Ink (21 page)

This isn’t a good idea. We should just turn—

They reached the landing before the little voice in his head could finish. Mitch bumped into him and giggled. His arm ached, a short pulse of pain. As he gave it a rub, he looked over his shoulder; the stairway down stretched past the light. When he raised his right hand to knock, she gave him a small tug.

“Do you smell that?” she asked.

“What?”

“Like something burning.”

Jason sniffed. “I smell something, but not like burning exactly.”

He wasn’t sure what he smelled, but he had a sudden image of billowing clouds of oily smoke and a huge fire. Mouths open in silent screams. Fresh pain bloomed in his arm.

Mitch leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I think someone is in there. Listen.”

He did.

A muffled step.

“Let’s go,” she said in a husky voice.

A soft thump.

“Please.” She tugged on his hand again, harder.

“Okay.”

Mitch went down the staircase first. Her hand held his in a grip strong enough to make his fingertips tingle. When they got to the bottom, Jason thought he heard the creak of a door.

Behind us, he’s behind us.

Mitch pushed on the door.

But I didn’t close it.

“Jason, it won’t open,” she said in a high, thin voice.

He grabbed the handle and pushed. It didn’t budge.

Won’t open.

A strange sigh drifted down from the top of the stairs. A sigh of anticipation? He pushed the door with his shoulder.

We’re locked in here.

Another sigh, low and
wet
. He pushed the door again and another voice, his father’s voice, piped up.

You’re not locked in. The door swings in, not out. You can push it all you want. You need to pull, son.

“Mitch, step back, okay?”

She turned her eyes to his. Her breath came in quick little gasps.

“The door, it opens in,” he said.

Comprehension dawned in her eyes, and she stepped up onto the first step. He pulled on the handle, but the door didn’t open.

Maybe we are locked in.

A chuckle, deep and throaty.

“Hurry,” Mitch said.

He pulled again, and the door opened with a shriek. They spilled out of the doorway, and as he yanked the door shut behind them, the pain in his arm retreated.

Mitch burst into laughter. “That was crazy. I swear I heard someone in the hallway.”

Jason wiped his palms on his jeans. “Yeah, crazy.”

For a minute, we
were
locked in. The door didn’t swing in or out. And that laugh. I know I heard it.

“Was it that creepy before, when you got your tattoo?”

“Not like that.”

“They say there are lots of ghosts in Fells Point. Maybe one hangs out here. The ghost of tattoos past.” She smiled, then dropped her voice to a low whisper. “Maybe someone died while getting a tattoo, and his spirit lingers on, to warn away the living. Of course, there
is
another explanation.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know. You might not be able to handle it.”

“Try me.”

“It’s an old building, and we heard a mouse or a rat.”

But rats don’t laugh.

“Anyway, things always seem creepier at night,” she said and grabbed his hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

But halfway down the street, Jason couldn’t resist the urge to look back. Nothing moved, human, mouse, or otherwise.

8

Later, naked beneath the sheets in her bed, Mitch touched his arm. “What happened?”

“What?”

“The scratch on your arm.”

Jason pulled her closer and kissed her cheek. “I had a nightmare about my dad and scratched myself in my sleep.”

“Mmmm.”

“Did you have nightmares after…”

“My brother? Yes, I had some, but mostly I just couldn’t sleep. It’s funny, sometimes I dream about him now and when I do, the dreams are so vivid I wake up thinking he’s still alive. Dreams are powerful things.” She ran her fingertips over the tattoo, then hissed through her teeth and pulled her hand away.

Jason half sat up. “What’s wrong?”

Her eyes were wide. “I don’t know. It felt like your skin moved.”

Frank?

Their eyes met and held, then she laughed and pushed him back down. “I’m being silly. I guess I still have the creeps from the hallway. Tattoos don’t move. It was probably a muscle spasm. Did you feel anything?”

“No, just your hand.”

She pressed her lips to his and put her hand back on the tattoo. “Nope, nothing in there but you.”

Later still, with Mitch fast asleep beside him, he placed his palm flat against his upper arm for a long time. Finally, he rolled over on his left side and closed his eyes. Tattoos didn’t move; they were just ink. Right before he fell asleep, his father’s voice drifted in, faint and whispery.

Didn’t you read the fine print?

Dreams were powerful things, Mitch had said, but what about nightmares?

9

Jason sat on his front porch early Saturday evening and watched the gray house across the street. The windows were dark and the driveway empty. His laptop sat on the other lawn chair, forgotten for now. A young girl with hair the color of coffee laced with cream walked up the sidewalk, handed Jason a folded sheet of paper with a shy smile and raced back down to her waiting parents. They lifted their hands in greeting, then walked down to the next house.

Please tell me it’s not another missing cat.

It wasn’t. The monthly neighborhood newsletter contained the customary reminders of recycling pickup day and recommendations for lawn services, but when he flipped the paper over, his breath caught in his throat at the note at the very bottom.

“Several animals have gone missing from our neighborhood. We don’t know what’s happened, but urge everyone to keep their animals inside at night. Make sure to block any pet entrances as well. If you have any information regarding the disappearances, please contact Joseph Murphy, the president of the neighborhood association.”

Well, Mr. Murphy, maybe you should check with Alex Marshall. I bet he has more information.

