Southern Haunts (24 page)

The force that held him three feet off the floor smashed his head back into the wall. He felt the drywall give way. And as darkness formed around his eyes, he saw Shawnee rise into the air and float toward Wayne.

Chapter 29

Max awoke wishing he had a hangover
— that would have felt much better than his current state. He gingerly touched a growing lump on the back of his head. Though it hurt, he touched it again.

When he finally opened his eyes, he discovered his body had been thrown into the middle of the living room. No sign of Shawnee. Wayne lay unconscious a few feet away. Carl sat against one wall with his eyes open, though he looked to be in a stupor.

He followed Carl’s dead gaze into the kitchen and understood — Jack dangled from above. Shifting slightly, Max saw that Jack’s head had gone right through the ceiling — right up to his shoulders. Blood covered his body and pooled a red outline beneath him.

Ignoring the fuzzy waves breaking within his head, Max struggled to his feet. “Carl?” He snapped his fingers. “Carl. You there?”

Carl’s breathing turned ragged. “It’s real. I mean it’s really real. I’d seen stuff before, I’d heard the noises, but nothing like this. This isn’t an old house settling. This is a real monster.” He cocked his head towards the kitchen. His voice cracked. “Look what it did to Jack.”

Max walked over to Wayne while talking. “That’s right. This is real. And if you don’t want to end up like Jack, you need to get control of yourself.” He gave Wayne’s shoulder a sharp shove. No reaction.

“Jack was a friend,” Carl said, his voice rising in pitch. “I mean we didn’t like each other, he was weird and all, but he didn’t deserve that.”

“None of us deserve that. Now, get up, or we’re all going to end up soaking in our own blood. I need your help.”

Max tried slapping Wayne’s cheek. Still, no response.

His cell phone chirped. Before it finished, Max had answered it. “Sandra.”

“Thank goodness you’re okay.”

“I don’t know if okay is the word for it, but I’m alive — which is more than I can say for Jack.”

“Damn. What happened in there?”

“I’m guessing Milton Hull’s a little ticked off.”

“Is Shawnee okay? And the others?”

“They’re fine, but not in any shape to help. It’s just me.”

“Okay. What can we do for you?”

“You can try to get in, but I suspect the doors won’t open. Maybe you and Libby can come through the tunnels. I doubt it’ll work, though. Milton’s got the place on ghost lockdown.”

“We’ll try anyway.”

“If that’s no good, the best thing you can do is —” The connection broke. Max looked at the phone — five bars. “Really, Milton, not even a phone call?”

Carl coughed as he rolled onto all fours. “W-Why are you talking with Milton? You working with him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That bastard is going to pay for all this. And we’re going to be fine, Carl.”

Carl maneuvered to Wayne. “I’m sure he thought he was going to be fine, but he can’t even wake up. And Jack ... Jack ...” He lowered his head to the floor and wept.

A voice, strained tight with pain, wailed from upstairs — Shawnee.

“It’s going to be okay.” Max didn’t know if he offered this to comfort Carl or himself. No comfort came.

He gazed up the stairs. That baby was coming. Premature, but it was coming. And Max had no doubt that Milton caused it all to happen. He needed a body, so he would force one out.

“Not gonna happen.” Max stomped up the stairs. Each footfall gaining him strength as his jaw set and his anger flared.

He never saw the punch coming — how could he? — but he felt it. Milton belted Max in the jaw, sending him tumbling down the stairs. The punch hit hard enough, but the stairs did the real damage. The goose egg on the back of his head split open. Blood dribbled down his neck.

Max clambered to his feet and put up his fists. A gut punch came next, strong enough to force him into the middle of the living room. Sputtering air and spit, he avoided stepping on Wayne and Carl as he searched for his opponent.

Nothing.

Finally, Max swung high then low, upper cut, right cross — but he swiped at emptiness.

Something wrapped around Max’s ankle and lifted upward. He flipped over before hitting the floor, smashing his face into the wood.

