Sam: A Novel Of Suspense (21 page)

Tim
lumbered across the room like a wounded gazelle, terror and alcohol making his
movements clumsy.  He fell against the room’s door and fumbled for the handle. 
He managed to get a grip on it but found that it wouldn’t budge.  It was as
though it’d been welded shut.

Tim
spun around.  The old hag floated inches above the carpet, drifting towards him
with her arms reaching out.  The darkness parted before her, extinguished by a
sickly green glow.  The smell of death preceded her.

“Please.”
Tim begged.

Spiteful,
hate-filled cackling.

Tim
fell to the floor and cowered.  He closed his eyes.

More
cackling, louder, closer.

His
watch beeped; the changing of the hour.

Tim
trembled, squeezed himself up into a ball as tight as he could manage. 

But
nothing happened. 

He
opened his eyes slowly.  The old hag was gone.

The
hotel’s owner found Tim the next day, still cowering in the same corner by the
door.  A brief police investigation had determined that Steve had gotten
heavily drunk and slipped in the bath tub, caving in his skull.  Tim knew that wasn’t
the truth.  Once he’d had time to think the events through, he knew the only
reason he was still alive was thanks to nothing more than fortunate timing.

The
old woman had disappeared at 3AM exactly – his watch had beeped to tell him so
– when the witching hour had ended.  Timing had been less forgiving to Steve,
though, and Tim would never forget his own inaction in preventing his brother’s
death.  He had done nothing.  He was a coward.

Two
months later, after one hell of a several-week drinking binge, Tim went back to
the
Grey Gardens Hotel
and torched the place to the ground.  No
one else would ever have to die there.

But
Tim had never stopped being afraid – especially of locked doors and dark rooms
– which was why he was kicking himself right now, for placing himself in a bad
situation all over again.  This time, instead of Tim’s brother, grumpy-ass
Graham was the victim.

At
least this time I’m not responsible.

“You
okay, Tim?” Angela asked him.  “You look like you’re about to hit the floor.”

Tim
shook away his bad memories and tried to smile for her.  “Yeah, I just don’t
like being trapped.  Sends me into a panic.”

“We’re
going to be okay,” Angela reassured him while patting him on the back.  “Long
as we watch out for one another, we’ll get out of this infernal house one way
or another.”

Tim
took a seat on the bottom step of the grand staircase and winced at the
frigidness against his rump.  Angela paced anxiously around the moonlit foyer
in front of him, while Mike tried to open the front doors.

Tim
didn’t know what to make of Mike.  Someone had killed Graham, that much was
obvious, and the only people Tim knew were innocent were he and Angela, which
left few remaining suspects.  It didn’t look good for Mike, but it was still
far from conclusive that he was the killer.  For all Tim knew there could be a
nutcase in a hockey mask roaming the gardens.  Who knew anything for sure? 
Right now, the only thing certain was that Mike was trapped inside the house
with the rest of them.  There was still a slim chance he was an ally rather
than an enemy. Tim wasn’t ready to write him off just yet (even if Angela had
already made up her mind).  There was, of course, one other viable suspect that
no one else was mentioning: Sammie.

“I
don’t know what’s going on,” Mike admitted.  “The door is unlocked, I’m sure of
it, but it still won’t open.”

Angela
huffed.  “Don’t act like you’re surprised.”

Mike
sighed and chose to ignore her.  He’d stopped defending himself a little while
ago when it became clear that Angela wasn’t going to change her mind about him. 
Tim didn’t blame the bloke for not wanting to waste his breath, but he still
had Angela’s back before he would have Mike’s.

“Do
you think we should try the phones again?” Tim asked.  “We really need to get a
hold of the police.”

“Try
them,” said Mike.  “Be my guest.”

“No,”
said Angela.  “Nobody is splitting up.  We’ll go together.  Where is the
nearest phone?”

“In
the antechamber,” Mike said.  “Follow me.”

Mike
took them over to a small side room with a couch.  The phone was fixed to the
wall.  Mike went to pick up the receiver.

