Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction (19 page)

“Stop using your nonexistent weight problem as an excuse, just because you’re too chickenshit,” he challenges.

My mouth drops open slightly. I am not chickenshit. And my weight problem isn’t nonexistent.

“Fine,” I say and walk toward him. “If you don’t think it’s an issue, then away I go.”

He steadies his gaze at me, sussing me out. I cross my arms and give him an impatient stare.

He nods quickly and lowers his hands joined together. I step on them unsteadily and before I can even question just what the hell I’m doing, I’m boosted into the air, one hand on the camera, the other reaching for the vent.

Once Dex has me steadied and I can stand, albeit wobbly, on his hands, I climb to his shoulders and push the vent aside. It pops up and slides out to the side with an easy clatter that rattles down the hallway. Up close, it’s big enough for me to fit through. But it’s also black and fathomless and hides a wealth of things that could frighten me to death. It’s a vent, for crying out loud. Since when did this show turn into
Mission Impossible
?

“You okay, kiddo?” he asks from beneath me, his voice shaking slightly, either from apprehension or from the strain.

“Not really. Have you ever been in a dark vent before?”

“Several times,” he answers seamlessly. “Once you get up in there, I’ll hand you the flashlight so you don’t have to be in the dark.”

“How thoughtful of you,” I mutter and reach my hands into the vent. It’s cold and I fear it will be icky inside, but the bottom of the duct feels mercifully dry.

“On the count of three,” he says and once we count down, he pushes me up farther and I’m waist deep. I feel his hands slip away and with a groan, I pull myself forward until everything except my calves is inside the dark air duct.

I’m scared as hell. The sides of the duct make it impossible for me to turn around, and I can’t see what’s in front of me. For all I know, there could be a giant rat in front of my face, ready to gnaw it off, starting with the little tip of my nose. I’m starting to panic, and an attack in this tight of a spot would be a dangerous thing indeed.

“Uh, Perry,” I hear Dex say. His voice is comforting but the tone isn’t.

“What?” I say as quietly as I can. My words reverberate around me.

“I guess you can’t turn around and reach for the flashlight .
 . . can you?”

I close my eyes and let my head thud against the cold bottom of the duct. “No.”

“That’s okay, I’m just going to stick the flashlight inside your boot. That way, when you get a chance to move around a bit more, you can grab it.”

I feel him grab my leg, undo the laces on my left Doc Marten, and shove the flashlight inside.

This has to be the stupidest idea ever. Some ghost hunters we are.

I sigh and then cough loudly from all the dust.

“Perry, I’m going to try and talk you through it. Just move forward until I tell you to stop. And when I tell you to stop, see if there’s an opening off to your right. If there is, go down that way and it should place you in the laundry room. At least, I hope it’s the laundry room.”

“Okay!” I yell, hoping my voice will scare off any hideous creatures that are waiting for me up ahead.

You can do this, I tell myself. One movement at a time, like a snake. Remember if you need to escape, you just need to back up and you’ll be free.

I repeat this to myself as I slink forward, feeling more and more like Tom Cruise. Or Garth from
Wayne’s World
when he keeps landing on his keys.

After what feels like a lifetime of wiggling and trying to refrain from vomiting on the infrared, Dex yells for me to look for a space going off to the right. I feel for it, but even though I still touch the same cold metal walls, there’s a bit of a breeze up ahead, flowing down the right side of me.

I continue, hearing Dex’s babbling from below becoming more and more muffled, until my hand doesn’t slam against the side as normal. I found the opening.

I take it, maneuvering like a rat in a maze, and wiggle in a new direction. After a few beats, I can’t hear Dex at all anymore and that realization fills me with dread. If I need to get out, I’ll have to not only back up, but make a turn going backward as well. In the pitch-black darkness, the idea is terrifying and disorienting.

But I continue because I’m determined to see this through. And soon enough, my eyes start to pick up something ahead of me. There’s just a little difference of light up ahead, and then my hands come across cool air and a vent covering.

My fingers wrap around the metallic grate and pull it up with ease. It rattles as I push it to the side and I stick my head down below, taking in deep breaths of fresher, non-contained air through my nose. I don’t know what’s below me, all I can see are a few red lights, which I guess are the on/off buttons of machines. There is some other light, though, spilling in from under a door frame, and with hope I realize that Dex and the hallway must be on the other side of that.

I carefully slide across the opening, distributing my weight on each side until I’m just past it, then I lower myself down, my legs dangling helplessly. I have no idea what the hell is below me, but I’m just going to have to hope for the best. I take a deep breath, wiggle myself out until I’m hanging what must be a good few feet off the ground, and let go.

I land on solid ground, although the impact makes me stumble to the side and my body goes flying against a desk that makes an impression in my hip.

“Fuck!” I yell. That’s going to leave a giant bruise.

“Perry?” I hear Dex call out from the hallway. I scurry over to the door, careful not to trip over anything in my way, and feel for the doorknob. I yank at it to open, but nothing happens. It appears to be locked from both the inside and the outside.

“Are you okay?” he asks and I can hear the worry in his voice. He likes to surprise me by acting human from time to time.

“I’m fine,” I say, rubbing my hip where the desk went into me. “But I can’t open this fucking thing.”

“Are you getting any reception on your phone?”

I tuck the infrared under my arm and bring my iPhone out of my jacket pocket, while reaching down for the flashlight in my boot. It works but the bars are gone. No service.

“No, are you?”

“No,” he answers with a sigh. “Look, I’ve been trying the key she gave me and it won’t open any of the doors here. I can’t call her either. There are some stairs at the end beside the elevator. I’m just going to run up to the lobby and grab Pam.”

