Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set (146 page)

“What’s that sound?” Nancy said.

The breath of your worst nightmare.

“It’s a discarnate spirit,” Eloise said, her sureness waning as they moved deeper into the basement.

“11:59,” Nancy whispered into her recorder. “Apparent audio evidence noted.”

“Belial, master of this world,” The Roach intoned. “I offer you these gifts and hope you find them worthy.”

At the edge of the mag-light’s reach, swirls of darkness struggled to coalesce. The beam dimmed and The Roach’s skin puckered despite the surge of warmth. Even the rectangle of light from the doorway above went a shade toward orange, as if Belial were draining the hotel’s electrical system to power up and drag himself into the material world. Belial could manifest in any form it chose, though most demons went with the old standby of horns, fangs, and reptilian eyes, at least until they found a suitable subject to possess.

“I see it,” Eloise whispered.

“Margaret Percival?” Nancy said.

“Yes,” came the response, though the sibilant word was lost in the distant thrum of the elevator.

“Taking a flash photograph,” Nancy duly noted for the benefit of the recording. The Roach wondered which image the demon would allow to be captured. The flash illuminated half the basement, and Eloise gave a choked squeal.

Belial decided to give the full Monty.

Though it was only for a split-second as the flash died away to a beeping that indicated dead batteries, the image burned itself into The Roach’s retinas. At least eight feet tall, three horns brushing against the floor joists, a wrinkled, trollish face, narrow eyes with yellowed, elliptical pupils, grotesque green musculature of the torso set atop scrawny legs that ended in cloven hooves, and between its thighs dangled—

The door slammed as their flashlights died.

“God help us,” Eloise shouted in the utter darkness.

Must be midnight. Let’s party.

The Roach held up the crucifix, confident that he’d be able to sear Belial’s form back to ash and sulfur. A hot wind rushed by him in the dark.

There was a thump and a heavy, sodden sound as one of the women moaned.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have been mistaken.

Belial grunted and smacked drenched lips. The Roach slid his night-vision goggles into place, crouching into a defensive posture. He wielded the crucifix like a knife, shocked to see the demon bent over Nancy, slavering away at her throat.

Sucking her soul…

Belial dropped Nancy’s corpse and roared, dark liquid dripping from its serrated fangs. It snarled at The Roach, no trace of cunning in its beady eyes.

“I rescind my invitation,’ The Roach said, his voice quavering.

Belial either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. It turned toward Eloise, hot breath raising the temperature of the basement. Eloise backed away, probably seeking the stairs but inadvertently heading deeper into the basement. The Roach’s night-vision goggles painted a green landscape that looked like the surface of an alien and hostile planet. And, indeed it was, for this world was now ruled by Belial.

“God have mercy,” Eloise blubbered. God had been merciful by darkening the room and taking away the vision of the horned beast before her. But her faith was weak. And that only made Belial stronger.

“Leave her, Belial,” The Roach challenged. “It’s me you want.”

The demon’s claws reached for the woman’s tear-stained face, but then it hesitated and turned its hideous face toward The Roach. The crucifix didn’t deflect the hostility of the stare, nor the wariness in the hooded eyes.

Obey me, you horny-headed bastard.

The Roach listened for God’s instructions. He was a mere emissary, and only through the power of the Lord could he stand a chance here. Otherwise, he would share the fate of the two women whose faith offered no protection in the face of supernal evil.

But Belial’s bellow drowned out any message God might have delivered, and it set upon Eloise like a torrid lover, wrapping her in sinewy arms and squeezing her in the throes of depraved passion.

She issued a final gasp as her lungs emptied in Belial’s embrace. The forked tongue whipped out and licked its cracked, wet lips. Belial’s head dipped and the creature buried its grin against the woman’s gaping mouth.

Eloise struggled with the last of her energy, her digital camcorder bouncing to the dirt. Her eyes bulged and then she went limp in Belial’s grasp. He exhaled and filled her with loathsome unlife. As her fingers twitched and curled, The Roach took a tentative step forward, begging God for courage and wisdom and strength.

“Now you are mine, Belial,” The Roach said. “You have taken what I gave and must do my bidding.”