“No,”
said Angela.  “Let me.”  She snatched the receiver from the wall and placed it
to her ear.  From the way she slammed the handset back down Tim knew that the
lines were still dead.

Tim
felt himself panic. He was feeling more and more cut off from the world;
trapped.  He felt like the cowering mess crouching in the corner again.  “So
what’s the plan?”  He heard the anxiety in his own voice and took some deep
breaths, then reaffirmed himself.  “I mean, we can’t just stand around here all
night.”

“Well,
I’m not going to go to bed,” said Angela.  “I think we all need to group
together somewhere and wait for Frank and whatever help he brings.  We need to
keep Sammie and Jessica safe with us as well.”

Tim
blanched at that.  “For all we know, Sammie is the danger.”

Angela
shook her head.  “No, I don’t think so.  I was getting through to him earlier. 
He’s just a scared little boy.”

“What
about Chamuel?” Tim asked.

“Who?”
Mike asked, looking deeply confused.

Angela
looked at him and explained.  “Chamuel is the name of the presence apparently inside
of Sammie.  And to answer your question, Tim:  I don’t know.  I don’t know if
Chamuel is a split-personality or if we’re really dealing with something evil
here, but Sammie said that the thing inside of him wants him dead.  I don’t
think we should leave him alone.”

Tim
let out a long, whistling sigh.  He wished the tiredness would leave the inside
of his eyelids.  It made him feel sluggish.  “Okay,” he finally said.  “Let’s
go hole up in the kid’s room.  Maybe we can all watch South Park when the power
comes back on.”

But
when they entered Sammie’s room, the boy wasn’t there.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“We
need to find him,” Angela said.  “Right now.”

Tim
looked around Sammie’s room and wondered where he could have gotten to. A
candle burned by the window, illuminating the boy’s drawing desk.  Even from
several feet away, Tim could see the drawings arranged on top of its cluttered
surface.  He moved closer.

There
was one drawing in the centre of the desk that was perched on top of all the
others – it seemed to take pride of place.  Tim picked it up and examined it. 

Holy
shitballs!

The
picture should have chilled Tim to his core, but he felt numb inside – it was a
serene moment of frozen emotion that probably came right before a full-blown breakdown. 
It was the calm before the storm of mental anguish and manic fear.

The
old hag’s charcoal eyes leapt right off the sketch, as if they were alive. The
figure clutched a crudely-drawn severed head in her hand and Tim knew that it belonged
to his brother.  In fact the contorted features of the disembodied face shared
all the right features.

How
does Sammie know?  It’s impossible.

Tim
crumpled the drawing and threw it on the floor.  He fought the urge to flee,
glumly reminding himself that there was no way out anyway.  His bladder wanted
to void itself and his stomach felt sick.  Yet, mixed in with his urge to flee
was also the beginning of an urge to fight.  Anger had started to flower in the
pit of Tim’s stomach and he found a tiny sliver of extra resolve that he never
knew he had.  Perhaps he’d finally had enough of being messed with.

Angela
stepped up beside Tim and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “What was the drawing
of?”

“Something
only I could know about.”

“Yeah,
I got one of those too.  Remember when Sammie first met me?”

Tim
remembered how freaked out Angela had been when receiving her own drawing. 
“How do you think he does it?” he asked her. “How can he see things from our
pasts that only we know about?”

“I
don’t think it
is
Sammie.  I think that whatever possessed Charles
Crippley that day in Jersey is the same entity that is inside Sammie - Chamuel. 
That’s how he knows.”

Tim
wondered if this Chamuel was the same malevolent spirit that had crushed his
brother’s skull.  “Do you have any theories about who Chamuel is yet?  Why
don’t you think he’s responsible for killing Graham?”

