Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

THE NEXT DAY

Mililani, Hawaii

Josh

Fran was in a bikini, sitting on their porch, stripping and cleaning one of their AR-15 semi-automatic rifles. She had a look of intense concentration on her face as she ran a cleaning rod through the bore. If there was anything sexier than a woman in a bathing suit with a firearm, Josh didn’t know what it was.

He set the lemonade he’d brought for her down on the table, and took a sip of the one he’d kept for himself. It was a perfect Hawaiian day, sunny and hot and smelling like paradise, and the lemonade was cold and sweetened just enough to take the edge off the pucker.

Mathison was perched on the seatback of Fran’s chair watching damselflies. Though Josh had never seen him do it, he had a suspicion that the monkey liked to catch the bugs and eat them.

Mathison chittered when he saw Josh. He hopped down, ran into the house through the dog door, and returned a moment later with his plastic infant cup. He held it out to Josh, who poured in some lemonade. Mathison chirped a thank you, took a drink, then made a face and stuck out his tongue.

“I like it tart,” Josh said.

Mathison set down his cup, ran inside again, and came out with a packet of sugar and a spoon. As the monkey mixed his drink to taste, Fran spoke.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Didn’t we discuss it? I thought we agreed.”

“Can it hurt to discuss it some more?”

“No,” he admitted.

“So are you sure?”

Josh took another sip of lemonade. Mathison did as well, then made a sound like he was throwing up. He put his tiny hands on his own throat to emphasize his displeasure.

“So get more sugar,” Josh told him.

The monkey ran off. He came back a moment later with five more packets.

“You’re going to get diabetes,” Josh said.

Mathison gave him the finger.

“Did Duncan teach him that?” Josh asked his wife.

“What?” She was absorbed in her cleaning.

“Mathison flipped me the bird.”

“No. I think it was South Park.”

“The TV show?”

“Yeah. He has a few DVD box sets.” Fran squirted more solvent on the patch holder.

“You bought South Park DVDs?”

“No. He grabbed them in the store while I was shopping, put them in the cart, and paid me. He also bought The Untouchables. He’s watched it seven times. I think he wants to be Sean Connery.”

Mathison nodded at Josh, then added more sugar.

“And how did the monkey get money?”

“He was doing tricks in front of Walmart with his cup.”

“Huh.” Maybe the monkey had an organ grinder heritage. “How much did you make?”

The capuchin held up three fingers on his right hand, five on his left.

“Thirty-five dollars? Seriously? How long did it take?”

One finger, and five fingers.

“Only fifteen minutes? Fran, that’s a hundred and forty bucks an hour.”

“Josh, can you get back on topic? I asked you if you’re sure.”

Josh sipped more lemonade, then thought about the invitation to Butler House. The whole concept of it, from the way they were approached in the wee morning hours, to the dial-in number with the weird voice, failed to pass the sniff test.

“It’s bullshit,” Josh said. “The military is trying to hoodwink us. Those weren’t feds.”

“I agree.”

Josh settled back in his chair, putting a foot up on the table. Mathison added a fifth sugar packet, took a sip, and gave Josh a thumbs up.

“Brush your teeth when you finish,” Josh said.

The monkey replied in sign language. “Woof ate my toothbrush.”

“The dog ate it? When?”

“A week ago.”

“I watched you brush your teeth last night.”

“That was Fran’s toothbrush.”

Josh frowned. He’d just kissed Fran less than an hour ago.

“What did he say?” Fran asked, looking up from her bore cleaning.

“We need to buy everyone in the house a new toothbrush. Maybe I’ll let Duncan drive. He’s getting his permit next week.”

“And Butler House?”

Josh swirled some tart lemonade around his tongue, then swallowed.

“Fuck Butler House.”

