Tortured Souls (The Orion Circle) (14 page)

We follow the innkeeper into the large living room. Logan and I settle on a garish floral sofa while Rebecca and Carl set up the camera equipment. Mr. Anders is absent and my eyes fall to Mrs. Anders as she settles in an uncomfortable looking armchair.

“I have tarot cards, spirit boards, dousing rods, and a crystal ball,” she says, her eyes sparkling in excitement. “I wasn’t really sure what you’d need to do the séance.”

“I think you misunderstood our reason for coming,” Logan says unable to hide the disgust in his voice. “We aren’t here to antagonize any spirits that may reside here. If there are any spirits left willing to communicate with us at all.”

He’s practically seething and I place my hand on his arm to try to calm him. Mrs. Anders may just be ignorant, not downright cruel or stupid. Perhaps she doesn’t understand the potential harm those items pose.

“How often do you use those
things
?” he asks through a clenched jaw, his temper still not quite under control.

“Quite often actually,” she answers, appearing oblivious to Logan’s anger. “Our guests just love the séances. We’ve also been doing EVPs now since I saw it on a ghost show on TV.” She puffs out her chest and flashes a rather smug grin. “I’m planning to offer a séance special for the month of November. Stay two nights, get a séance and ghost hunt free.”

“Do you honestly believe the spirits are here for your amusement?” Logan asks in close to a growl.

She gives him an odd look, like she thinks he’s a bit crazy. Before he can respond Rebecca cuts in.

“The equipment’s set up, Logan,” she says while glaring at Mrs. Anders. “Where do you want to begin?”

“Here’s fine,” he replies, gripping my arm. “Are you ready, Kacie?” His fingers dig into my arm just short of bruising.

“It’ll be okay, Logan,” I lean in to whisper in his ear.

The pressure on my forearm lessens. When I glance at him, he gives me an apologetic look while massaging my arm where he squeezed it. After taking a deep breath, I drop the shield blocking my senses from overload. I tense, waiting for the onslaught of spiritual energy.

Strange, there appears to be no residual energy here at all. I pick up something for a brief moment at the edge of my senses, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. Rising from the sofa, I walk around the small living room searching for any trace of energy.

Nothing.

“It’s strange, Logan,” I say while circling the perimeter of the room. “The area outside is so alive with residual energy, yet there’s absolutely nothing in here at all.”

“Could the fire and the rebuilding affect residual energy?” Carl asks as he films me with the camera.

“Yes,” Logan replies. “I’m sure that’s what’s happened here. It makes for a very clean house.” He pauses and casts a surreptitious glance at the innkeeper. “Though it must be a downer when you actually want a haunting.”

I can see his point. Most hauntings with bangs, creaks, and footsteps are residual energy reacting to the environment. Hauntings with a sentient spirit tend to be rarer, not to mention less predictable. Before Logan can continue, Rebecca’s cell phone rings, breaking the awkward silence. She glances at the caller and sighs.

“Go for Rebecca,” she says in a cheerful voice. Her face falls at whatever the caller is saying. “What’s the address?” She repeats the address while Carl scribbles it down in his notebook. “I’ve got Logan and Kacie with me now. Don’t do anything, we’ll be right there, Mr. Kincaid.” She ends the call and looks over at us. “We have a situation. Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid were doing a routine interview of a new client in Wooded Acres. Mrs. Kincaid collapsed after it seems she was mentally attacked by something. Mr. Kincaid is beside himself and completely clueless. He has her reclined in the car in the driveway. Dr. Hayes is in surgery and can’t help. We need to go now!”

Carl has been packing the equipment he had set up only moments before during Rebecca’s ramble.

“You’re leaving?” Mrs. Anders asks in a dejected screech. “But I was so looking forward to the séance with two professionals.” Logan looks ready to throttle the ignorant woman. “I even have wonderful refreshments for you.”

“Mrs. Anders, we will be returning soon,” I say in a calming tone. “However, I must ask that you refrain from any attempts to contact spirits until we do.”

