Authors: F. Paul Wilson
The Haunted Air (6 page)
“Yeah.”
“How many times have I told you that Kate wouldn't want you to spend the rest of your life moping around? And when was the last time I mentioned that very thing? How many hours ago? Two? Three maybe?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I know. But sometimes you have to hear it from a stranger. Anyway, I think it's time for me to get back in the saddle again. I've got a couple of calls in my voice mail right now. I'll check them out tomorrow, and if one of them is right for me, I'll be back to work.”
“That's wonderful.”
What am I saying? Gia thought.
She hated Jack's work. It was usually dangerous. Ever time he hired on to “fix” a situation, he ran the risk of being hurt. But worse, because the police were as much a threat as any hoodlum he took on, he couldn't count on them for help if he got in over his head. When Jack went off to work, he went alone.
How many times had she pleaded with him to find something less dangerous to do? He'd compromised by promising to restrict his fix-it work to situations he could repair at arm's length, where he didn't have to show his face or get personally involved. Gia believed he tried his best to keep that promise, but too often the jobs didn't go as planned.
But his interest in returning to work meant he was pulling out of his funk. That, at least, was good.
“Maybe you should go back for a private session,” she said. “Maybe he'll tell you to get into a safer line of work. And maybe you'll listen when
he
tells you. Heaven knows you don't listen when I do.”
he
tells you. Heaven knows you don't listen when I do.”
“I think we should stay away from Ifasen, but not for that reason.”
“Meaning?”
“I think he's got trouble.”
“You mean because he yelled âbomb'?”
“That ⦠and other things.”
“Like what?”
“A patched bullet hole in his front window, for instance.”
“You're sure?”
He nodded. “It could have been there when he bought the house, but he's obviously renovated the place, so ⦠someone's giving him a hard time.”
“But whoâ?”
“Other psychics. The ladyâI use the term looselyâthat I once worked for used to go berserk when she lost a sitter to another psychic. She called herself Madame Ouskaya but her real name was Bertha Cantore. I used to think she'd
seen
The Wolfman
too many times and ripped off the name of that old actress Maria Ouspenskaya who played the gypsy, but that was giving her too much credit. I can't imagine her ever sitting though the credits of a movie. Finally one night, when she'd had a few too many gins and was sailing a few too many sheets to the wind, she told me that she'd cadged it off an ancient Russian neighbor who'd died when Bertha was ten. But you know how they talk about a leopard never changing its spots? That was Bertha. She may have called herself Ouskaya, but that didn't hide her true nature. Her father was Sicilian and she had a hitman's temper. She'd send me out to slash tires and break windows andâ”
seen
The Wolfman
too many times and ripped off the name of that old actress Maria Ouspenskaya who played the gypsy, but that was giving her too much credit. I can't imagine her ever sitting though the credits of a movie. Finally one night, when she'd had a few too many gins and was sailing a few too many sheets to the wind, she told me that she'd cadged it off an ancient Russian neighbor who'd died when Bertha was ten. But you know how they talk about a leopard never changing its spots? That was Bertha. She may have called herself Ouskaya, but that didn't hide her true nature. Her father was Sicilian and she had a hitman's temper. She'd send me out to slash tires and break windows andâ”
“Did you?”
Jack didn't look at her. “Most of the time I just told her I did, but sometimes ⦠sometimes, yeah, I did.”
“Jack ⦔ She couldn't keep the dismay out of her voice.
“Hey, I was hungry, stupid, and a lot younger. I thought what was bad for her was bad for me. I hadn't figured out yet that
she
was bad for me. Hell, if she knew how to make bombs, she'd probably've wanted me to plant them, or wire ignitions to blow the competition away.” He shook his head. “What a nutcase.”
she
was bad for me. Hell, if she knew how to make bombs, she'd probably've wanted me to plant them, or wire ignitions to blow the competition away.” He shook his head. “What a nutcase.”
“Could she be the one Ifasen's afraid of?”
