Echoes of the Dead (14 page)

Ben slipped out of his coat, and now it dangled from his hand. “The bathroom… I thought it would be easier, considering what we witnessed a few years back.”

“Considering? Don’t you mean
because
of what we witnessed?”

“What the hell are you talking about? You didn’t have to come.”

“No.” Johnny ran a hand over his shorn hair. “I didn’t. But you don’t have to lie, either.”

“John… No one is lying.”

Johnny shook his head. His mouth opened and he continued to argue, but Kelsey had drifted away. She’d had enough. Voices became murmurs. She backed from the front door, moved through the opposite sitting room, and now found herself at the entrance to the kitchen.  The walls sucked in the sound, dousing the angry words both men continued to spew. It all felt distant now, blissfully far away. How many more days?

The kitchen walls were light yellow and bright, and sunlight danced through the windows—more windows than either front room combined. It was as though she’d stepped into another house, a happy place full of cheer and sun.

Kelsey moved to the back of the kitchen. She stretched to see from the window over the sink until the counter pressed against her ribs. Wayne and Nick were in the backyard, neither equipped with a camera. Wayne pointed to the back door. Kelsey glanced toward the kitchen door which led in from the yard.  Her eyes went back to the window. Nick put his hands up then nodded. They disappeared around the corner of the house.

They were coming.

Kelsey slid away from the window and tensed. Footsteps pounded on the porch. Two voices rattled the door. She skittered across the kitchen and slid behind the entrance wall to the dining room. The yellow checked curtains behind the sink fluttered as the door opened. Cold air gusted through the room and brushed Kelsey’s skin. Winter rode the air. She cowered.

A man stamped his feet.

“Starting to snow, too,” Wayne said in his deep, booming voice.

“I hope we’re not stuck out here. Like we could end up as some bullshit latter day Donner party. No electricity means no heat. No heat—this is crazy shit.”

“We’ve got the fireplace. Chill, man. First things first, we look in the basement for the breakers.”

“We’ve already been down there, Wayne. Remember. I scoped the place out before the kids came.”

“And?”

“No breakers, buddy. The panel’s not in the house. Nada.”

“It has to be.”

Kelsey clutched the wall. Her hand grew slick with sweat. No breakers—impossible.

“We’ll check again.”

“Fine. Whatever. You just have to tell herr director when the Psycho house doesn’t cough up its secrets, got it?”

“Sure,” Wayne replied in his rumbling voice. “We check downstairs and then kick some sense into the generator.”

Footsteps hammered down the basement stairs, fading until they vanished below. Kelsey held her breath, listening. Waiting. She could go back into the living room—she should join the others. Safety in numbers. Gooseflesh plucked her upper arms, but it wasn’t brought by the cold.

“Kels?”

The voice came from the parlor. She turned.

“Kels, what the hell are you doing back there?” Sarah stood on the big dining room table’s other side. “You look like you’re hiding.”

“Just… I had to go to the bathroom,” she lied.

“So you were hugging a wall?” Sarah came closer.

Kelsey tried to smile, to shrug off Sarah’s sarcasm. She had been hugging a wall, hadn’t she? Silly—a frightened little girl who ran from the camera crew.

“I overheard the crew,” she said.

“You were spying.” A mischievous grin split Sarah’s thin face. “What’s the scoop? Ben and Johnny have been going rounds about this place. Johnny’s convinced Ben is playing some kind of fun house game with us. The lights, he said, are only the beginning. Were Wayne and Larry plotting against us? What’d you hear—is it all part of Wormsley’s scheme?”

“Their names are Wayne and Nick,” Kelsey said. “And no… They were trying to restore the power.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed and she pulled her lower lip between a thumb and forefinger. “A likely story. Fun house games.”

“What?”

“Like a carnival, sweetie. We’re in the haunted mansion.”

“Why don’t they have their cameras?”

Sarah shrugged. “Taking a union break. Maybe Wormsley should have paid them more. Let’s go join the others. I don’t want to miss the fireworks.” Sarah touched Kelsey’s hand.

Kelsey shook her head and pulled her hand away.

“What’s wrong?”

 “I think it was a mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“Coming here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the best decision you’ve made in a long time, sweetie.” Sarah leaned closer. “Twelve grand.”

Kelsey closed her eyes. The best decision she’d made in a long time? She shook her head, trying to find a memory of her father’s face. She couldn’t. “I don’t know.”

Sarah frowned. A shadow brushed her cheek. Her face looked sunken all of a sudden, pale and gaunt.

“Are you all right?” Kelsey asked. “You look a little tired.”

Sarah looked as though she might be sick, but nodded. Her lips drew into a line and then she spoke. “I’m fine. Fine. I’m going. See you in there, okay? I’m still waiting on little Miss California to give us some ghost whisperer bullshit about the great beyond.” She moved to the table’s edge.

“Erin’s not that bad,” Kelsey said.

“Suit yourself, sweetie.”  Sarah leaned closer. “She’s got spoiled valley girl bitch written all over her.”

“Sarah… Please…”

“Please what? I’m here for the money. I don’t have to play nice or make friends with blondie.” She slipped around the corner. Kelsey didn’t move; she couldn’t. The kitchen lights sputtered and then leapt to life. She decided Wayne and Nick must have found the panel. Kelsey took a deep breath, inhaling clean air. One foot following the other, she made her way to the parlor and her friends.

Six days.

Six more days and she would walk away.

No more house. No more dark mazes. Maybe she could buy some treats for the rats.

Johnny left the parlor fuming, and now, lying on his third floor bed, he stared at the ceiling. The fumes dissipated, although slowly. He traced the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes, counting the intersections of wood planks. The third floor—or attic—had a rougher look than the rest of the house. It was more rustic. Wood panel wainscoting and the plank ceiling reminded Johnny of his uncle’s fishing cabin in Wisconsin.

