diplomatically to a distance that was almost (but not quite) out of earshot.
Last Halloween (The Deadseer Chronicles Book 2) Page 9