“Nah. Couple of years ago I heard that she'd, as they say in the trade, migrated to the Other Side.” A quick glance Gia's way, embarrassment in his eyes. “Let's not talk about her, okay? Makes my teeth hurt just to think about her.”
Gia knew getting off the topic of this Madame Ouskaya would probably turn the conversation to her question to Ifasen. She cast about for a diversion and spotted the pamphlet Jack had brought from the psychic's house. She snatched it up.
“âThe Menelaus Manor Restoration Foundation.' What's this?”
“Sounds like a scam. Take donations to renovate the
house you're living and working in. A win-win proposition for Ifasen if I ever heard one.”
house you're living and working in. A win-win proposition for Ifasen if I ever heard one.”
“Is all this true?” Gia said, gathering flashes of the house's history of mayhem by the light of street lamps they passed.
“I never got a chance to get into it. What's it say?”
She turned on the console lamp and held the brochure under the glow. “It says the place was built in 1952 by Kastor Menelaus. He died of cancer, and was the last owner to âpass on to the Other Side' due to natural causes.”
Jack grinned. “This sounds like it's gonna be
good!
”
good!
”
“His son Dmitri, who inherited the house, committed suicide in the early nineties. The next owners, a Doctor Singh and his wife, had the place for a few years, did some renovations, and then someone cut their throats while they were sleeping.” She looked up at Jack. “This is awful! I hope it's fiction.”
“Read on.”
Gia was liking this less and less. “The previous owners, the ones before Ifasen, were Herbert Lom and his wifeâ”
“Not the actorâthe guy who played in the Hammer
Phantom of the Opera
?”
Phantom of the Opera
?”
“It doesn't say. He and his wife Sara disappeared afterâoh, God.” Something about a mutilated child. Her stomach turned and she closed the brochure.
“After what?”
“Never mind. Jack, this is sick! It's like the place is cursed. He has to be making this stuff up.”
Jack was shaking his head. “Doubt it. Too easy to get caught. My guess is he's taken a few facts and embellished them to within an inch of their collective lives. Read on.”
“I'd rather not.”
“Just skip to some part that's not gory.”
Reluctantly she reopened the brochure and skipped down a paragraph from where she'd left off. “Ifasen quotes himself here: âI chose Menelaus Manor because the violent deaths have left behind strong psychic vibrations. The souls of those who died here do not rest easy, and their ongoing
presence weakens the divide between our world and the Other Side, making Menelaus Manor the perfect site for the church I will establish. here.'” Gia looked at Jack. “Church?”
presence weakens the divide between our world and the Other Side, making Menelaus Manor the perfect site for the church I will establish. here.'” Gia looked at Jack. “Church?”
Jack smiled. “The ultimate scam. Tax-free heaven, and completely legal. Like minting money. How do you think the Scientologists can afford to sue anyone who says a discouraging word about their racket?”
“He says here donations will go toward âputting the Manor at peace with this world and in harmony with the next.' What does that mean?”
“It means renovations will probably go on forever. Or at least until Ifasen crosses over to the Other Side himself.”
“Careful, Jack,” she told him. “Keep talking like that and I'll start suspecting you're a cynic.”
“Me?”
Jack pulled into Sutton Square and stopped before Gia's door. He pulled her close and kissed her.
“Thanks for dragging me out tonight. Earthquakes and psychics in cursed manors ⦠you sure know how to show a guy a good time.”
She returned the kiss. “Anytime. And tomorrow night I'll show you an even better time.”
“Hot-
cha
!”
cha
!”
Laughing, they got out of the car. Jack put an arm around her shoulders; he started to walk her the short distance to her door, but stopped halfway there.
“Hey. Wait a sec. You never told me your question. What was it?”
“It was nothing. Just some silliness I was playing around with. Don'tâ”
“Who loves silly more than me? Tell, Gia. I won't go home until you do.”
“All right.” She could see no way out of it. “I asked, âHow many children will I have?'”
