Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set (119 page)

He jogged back to Sophie and sat down in proximity to the only decent light in the house—the roaring fire—and opened the folder.

“Talk to me, Grant. What are you suddenly cranked up about?”

“No meaningful hits on any database, but Frances ran all the names to see if anyone had died. One did, five years ago.”

“Do you know how old they were at time of death?”

“Only forty-one.”

He scrolled the list.

Four names down from the top, he found Janice Williams.

“Hmm,” he said.

“What?”

“Ms. Williams died while she was still living here.”

“So? People die. It happens.”

“You aren’t a little bit curious for more details?”

“Is there contact info on the spreadsheet?”

“Just a phone number. Must be next-of-kin.”

“Call ‘em up.”

Grant dialed. “Five-oh-nine area code,” he said. “Recognize it?”

“Spokane.”

It rang five times, and then went to the voice mail of a gruff, tired-sounding man with a blue-collar twang. Grant pictured a mechanic.

You reached Robert. I can’t get to the phone right at this moment. Leave your name and number and I will call you back.

After the beep, Grant left his name and Sophie’s cell.

“You warm yet?” he asked her.

“Getting there. What now?”

“We sleep. Then first thing tomorrow, we’ll call every resident on that list. We’ll find out what happened to Ms. Williams, have Stu dig up her death certificate, whatever it takes.”

“And Rachel.”

“What?”

“We call Don’s wife. No matter what.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Her skin was beautiful in the firelight, and in that moment, if Sophie had asked him to let her go, he probably would have done it.

# # #

Grant crawled onto the sofa and under a blanket.

He took out Sophie’s phone—the battery charge had dropped to thirty percent—and powered it off.

Then he rolled onto his side, faced the fire.

The movement of the flames was mesmerizing.

He shut his eyes for a minute, and the next time he opened them, the fire was low and Paige was lying on the mattress below him, staring up at the ceiling.

“What if she’s right, Grant?” she said.

“Who?”

“Sophie.”

“About?”

“About me.”

He wasn’t following. He’d been sleeping too hard.

“What are you talking about, Paige?”

“About all of this having to do with me. What if it’s not the house that’s haunted?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Because you don’t want to?”

“Look, I don’t know what this thing is, but I do know you, Paige.”

“Do you really?”

Chapter 32

It is the strangest sensation, the closest thing to a lucid dream she’s ever experienced.

She is aware of herself asleep on the recliner.

She feels the leather cushions beneath her but also the sensation of existing outside of herself. Like being in the audience of a play while she’s also onstage.

There is another, more ominous sensation.

Someone standing over her.

She can feel their presence.

Hovering.

Watching.

She wants to turn her head but won’t, thinking that whatever is standing next to the chair is waiting for her to look, and that as soon as she does, it will do the thing it wants to do so badly.

This must be limbo, she thinks.

This is what forever is going to be like for me.

But that idea is somehow worse, and she’s already turning her head.

Sophie looks up and opens her eyes.

The fire is so low that the room stands in virtual darkness.

Rain drums against the windows.

It stands beside the chair, staring down into her face.

Not Paige. Not Grant.

Just a pure black shadow shorter than either of them, with long, skinny arms that nearly touch the floor.

She tries to speak, but her mouth won’t open.

Tries to turn away, but she has lost the mobility of her lucid dream, now locked in a stare with the shadow.

That she cannot see a single detail of its face is somehow worse.

Her mind runs in terrible directions.

The next time she blinks, the shadow has changed.

Replaced by a profile she knows.

The dying fire even lends this face a glimmer of color.

Paige Moreton says, “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Her eyes are shining, and she is smiling.

Chapter 33

Grant woke from a troubled sleep to the sound of someone whispering his name.

It was still night.

The fire had burned itself down to a bed of embers, and despite the blankets that covered him, he was shivering violently.

“Grant.”

It was Sophie.

He pulled the covers tighter around his neck.

“What’s up?” he whispered.

“Come here.”

“Something wrong?”

“Just come here.”

Grant kicked back the covers and swung his legs off the sofa.

The hardwood floor was ice under his feet.

He moved quietly over to Sophie’s chair which he’d positioned at the foot of Paige’s mattress.

Knelt down beside her.

“I had a dream,” she said.

“A nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“I was sleeping in this chair, and there was this presence beside me. I could feel it so clearly. It’s like I was half-awake. I tried not to look, because I knew that’s what it wanted me to do, but I finally gave in. It was just a shadow and I couldn’t see its face. Then suddenly Paige was standing there instead.”

“Paige was in your dream?”

“And she was smiling. Something about it was off, though.”

Grant glanced back at his sister sleeping peacefully in the ember light.

Sophie said, “She asked why I wasn’t talking to her. Then I woke up. What do you think?”

“Honestly? Sounds about right considering the day we’ve had. My dreams sucked too.”

“It was more than a nightmare, Grant. I know what a dream feels like.”

“What was it then?”

“Communication.”

“Oh. You think our friend upstairs wants a word?”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I promise you I’m not, but would we be having this conversation if it had told you to come up and crawl under the bed?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s what it wants.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s what I see in
my
dreams. It wants me in that room. Under the bed.”

“So it’s talking to you too.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m not going in there to find out.”

“We don’t have to. What if we just stay in the hall? Try to talk to it through the door.”

“You really think that’s a good idea?”

“What’s the alternative? Do nothing while our little world in here continues to fall apart?”

“We’re not doing nothing, Sophie. Tomorrow, we’re gonna track down Janice Williams and find out what happened to her. Maybe that blows everything open for us.”

