The Spook House (The Spook Series Book 1) (18 page)

“Not real,” I said, as I weaved down the hall a like a drunk.

“It’s the drugs,” I told myself. “I’ve been breathing this shit in. I just got a big dose in that room.”

I eventually made it to the foyer and the front door. All of the bodies were still there.

As Ashira had instructed, I laid my gun down on the ground. Then I tried the front door. It was still locked. Bastards. They still weren’t letting me out. Well, the show was over. I sat down on the floor with my back leaning against the front door. I was exhausted. I had no idea what time it was. My digital watch was dead. I casually gazed around. There was movement in the darkness down the hall. I ignored it. There was a figure standing at the balcony above the foyer, looking down at me. The female form was unmistakable. I perked up a little, thinking it was Ashira, but even in the darkness, I could tell it wasn’t. At school, I could identify girls, even if they were far away, by body shape alone. It wasn’t her.

“Drugs,” I said to myself. “Drugs.”

I closed my eyes and slid down the door. Ashira told me not to react to anything. She said I should try to go to sleep there. She said the bosses would only open the door when they thought I was no longer a threat. That made sense, but her instructions were hard to follow, especially when I thought I just heard the top step creak, as if someone were coming down the stairs. I squeezed my eyes shut until tears came out. Then the next step down creaked. I hugged my knees like a frightened child.

“There’s nothing there,” I told myself like a little boy in a bedroom at night who’s afraid to look at the closet.

I wanted to open my eyes, grab my gun, and shoot everything in sight, but Ashira had told me to put my weapons down and not to react to anything if I wanted to live. I hoped she was right.

Another step creaked as the thing on the staircase descended, slowly coming closer.

“Drugs,” I whispered to myself, and when that magic word failed to calm me, I cried, “God help me.”

26

My memories of what happened next are blurry. I must have fallen asleep or passed out, because I vaguely remember “waking up” when the door I lying against unsealed and cracked open. The harsh white light from the flood lamps surrounding the pen spilled in, chasing away the shadows. Things in the house that were closing in on me fled back into the dark recesses from which they had come.

My eyes, having been in the dark for so long, were blinded by the light. I felt strong hands in rubber gloves grab me and lift me up. My legs gave out. I heard the rustling, squeaking sounds of rubber and plastic. I was surrounded by men in HazMat suits. They dragged me out of the house.

I must have passed out again, because I woke up groggy on a hard bed with no memory of how I got there. I was out of uniform. I was in nothing but my underwear and a hospital smock. I tried to sit up. A strap across my chest restrained me. I tried to move my arms, but they were also in restraints.

“Oh God no,” I groaned. I was back in the hospital. Actually, maybe I had never left. That must be it. I’m insane.

“God help me,” I moaned.

“God’s not going to help you,” Ashira said darkly. “Trust me.”

She was standing beside the bed, looking down on me.

“Ashira! Are you … the house … was it …?”

“It was real.”

“Where am I?”

“Back at the base,” she said. “In detox.”

“The house is real,” I said, still not fully believing it. “I don’t … I don’t get it. It’s so evil. How can God let this go on? Why doesn’t He do something about it?”

Ashira laughed. “You remember the Battle of the Ants?”

Again, I was alarmed at how Ashira had access to my innermost thoughts and memories.

When I was about 12, Dad took me to his job at the quarry – an open strip mine outside of town. He left me in the office trailer while he went to a meeting. There, I had the privilege of seeing a war – ants vs. termites – going on under a desk. I swear, I could have watched that all day.

The girl in the office said, “I was going to spray them, but I decided since they’re killing each other, I’ll just wait until the war’s over, and then I’ll only have one species to deal with.”

The ants won. I regretted missing out on a lot of the action, but I was satisfied that I had seen the end a few days later.

I remember thinking about how cool it was that I had seen the Battle of the Ants. It was amazing anyone had been there to witness it at all. I had felt like God, watching the drama that could otherwise seem so insignificant. But it wasn’t insignificant to the termites and the ants. For them, it was life and death.

That gave me some perspective. As a mere mortal, in my relationship to the divine, God was the human, and I was the ant.

