The Ghost Files (22 page)

My head is getting fuzzier by the minute. There’s no way I can loosen the ropes if I fall asleep, but I can’t just sit here and do nothing, either. Where are the ghosts when you need them?

Maybe if I call for them?

“Eric?  Emma?” My voice is little more than a whisper. One of the blows had caught me in the throat. I’m guessing it’s swollen and that is part of why it’s so hard to speak. I’d noticed

the tenderness earlier when I’d been talking to Mrs. O, but it seems to be getting worse now. The talking probably aggravated it.

“Please,” I try again. “Are you here?” A cough escapes me. The more I speak, the worse it gets.

The cold slams into me, seeps into my bones. The suddenness of it leaves me breathless. I’m so cold it hurts. My mind goes fuzzier and I know I’m so close to passing out it’s not even funny. I don’t know if it’s because I’m in that between sleep and awareness or something else, but I can feel them. It’s not just Eric and Emma. There are more here, so many more that I can feel the ache settle in my bones and stay there. My teeth start to hurt from the sheer cold that is seeping into my body. I can separate them in my head. There has to be over a dozen ghosts here. Dear God, how many people have they killed.

“Eric?”

“Hush,”
he whispers.
“They’re not gone. Don’t make them come back and hurt you again.”

“Eric, you have to help me,” I say, desperation clear in my voice. For once, I don’t care how pathetic I sound. I need him to help me.

He sighs. I feel it against my ear.
“I don’t know how.”

“You have to get help,” I say. My throat burns.

“How?’
he asks.
“No one can see me but you. How can I help you?”
He sounds as miserable as I feel.

“You’re a ghost, Eric. Ghosts are made up of energy. All you have to do is focus that energy to make someone see. Find Officer Dan. Use the computer, something to tell him where we are. Tell him we are at the Hartford House.”

The door opens. I can hear the thud of boots. He’s back. “Please, Eric!”

The cold intensifies and I understand why. They are afraid of Mr. Olson too. They are manifesting their fear as the cold.

He comes to stand beside of me. His hands lift up my face. He’s wearing gloves. Heavy work gloves made of that scratchy material I hate. His fingers brush lightly over my swollen face, admiring his handiwork. I spit at him.

“Don’t,”
I hear the ghosts wail in unison. Too late. He hits me again and then caresses the spot, almost apologizing with his touch. One hand trails down my face, my neck and then to my arm. The arm that has a needle mark on it. He pauses and I can feel the anger radiating off of him. He’s figured out Mrs. O. gave me something.

He moves away, going behind me. His torture rack must be back there. It’s where he’d gone earlier to find his tools. There’s no noise though. He’s not rummaging around. Maybe he’s looking at them, trying to make up his mind about what to use? I wish I could see. At least then I’d know what was coming. I shake my head, trying to clear it. I’m so sleepy, but
must
stay awake. I don’t know he’ll do to me while I’m passed out. Please, God, I pray, please don’t let me pass out.

The thud of his boots move again, only away from me. They are heading toward where Mary is. At least where I
think
Mary is. What is going to do her? I hear the sound of sawing, but nothing else. She’s dead. My heart sinks. If she is alive, she’d be making some kind of noise. It isn’t fair. I tried so hard to find her, to save her, and I couldn’t.

I hear a loud thump. I want to gag. It’s the sound of a body falling. He’s just throwing her away, like she’s yesterday’s garbage. I hear the sound of running water, no wait. It’s spraying like the water hose we have outside does when Mrs. O. waters her flowers. He’s cleaning something. Maybe whatever he had Mary tied down to? Why would he be cleaning it? The answer pops into my mind as soon as I ask the question. He’s cleaning it for me.

The water shuts off and then I hear the sound of a knife being sharpened. I recognize it because I’d seen Mr. Olson sharpening the kitchen knives last week. He’s going to cut me. I know this, I try to prepare myself for this, but I can’t. I’m terrified of knives. Ever since my mom, I can’t bring myself to even pick one up for longer than a few seconds. Fear coils in my stomach, knotting it up. Not a knife. Anything but a knife.