“And he told you two.” Jack grinned. “I wish I believed in this stuff. That would mean I'd be the father of number two. At least I assume I'd be.”
“He said it with such assurance.”
“That's because he's a pro. And because he figured it was a safe number. Consider it from his angle: You look younger than your years; Ifasen figures you've got one child, maybe two. So even if you have no kids, if he answers two or three, he's golden. Three would be the safer number, but I've got a feeling this guy likes to play close to the edge. He took a chance and said two.”
“But if I never have another child, he'll be proven wrong.”
“By the time you know that for sure, you'll have forgotten about Ifasen. Or he can deny that's what he said. He can't lose. So don't waste brain time thinking about it.”
But that wasn't so easy for Gia. She remembered feeling a little queasy this morning. But she couldn't be pregnant. She was on the pill, and she was faithful about taking it every morning â¦
Except back in June when she and Vicky had flown out to Iowa to visit the family. She'd forgotten to pack her pills. Unusual for her because she never forgot her pills. But it hadn't mattered because Jack wasn't with her. And as soon as she returned she'd immediately started back on them.
But right after she returned she and Jack had â¦
Gia felt a twinge of nausea. She could think of worse things that could happen, but she didn't want this, not now â¦
It wasn't possible â¦
Maybe not. But first thing tomorrow, as soon as Vicky was on that bus to camp, she was picking up a home pregnancy test kit.
For a long time it was not. But now it is.
For a long time it was not aware. But now it is.
Barely aware. It does not know what or who it is or was. But it knows that at some time past it existed, and then that existence was ended. But now it exists again.
Why?
It does not know where it is. It reaches
out as
far
as
it can
and
vaguely senses other presences, some like itself,
and many, many more unlike it, but can identify none of them.
out as
far
as
it can
and
vaguely senses other presences, some like itself,
and many, many more unlike it, but can identify none of them.
The disorientation makes it afraid, but another emotion pushes through the fear: rage. It does not know the source of the rage but clings to the feeling. Acceptance makes the rage grow
.
It nestles in the rage and waits for a direction in which to unleash it â¦
.
It nestles in the rage and waits for a direction in which to unleash it â¦
Lyle awoke shivering.
What was wrong with that damn air conditioner? It was barely cooling the room when he'd gone to bed, now it was freezing him out. He opened his eyes. His first-floor bedroom faced the street, so he kept the blinds pulled at night; the light seeping between the slats now was the yellow glow of the street lamps, not the pale gray of dawn. He blinked the glowing clock display into focus: 2:32.
He groaned softly. He couldn't find the energy to get up, so he pulled his sheet closer around his neck and tried to fall back into sleep. But thoughts of fires and attempts on his life wouldn't allow it.
Someone wanted him dead â¦
That had kept him up for a while. After a few more beers to take the edge off, he'd hit the rack; but sleep had played coy while he lay awake here in the dark listening for any unusual noises. Finally he'd drifted off.
The room grew colder still, its chill seeping through the sheet to wrap him in an icy embrace. He kicked his leg out over the edge of the bed. Damn it all, he'd have to get up andâ
Wait. The air conditioner wasn't running. No mistake about that. This old place didn't have central air so he'd had to buy window units, and they were anything but quiet.
Lyle froze. Not from the cold but from another sensation: he was not alone in the room. He could feel a presence somewhere in the darkness at the end of the bed.
“Charlie?”
No response from the shadows, no rustle of clothing, no whisper of breathing, but the stiff hairs on his arms and the tight skin along the back of his neck told him that someone else was here. He knew it wasn't his brotherâCharlie would never play with his head like thisâbut he had to ask again.
“Charlie, damn it, is that you?” He heard a tremor in his voice, in sync with his quivering heart.
As the cold became more intense, Lyle slid back against the headboard. He wormed his hand between the mattress and box spring and came up with the carving knife he'd placed there earlier. With its handle in a sweaty death grip, he fumbled his free hand toward the bedside lamp, and clicked it on.