Funny—he hadn’t thought about the cabin in years. How old had he been—seventeen, eighteen—the last time Uncle Mel had them to the cabin? That was all before Mel’s prostrate cancer, the chemo, and the funeral. Years ago. Before college, the house, and Afghanistan.

Jesus, not again. Johnny rolled over, closing his eyes.

He didn’t need his eyes to see the thick layer of shit-yellow dust on clothing and skin and buildings and his Humvee. Dust covered everything. He didn’t need his eyes to remember the way Ty Miller’s face looked seconds before the rigged howitzer shell ripped open the side of their Humvee and a hunk of shrapnel tore a gash in Miller’s throat. The blood came to Johnny in his sleep. He saw it pour from the tap. He even pissed blood. No—

Johnny’s fingertips explored the place under his shirt where thick lumps of skin reminded him about the shrapnel in his body. Wounds healed, but scars remained. His fingers found the rough blemish on his arm from the would-be robber at Shop Quick. Why were there no nightmares of convenience stores and crooks with bad aim?

He slid his legs from the bed’s edge and sat up. His suitcase lay open on the small table by the wall. Johnny went to it, rummaged inside, and felt the cold, hard handle of his pistol. He lifted the gun, a Ruger Mark II .22 caliber, and studied the smooth, dark metal and clean lines. Lost in thought, he didn’t here the gentle knock or the door open.

“Whatcha doing?”

A wave of heat shot through Johnny’s body. He shoved the gun under a clump of clothing and turned to face Sarah.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

She smiled. Her hair was down around her shoulders. She looked very much like the beautiful, vibrant Sarah he’d dated five years ago… Much like that Sarah, but changed somehow: harder, more angular. It wasn’t just her age. They’d all aged. This new Sarah held pain inside; he could almost see it in her eyes. They both had some pain inside, but Sarah’s was different. She stepped into the room.

“So, like I said, whatcha doing?”

“Just resting.” Johnny flipped the cover closed on his suitcase. “Just passing time until dinner.”

Sarah came still closer. He remembered her smell—sweet and slightly sharp like alcohol.

“Not much to do in this place is there?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“I’ve missed you, John.”

“It’s been a long time. Being around everyone—you and Kels and Ben—it brings back a lot of memories.”

“A long time. Too long.” She was close enough to feel her heat. “I’ve thought about you so much. I’ve wondered what I did wrong, what I could do differently if I had another chance.”

“Sarah…”

She put her hand on his chest. Johnny’s heart beat strong and hard. An old, stirring feeling pushed blood through his body. She looked so different—so worn out. He pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I’m… I don’t think the time is right, Sarah. I’m not the same man I was. I wasn’t even a man. So much has changed.”

Sarah’s hand dropped. Her lips straightened. “I don’t care.”

“I do.”

She nodded. Without a word, Sarah left Johnny’s room, vanishing into the hallway. He turned back to the bed, collapsed on the mattress, and closed his eyes.

Six days.

~

The cameras had been back at dinner.

Sarah hated the cameras. She hated them almost as much as Erin, as much as the fresh faced blonde girl from California, a custom recruit off the campus of UCLA. Fuck her, from her long, platinum hair to her blue eyes and firm, perky tits. Let Erin Connolly be the star, the pert little hottie from the land of sunshine. Sarah didn’t need any of that shit, did she? She just wanted her money, she wanted Johnny, and she wanted the next six days to tick off the calendar.

The cameras watched. They poked and poked and poked with their cold black lenses.

She had eaten too much. She had stuffed forkful and forkful into her mouth and swallowed after barely chewing. What was dinner, anyway? Chicken fried steak? Macaroni and cheese from a box? She had found it too easy to stuff the empty spaces with food, even tasteless swill from some hole-in-the wall small town diner. With the cameras watching over them, Johnny and Ben had kept their truce. Conversation was polite and pointless. Erin had tried to make peace, too, asking Sarah about her family.

Fuck her.

When the others, followed by the cameras, had made their way into the parlor for post-dinner chit-chat, Sarah had turned for the stairs.

“I’m going to chill out upstairs,” she had said.

It was easy to lie. It was easy to travel the extra flight of stairs and find herself at Johnny’s door. She opened it with ease, too. His suitcase called her. She’d seen him with a gun, hadn’t she? Why did he have a gun? Why would he bring a gun to this God-awful house? Her hands touched his clothing. She ran fingers over his soft, cotton shirts and found the pistol.

It was heavy and metal and almost black. The barrel was narrow, almost so narrow her little finger wouldn’t fit inside. The gun forced a shudder through her body. She stuffed it back under the shirts and lifted her face.

On the wall behind the little table a mirror gave her a reflection.

The mirror hadn’t been there before, had it? She could almost swear it was new.

God she looked fat.

Steak and potatoes and fat.

That was Johnny’s problem. She was fat—she’d really bloated out since he’d been away, and now he wanted nothing to do with the new, chubby Sarah. She touched her cheek. Fat. She could purge again. One more time wouldn’t hurt, would it? It couldn’t. She’d been clean for years… One more tickle in her throat, one more purge in the third floor toilet…

Sarah turned away from the mirror and found the small bathroom down the hall.

The others, all of them chatting away on the first floor, wouldn’t hear her at all.

Sleep dueled with Kelsey until, at last, the woman surrendered.

She’d dreamed of Jared so often of late that she expected to see her old friend and his simple, comforting smile. She anticipated the same, horrific end to the dream—the discovery of his desiccated body in the stand of trees near the house or his emaciated corpse walking through the second floor hallway. She’d wrestled with dreams of that type before.