Haunted (23 page)

Christabel's horrible laugh sounded then, and David was glad he couldn't see her face.

Eric began pulling him out the doorway. He started to resist, wanting to watch the specters, but, vaguely, he realized how dangerous it might be to remain there. He staggered out of the room.

"We have to get the doll," Eric whispered urgently. "Miss Lizzie needs it."

"But she's strong. Stronger than Christabel."

Eric shook his head. "No, the other's stronger. The strongest. She's like a witch. But Miss Lizzie, she's just a spirit, she's just trapped here."
Christabel 's laughter rang out again, making Eric grimace.

Quickly, he led David to the side of the hall. "Wait here. I have to get the doll."

"No! Wait!"

"There's no time!"

David fished in his pants pocket, withdrew his keys. "It's locked. Use the little key, there."

Eric snatched the ring and ran down the hall. After he turned down the hallway that led to the stairs, David couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, not even on the stairs.

The laughter sounded again, and another voice, pleading, soothing. He couldn't understand the words. He sank to the floor, let his spinning head rest between his bent knees. He couldn't understand anything anymore. He was confused by his feelings, how the sensation of letting the spirit--rerun, energy drain, his skeptical brain insisted--into his body had been pleasant and had made him feel that he knew Lizzie Baudey intimately. Was that how Eric and other psychics he'd worked with in the past sensed things? They felt them with a sort of magnified intuition? Christabel laughed again, louder, sending chills through him, sickening him.

Dimly, he heard footsteps and lifted his head to see Eric pounding toward him, the doll clutched in his hands. David struggled to his feet, fighting his rubbery legs, but by the time he stood, Eric had disappeared back into Amber's room. Then, before he could take a step, a storm of swirling darkness filled her doorway. He heard the laughter, much fainter, and the dark mass, once again a globe floating several feet off the ground, moved into the hallway, and hovered, becoming fainter and fainter until it had disappeared entirely. A moment later, Eric reappeared, his hair disheveled, his cheeks red.

"What happened in there?"

"Miss Lizzie got rid of--you know." He walked to where David stood. "We have to keep the doll safe."

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on. I'll show you."

Eric tried to put his arm around him, but David stepped back. "I'm fine."

Dubiously, Eric nodded. "Let's go."

They reentered Amber's room. No trace of foul odor remained, though David thought he detected a light scent of lavender. It could have been his imagination. He watched as Eric crossed the room and removed the doll from beneath the bed pillows. "The other will break this if she can. We can't let her."

David knew he meant Christabel. "How do you know that?"

"I don't know. I guess Lizzie told me."

"What happens if it breaks?"

Concentration pinched his features. "If the doll breaks, Lizzie won't have a place to go where she can't get her."

"Lizzie lives in the doll?"

"Mostly. I think it's why she can fight her at all. It's a safe place. She goes there to rest." Eric pushed his hair off his forehead. "I don't know if I'm right. That's just what I feel."

Mine is not to reason why… With that thought, David directed Eric to get some towels from the bathroom. Eric wrapped the doll safely and put it in a shoebox in the bottom of the wardrobe as David rested against the dresser and watched. Finally, he asked, "Is it safe for Amber to stay in here?''

"Yes," Eric sounded certain. "As long as Miss Lizzie is safe, she'll keep the other one away from her." He studied David. "But you know that."

"How could I know that?" David asked impatiently, though it was true, he did know it. Even if he didn't want to give it credence, he had felt Lizzie's fierce protectiveness during that brief moment when she'd passed through him. She reminded him of a lioness protecting her young and he had also known that, for some reason, this aspect of her personality had concentrated on Amber. Perhaps it was because she had failed to save her own daughter. Okay, Masters, reality check. You know you don’t believe in sentient spirits hanging around.

Eric was staring at him, a look somewhere between frustration and disgust on his face. "Don't play games, David. Miss Lizzie was on you. You know."

David had always prided himself on his open-mindedness, on his willingness to consider possibilities. And on his skepticism. To him, they went hand in hand. He made fun of the New Age movement, calling its followers crystal-packers and worse, because they often believed everything, unconditionally. And he made equal fun of their opposites, the people who debunked everything they couldn't prove materially and absolutely. They called themselves skeptics, but they weren't--they were disbelievers, every bit as fanatical as the believers. As Eric waited for an answer, David knew he didn't want to fall into either category, but here he was automatically disbelieving that sentient spirits could exist just because he'd never seen any reasonable proof before. Reasonable proof just zapped you for all you’re worth, Masters, old boy. Consider that.

"I guess you're right, Eric." His mind was reeling and he was having a hard time accepting any of it. A very hard time. "But, I'm curious. How do you know? Was Lizzie on you too?"

"No. I just sort of picked it up."

"Did you feel her emotions as if they were your own?"

He shook his head. "No. I guess I would if I did what you did, and let her into me." He looked down at the floor, then back up at David. "But I-I felt some of the... others emotions when it touched me…"

"Christabel's?"

He nodded. "Don't say the name out loud, don't even think it. It felt like she was trying to drain away my life. She's not nice."

"I gathered that." Suddenly, David's adrenalin deserted him and he had to stifle a yawn.

"She hates," Eric told him. "She's practically made out of hate."

"I think I need to take a nap," David said as they left Amber's room. "I've been having trouble sleeping. I think it's because of Chr--her. What do you do to protect yourself here?" I'm asking this kid for advice, my God, I don’t believe it.