He walks toward me; the steps are slow. My breathing is ragged, labored from the intense terror the thought of the knife is causing. He cuts through the bonds on my hands and then moves to my feet. I try to kick out, to hit him, but I can’t. My body is stiff and sore, my muscles refusing to work. I’m not sure how long I’ve been tired up or if the shot Mrs. O gave me is helping to keep me docile, but there is nothing I can do as he hauls me up and drags me by the hair over the floor. I’m hoisted up onto a table. It’s cold like steel. He grabs my wrists and wraps rope around them both, tying them tightly. I scream at the pain it causes me. He pulls my hands above my head and then secures them to something I can’t see, but when he’s done, they are pulled so tight I can’t even move them. The pain is agonizing.

My feet are next. He ties them spread eagle to the table. Is he going to rape me now? My mind shudders away from that, but then I feel the tip of the knife. It’s pressing against my throat. He skims it up my face, traces my lips with it. I can’t move, I can’t breathe. Panic is choking me. The knife blade moves down, the edge catching on my tee shirt, slicing it open. I feel the cold air against my skin. The blade presses down, making a shallow cut right above my left breast where it peeks out of the top of my bra. I scream. I can’t help it. I’m terrified. I haven’t been this afraid since I saw my mom swinging a knife at me.
Please pass out, please pass out, please pass out
, I chant.

The blade continues down my abdomen, making little shallow cuts as he goes. I’m crying now, begging him to stop, to please stop. He ignores me, the knife continuing its exploration of my body. He stops to inflict a deeper cut above my right knee. His fingers probe the cut, pushing deep so it bleeds more. I twist, trying to buck him off, but there is very little I can do. He has tied my hands and feet so I can barely move. He seems to know that it is driving me past the point of fear into cliff-jumping terror.

Then he stops. I hear him step away. What is he doing? Where did he go? Music fills the room. It’s dark and somber. I’m not prepared for the jet of cold water that hits me square on the belly. I jump, causing more agony to tear through my hands as I pull at them. The water pressure is on full force and it hurts as it makes contact with my skin. It stops then another blast hits me on my thighs and then another on my chest. He continues until I’m soaked, shaking from cold, bleeding from over a dozen shallow cuts, and crying.

I rear up as far as I can when his hands clutch mine and squeezes hard. The pain is intense, more intense than my body can handle and for once I welcome the darkness that swallows me.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I’m groggy, but the steady drip, drip, drip wakes me. It must be either a sink or the water hose. I hurt everywhere. I try to move, but I’m tied down too tight. I listen for Mr. Olson, but I can’t hear anything. He might be gone, but then again he might be waiting. The ghost cold is still here, so I know I’m not alone at least. I still can’t believe they are here for me, trying to comfort me after the way I’ve treated them all these years. They actually give me strength.

The knife had reduced me to a blubbering fool. I can still feel it against my skin, slicing here and there. As much as I hate admitting the weakness, I can’t stop the shudder from running through me. I have to get out of here before he uses that knife again. I need help, though.

I try to speak, but can’t. My throat is too swollen. I can barely draw in a breath. So not good. Think, Mattie
.
Dr. Olivet said I was connected to them, that my energy was a beacon for them. Thoughts are a form of energy. Maybe I don’t have to speak for them to hear me. Ridiculous, but who knows?

“Emma, Eric, can you hear me?”
my mind sends.

Silence. I try again.
“Can any of you hear me? I can’t speak, but know you’re here. I can feel you. Please say you can hear me.”

The cold presses closer. I can feel it start to crystalize on me. Maybe they can hear me after all.
“I know you’re scared. I’m scared. Will you talk to me? Please?”

“We tried to warn you, to stop you.”
was the answer.

Yes! They can hear me. I don’t recognize the voice though. It’s no one I’ve talked to before.
“What’s your name?”

“I’m Tina.”
She sounded older.

“Tina, I need you to help me get out of here,”
I begin.

“How?”
was her tentative question.

I had nothing to lose. Just tell her.
“I need to get the ropes loosened enough so that I can work my hands free. Can you do that? I know it’s hard, that it requires a lot of energy to make things move, but together, can you do it?”
If I could get enough breath, I’d be holding it, waiting for the answer.

