15 Amityville Horrible (3 page)

I made a lot of demands when I accepted this job. It was a negotiating tactic. I demand a bunch of things, a few of them will be granted, and when the rest aren’t, I have bitching leverage. There was only one clause that I absolutely insisted on in my contract. No other spiritualists.

That might sound like ego. And sure, part of it is. I like to be the star. To be honest, I used to prefer working with others, because I could use my necromancy to outshine them. Not nice, but there’s no room for nice in show biz.

My last experience, however, had taught me that the risks of working with other spiritualists outweighs the advantages. Namely, that I can, inadvertently, cost them their careers. Or their lives.

On
Death
, I’d been haunted by the ghosts of children buried in the garden. So, with Jeremy’s help, I’d investigated and unmasked those responsible. But my young colleague Angelique had been convinced I was doing something show-related behind her back. She’d tried to insert herself into the investigation…and wound up being the killers’ final victim.

Then there was Bradford Grady, famed British spiritualist with a long-running hit series. While I was investigating, I’d got advice from a eudemon, who’d possessed Grady. Now, eudemons aren’t what we’d call “demonic.” They probably shouldn’t be classed with demons at all. But somehow, perhaps proving he did have some psychic ability, Grady recalled elements of his possession and became convinced that Satan himself had taken over his body. He quit his show and moved from ghost-hunting to demon-busting, destroying his career in the process.

Did I feel guilty for what happened to my colleagues? Yes. Especially Angelique. People had noticed, too, and bloggers and tabloids still talked about the “
Death of Innocence
curse.” Wasn’t it odd that one of the three spiritualists not only emerged unscathed, but saw her reputation leap to new heights? There were plenty of tasteless jokes accusing me of some “satanic” sacrifices of my own, offering up one co-worker’s life and another’s career to advance my own.

So, I had good reason for making sure that clause went into my contract. I continued chatting with Gregor—it wasn’t his fault—but didn’t delay long before suggesting we shouldn’t hold him captive. He had a party to attend. Mike wanted to show him around, but I gave him a “talk to me or I walk” look that he couldn’t ignore. We returned to the small room.

“There is a clause in my contract—” I began.

“We haven’t violated it,” he said as he closed the door.

“What?”

“The clause specifies an American or internationally known spiritualist. Gregor is neither.”

I stared at him. “You set me up.”

“It wasn’t me. The studio insisted—”

“Why the hell am I surprised? You’ve done nothing except set me up since—”

“Hold on. That’s not fair, Jaime.”

“You didn’t set that fake reporter on me after my show?”

“Er, yes. I admitted that. But the rest—”

“
One
thing. I only insisted on one thing.”

“And I couldn’t give it. You know how it is. I’m the show-runner. That means I have a helluva lot of clout, but I still answer to the studio. They hold the purse strings. Without them, there is no show to run. If they want another spiritualist, I can argue, but ultimately, all I can do is make this as easy on you as possible. Find someone American viewers have never heard of, meaning he won’t compete with you on the marquee, but might boost international sales. And I can make sure I don’t hire an asshole, which I think you can agree Gregor is not.”

“I reserve judgment.”

“I can do something else, Jaime. I can make damn sure you get everything else you want, whether it’s in the contract or not. I can build you a dream-team to minimize conflict. Focus on real entertainment.” He paused. “I even gave in on the Cotard’s victims.”

“Because you couldn’t find any.”

He sighed. “I’m doing my best here. I know you’re not happy, but…This is what we have to work with.”

…

There was no shortage of people I could blame for Gregor Baronova. The studio, for insisting on a second, unknown spiritualist when I was a proven performer. Mike for not having the courtesy—or balls—to forewarn me. My lawyer, for not making sure the clause was iron-clad. But the responsibility for my career lies squarely on me. It has to. Otherwise, it’s too easy to find scapegoats. You need to accept that the world doesn’t exist to help you succeed. In fact, it would really rather you didn’t. Nothing personal—it just doesn’t understand why it should care.