–––––

“So you see,” Ashira said, as if reading my mind, “That’s what it’s like to be God. He looks down on you. Human beings are the bugs.”

Seeing the distaste on my face, she continued, “You could have intervened. You could have picked a side and changed the outcome easily. Or you could have had the building fumigated and wiped them all out. But you didn’t. Why not?”

“Well,” I answered, “it really wasn’t my business. I was just watching.”

“Exactly!” Ashira said. I thought I saw something flicker in her in her eyes as she smiled.

“They amused you. You let them fight it out because you wanted to see what would happen. They weren’t bothering you, so you didn’t care. You watched passively. Just like God.”

Those words made my skin crawl. They instinctively felt wrong. I said, “God does care.”

“No, He doesn’t,” Ashira said sternly.

I stood my ground. “Yes, He does,” I said firmly. “God cares.”

“NO, HE DOES NOT!” Ashira shouted. “I know Him. God can’t relate to life on Earth. He doesn’t have a body. He can never be imprisoned or confined. He will never get sick or feel his body get weak and frail. He is immortal. He will never be afraid for His life. He doesn’t have to worry about any of that.”

I looked at Ashira and said, “Neither do you.”

She looked at me sharply. I said, “I think God feels emotions. He can be happy or sad. In the Bible, half the time He’s angry.”

“Angry when He doesn’t get what He wants,” Ashira spat.

“That means He cares,” I said. Ashira looked at me darkly.

“I think God wants what is best for humanity,” I said.

A look of disdain appeared on Ashira’s face. Her eyes turned black. Not just the pupils, but the entire eyes. I thought I saw something squirm just beneath the skin of her face, ready to split the thin disguise. She suddenly seemed impossibly tall. I recoiled instinctively.

She took a deep breath, exhaled, and returned to normal. She said, “Look, Jacob. I like you. I really do. But this conversation is over. Don’t piss me off.”

I didn’t want to piss her off.

“Look. You’re out of the house but you’re still in danger. But I didn’t abandon you. I’m here by your side, aren’t I?”

It was true. I nodded.

“I got you out alive, but we’re not done yet. It’s almost time to carry out our plan. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” I said confidently. “Are you going to help me?”

“It’s all up to you now.”

“But … You’ll be there in the end, when it happens, right?”

Ashira’s mood brightened. She smiled wickedly. Something flared in her eyes and she said, “Oh, Jacob. I wouldn’t miss it.”

27

I honestly don’t know how long I was in detox. I kept going in and out of consciousness. I lost all sense of time.

Based on how the medics dressed, I could tell the perceived threat I posed had decreased. The first guys who saw me were in HazMat suits. Later, the second set of nurses lost the suits but wore latex gloves and cup-like surgical masks over their noses and mouths. Finally, the last ones came dressed in their regular uniforms. Each time they attended to me, they were escorted by MPs.

Around that time, Command ordered me to give a verbal report into a recording device. Not knowing what to say, I deliberately gave short answers. I basically said that the team got separated, got disoriented, and panicked. It was an insufficient summary, but I wasn’t lying. Several days and multiple tests later, I was ordered to take a shower and put on the clothes provided. I did so. The clothes were standard boot camp gear: gray sweats and boots. Apparently, I was not going back into uniform.

After I cleaned myself up, the guard cuffed me and escorted me to a private room for debriefing. I had been expecting this. As we approached the secure door, I thought, Here we go.

A long metal table filled the small, windowless room. Large circular lights loomed over the table like UFOs over a cornfield at night. Three men stood at the table like alien abductors preparing to do an anal probe.

The MP officer cinched his grip on my arm and shoved me towards the table. I turned my head to eyeball him. He stared back, daring me to give him a reason to attack. He was big and I guessed he was around my age. It was impossible to tell for sure. We both looked at each other, silently saying, “I could kick your ass.” But, being in handcuffs, I wasn’t going to test that theory. And besides, if everything went according to plan, my revenge might get him too. That would be a bonus.

I turned back to face the men in the room. Once I got a better look I saw three familiar faces. They belonged to Dr. Smith (Owl-Eyes), Major Jones, and Chandler the Handler.

Well, well, well, I thought. The gang’s all here.