"I wouldn't sleep here," Eric replied, as they arrived at David's doorway. "But if I were you, and I had to, I'd sleep in Amber's room. I don't think the other will go back in there."

Unable to bring himself to tell Swenson about his somnambulant sexual activities, he said, "Amber wouldn't want her old man bunking in with her. What about my room, though? How would you make it safe?"

In reply, Eric walked into the bedroom and looked around. "She used this room a lot," he said at last. "She slept here."

"Was it her bedroom?"

"For a while." He stared hard at David. "She liked the room by the terrace on the third floor best."

"The one with the spilled paint?"

"Yes."

He'd check into that later, David decided. He gestured at the room. "Can you tell what happened in here, Eric? Were there murders?"

Eric shut his eyes a moment. "Some, but not too bad. She did things in here."

"Things?"

"She had--" Eric blushed uncontrollably.

"What did she have, Eric?" David prompted

"She had lovers. In that bed. Lots of them."

"The mattress and box springs are brand new."

"The frame isn't." Eric walked over and touched one tall poster, again closing his eyes. "She used rope. She liked to tie them up." His eyes glazed "The men. Women sometimes. They couldn't say no." He snatched his hand from the frame and gazed squarely at David. "They did whatever she wanted. She used magic on them. They let her hurt them."

David tried to keep his expression blank. "What if I get rid of the bed?"

"That might help. When you're asleep it's really easy to pick up on leftovers." He rubbed his hand. "And these are extra strong. Almost like upstairs." He cleared his throat and added, "Getting rid of the bed will make the leftovers weaker, but she could still decide to come in here, especially if you think about her."

"I think she already has," David admitted. "While I was asleep." At this admission, Eric blushed again, and that told David that the boy had also been approached sexually by the succubus. "Well," he said quickly, hoping to lessen the boy's embarrassment, "Let's change the bed and see what happens. I have another bed." He'd had the movers put the components of his huge, beloved waterbed and matching bedroom furniture in the room between his and Amber's. He'd originally intended to have them set it up, but the beauty of the antique poster bed had delayed that order. Already, he missed the waterbed's temperature controls, its gentle movement, its welcoming warmth when he slipped between the sheets.

"Eric, I have two more jobs for you today. First, we need to put a lock on my office door, and then we need to take the poster bed out and set up the one I brought with me."

He forced back a yawn. "Guess I'll have to skip the nap."

"I can do those things by myself."

"Putting my bed together is a two-man job. Easy with two, impossible with one."

"I'm really strong."

"I know." Eric could do it, he knew that, but there was no way he was going to nap while Eric was there--the possibility of humiliation was too great. "Actually, I'm starting to feel quite lively. I want to help."

"If you say so, David." Eric nodded at the old bed. "What do you want to do with that?"

"I guess I should have a guest room. Maybe the large room in the other wing? We'll put the rest of this furniture in there too, except for my writing desk and chair."

The thought of his familiar oak bedroom set, utterly sleek, completely modern, the wood stained a rich warm gold, really did revive him a bit. Standing up, he found that his knees barely buckled. "Let's do it."

August 5

Body House: 11:45 A.M.

"Jerry Romero?" David repeated into the phone. "Really?" Gaylord Price responded with his cultured chuckle. "Yes, Jerry Romero. A whole hour, and not the daytime show, my

boy. He wants to use you and Body House in a prime time special."

"When will it air?"

"Currently, it's scheduled for the week before Halloween." Gaylord cleared his throat. "Your new novel will be on the stands."

"I know," David said happily. "I know. Tell me the details."

"He'd like to film sometime around the end of August. He would also like to set up a band in the ballroom to play music from the era and have appropriately dressed actors do a bit of turn-of-the-century cavorting. Color, you know."

"Great."

"He also wants to bring in a psychic and film a séance."

David's stomach did a quick square knot. "I don't know about having a séance here."

"Why ever not?  It’s all in fun, after all."

"I understand that," David said carefully. He wished he knew how to explain his reasons to Gaylord without coming off like a superstitious idiot. "When we first moved in, we had a lot of trouble with the house. I'm afraid a séance might start it up again."

"Trouble? What sort of trouble?"

Well, Gaylord, a succubus was screwing my brains out and her mother is protecting my daughter. "Electrical phenomena," he said instead. "Strong poltergeist activity. It, ah, was very frightening. To Amber." He thought that would satisfy his Hollywood agent.

"I thought your daughter was quite the trooper where these things are concerned."

Damn my bragging mouth! "Yes, she is. But Body House doesn't harbor your garden-variety bumps in the night." He forced a light chuckle. "Body House does it up brown."

"I see. But David, Romero's shows are built around sensationalism.

A haunted house special without a séance? Why not send Amber to spend a night at a friend's?"

He almost argued, then decided not to. Star Light, Star Bright would be out in hardcover and the paperback edition of Remains to be Seen would be hitting the stands when the program aired, and that kind of prime time exposure was a dream come true. Also, he'd get an early plug in for Dead Ernest.

Unfortunately, Gaylord was right about haunted houses and séances: one was ice cream, the other hot fudge, each incomplete without the other. A TV journalist/sensationalist like Romero would probably want to use one of his usual very theatrical but very fake mediums--and that, in itself, would help keep anything supernatural from happening. Between that and the fact that true hauntings had a habit of refusing to perform for cameras, everything would probably be fine.

"Okay, Gaylord, I'll work something out."

"There's a good fellow."

"Is Romero intending to focus the entire hour here or will there be other segments?"

"That depends."

"On what?"