I’d signed the contract. I’d seen the clause and I’d seen the qualifiers and I’d decided it was meaningless legalese. I didn’t call my lawyer for clarification. Oh, I’d still fire him. I had to, because I’d made it clear that this clause was important to me and he should have seen there was a loophole. But I was still stuck with a co-performer, and it was ultimately my own fault.

…

I left the party as soon as I could exit gracefully.

“Seven o’clock pickup,” Mike called as I was leaving. He didn’t come over; he was wisely keeping his distance. “Is Jeremy coming?”

I nodded and continued toward the door.

“I’ll see you at the house, then,” Mike called. “When all will be revealed…On camera.”

Normally, I’d have found a joke in that. Something about not being paid enough to reveal all. He knew it, which was why he said it, and when I didn’t respond, that told him he was still in the doghouse.

“Have you met Jaime’s boyfriend?” he was saying, loudly, as I left. “Jeremy Danvers. He’s an artist. I bought one of his older works at auction last year. Dropped half a mil. Of course, it’s worth it. We’ll be lucky to have him here. He’s very reclusive, as all the best artists are…”

I picked up my pace so I didn’t need to hear him bragging about Jeremy, as if getting him here was a personal triumph. I knew Jeremy wouldn’t appreciate everyone knowing who he was. He’s not quite so reclusive these days—I give him a reason to leave the Pack and Stonehaven. But he does value his privacy more than anyone I know. He’d prefer to quietly slide on set as “Jaime Vegas’s boyfriend.”

He’d texted me before the party to say he’d begun the trip. Another text an hour ago told me he’d stopped at Antonio’s for a coffee break. I’d insisted on that. It was a six-hour drive, and I knew it was hard to pass within ten miles of his best friend’s place without stopping. We planned to pay the Sorrentinos a visit after the show, but for now, Jeremy would get caffeine and a leg-stretch before continuing on. Another text thirty minutes later said he was back on the road. So, allowing for New York traffic, he should be here…I checked my watch. In about thirty minutes.

That was just enough time to get out of my heels, splash water on my face and revert to day makeup. One could argue, I suppose, that considering I’d be professionally made up on set tonight, I should just go bare-faced until then. It wasn’t like Jeremy hadn’t seen that. But I like to put in a little effort for that reunion moment. The makeup would come off on the bedsheets soon enough.

That thought was enough to cheer me. I stopped in at the front desk to get my room number and was directed to the far set of stairs. I had the top floor corner room. The best in the house, the innkeeper informed me. Mike had insisted on it.

I should have ignored the advice to take the far stairs. There were too many directions involved in getting there—down this corridor, make a left, take a right, another left, you can’t miss it.

I missed it. I ended up in the service hall, by the kitchens. The inn didn’t serve lunch, and it was only mid-afternoon, so there was no one around to ask for directions. I’d feel a little foolish doing that anyway.
That Vegas woman? She got lost looking for the stairs to her room. We were all worried that once she found it, she’d be trapped inside, searching for the door out.

I was backtracking when I caught a flicker down a side hall. I turned to see a woman standing there. She could have been real…if the inn was hosting a Roaring Twenties night. I quickly turned away, as if I was just a regular person, with no supernatural abilities.

“Help me. Please help me.”

That door the girl had run through? Clearly marked “Do Not Enter.” Of course I did. Of course it opened to reveal a set of steps leading down into a pitch-black basement.

I looked over my shoulder, making sure no one was around, then took off my heels, flipped on the lights, stepped onto the first riser and closed the door behind me. Before I did, I made sure it would reopen, twisting it and checking for locks, then closing and reopening, just to be sure. I’ve had ghosts play tricks before, leading me into places I can’t get out of.

I climbed down the steps. Given the amount of dust, I was sure no one had been down there in years. It certainly smelled that way. That made me particularly cautious on the wooden steps, but not one so much as creaked under me.

The stairs ended in a small room. Four doorways branched off it. Two were closed, two open. The girl stood just inside one of the open ones.