Carl screamed and scampered to the wall. “I want out of here. Get me out of here. Get this to stop. Make it stop.”

Max winced as he pushed his body back up.
Carl’s losing it, and I’m plain losing.
He patted the back of his head and examined his hand. Not as bad as he thought, but still bleeding. His lip swelled, too, and none of his bones felt firm.

Like a mad genius having a Eureka moment, Carl’s crazed glaze sparked with life. “Burn it. That’s what we said we should do. We’ve got to burn it down.”

Max tried to respond, but his entire body blasted straight up and banged into the ceiling. He spun like a fan turned on high. Vomit burned up his throat. The power that kept him stuck to the ceiling released. He crashed to the floor.

He rolled onto his back. Everything spun like a drunkard’s final moments before unconsciousness. Darkness clouded the edges of his vision.

Except he did not black out. And the darkness had a presence. Mean and ugly and malicious — Milton Hull.

The paint on the ceiling rippled until a pale tendril snaked down to the floor. The thought hit Max that he should move, but the ceiling snake moved first. It sprang forth and wrapped around Max’s ankle.

An icy touch slipped over Max’s feet and crept up his legs. Like sinking into a winter lake, his legs numbed. When the cold hit his knees, he cried out, his voice only matched by Shawnee’s labor cries from upstairs. He tried to sit up but lacked the strength. What little movement he managed received a blow to the chest that thrust him back down. His head lolled to the right.

Carl stared at the snake, whimpering. “We’ve got to burn it all. That’s what we’re here to do. Burn it.”

With the numbing sensations creeping towards Max’s thighs, with his mind numbing as well, the single thought repeated that Milton would kill him as a snake of ceiling paint. Then he heard a gruff and most welcome voice. With the sound, the icy grip released.

“Insurance has arrived.” Drummond stood near the front door with one hand in his coat and the other scratching the back of his neck. “Milton, I think you know my friend here, Floyd. He’s got a few choice words for you.”

Milton recoiled into the ceiling. Max permitted himself two breaths of relief before pushing back onto his feet. The plan had been for Drummond to return with Floyd so that he could talk some sense into Milton — or at least delay Milton long enough for Drummond to apprehend the bastard.

“Easy there, Floyd.” Drummond grabbed the air in front of him and wrenched back. “We need this to remain civil. Now, Milty, you’ve suddenly taken on a bit of a shape there. I’m guessing you’re close to transforming into whatever you hope to become. Before you get all upset, why don’t the two of you have a calm chat? That would be — oh, crap.”

Though Max could not see anything but Drummond, he had no trouble understanding that Floyd and Milton wrestled each other. A lamp shattered. Books flew across the room. A hole appeared in the wall above Carl’s head. Carl screamed.

Drummond slid his hat back. “You two couldn’t make this easy.” He sauntered forward, his fingers curling into fists, and he threw a punch into the air. The wall behind his punch thudded as he hulked in closer. “I can see enough of you now, and I’m going to end this.”

Drummond doubled over and soared backwards as Milton tackled him. Drummond blocked an invisible attack with one arm while punching an invisible foe with the other. Max knew his partner could hold his own, but how long was another matter.

Snapping his fingers at Carl, Max said, “We’re going to be fine. Get Wayne to safety.”

Carl crawled over, but instead of helping Wayne, he shook his head. “We’ve got a mission.” From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter. Mesmerized, he stood and entered the kitchen. He didn’t even stop for Jack, but merely stepped around his hanged friend.

Ignoring his pain, Max rushed in to follow. Carl stood at the cellar door with a roll of paper towels in his hand. He lit the roll like a torch.

“Carl, don’t.”

But Carl tossed the burning roll into the cellar. A loud whoosh scored up into the kitchen along with a bright orange flickering glow. He stared at it for a moment, hypnotized by the dance of flames. Max thought the man might hurl himself into the fire, but instead, Carl turned around and tried to open the backyard door. It wouldn’t open. He jammed his elbow into the window. It did not break.