“Whatever for?” she asks in confusion.

Is she really this stupid or is it just me?

“Your attempts to contact spirits here could be creating a harmful environment.” I manage to contain the loud sigh I feel trying to escape. “When we come back, we’ll discuss everything in detail. We’ll be in touch to set up another visit. I’m sorry.”

She seems mollified, but I can’t help thinking that toddlers would understand quicker than this dense woman.

“I’ll be in contact, Mrs. Anders,” Rebecca says after she finishes packing the remaining camera in its crate. “Hopefully we can return within the week.”

Carl follows Rebecca to the door carrying the bulk of the equipment. I glance down at Logan who is staring off into space, deep in thought.

“Logan,” I murmur, shaking his shoulder. “Are you ready to go?” He jumps then looks up at me startled. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he croaks, pushing himself up off the sofa. “I was caught up in a very bad… how do I put this? It wasn’t a vision, more like a premonition, a very bad feeling. Something has been set in motion, something monstrous…”

He trails off as I lead him to the foyer by the hand. He still hasn’t recovered from whatever happened. In fact he seems more disconcerted now than when I first broke his reverie. We emerge from the inn hand in hand, though I’m more dragging Logan than walking beside him. When Mrs. Anders closes the door behind us he stops and pulls me into his arms.

“Be careful, Kacie,” he whispers, laying his cheek on my head. “Whatever is going to happen, I know you’re somehow involved.” I gasp in dismay and his arms tighten around me. “I’ll protect you, I promise.”

“Come on you two, we need to hurry,” Rebecca yells from the curb. She and Carl have finished loading the equipment into the back of the black van. “You have GPS?” she asks Logan as we walk over to his Mustang. When he nods, she hands him a slip of paper with an address. “We’ll see you there.”

While Logan stares at the paper in his hand, Rebecca jumps into the van, and Carl takes off down the street.

“Are you ready, Logan?” I ask when he continues to lean against the side of his car.

He nods and unlocks the doors. “Don’t worry, we’ll still beat them there,” he says, starting the engine. “Carl drives like my grandma.” He chuckles as he pulls out into traffic, heading to the freeway and Wooded Acres.

Chapter Thirteen — Foxblood Manor

Chapter Thirteen

Foxblood Manor

Wooded Acres lies about fifteen minutes north of downtown. Traffic is light and we make good time as Logan drives up the freeway, far faster than he should. Restaurants and motels flash by in a blur giving my mind time to contemplate what happened to Mrs. Kincaid. Though I try to explore various possibilities, running the gamut from food poisoning to demonic possession, my mind keeps circling back to the worst case scenario.

Was she really attacked by an evil spirit? I’ve run into plenty of mischievous spirits, maybe even some that one would consider downright bad. In all my life though, I’ve never had a run in with a demonic spirit—hell, I’m not even sure they exist. Though, if TV shows have it right, demons are everywhere, possessing unsuspecting people and requiring a very dramatic exorcism each and every time. As Logan eases the Mustang off the freeway, turning toward the mass of dark trees to our left, my stomach clenches. Just when I’m about to write it off as too much Mexican food, the hair on my arms rises to attention.

“Bad vibes,” I murmur, glancing at him to see if he feels it too.

His entire body shakes like a dog sloughing off water. “No kidding.”

Enormous iron gates block the entrance to Wooded Acres, guarding the residents within from the common riffraff of the outside world. There’s no guard, only a small inconspicuous call box. Logan pulls up next to the box and quickly enters the code Rebecca scribbled on the paper with the address. The massive gates begin to open, making no noise, though my mind hears a raspy grating followed by a long creak as they continue swinging open.

We pass through the imposing entrance. I press my nose against the cool window as the first grand manor comes into view. It’s amazing, all lit up with dramatic lighting. Long winding roads are lined with untouched forests—the only sign of civilization the majestic mansions peeking out from within the trees.