“Quick!” she said. “Follow me! He’s coming!”

“Are you talking to me?” I said. “Can you see me?”

Too late. She’d taken off. I looked back at the stairs, then at the dark room the girl had run into. She had to be a residual, but I was down here now. I couldn’t make a fool of myself if no one was around to watch me chasing an apparition.

The worst thing that could happen was that I’d witness the replay of a crime I’d really rather not witness. That wouldn’t be anything new. As horrific as residuals could be, I’d learned to deal with them by reminding myself that the victims were safe now, and what I was seeing was nothing more than phantom photography.

The girl had already made it across the room and through a second doorway. I raced after her.

“If you’re really a ghost, this isn’t happening,” I called after her. “It can’t be happening. No one can hurt you now.”

“He’s coming! Please! Save me!”

Was she responding to my words? Or was the timing coincidental? Damn it. Everything in my experience insisted this had to be a residual. Chasing it was an amateur move, the kind of thing necromancers joked about—
hey, remember the time you called 911 when you saw a residual jump off a bridge?

But this seemed different. So, against all logic, I kept chasing the girl, flipping on lights as I went, through the next room to another hallway.

“He’s coming!” she said. “Quick! We have to hide!”

“There’s no one coming. You’re—” I paused. It’s never fun to tell a ghost she’s dead. Normally, though, that only happens if you have the misfortune of meeting one at the moment of death. From this girl’s outfit, she’d been dead nearly a century.

“You can’t be hurt,” I said instead. “Tell me what you see and I’ll—”

“He’s coming! Hide!”

She darted through a closed door. I ran to it and turned the knob. It wouldn’t open. I threw my shoulder against it, a move I’d seen Jeremy and other werewolves do all the time, one that works far better if you have super-strength. Pain slammed through my shoulder. The door didn’t budge.

On the other side, the girl screamed. I twisted the knob again and shoved the door. It flew open so suddenly I stumbled through, tripping, my heels flying from my hand and clattering to the cement floor.

The girl screamed again. I looked up to see her crouching in the shadows, the room lit only by the light from the hall. I patted the wall for a light switch but couldn’t find one.

I started forward. “It’s okay. Whatever you’re seeing, it isn’t real. You’re—”

She screamed and fell back as blood blossomed on her beaded dress. A jagged hole appeared, blood seeping through. Then another one, as if an invisible knife stabbed her. I raced over, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t see what was attacking her. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t drag her to safety.

I tried reaching out, but of course my hands just passed through her. All I could do was stand there, babbling that it wasn’t real, she would be okay. The knife kept plunging in until the whole front of her dress was shredded and bloody. Then, finally, she dropped to the floor, and the blows stopped.

I stood there, breathing hard, shaking as I stared at her crumpled body, waiting for it to fade. Instead, her arms twitched. Then one reached out, clawing at the concrete.

“Help…me…” she whispered.

“If you can hear me, it’s okay,” I said. “Just hold on. It’ll all be over in a second.”

She lifted her blood-freckled face. Her dark eyes met mine. “Why didn’t you help me?”

“I can’t,” I said, crouching. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re…you’re out of your time. Whatever happened to you it was very long ago—”

She reached for my foot, hand passing through it. Then she looked up at me with her tear- and blood-streaked face. “Stop him. Please stop him.”

She disappeared. I took a deep breath. Then I felt a draft behind me, a sudden whoosh of air, and I spun to see the door closing. I raced toward it, but it slammed shut, plunging the room into darkness.

…

I didn’t give up on the door for a while. It hadn’t wanted to open earlier, so I told myself it was just jammed again. As for how it slammed shut, well, I’d felt a draft, hadn’t I? That or the foundation was crooked and the door swung shut because of that. When it comes to anything potentially paranormal in origin, I’m the worst skeptic, always searching for natural answers. That may seem perverse, but knowing the supernatural exists makes it too easy to jump on paranormal explanations. It’s like people who religiously watch ghost shows and interpret every creaking board and groaning pipe as a sign that the dead walk among us.