“And maybe it doesn’t. The clock is ticking. It’s a matter of time before you and I are officially MIA. And what about Don? You know Rachel has already reported him missing.”

“Look, I’m aware of the stakes, okay? But I’m not ready to start chasing dreams. I say we stick to whatever shreds of reality we still have left. That’s where we’ll find our answers.”

“You don’t know the first thing about what’s going on here so don’t pretend you can tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not.”

“Fine,” he said. “What if it is trying to talk to us, and all it really wants to say is ‘I’m gonna torture and kill you assholes.’ Then what?”

“Then we confirm what we already know. And I’d rather know—good or bad—than remain in this state of total darkness we’re in right now.”

She had a point.

It wasn’t the first time.

Their options were exhausted, and the idea of waking up in this house, of spending another day in this prison, was more than he could face. A time would come when it would be too much. When it would break him. He could feel that moment fast-approaching.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll wake Paige.”

“No.” Sophie grabbed his arm.

“Why not?”

“Just let her sleep.”

“This is a big decision. She deserves to be involved.”

“Let’s just you and I go up.”

“Is it because of your dream? Because you think she’s playing some part in this?”

“I don’t know. Just a gut feeling that it should only be you and me.”

# # #

Grant unlocked the bracelet around Sophie’s ankle and gave her a hand up out of the chair.

“No cuffs?” she said.

“No cuffs.”

She lit a pair of candles while he went to the sofa and pulled the Glock out from between the cushions.

He waited until they’d reached the foyer before digging the magazine out of his pocket, driving it home, and jacking a round into the chamber.

Sophie went up first, the steps creaking under her bare feet.

It was ungodly cold and the chill intensified the higher they climbed.

By the time they reached the second floor, it was freezing, their exhalations pluming white in the candlelight.

They rounded the corner and stopped.

The door to Paige’s room stood shut at the far end of the corridor.

Grant could hear the rain drumming on the roof.

The elevated
boom-boom-boom
of his heart.

Nothing else.

He was wide awake now, operating on sensory overdrive—everything heightened but his diminished sense of sight.

Sophie headed down the hall and he followed.

They passed the small table at the midpoint and continued on until they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the door looming three feet ahead.

Grant kept swallowing, trying to make his ears pop, but they wouldn’t.

Sophie whispered, “Go ahead.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know. What are you waiting for?”

“This is weird.”

“Aren’t you used to weird by now?”

“Should I knock?”

She shot him a look. “Take it seriously.”

Grant cleared his throat and took a step forward.

“Is anyone in there?” he said.

They barely breathed.

Thirty seconds passed in silence.

“Guess we have our answer,” Grant said, turning to leave.

“Try it louder.”

“I feel like I’m just talking to a door.”

“Don’t you ever pray?”

“Not anymore.”

“Pretend there’s something on the other side that can hear you. Show it respect.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Get closer.”

He turned to her. “You want to do this?”

Grant stepped up to the door again, so close he could feel the icy draft issuing from the crack at the bottom. He braced himself on either side of the frame.

“This is Grant Moreton. I’m Paige’s brother. She’s the woman who lives here.”

He looked back at Sophie.

She nodded him on.

“Can you tell me what it is you want?”

He put his ear to the door.

Silence again.

No sound on the second floor but the rain striking the roof.

“This is Ouija board shit,” he said.

“Keep going.”

“What do you want?” Grant said, louder.

No answer.

“What. Do. You. Want.”

Grant felt Sophie’s hand touch his shoulder. He was beginning to churn with the first bubblings of rage, a mad impulse creeping in to kick the door in, Glock drawn. Shoot the room to pieces.

“Why won’t you let us leave?”

Nothing.

Yelling now
—”Why are you here?”

Sophie grabbed his arm but he ripped free and beat his fist against the door.

She said, “Maybe you’re asking the wrong questions.”

“Are you asleep? Are we disturbing you? ‘Cause you’re sure as hell disturbing us.” He punched the door. “Wake up and talk to me.”

He turned away and started back down the hallway.

When he reached the table, he glanced over his shoulder and stopped.

Sophie still stood facing the door which was bathed in the light of her candles.

“Hey,” Grant said. “You’re my light source. Come on. We’re done here.”

She didn’t move.

“Sophie?”

She looked at him, and then back at the door.

When she shouted, it startled him so much he flinched.

“What are you?”

Her voice raged through the second-floor corridors, and its echo had not quite faded into silence when every light in the hallway blazed on with a retina-burning intensity.

The building rumbled as the central heating kicked.

A ceiling fan above Grant’s head began to whir.

The phone in his pocket vibrated to life.

Sophie faced him, shielding her eyes and squinting against the sudden onslaught of light.

She had just opened her mouth to speak when a noise from below rushed up the staircase and drove a spear of terror through Grant’s heart.

A scream.

Paige.

The Glock was in his hand and he was running before he’d even thought to react, socks sliding across the carpet as he turned the corner, his shoulder crashing into the wall.

He righted himself and bolted for the stairs.

Took them two at a time, his footfalls pounding down the steps.

Five from the bottom, he jumped.

His sock-feet hit the hardwood floor of the foyer and he skidded to a stop under the archway that opened into the living room.

Paige stood beside the recliner holding Sophie’s purse.

She looked bleary-eyed and horror-stricken.

Grant said, “What happened?”

Sophie came tearing off the stairs into the foyer.

She stopped beside Grant, said, “What are you doing with my purse, Paige?”

“What is
this
, Sophie?”

Paige shook a scrap of paper in her right hand.

Grant walked over. “What is it?”

She handed him a badly-wrinkled receipt from The Whisky, brittle from water damage.

Paige said, “Other side.”