Nothing happened. He clicked once, twice, half a dozen times more. Still no light. What was going on? It had worked just fine a few hours ago. Was the power out?
No. The clock display was stillâ
Then the clock blacked out, just for a second, as if a dark shape had passed in front of it.
Lyle's heart was pounding madly now. He sensed whoever it was coming closer, moving toward him around the side of the bed.
“I've got a knife, damn it!” His hoarse, dry voice cracked in the middle. “Stay back!”
But whoever it was moved relentlessly forward until he hovered over Lyle, leaning closer â¦
“Fuck you!” Lyle screamed and rammed the knife straight ahead.
Whatever the blade sliced into, it wasn't clothing or flesh; more like powdery snow, and
cold
âLyle had never felt such cold. He drew back his hand and tried to drop the knife but his numb fingers wouldn't respond.
cold
âLyle had never felt such cold. He drew back his hand and tried to drop the knife but his numb fingers wouldn't respond.
And then the lamp came on. Lyle jumped, gasped, and thrust out the knife againâto attack, defend, he didn't know, the blade seemed to move of its own willâbut he saw no one.
Gone! But that couldn't be. And the coldâgone too,
leaving cloying, humid air in its wake. He looked at the knife and cried out when he saw the thick red fluid oozing down the blade. He hurled it to the floor ⦠and saw what else lay there.
leaving cloying, humid air in its wake. He looked at the knife and cried out when he saw the thick red fluid oozing down the blade. He hurled it to the floor ⦠and saw what else lay there.
“Charlie!”
Oh God oh Christ it was Charlie on his back, legs and arms splayed, his chest a bloody ruin, and his glazed eyes staring at Lyle in shocked surprise.
Lyle felt as if his bones had dissolved. He slid off the bed and crumpled to his knees beside his dead brother.
“Charlie, Charlie,” he mumbled through a sob as he bent over him. “Why'd you do it? Why'd you do something so
stupid!
You knewâ”
stupid!
You knewâ”
“Lyle?”
Charlie's voice. Lyle snapped upright.
“Lyle, what do you
want
?”
want
?”
Behind him. He turned and there, across the room, in the doorway on the far side of the bed, stood Charlie. Lyle opened his mouth but couldn't speak. It couldn't be. It â¦
He turned back to the floor and found it empty except for the knife. No Charlie, no blood on the rug or the blade.
Am I losing it?
“What's going on, man?” Charlie said, yawning. “Why you callin' me this hour?”
Lyle looked at him again. “Charlie, I ⦔ His voice choked off.
“Hey, you all right?” Charlie said, his expression concerned instead of annoyed as he stepped forward. “You look bust, bro.”
Finally he could speak. “I just had the worst nightmare of my life. It seemed so real and yet ⦠it couldn't have been.”
“What happened? I mean, what it about?”
“Someone here, in the room, coming for me ⦔ He decided not to tell Charlie how the dream had ended.
Charlie nodded. “Well, no mystery where that come from, yo.”
Right. No stretch to interpret this dream, but Lyle
couldn't shake its remnants ⦠the cold ⦠and the presence.
couldn't shake its remnants ⦠the cold ⦠and the presence.
“But I was so sure someone was here.” He pointed at the knife on the floor. “I even tried to cut him.”
Charlie's eyes widened as they fixed on the blade. “Sweet Lord, I can see I better start locking my door at night case you start sleepwalking.”
He grinned to show he was only kidding. Lyle tried to return the smile, and hoped it didn't look as sick as he felt. If Charlie only knew â¦
Lyle picked up the knife and turned it over and back, shuddering at the memory of the blood he'd seen coating it. He examined his worn reflection in the surface of the blade, as pristine as when he'd taken it from the cutlery drawer earlier tonight.
Okay, so he hadn't stabbed Charlie. Thank God for that. But against all reason he couldn't shake the feeling that someone else had been here in this room tonight.
Maybe he should go out and find himself a gun.
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