“I have tried, but I can’t. We all have tried so many times for so many others. We can’t.”

I groan – very softly, since my throat hurts. So, they’re ghosts. I can’t expect much from them because they’re confused and scared. Asking them to move something would be hard, let alone trying to untie me. It would probably require more energy than they all had put together. Okay, so there went plan A. On to plan B. What
is
plan B? I don’t have a clue.

“Do you see us? Emma said you could.” 
It is a little boy this time, but I don’t know how old he is.
” She said you saw the scary place, the white place.”

Right. The Between? I saw it once.
Where is the kid going with this? Dr. Olivet told me to run from it if I ever saw it again, that there were things in it that were not so nice. Then again, I’m trapped in a place that’s not so nice at the moment too. I thought back to when I’d seen it. I’d fallen from the upstairs down to the basement. Literally went through the floor. Could I do that again? Could I move from one place to another by going into all that white fuzz? It might get me out of the bonds holding me too. Then again, I might get trapped in the dirt. I’d fallen before and am pretty sure I’m in the basement. Crap. There’s nowhere else
to
fall.

“No, Bobby, she’ll get hurt,”
That was Tina.
“There are things there, things that will hurt us. Eric said so.”

Oh, really? Mirror Boy told them not to go there? They have to go there to cross over to the other side. He has no right denying them their right to cross over. I’ll tell them.

“Bobby, Tina, the white place is scary, but someone is there to help you, to guide you
,
”
I tell them, remembering what I’d learned from Dr. Olivet.
“Did you see someone waiting for you?”

“I thought I saw my Grandma,”
Bobby said,
“but Eric said it was a trick. He said the bad things wanted to eat us.”

I couldn’t argue with Bobby there. The bad things might want to eat us, but his guide would have protected him. At least if I believe the Doc’s theory. Maybe I do. All I want is to get these kids to cross over, to give them some peace. Well, I want that after
I
get out of here. Next question.

“Bobby, how do I find the scary place?”

“Don’t tell her anything,”
Tina hisses.
“Eric will be mad.”

Oh, yeah? Good.
“Where is Eric?”
I ask them.

“He went to find your friend, the one that’s a cop.”
I catalogue the new voice. It’s a guy, in his late teens maybe. His voice is deeper than some of the other kids. He also sounds like he has an attitude.

“Who are you?”
and hoped I had some attitude left.

“Ricky,”
he tells me.
“Tina’s right. You need to stay out of the Between. Bad stuff in there.”

And bad stuff isn’t
here
?
“I will take my chances, Ricky. I just need to be there long enough to take a couple steps and move away from the table.”

“No, no. You gots no idea what’s in there, chica. A few seconds is all it takes for them to eat your soul. That’s what they want, you know. Your soul. I tried to go in once, to leave this place, but those… things… they almost got me. Eric saved me. He saved us all. You need to listen to Tina.”

“Noted,”
I tell him
. “I am still going to try it.  Can you tell me how to find it?”

Silence. No one wants to tell me. Maybe if I can make them remember what happened
here
, they’ll start talking.

“You guys are scared of Mr. Olson, right?”
I feel the cold burn my skin, it intensifies so fast.
“You remember sitting in that chair, being tied to this table? You remember not being able to see what he was doing, waiting to feel what new horror he’d think of? You remember what he did to you while you were tied up and helpless? Do you? What if someone gave you a choice of escaping, even if it meant you might find something just as deadly waiting for you? Would you choose to fight or just sit here and wait to die? I don’t want to die. Please, please help me.”

A chorus of voices starts hammering away at me. My head hurts and it makes it harder to filter them. I think they’re arguing, but I can’t tell. I can feel their terror. I made them think about things they didn’t want to and it hurts to remember those things. I hate that I did that to them, but I need to get out of here.

“BE QUIET!”
The awful screeching of nails on chalkboards assaults us all.

Oh goody, Mirror Boy is back. My head hurts enough without his particular brand of torture. It scatters my thoughts and the pain is almost as unbearable as the pain in my hands.