Belial hesitated, still pumping his foul wind into Eloise. Her eyelids fluttered and she reached one hand to Belial’s neck for support.

The Roach lifted the crucifix higher, expecting the demon to recoil in disgust. “By the master of angels above, I command thee to obey.”

Belial gave a bone-deep shudder and threw its head back, growling in agony and rage. The Roach pressed his advantage now that the demon was caught between its intended host and its current corporeal manifestation. He jabbed the tip of the crucifix into the creature’s back, the silver slicing through the scaly flesh.

Ichor gushed from the wound, appearing black through the night-vision goggles. The roar of rage gained pitch and intensity, almost the keening of a teakettle. Belial thrashed about, sending a clawed fist toward The Roach, but he’d already withdrawn his weapon and stepped away. He reached for the holy water, knowing it would burn like acid on the split skin.

But before he could react, Belial collapsed.

The tip must have reached his heart and poisoned it with the love of Christ.

The Roach stood over the trembling bulk. He had eradicated demons before, and they could only be defeated, never destroyed. Belial would return at another time and place, and The Roach or some other soldier of light would be there in God’s service. He tested the corpse with the tip of his boot, but the corrupt flesh was already decaying to ash and dust.

Eloise moaned and The Roach knelt to her prone form.

“May God bless you,” The Roach said, checking her pulse. With luck, she would remember nothing, and he’d only have Nancy’s corpse to deal with.

Eloise rolled to her knees, graceful for such a robust woman recovering from shock. “Dark....”

“Easy,” The Roach said. “I think you fell down the stairs and bumped your head.”

“Dark is....”

He reached for her, intending to help her to her feet. The blow came suddenly and powerfully, taking his breath and loosening his teeth as bone crunched in his cheek. He lay in the dirt, blood pouring from his nostrils as he squinted through the cock-eyed goggles.

“Pride goeth before a fall,” Eloise said, though her voice was rough and thick as if she were unused to the size of her tongue. The woman knelt and wiped a hand beneath his nose, then licked at the blood on her fingers. He watched her walk toward the stairs, his green field of vision going gray.

CHAPTER 26

“The jumper is awesome,” Duncan said.

Ann didn’t understand him at first. She’d drowsed after the hurried round of lovemaking, intending to recharge her batteries and be at full alert for the after-midnight hunts. She opened her eyes thinking they were in Duncan’s apartment, a cramped walk-up two blocks from campus. The smell of coffee reminded her of Sunday morning, and she smiled at the thought of those languid hours ahead, with no classes, no responsibilities, and nowhere else to be. Duncan clicked the computer keys, the first out of bed as usual, browsing all his favorite Internet haunts.

This is how a woman should awaken. The only thing missing is breakfast in bed.

She’d been dreaming of horseback riding, an activity she’d pursued in her teens before the high maintenance costs forced her family to sell her pony. The metaphorical connection was so obvious that she jarred fully awake and recalled she was at the White Horse Inn.

Duncan, not realizing she’d been asleep, said, “That footage is so good it almost fooled me. Who shot it for you?”

“What footage?”

“The jumper. The guy who skewered himself on the lamp post. I thought you weren’t going to have time to do that one.”

She kicked the blankets away and reached for her blouse. “All I shot was the Jilted Bride.”

“Come on, Ann. I’m not one of those idiots who believes anything you tell them.”

She grabbed for his coffee mug and took a mouthful of cool, bitter brew. “We’ve already used up all the footage. I told you we’d have to go into replay mode.”

“Well, I don’t know how this got on the hard drive, then.”

Duncan leaned away from the screen to reveal grainy, pixelated movement. She squinted and recognized the room. It was 312, the curtains featuring ornate braided piping that was at odds with the furniture. The room appeared to have been outfitted with leftovers, with imitation Queen Anne chairs, hand-hewn tables, a sagging art-deco vase holding flowers, and an impressionist painting that suggested a wooded lake. Though the picture was monochromatic, her memory filled in the autumnal color scheme of the room.

“We didn’t put a projector in 312,” Ann said. “Remember, we ran out of time.”

