Tymber Dalton (37 page)

“My babies, what have you done—”

A distinctive slap.

There were still two hours of recording time to sort through, but Matt couldn’t stop now. A little later he heard what sounded like two small pairs of footsteps and children’s laughter.

A long stretch of silence.

Quick, purposeful footsteps, and a noise like a chest opening. A rustling, like…paper? A few minutes later the noise again, quick footsteps. They sounded light, like a woman, and approached the recorder.

Another moment of silence.

“You have to stop George.”

The strength and volume of the voice startled him. Matt clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his scream. The voice wasn’t Sam’s. It sounded clear, like the woman spoke directly into the microphone from a very close distance.

“George has your friend, has him tightly, is bound to him. He won’t let go. You have to stop him to stop George once and for all.”

Matt’s composure and sanity slipped a notch. Unbidden, an image came to mind of a woman standing in the attic, glancing out the turret window and scribbling frantically in a journal. It wasn’t his imagination. It was as if he watched a video, as clearly as he’d seen George Simpson in the bedroom.

Evelyn Simpson, in living color.

* * * *

Sami spent a restless night one door down from Matt. A little after five she gave up and dressed. Steve slept on the couch with the History Channel turned down low. Pog lifted his head, and she took him outside.

It was breezy. She watched clouds scudding across the few remaining stars. It didn’t look like rain yet, but it would turn that way in a few hours.

After feeding the horses, Sami prepared Steve’s morning IV medicine, fixed him some oatmeal and coffee, and went to wake him.

He sleepily smiled. “Hey, what a pretty nurse.”

Sami smiled in spite of herself. “Watch out, I might be Nurse Ratched in disguise.” He ate while she flushed the port and started the IV.

His medicine had almost finished when Matt appeared thirty minutes later, yawning, his hair disheveled, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. “Do I smell coffee?”

“Hot in the pot,” she said without thinking.

He started to reply, caught himself then simply said, “Thanks.”

Sami mentally kicked herself. Matt’s reply would have been, “Not as hot as what you got, sweetheart,” followed by a passionate good-morning kiss.

She had to be more careful.

Jesus, over eight years later, and it felt as if they hadn’t spent a night apart.

Why
had
she ended it with Matt? They didn’t fight, they were compatible in all the ways that mattered, and he was kind and considerate, and great in bed.

Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.

Steve apparently missed the exchange, having switched to a Tampa station and their morning news. “Look, it’s Tropical Storm Adelle.”

Sami glanced at the proposed track. Brooksville and the surrounding area lay in the cone of anxiety. “Don’t worry, it’ll miss us. Even if it hits, it’s still days away.”

“Saturday.”

“That’s three days away. Eat your oatmeal, or you’ll be wearing it.”

He grinned.

She felt it was safe enough to return to the kitchen. Matt threw her a sidelong glance. She mouthed, “Sorry.”

Matt closed his eyes and shook his head as if to say, “Why me?” and then carried his coffee and oatmeal out to the living room, his playful half smile twisting her heart.

It would be hard keeping up this act.

* * * *

Sami made sure Steve had everything he needed. She moved his laptop to the living room, as well as his notes and cell phone. “Are you sure you’ll be okay here by yourself?”

Her concern reassured him.
Maybe there’s still hope.
“I’ll be fine.”

Matt waited by the front door. He helped Sami hitch the truck to the large trailer and they headed for town.

“You look like you slept as bad as I did last night,” Sami said.

“We need to talk about that.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about that until later?”

“Sam, I listened to the digital recorder last night.”

“What?”

“Yes—watch it!” A kid on a dirt bike darted out in front of them. Sami braked hard to miss him. The kid zipped off the main road again as fast as he’d appeared. “I listened to the whole thing.”

“What did you hear?”

He told her. The blood drained from her face. “Did you bring it?”

He nodded and took out his notes, playing the last section first.

Sami started shaking and pulled over again. “I think you’d better drive.”

They switched seats. “We need to see Julie,” Matt said. “We’ve got to play this for her.”

She nodded. “We can stop on the way.”

He parked near Many Blessings. Julie was serving an elderly couple hot chai tea. When she finished, she wiped her hands and walked around the counter to greet them.

“Well, hello.” She gasped, then playfully smiled. “I see the paths have merged.” She stopped, her face serious. “What’s wrong?”

Matt watched the older couple leave. “Anyone else in here?”

Julie shook her head.

“I suggest locking the door for a few minutes.”

They huddled around Julie’s desk in back and he cued the first captured sounds. Julie’s eyes widened in surprise. “We got it! We got EVPs!”

Matt nodded. “Just wait.”

They all shuddered at the little girl’s pleas for her father to stop.

He skipped over the section of their lovemaking and on to the rest.

“What are those numbers?” Julie asked, looking at his list of counter times.

“Uh, we’d appreciate it if that section of the recording gets lost,” Sami hinted.

Julie looked confused, then understanding. “Oh—riiight! Yes, of course. When I dump it to my computer I can edit out everything I don’t want and only keep the good stuff. Um, not that I meant… Um, never mind. Yes, it’ll disappear.”

“Thank you.”

Matt played the rest of it, and they all shuddered when the girl asked her father to stop. When Evelyn’s voice issued her warning, all three of them froze.

Julie sat there in stunned silence, then looked at them. “I—this is incredible. It’s like she spoke right into the recorder! That wasn’t a residual loop, that was clearly an intelligent entity.”