“I’m
not sure who Chamuel is, but I’m working on it.  I still think the name is
familiar, but I just can’t place my finger on it.  I still can’t figure out why
my attempts to exorcise the demon were such a failure.  I think I need to try
again.  As for Graham, I just don’t see how a ten-year old boy could have done
that to him.  There’s something else at play here that we’re not yet seeing. 
But the only thing we need to worry about right now is finding Sammie.”

“Maybe
he went up to see his mother,” Mike chimed in from behind them.  “We should go
check on her, anyway.”

It
was a reasonable suggestion so Tim didn’t argue about it; neither,
surprisingly, did Angela.  They all headed back out of Sammie’s room and into
the hallway, then took the stairs all the way up to the fourth floor.  Angela
carried a candle that had been on a nearby windowsill.

Jessica’s
door was open.  Light from her own bedside candle flooded weak light out into
the hallway and highlighted the red carpet in its spotlight.  Tim saw that
Jessica was still sleeping in her bed; he also saw that Sammie was nowhere to
be seen.

Mike
stated the obvious.  “Sammie’s not here.”

“Then
we keep looking,” said Angela.

Tim
wasn’t so sure.  “Do you think it’s safe to leave Jessica alone?”

“I’ll
stay with her,” Mike offered.

Angela
shook her head.  “No way.  We stick together.”

“Fine. 
Then we either stay here or we carry on searching.”

“Let’s
just search the rest of this floor,” said Tim.  “If we don’t find Sammie we’ll
come back and wake Jessica up.”

Everyone
agreed.

The
first room they came to after leaving Jessica’s penthouse was a large office
with an antique desk.  On top of the desk was a computer.  Somehow, it was
still switched on – the only thing in the house that still had power.

“How
is there still electricity in here?” Angela asked.

“There’s
not,” Mike answered.  “That was Joseph Raymeady’s personal computer.  He used
it for his work at Black Remedy.  It’s installed with a backup power supply to
protect against the constant power cuts at the house. The battery charges off
the house’s supply when it’s on and kicks in if the electricity is cut off.  It’ll
run out eventually.”

“Mind
if I take a look,” Tim asked.  He didn’t know what he expected to find but he
couldn’t see how it could hurt either.  There might even be a way to contact
the police.

“Go
ahead,” said Mike.  “I don’t think Joseph’s in a position to complain.”

Tim
sat himself down in the high-backed leather chair and stared at the flat-screen
monitor.  The Black Remedy Corporation logo bounced around the screen, skipping
from corner to corner.  Tim shoved the mouse and the desktop appeared.  It was
neatly organised with just a few folders and a recycle bin icon.  Tim also
noticed that the email manager was blinking on the bottom taskbar.  There was
an unread email.  Tim clicked on it.

The
email application flashed up on screen.  A message appeared with the subject
line: WORK UNDERTAKEN, JOSEPH RAYMEADY.  Tim read the email that followed:

Dear
Frank Senz,

I
trust that you will keep our communication confidential as it is of a sensitive
nature.  You are correct that, prior to his death, Mr Raymeady was rather
unsettled.  He believed the company he owned was working against him from
within and that his life was in danger.

When
Joseph’s father died and his controlling interest of Black Remedy passed on to
him, Joseph began involving himself in all aspects of the company.  He quickly
became aware that great portions of Black Remedy’s funds were unaccounted for
or secretly diverted.  When he sought to investigate these discrepancies, the
other members of the board were not forthcoming.  In fact they were actively
hostile.

That
is when my services were sought.

Through
a series of investigations, which unfortunately I cannot go into, I was able to
find evidence that Black Remedy Corporation was involved in acts of corporate
espionage, government bribery and extortion, arms dealing, insider trading, and
attempting to buy-off the Monopolies Commission.  Even more bizarre, the
company had spent several million in undisclosed capital acquiring the deeds to
several religious buildings, only to close them down and destroy them.  The
Acquisitions Board also purchased a group of historically significant artefacts
which were unearthed at the Golgotha site in Jerusalem (where Jesus was
allegedly crucified).  I can’t imagine what the purposes of such acquisitions
are, but the company certainly seems to have religious interests.