Duncan consulted his notes, brow furrowed, face stark and haggard in the lamplight. “You sure that’s 312?”

“That ugly painting. I made a remark about a flea-market find.”

“Yeah,” Duncan said, tapping the keys. “Let me run the program again.”

A window popped up on the bottom of the screen, revealing a video-editing program. He scrolled backward with the mouse and hit “Play.” The footage loop began. The first 10 seconds showed the still room, but then a man entered the camera view and threw the curtains wide, nearly knocking them from the rod in his haste. He wore a bow tie and had slicked-down hair, pouches under his tired eyes. He flipped the window latch and lifted the lower pane, shaking with what appeared to be sobs or rage.

“Check the clothes,” Duncan said. “Izod shirt and LL Bean plaid pants. Totally Eighties.”

Ann nodded. Those were the types of details she’d have included if she’d had time to rig another loop of fake footage. The suicide jumper had died in 1981, the dawn of the Reagan Era.

The jumper punched the window screen out with one foot and climbed onto the ledge. He gave one baleful, hopeless look back at the camera, and then he launched himself into the night beyond the window. The curtains swayed and settled back into the place, and again the room was still.

“I’ve never seen that before,” Ann said.

“It’s on the hard drive and the file is called ‘Jumper.’”

Ann looked at the split monitors in the corners of the screen. “Bring up the control room spycam,” she said.

Duncan enlarged one of the boxes, revealing the room where several SSI members gathered around a computer. The good-looking, long-haired skater punk was working the keys, drawing their attention to the computer screen. A rack of various meters, sound equalizers, and video gear towered on the table beside him. Whatever the teen’s skill level, he had enough tech toys to put on a show.

“The little fucker must have hacked us,” Ann said.

“Impossible,” Duncan said. “We’re double-firewalled. Plus he’s running a Mac.”

“How else do you explain it?” Actually, there was one other explanation: for some reason, Duncan was engineering an end run. He must have uploaded the footage while she wasn’t around and now was staging a “What the hell?” act.

“Let’s watch it again,” Duncan set, restarting the video file. The scene played out just as before, only this time the jumper had a faint smile on his face. The difference was subtle enough that Ann convinced herself it was part of the con Duncan was running.

After the man disappeared through the window, Ann said, “Back it up.”

She didn’t understand why Duncan would go to such lengths just for simple revenge. She’d warned him repeatedly that their relationship was doomed to end before the semester was over, and that she never let her dalliances linger too long.

Never screw a Scorpio. They always plant the stinger when you step on them.

As Duncan worked the mouse and reset the file, Ann decided to play along instead of busting him. The jumper repeated his sullen trek across the room, pausing at the window, and this time he lifted his hand slightly in greeting.

“Did you see that?” Duncan said.

“His hand.”

“I swear this is the same file. Something freaky is going on.”

“Maybe it’s just another haunted computer.”

“The kid hacked us.”

The jumper went out the window, recreating his suicidal leap. Duncan let the clip play through until the curtains were once again still.

“If SSI was on to us, do you think they’d bother playing games?” Ann said. “Wouldn’t they come right out and challenge us instead of wasting all these resources?”

“Don’t forget the time and energy we’ve spent on debunking,” Duncan said. “When you’re on a mission, common sense goes out the window.”

“Literally,” Ann said as the file repeated. This time the man paused at the window but didn’t climb onto the sill. Something about the picture was different.

Curtains.

The curtains were now flimsy white cotton, thin enough to be translucent. Like the curtains in their room.

Ann and Duncan turned toward the window at the same time. The jumper gave a small wave and forlorn grin, and launched himself through the window. The closed window.

“Was that a video file or real time?” Ann asked.

“I have no idea.”

“See if I show up on the clip.” Ann moved toward the window, holding her hand in front of her as if expecting to sweep the jumper away like a cobweb.

“Nothing,” he said. “All it shows is the window.”

“Still frame?”

“No, the curtains are blowing.”

“Maybe I scared him away,” Ann said, reaching the window. She glanced to the ground below, where a spill of lamplight laid a wide yellow circle on the dying lawn. The jumper stood on the lawn, looking up at her.