Chicago, IL

Tom

There weren’t any homicides in Tom’s jurisdiction in the last few days—unusual for Chicago—so it gave him time to work on Roy’s disappearance. After arriving at the office and getting his cup of burned coffee, Tom went to his partner’s desk and fired up his computer. While it booted he snooped around, finding nothing of interest.

As expected, Roy didn’t have a computer password. Detectives preferred that, so if anything happened to them in the line of duty, their last actions could be easily traced.

Tom checked Roy’s email, finding a confirmation for a rental car at the Charleston airport dated last week. He dialed the number and pretended to be Roy, reading off the confirmation number.

“What can we help you with, Mr. Lewis?”

An odd thing to say if the car hadn’t been returned.

“Can you email me all the details from my rental, for tax purposes?”

“Certainly.” The woman repeated Roy’s email addy.

“Also, can you remind me when I returned the car?”

“You returned it last Sunday, at 11:35am. Anything else I can help you with?”

Tom declined and disconnected. Next he called the airline Roy used and said he lost his return flight ticket. Did someone else possibly use it?

“No, Mr. Lewis. That ticket hasn’t been used. Would you like us to book a return flight?”

Again Tom declined, and hung up.

Either Roy had returned the car at the airport, and something happened to him to prevent him from boarding his flight. Or something happened to him earlier, and someone returned his rental car for him to tie up a loose end.

Tom got on the Internet and began calling hospitals in the Charleston area, asking if Roy or any African American John Does fitting his description had been admitted. He also checked the morgues, and Charleston PD.

No luck.

Next he checked Roy’s browsing history, and saw he’d been on the same Butler House site Tom had been on. Roy also had been on the Ghost Smashers website. Tom recalled reading that they’d shot an episode of their TV show at Butler House, but it never aired and the host quit TV immediately afterward. Tom went back to Roy’s email, checking the Sent folder.

Roy had several exchanges with Richard Reiser, the host of the show. The last one ended with Roy asking if they could Skype. Skype was a VoiP—a voice over internet protocol. It allowed two people to talk to one another using computer webcams and headsets. Tom accessed Roy’s Skype account, and sure enough Richard Reiser was listed as a contact. Tom found Roy’s headphones in his top drawer and plugged them into a USB port. Then he video called Reiser.

As it rang, Tom accessed the National Crime Information Center and searched for Dr. Emil Forenzi. He didn’t find any info. Apparently Forenzi didn’t have a criminal record.

“You’re not Roy.”

Tom looked at the Skype window. He saw the profile of a man’s head, obscured by shadows. Richard Reiser was Skyping without any lights on.

“I’m Roy’s partner, Detective Tom Mankowski.” Tom raised up his badge, holding it to the webcam embedded in the monitor. “When was the last time you spoke with Roy?”

“Is Roy missing?

“Do you know something about that, Mr. Reiser?”

“Rich. Call me Rich. I told him not to go to the Butler House. But he went, didn’t he?”

Rich’s voice was slurred, and Tom wondered if the man was drunk.

“No one has heard from him in seven days,” Tom said.

“I warned him. I practically begged him not to go.”

“When did you last speak with Roy?”

“Eight days ago. It was Thursday. He said he got some sort of invitation to Butler House.”

“Why did he get in touch with you?”

“He wanted to know what happened on my show, Ghost Smashers. Why I quit show business.”

“Did you tell him?”

Rich paused for a moment before continuing. “The network did a good job of covering it up. They paid me off not to talk about it. I signed some non-disclosure agreements.”

“So you didn’t tell Roy?”

“No. I did. I did so he wouldn’t go. But I guess he went anyway.”

“Can you tell me as well?”

“He didn’t listen to me.”

Tom lowered his voice. “Mr. Reiser, please tell me what you told my partner.”

Another pause, and Tom began to wonder if Rich was going to balk. But then he began.