He looked at the growing fire, then at Max. He barreled by Max into the living room. Launching himself into the air, he attempted to cannonball through the front window. An arm of paint snapped out of the wall and swatted him back.

Carl’s head drooped. “It won’t let us out. We’re going to die.” He curled into a ball and shuddered.

Drummond appeared to fare better. He had Milton in a headlock (though to Max it looked as if Drummond had his arm looped around air). He bashed Milton’s head into the kitchen doorjamb. Before he could utter a smug comment, his head jerked back — Milton must have hit him in the chin. Drummond flailed back.

As he shook off the hit and charged Milton again, Max got out of the way. If Floyd Johnson remained in the area, he wasn’t helping. Drummond was on his own. The dead detective lunged into the wall and disappeared.

Max checked the kitchen. Smoke belched out of the cellar door and rolled along the ceiling. Flames clung to the cabinets.

Panic rose up his throat. Instead of crumbling into a ball like Carl, Max slapped himself in the face. “Clear your head, Max. You still have a plan in action.”

A pained roar cracked the air in the house, reverberating through the walls. When Max reached the front of the house, he pivoted and scurried up the stairs, staying low in case Milton managed to strike him. Thankfully, Drummond continued to do a good job of keeping Milton’s focus.

Max stepped onto the second floor and went straight for the baby’s room. Shawnee would be in there, of course, but he had no idea what else he would find. Part of him hesitated. The rest of him fought on. When he opened the door, however, he froze.

Shawnee floated in the middle of the room, surrounded by a bright, bluish hue. Her legs had been propped up as if in invisible stirrups. Her head and arms hung low. She spun slowly as if laying upon a rotating showroom floor.

She saw him and reached out. “Help me.” Her voice barely a whisper yet overflowing with desperation. The sound shot straight through to his bones.

He leaped forward to grab her, but when he came into contact with the bluish hue, electricity arced between it and him. The charge jolted into his skull and reverberated down to his knees. It knocked him off his feet.

He smelled the burning below. Swallowing against his panic, he scanned the room, trying to find the wards that protected Shawnee. But it couldn’t be a ward — he was a man, not a ghost. A ward wouldn’t be able to stop him from touching her. This had to be some other form of magic.

“Please, help me.” Another agonizing labor pain choked off her words.

Max watched her, wanting to help, but his mind went blank. He stood there, staring at Shawnee like a fool watching television. Tears welled in his eyes, and a dark thought invaded his brain —
Carl’s right. We’re going to die here.

Chapter 30

Shawnee stared back at him.
The plea in her eyes breaking his heart. Except the more she stared, the more Max thought she wasn’t looking at him. Rather she looked
through
him. He turned around yet saw nothing in the hallway. That’s when Floyd Johnson thrust his ghostly hand into Max’s head.

It had been years since Max had suffered such pain. Only once before had a ghost done this to him. And while the worst migraine would have been a delight compared to having a ghost’s hand plunged into his skull, it did allow him to see another world.

Floyd stood before him — tall, dark-skinned, strong jaw, and a hint of facial hair, an impressive man cut down at a youthful age. “Bottles,” Floyd said.

Max jumped at the sound of the voice and cried out at the extra pain his movement had caused. He couldn’t help it. The last time a ghost did this to him, it did not speak.

“Destroy the bottles. Release his hold over this house.”

Max dared not move. He stared and endured the pain.

Floyd yelled, “Go.” The ghost then withdrew his hand in one fast motion.

Max collapsed, gasping for air. He stumbled forward, getting to his feet as he moved, knowing that any time he had left ran out faster than he could maneuver.

Like a drugged-out teen, he bounced his way down the stairs, rebounding off the handrail and the walls. The single thought —
destroy the bottles
— consumed his aching head.