Jason put the newsletter down and picked up his laptop. So far, his searches for allergic reactions to tattoo ink were unsatisfactory. Rashes, redness, and in rare cases, anaphylactic shock. One site reported it more common for allergies to appear years after getting the tattoo. Nothing about pain or pins and needles, but he wasn’t imagining the pain. He knew he wasn’t. His imagination wasn’t that good.

It came and went, worse at night before bed. Despite what the websites said, an allergic reaction was the only explanation. He could either deal with it or have it removed (and hadn’t Sailor said tattoo removal was one of his specialties? A strange side-job for a tattoo artist), but neither option held much appeal. One website stated that the allergic reactions in some people disappeared after a time; Jason hoped he’d be one of them.

Mitch came out of the house with two bottles of beer. “I thought you might want one.”

He shut the laptop as she sat down in the lawn chair. Her hair, still damp from a shower, clung to her shoulders. A car drove slowly up the street and pulled into the Marshall’s driveway. As soon as it stopped, the passenger door flew open and a woman got out. She yelled something unintelligible into the car, slammed the door, and stomped around to the back of the house. A minute later, Mr. Marshall got out, slammed
his
door, and stalked toward the front door.

“Well now,” Mitch said. “What a happy family.”

“Yeah, I don’t think tonight is the right night to tell them about their son,” Jason said.

“No, I don’t think so, either.”

The daughter emerged from the car, tossing her coppery hair over her shoulder after she pushed the door shut. She leaned up against the car, pulled out a cell phone and made a call. The kid, Alex, got out of the car last. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and kicked the door with his foot.

“God. It’s like a soap opera or something,” Mitch said. “Tales of the Suburban and Dysfunctional.”

Serial killers always had family problems, didn’t they, and the family looked like it was full of issues—big ones.

The girl closed her cell phone and stalked away from the house, turning her head to say something to Alex. He shook his head, and she gave him the finger.

“Freak.”

The word rang out very clear. After she said it, she sat down on the curb and picked at a fingernail. Alex’s head whipped around, but he looked past his sister. His eyes met Jason’s. Even from across the street, he had a palpable sense of strangeness. A defiant smirk flashed on his face, then he looked away and walked toward the back of the house.

Mitch shook her head when he disappeared out of sight. “Is that normal?”

“I have no idea. I think that’s the first time I’ve seen them all together.”

“Well, if that’s normal, no wonder the kid is messed up.”

No wonder.

10

The narrow stairs held barely enough room for one person. Jason ascended, and although he knew Mitch climbed behind him, she remained silent. The wallpaper twisted and screamed in silent symphony on either side. They went up and up and up, and still there were more steps. Shadows and smoke obscured the top—thick, roiling smoke that smelled of dead flesh and utter hopelessness. He didn’t want to climb the stairs, but they couldn’t stop now. With each step they took, the stair below dropped away into a chasm of hot air and muffled cries for help. The place was desolation.

Mitch’s breath was warm on his neck. Excitement, not fear, rose from her pores. She didn’t understand this wasn’t a safe place. She would, though, and soon.

The hallway narrowed even more, and the walls skimmed his shoulders. Tiny hands, wallpaper hands, grabbed at his shirt and his hair. And still, they went up. A distant, inhuman roar rose from the chaos below. Something angry. Something
hungry
.

He wanted to run, yet his feet would not cooperate. They didn’t want to reach the top. There were worse things waiting ahead, hidden in the gray swirls. The roar again, louder. And the furious flapping of wings.

Closer.

Left foot, right foot, each step slow and careful. The walls pressed in even more. Jason turned his shoulders sideways, and the wallpaper hands ran their nails down his back. If he wouldn’t help them get free

yes, because they're as trapped as I am

then they wanted blood. His blood. With the sting of a needle, they dug through his shirt. The roar turned to a shriek, and he and Mitch tried to run, but the walls closed in, tighter and tighter. The floorboards groaned and wind whipped around them, carrying the stench of ash and a heat so intense it ripped the breath from his lungs.

Jason stumbled and banged his leg against the wood. He opened his mouth to scream, but the taste of death erased the sound. The walls pressed against his chest, and he couldn’t move any more. They were

trapped, we’re trapped

stuck, and the creature rose into the space behind them. The wings rushed like an angry wind. It shrieked, its breath hot and reeking. Mitch screamed; he reached for her, but the wallpaper hands reached out and held him captive. Laughter behind the paper. Yes, they were happy. They wanted this. They’d gone mad in their glue and paper prison, and they wanted to see pain and bloodshed. Wanted to taste the bitter spice of fear.

He looked into the creature’s eyes. Venomous green hatred looked back. It didn’t want pain and bloodshed. It wanted to destroy him.

Mitch screamed again, and the creature answered with an ear-splitting roar. Its wings pushed hot air into their faces. It opened its mouth, revealing a gaping pit blacker than the darkest night. It sunk its talons into her flesh and pulled her away. He reached out his hand, and for a brief moment, their fingertips touched, then it carried her away, down into the waiting fires.

Nononononononono!

Her cries drifted and spiraled, the walls pressed in tighter, and as the hands dug in, tears poured from his eyes.

Not Mitch, not her.

Jason woke up and reached out. His chest throbbed with a steady ache, and his skin burned, as if a million fire ants had feasted upon his flesh. His hand touched first empty air, then cool sheet; she wasn’t beside him.

No, because it took her away. It carried her down, and I couldn’t save her.

And on the pillowcase, three perfect drops of blood gleamed scarlet in the waking light of almost sunrise.

11

And in his room of trickery and screams, John S. Iblis laughed and laughed and laughed.