As we continue farther into Wooded Acres, even the houses disappear, leaving only periodic driveways disappearing into the veil of trees. A deer darts out in front of the car, and Logan slams on the brakes narrowly missing it. The doe is followed by an eight point buck and an adorable spotted fawn. They race across the road after the doe, disappearing into the oak trees.

Logan accelerates again, but drives much slower now, his attention riveted to the road. At the end of the long, snaky street we arrive at a small turnaround and a single gravel driveway. A wooden sign next to the drive declares this to be Foxblood Manor.

Eww, why would someone name their house that?

“Here we are,” Logan murmurs followed by a breathy exhale. “Not very welcoming is it?”

Something about this place feels wrong. Waves of dread wash over me, undulating like a water moccasin slipping through the murky depths of a marsh. Evil has left its mark here. We exchange a worried glance before he pulls into the driveway, creeping along the ill-kept gravel road. Tree branches scrape along the roof of the car, making me wince with not only fear but anxiety.

“Damn trees. If this sorry excuse for a driveway doesn’t kill my suspension, the trees will destroy my paint job,” Logan mutters under his breath.

The car jostles and jolts as we continue to roll down the pothole-ridden road. Just when I’m beginning to wonder if this winding drive will ever end, the headlights illuminate a break in the trees. As we enter the massive clearing, Logan steers over to the black sedan parked near the tree line where a small group of people gathers around the passenger door. I recognize Devon and Mr. Kincaid from the meeting Monday, but the other man and woman are a mystery. Logan leaps from the car the moment it’s parked and races over to Mr. Kincaid.

“How is she?” he asks in a hushed whisper.

The small group parts to allow us access to the car. Mrs. Kincaid is reclined in the passenger seat, eyes closed. She looks asleep, though the expression on her face is anything but peaceful. Her eyes dart around beneath her eyelids like she’s caught in a terrible nightmare, trapped and unable to escape. Tiny moans escape her lips every few seconds. When a load moan is followed by a piercing shriek, I jump in fear.

“Mr. Kincaid, tell us exactly what happened,” Logan orders in a very calm voice, though given the wild look in his eyes, he is anything but calm.

“We came out here at the request of Beth and Bob Carter. They just bought this place several months ago,” Mr. Kincaid says, running his hand through his messy dark hair. “Everything was fine. Anna said things were very quiet, she wasn’t picking up any spirit activity on the grounds, not even residual. She figured someone did a thorough cleansing.”

He pauses when Mrs. Kincaid moans again, thrashing around in the car seat. Her eyes fly open but the blue orbs appear unseeing, or at least not seeing our world. I hate to think about what terrible nightmare she may be embroiled within. Only when Mrs. Kincaid finally quiets and her eyes close does he continue his narration.

“We hadn’t been in the barn around back more than a minute or two before she let out a scream. It was the most terrifying, chilling scream I’ve ever heard…” he trails off, his face turning ashen from the memory.

Headlights illuminate the area around us as a dark SUV screeches to a halt just feet away. Michelle emerges from the driver’s seat, her face pale and pinched with worry. She races to Mrs. Kincaid’s side, kneeling in the hard gravel of the driveway. Placing her hands on either side of the comatose woman’s head, she closes her eyes and appears to go into a trance. We wait in silence while Michelle rocks back and forth, moaning and whimpering.

Icy tendrils of fear shoot through my veins as the seconds turn into minutes. Numerous emotions race across Michelle’s face, one after the other, too close together to begin deciphering. Though, one stands out much more than the others. Terror. Stomach clenching, throat closing, silent screaming panic. When you become aware there’ll be no escape—that moment when all hope dies.

Logan pulls me into his arms, and I hide my face against his shoulder. The look in Michelle’s eyes is all too familiar, bringing back scores of painful memories best left buried. The roar of an engine breaks the oppressive silence followed by the blinding glare of headlights. Rebecca and Carl have finally arrived. Logan wasn’t kidding when he said Carl drove like a grandma. They leap from the van, racing to our side. When I glance at Rebecca, whatever she was about to say sticks in her throat. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, like a grouper, before she slams it closed with an audible click.