“Mr. Abrams,” said Dr. Smith, his good mood as mysterious and inappropriate as ever, “Have a seat.”

I hesitated, and the guard put his hand on my shoulder and shoved me down into the chair. The cuffs were not removed. I felt like a criminal in court. The cuffs implied that I was dangerous and incapable of controlling myself. The message was that I needed to be restrained because I might I suddenly jump up and attack people. I was insulted, but to be honest, their fears were totally justified. I had anticipated this. Since my hands were cuffed behind my back, the people around me felt safe. Fools.

Smith gave a nod to the guard, dismissing him. The MP and I locked eyes a final time, and he left. I turned back to the group. They sat down.

“Mr. Abrams.”

“Dr. Smith,” I said.

Smith seemed to light up, as if happy that I remembered his name.

“Mr. Abrams, do you know where you are?”

I felt like saying, “In a room,” but decided to avoid sarcasm. I had to pretend to cooperate to make sure I could pull off my plan. Also, I wanted answers.

“I’m in some type of detention wing of the training base in Idaho.”

When asked how I knew that, I answered, “You wanted to check me out immediately after I got out of that … thing. Also, whatever it is you’re working on here, you want to contain it here. So the answer is ‘Yes, I know exactly where I am. I’m at the Rock.’”

Owl-Eyes looked sufficiently impressed. I felt like saying, “See? I still have logical thinking skills. My brain isn’t totally fried, even after all the shit you did to me.”

Major Jones looked at me like a trained dog waiting for its master’s command to attack. “You didn’t file a full report!” he barked.

“Sir?”

“Explain yourself, Soldier!”

“Sir! I was not competent to deliver a report, Sir!”

“Bullshit!”

“Gentlemen, please,” Owl-Eyes interrupted. “Let’s be civil, and let’s allow Mr. Abrams to speak freely.”

Jones snarled, but eased back and said, “Your report is incomplete, Abrams. In it, you say almost nothing.”

“I gave a general report,” I said, deliberately feigning innocence.

“Bullshit! You left stuff out. We know you did. We know you’re lying.”

That was true. I left out all of the freaky, supernatural shit and attributed the deaths to friendly fire and the fog of war. Which was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth.

I briefly wondered how he knew. Could it be that some of those things weren’t hallucinations? The disappearing windows, the ghostly girl in the moonlight – could some of those have been special effects or something they knew about?

As if reading my mind, Jones said, “The live cams. Remember? We recorded everything.”

“Well, why talk to me if you got it all?” I knew I was pushing it.

Jones was like a big scary dog barking from behind a fence when you walk by. Like the thin wood of the fence, this metal table, the presence of the other two men, and military protocol were the only things protecting me from a viciously mauling.

“Look, you little piece of crap,” Jones said, “Don’t fuck with me! You’re in deep shit here. Six men died on your watch. You’re the only one who walked away. How do you explain that?”

There it was. That’s what they really wanted to know.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You alone survived because you murdered them, you sick bastard! You’re a terrorist! We have special places for people like you!”

I almost fell into the trap. You see it on cop shows all the time. The cops are questioning somebody they know has information. They accuse him of committing the murder (even though they don’t think he’s the killer). The perp freaks out about the possible murder charge, and starts talking fast to convince the cops that they got it wrong. Sometimes, he even confesses to minor crimes right there. Better to get busted for just about anything other than murder.

The technique could work on people who were scared and guilty. Good thing I wasn’t.

Now it was my turn to turn the tables. I looked at Jones and said, “I know you’re lying.”

Smith rolled his large owl-like eyes. He was clearly frustrated with Jones, who knew how to intimidate scared people into submission, but not how to do a decent interview.

The handler spoke up. His manner, as usual, was calm and non-confrontational. He was clearly trying to appear to be my “friend” – the seemingly sensible one between the cold, scientific Smith and the brutal military structure represented by Jones.

“What we need,” Chandler said, “is for you to tell us everything you remember. And that means everything that happened in that house, and everything you saw, or think you saw, no matter how crazy it might seem. There was a firefight, and honestly, most of the time on camera, we couldn’t tell what you guys were shooting at. Please help us understand.”