“It was nearing midnight. I was doing my intro in Butler House’s great room—this huge space in the front of the house when you walk in. Two story roof, curved staircase, weird tapestries on the walls. It looked like the set of a Roger Corman Poe flick from the sixties. We’d gotten there in the daytime, did some establishing shots, set up our equipment. EMF, IR, EVP, full spectrum motion cameras.”

Tom didn’t know what any of those abbreviations were, but he didn’t want to interrupt the story to ask.

“During set-up, one of the camera guys caught an RSPK on tape. That’s recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis. Poltergeist activity. A painting fell off the wall, right in front of us. Portrait of that serial killer, Augustus Torble. We checked the nail it was hanging on—a big, thick, six inch nail. Bent right in half. We’d never gotten footage like that before. In hindsight, we should have left right then.”

Rich grabbed something and lifted it to his face. A bottle. Beer? Whiskey? He tilted it and swallowed, and then began to gag and cough. More evidence of being drunk.

“At midnight, I’m set to do my first piece of the night. Explore the basement of Butler House. We were using the dual head cam. Have you seen the show?”

“No.”

“It’s a two way camera, mounted on my head. One lens is pointed ahead of me, where I’m looking. One is pointing at my face, so the viewers can see my reactions. It’s mounted on a helmet, and with the batteries… it’s pretty heavy. So… we had a… a… thick strap around… my chin… to keep the rig steady. Right after I started my segment… the batteries…”

Rich’s voice trailed off.

“What happened to the batteries, Rich?”

He didn’t answer.

“Rich?”

“They… exploded.”

He reached off to the side, and then the lights in his room came on.

Rich’s face looked like it had strips of half-cooked bacon glued to it. Eyebrows burned off. No nostrils, just a gaping hole for his nose. Part of his upper lip missing, showing his teeth, which explained his slurring. He wasn’t drunk. He was Frankenstein’s goddamn monster.

“Lead batteries contain sulfuric acid. So my helmet was both on fire, and leaking acid down my face. And because of the chin strap, I couldn’t… I couldn’t get it off. I couldn’t get it off…”

“I’m sorry,” Tom said. It took everything he had in him to not turn away from the screen.

Rich lifted the bottle—a water bottle—to his face and took a sip, gagging again, some of the water running down his ruined chin.

“The network sued the company that made the camera. But when they took the rig in for testing, no one could find anything wrong with it. No faulty wiring. No bad parts. It’s like it exploded for no reason at all.”

Tom felt terrible for the guy, and he didn’t like making him talk about it. But for Roy’s sake, he had to ask. “But you think there was a reason.”

“Something in Butler House did this to me. I’m sure of it. Something evil. That’s why I begged Roy to stay away. And you should stay away, too.”

Tom pursed his lips.

“Look, your partner, your friend, Roy. He’s dead, man. Butler House got him. And if you go looking for him, you’re going to die.”

“Thanks for your time and insights, Rich. I’ve got to get going.”

Tom disconnected, guilty about his lie. He didn’t have to leave. He just couldn’t stand looking at Rich’s disfigured face anymore, and the conversation had greatly disturbed him.

Tom’s hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood at attention, and he had a very strong feeling he was being watched. By who? Eavesdropping co-workers?

Or was someone else watching? Someone, or…

Some thing.

Tom swiveled around, seeking the staring eyes he knew were on him.

But no one was there.

At least, no one he could see.

Realizing he was letting his imagination mess with him, Tom called Joan’s cell phone. Thankfully, his girlfriend picked up on the third ring.

“Tom? I’m in the middle of something. Director wants a rewrite on set, writer is throwing a hissy fit. Is this important?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice, babe.”

“That’s sweet. Can I call you back?”

“Yeah, sure. And hey, wait… Joan… you still there?

“Yes?”

“Did you write anything on my mirror?”

“What?”

“My bathroom mirror. Someone wrote I’m watching you on it.”

“Wasn’t me. Gotta go, lover. Call you soon.”

His long distance romance hung up, and Tom’s creepy feeling got a whole lot creepier.