“I think we can safely call her a ghost,” Matt quipped. “Obviously, she knows we’re here, and knows what’s going on. That’s not all.”

Sami and Matt related the two poltergeist incidents and Julie nodded. “Well, it makes sense, when you think about it. George was most likely the predominant energy for decades. As in life, his energy dominated everything in death. When we did the rituals, it might not have got rid of him completely, but we did ask for only positive energies to stay. Now, with his power diminished, those other energies can make themselves known.”

“I thought the ritual would get rid of all of them?” Sami asked.

“No. Only the ones incompatible with the house.” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment before saying, “And the other thing is, they may still have work yet to do. They might not feel they can leave until the last traces of George are completely gone.”

“What about your great-grandfather? Could his energy still be there?”

“I doubt it. He killed himself in jail. Supposedly, he wrote in his suicide note he hated himself and didn’t know why he did such a horrible, monstrous thing. Remorse. Unfortunately, the note was destroyed. The house—George—lost the hold it had on him before he died. Some of his energy might still be rambling around there, but not the intelligent malevolence we see in George Simpson’s energy.”

“What about the laundry basket, and what Matt felt?” Sami asked.

“Maybe Evelyn or any of the three kids, or any of the others who died there.”

“Like the guy who hung himself?”

“We don’t know for sure that’s exactly how it happened,” Julie cautioned.

“Are you saying he was murdered?” Matt asked.

“In that house, with what they attempted and George’s spirit rambling around, it could have been more complicated than a suicide.”

Someone tapped on the door and Julie glanced at her watch. “Oh, cripes. I have a class starting in a few minutes. Goddess, I wish I could go through this right now.”

“It’s okay,” Sami said. “We have to go anyway. We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Right, and thank you!”

Julie walked them to the door and let them out.

* * * *

Pog was in the kitchen finishing his breakfast when Steve walked in. The dog glowered at him then slinked out.

What the hell’s wrong with him?

He felt useless sitting around. He didn’t feel like writing. There were no dirty dishes in the sink to wash. The basement door caught his eye. Maybe he could help with the laundry.

He clung to the banister on his way downstairs and checked. There were wet clothes ready for the dryer, which lay empty. He transferred the clothes and set the timer.

The basement looked much neater. Sami had obviously spent a lot of time down there cleaning. He felt guilty he hadn’t helped.

The bookcase caught his eye and he wandered over to peruse the titles.

He reached out to touch one of the books.

An hour later, he found himself in the kitchen with no recollection of how he got there. His hands were filthy, dusty, like he’d been handling something.

And he felt sore, like he’d been doing something.

But what?

Pog growled at him through the living room doorway.

“Poggy, what’s wrong? Come here, boy.”

The dog’s hackles raised, and he put his head down and growled again, backing away from the doorway.

Pog’s reaction scared him. And how did he get back up to the kitchen? What had he done?

He remembered going to the basement and putting the laundry in, then going to the bookcase.

Steve opened the basement door. The dryer had shut off. It had a very loud buzzer, you could hear it in the living room with the door closed. He had no memory of it going off.

Steve broke out in a cold sweat and realized he had a foul taste in his mouth. Maybe he had a fever again?

He found where Sami kept the thermometer and took his temperature.

Normal.

I should call Sami.
What would he tell her? He’d sound crazy.

Or drunk.

Like when she asked last night if I was drinking, as if she knew something. But how could she? What’s going on?

He returned to the basement. The bookcase stood open, exposing the secret room, and then a burst of images assailed him. Writing a note. Counting old bills.

Drinking from a whiskey bottle.

He didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t stop his feet from taking him to the doorway. Inside, an old oil lamp burned with a low flame. The room from his nightmares lay before him. He blacked out—

And woke up on the couch.

This is insane. A dream inside a dream?

Pog huddled on the window seat and growled at him.
What is wrong with that dog?

Steve looked at his hands and found them clean. Another half hour gone.

He returned to the basement. The clothes in the dryer still felt very warm. The bookcase stood open.

If this is a dream, I’ll meet it head-on.

At the table sat a wild-looking man, the one from his dreams, the one from out of the darkness. He looked at Steve and leered. Steve stumbled back against the doorway when he saw the demonic red glow in his eyes.

“Poisonous whore,” the man growled. “She’s gonna ruin it all, poisonin’ us.”

Steve’s mouth gaped. He wanted to run, but his feet felt rooted to the floor.

The man stood and approached. Steve smelled whiskey on his breath and prayed he was dreaming, because if this was real, he preferred being insane.

“She’s got someone comin’ tomorrow,” the man whispered, inches from Steve’s face. “Damn bitch. Been here before.” He leered. “She begged him to give it to her, the way I gave it to Evelyn. They’re all whores. They all want it.”

Steve felt the rough wood of the door frame dig into his back. “Who?” he squeaked.

“Begged him for it.” He grinned. When he opened his mouth again, Sami’s voice spilled out.

“I’ve never stopped loving you.”

The man smiled. He spoke again, this time in Matt’s voice. “I’ve never stopped loving you either.”

The man blocked his exit. Steve scrabbled sideways, along the wall. He ran into the stack of cases holding the empty bottles, knocking the top one to the floor. He whirled around and the man stood in front of him again, leering. The oil lamp’s dim flicker sent shadows dancing across the room.