“Dex, don’t you dare leave me!” I yell and pound on the door for impact.

“Well, what the hell do you suppose we do then? Hang out like this until a maid shows up? What if they’re done for the night? Do you really want to spend a night locked in there?”

No. I don’t. But I don’t want him taking off and leaving me alone in this scary, dark room either.

“Look,” he continues, “I’ll be right back. And I mean, right back. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

That’s kind of hard to do when you aren’t here, I think, but I know I have no choice. Either he goes or I’m locked in here all night. That thought is too terrifying to fathom.

“Okay,” I say hesitantly.

He taps the door lightly. “I’ll be right back.”

I hear his feet scurry off and a door at the end of the hall open. And then silence again.

I put my back against the door and face the darkness of the unfamiliar room. I flick the flashlight on and slowly graze it across the blackness.

In a creepy, fleeting light it illuminates a few laundry bins, laundry machines, and a makeshift office consisting of a whiteboard, a file cabinet, and the desk I ran into.

And a dead man hanging from the ceiling.

I scream bloody murder, dropping the flashlight and camera in the process.

They fall to my feet in an outburst as loud as my wail, and as I quickly fumble for them, the light in the room goes on.

I raise my hand to my eyes to shield them from the light and try to get a glimpse of what’s going on. The image of that dead, bloated man hanging by his neck is seared into my brain.

The laundry hampers, machines, and office are all still here.

The hanging man is gone.

There is an African-American woman who stands to my far left, her hand on a light switch, giving me a quizzical stare. She’s young and thin with large eyes, and is wearing a plain gray dress with a white ruffled apron across it. A very classic-looking maid.

“Good heavens, child,” she exclaims in a thick Southern accent. “What on earth are you doing in here?”

I blink hard, trying to make sense of the situation. The maid looks at my hands and what I’m holding.

“Are you filming me? Who are you? What is this?” she demands, her voice growing higher with each question.

“I . . . I’m Perry Palomino,” I stammer, my voice squeaking.

“Am I supposed to know who you are?” she asks and puts her hands on her hips.

“Uh, no,” I say and give her an awkward smile. “I’m here with my partner, Dex. Dex Foray. We are, uh, we doing a project here. We have permission of the night manager. Pam . . . something. She said we could come down here and film.”

“Just what are you filming. Charlie Chaplin?”

Hmm. How to explain the next part without seeming batshit crazy.

“Well .
 . .” I begin.

She cocks her brow at me and folds her arms. She’s in no hurry.

I let out a burst of air through my nose and say, “We’re ghost hunters.”

She smiles, her teeth blindingly white. She doesn’t sound as amused as she looks. “You’re pulling my chain.”

“No, no, sadly I’m not. We have a show,
Experiment in Terror
. It’s on the Internet.”

“The Internet?”

“I know, it sounds lame but we’ve been doing quite well. I mean, we have advertisers and people actually tune in to watch us. Well, watch me. Since I’m the host. Just not a very good one. Actually, I think people tune in to laugh at me, but whatever gets me a paycheck.” I’m rambling now.

“This is a radio show?” she asks.

“No, just on the Web.”

She frowns and walks toward me, eyeing my hands. “What kind of camera is that?”

Though there is nothing menacing at all in her voice, I flinch a little and back up into the door. She pauses and gives me another disbelieving look.

“You never seen a black woman before?”

“Huh?”

“I know we aren’t too common out west, but you best be getting used to us.”

Now it’s my turn to frown. I study her more closely. She’s at least in her early thirties; her pretty face is unlined but she has this authoritative air about her. Everything sounds like an accusation, but one that’s filled with a hint of doubt. Though she’s trying hard to hide it, I can see she’s as afraid of me as I am afraid of her.

I raise the infrared to her, slowly, as if she’s a skittish cat, and show her the screen, flicking it on.

She looks at it and shakes her head, not getting it.

“It’s infrared,” I explain. “It picks up heat energy.”

“Well, my oh my,” she says. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You trying to make a motion picture?”

“No, ma’am,” I can’t help but say. “Much less than that.”

“And you what? You hunt ghosts?”

“It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way,” I admit.

She snorts and turns around, heading back to the machines. “It sounds ridiculous any way you put it, child.”

“We’ve just been told the ghost of Parker Hayden is known to haunt this room.”

She stops in mid-stride. Her whole body is tensed up. It makes me tense up, too. I must have hit a nerve.

“Have you seen him?” I whisper, making sure the camera is running but not pointing it in her direction just yet. I don’t want to scare her, and just getting our dialogue recorded would be more than enough for the show.

“Seen who?” she repeats slowly. She still doesn’t turn around.

“Parker Hayden. The ship millionaire. He lost all of his money during the strike and then killed himself—”

“Don’t you dare speak ill of him,” she threatens in a low voice so raspy and ragged that it almost sounds demonic. “He would never kill himself.”

I bite my lip, unsure of how to proceed. I have no idea what’s going on, but those hairs are standing up on the back of my neck again.

“Do you know who he was?” I ask carefully.

Finally, she turns around and looks at me with tear-filled eyes.

“He was . . . my friend.”

I don’t know what to make of that. “Pardon me?”

“He was . . . my lover. I haven’t seen him for days, not since they threw him out.”

Oh. Dear. God.

“He wouldn’t have killed himself, though,” she continues, her voice quavering with emotion. A tear spills down her cheek, leaving a dark trail. “He has troubles but he wouldn’t have done that. Not Parker. Not my Parker.”