So I kept yanking on the door. The handle refused to even turn. Next I searched for that missing light switch. The room was pitch dark without even a sliver of light coming under the door. I systematically felt my way along all the walls. Still no switch.

Finally, I did what some might argue I should have done when the door first shut. I took out my cell phone. Admittedly, the faint glow of the screen did help and I used that for another round of the tiny room, but saw no light switch or pull cord hanging overhead.

As for using the phone to actually call someone, that might be the obvious solution to my predicament, but I wanted to be absolutely certain I couldn’t get myself free first. Getting locked in an inn basement was not going to help my reputation at all.

But the door wasn’t opening, and the light was staying off, so I hit the speed-dial for Jeremy. A recording came on immediately, telling me my call couldn’t be completed. I looked at my screen.

No service.

No service? How was that possible? I’d had a couple of bars upstairs.

I lifted the phone overhead as high as I could. Still no—?

“Run,” a man’s voice whispered behind me.

I spun so fast I almost dropped my phone, fumbling to catch it as I backed into the corner. I lifted the screen to shine in front of me.

“Who’s there?” I asked.

No one, you fool. It’s a small, empty room.

No, it
had
been empty. I’d had my back to the door when it slammed shut. Meaning someone could have come in and closed it behind him.

I pressed my back against the wall and waved the phone around. Nothing. I could see nothing.

“If someone’s there—”

“Help me,” whispered a voice from below.

I swung the cell phone light down to see the girl on the floor. She was rising, blood-stained hand reaching for me.

“Help…”

See, it’s a residual. It’s replaying.

But she hadn’t reached up before. She’d reached out for my foot.

“Why didn’t you help me?” she said. “Why won’t you stop him?”

“Can you hear me?” I said. “If you can—”

“You need to stop him.”

“Run,” the man’s voice whispered.

I wheeled, back slamming into the adjoining wall. My cell phone flickered. The light went out. I banged it against my thigh. I hit buttons. I held down the power switch. Nothing worked.

It had a full battery when I left New York. There’s no way—

The light. It drained because you were keeping the screen on at full brightness.

That was silly, of course. I had enough power. I know I did.

A click sounded, like the door opening. When I looked over, though, I couldn’t see any light shining through it. With my back against the wall, I sidestepped to the door and ran my fingers over the edge. It was shut tight. I tried the handle. It still wouldn’t—

Another click, as if the door had closed. I yanked my hands back. I hadn’t pushed it shut. I knew I hadn’t—

A whimper sounded behind me. I turned, instinctively lifting my dead phone. All I saw was darkness, but I could hear someone there, sniveling and crying softly. Then, slowly, I began to make out the edges of a faintly glowing figure. It was pressed against the far wall, as if hiding behind some invisible object. The figure came clearer. It was a girl—a young woman, maybe in her early twenties—dark-haired, with a chiffon head scarf and polka-dot Fifties-style dress.

Tears streamed down her face as she hid there, breathing so hard I could hear it. When I took a step toward her, she jumped, then looked up, eyes meeting mine.

“Hide!” she said. “Quick! He’s coming!”

“Who’s coming?” I asked.

She struggled for breath as her eyes filled with panic.

I walked closer. “Who’s coming?”

“He’s going to find me. I know he’s going to—”

She let out a shriek, head jerking up, eyes rounding. Then she fell back against the wall, hands up. Blood spread across her dress as she screamed. The knife plunged in again.

“Help! Please help!”

I did. Not by running to shield her or pull her away. I couldn’t do that. Instead, I focused on whoever was stabbing her, to see him, to pull him through the ether. I tried every trick I knew to summon the ghost attacking her, and I didn’t see so much as a flicker. An invisible force just kept stabbing her with an invisible knife until she lay there, heaped by the foot of the wall, eyes closed.

I turned to her and knelt. “Can you hear me? I don’t understand what’s—”

Her eyes flew open. “Help us. Stop him.”

Before I could say a word, she disappeared.