Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 8

People called him The Roach.

Rodney Froehmer wasn’t sure whether it was because he could fit through impossibly tight crevices or because he was likely to survive nuclear winter as the last living human in a post-apocalyptic world. Either way, he embraced the role, from the rubber gloves dangling from his belt to the mini MAG light clipped on the bill of his black baseball cap. He only had one antenna, unlike his insect namesake, and it extended from a two-way radio headset. His night-vision goggles completed the bug-eyed appearance, but at the moment, they were draped from his neck.

All of the Spirit Seekers International crew were hooked on technology, but The Roach was in his own special class of geek. His equipment dangled from loops and straps or bulged from the cargo pockets in his jumpsuit. While the SSI uniforms made all of them easily recognizable, The Roach particularly loved the attention from the paranormal community. He didn’t have Cody’s looks or the artistic flair of Digger Wilson, but he’d carved out a niche and been photographed with plenty of ghost-hunting groupies. The coup de grace was the silver crucifix that dangled down his chest.

Since Kendra was running the check-in table and the rest of the crew was setting up gear in the control room, The Roach figured he could loaf by the front desk and serve as advertising. Besides, there were forces at work that merited a little surveillance, even if those things couldn’t be seen at the moment.

A couple who appeared to be husband and wife came down the hall, the husband carrying a glass that contained either red wine or grape juice. He was balding and flushed, seeming to fade into his wife’s ample shadow. She was one of those overweight women who didn’t seem comfortable in her own skin, because she kept tugging at her lime-colored blouse and suit jacket as if somehow she could disguise the extra eighty pounds. She was formidable and brassy, her perfume running interference. She grinned at The Roach, her heels hammering as she increased her pace.

“You’re one of the ghost busters.” she practically squealed with delight.

“We don’t bust anything, ma’am.”

“You’re on the team, right?”

“Spirit Seekers International, at your service.” He touched the bill of his cap like a jet pilot about to embark on a flight. Digger had taught them the importance of showmanship.

By this time, the husband had caught up. The glass definitely contained alcohol. “Don’t you try to catch the ghosts, tell them to ‘Go toward the light’ or whatever?”

“That’s a misconception,” The Roach said, leaning forward to read the name badge on the woman’s generous breast. “We can’t vacuum them up into glass jars and release them in the woods like a raccoon trapped in a henhouse. For one thing, we have no idea where a ghost is supposed to be. For all we know, it might go toward the light and discover the light is caused by the flickering flames of hell.”

The woman, Amelia G. according to her name badge, chuckled. “Religion and the afterlife shouldn’t mix.”

“The television shows treat ghosts like they are a problem to be solved. The last thing a dead person needs is a ghost whisperer trying to psychoanalyze them.”

“Well, I’ve had some success with that,” Amelia said.

“She has an Ouija board,” said hubby, Donald G.

Kendra, who had finished registering a couple of women, said, “You shouldn’t mess with those things.”

“Young lady, I’ve been communicating with spirits since you were in diapers,” Amelia said.

“I had a friend who tried to commit suicide after a midnight séance.”

“Not everybody can handle messages from beyond.”

“It’s not the messages that are the problem. It’s the kind of people who need to hear them.”

“Come on, Kendra,” The Roach cut in. “You know the rules of the road. There is no right or wrong in this field, only theories.”

Kendra could never resist tweaking those who took the dead too seriously. A little humor was one thing, but nobody wanted to be around a sarcastic brat. The Roach didn’t like parenting Kendra, but Digger was doing a lousy job of it. And Digger didn’t realize how much danger his daughter was in.

“All I’m saying is that it’s just a piece of pasteboard with some letters on it,” Kendra said. “But you better check your spiritual condition before you play.”

Amelia sniffed. “The dead can tell who’s playing for keeps.”

“Tell them about the Commodore,” hubby said.

“That’s for the beach house,” she said. “I’m here to channel Margaret Percival.”

“Why don’t you come say hello?” Kendra said, pointing to the wall. A portrait of a woman with short, curly hair and sad eyes hung above an antique tea table.

According to hotel legend, the portrait had been found at a 1950’s flea market by a maid, and she’d sworn it bore an uncanny resemblance to the vanished Miss Percival. Taking it as a sign from God, the maid had purchased it and given it to the hotel. The Roach figured it was just another flea-market hype job, since the hair style was wrong for the era, but the hotel had gone so far as to attach a copper nameplate beneath it that read “Margaret Percival.” The nameplate appeared much newer than the ornate but chipped wooden frame.

The Roach was about to give his opinion when the portrait fell from the wall, the glass shattering.

“I caused that,” Amelia said. “With my mind.”

“I wouldn’t admit it,” Kendra said. “The hotel might stick damages on your bill.”

The Roach examined the wall where the portrait had been. A tiny hole was ringed by plaster dust. The picture hook had apparently lost its grip.

She’s got a mind like a claw hammer, then. Bet she uses the head of the hammer on hubby.

“She’s a demonologist, too,” hubby said.

The Roach shot her a glance. She was too young to know better. Anyone claiming to be a demonologist was worth avoiding. The real ones, like him, worked best in secret. It was an unfortunate calling, not a hobby.

“Among other things,” Amelia said with pride. To hubby she said, “You’d best notify the hotel staff before someone gets cut.”

“Why bother?” Kendra said. “A little blood is just what we need to get the party started.”

“Blood magick,” Amelia said to her. “Are you a virgin, dear?”

“Excuse me?”

”Are you familiar with Aleister Crowley?”

“Come on, Kendra,” The Roach said, ferrying her away. “Some more guests are checking in.”

“Cool,” Kendra snapped. “Maybe they’ll be old perverts, too.”

Amelia glowered at the teen. “I would hate to fetch a demon on you.”

“You don’t want one of her demons,” her husband said, arching his eyebrows into arrow tips. The Roach wondered how many demons he’d been subjected to during the course of the marriage. Plenty, by the looks of it.

“Why don’t you two come to the medium parlor?” The Roach said, appealing to Amelia’s ego and letting her assume her presence was awaited with all the anticipation of a visiting queen’s. “Wayne Wilson is expecting you.”

“I hope it’s in one of the haunted rooms.” Amelia G. stepped over the broken glass and followed The Roach down the hall, hubby trailing and sipping his drink.

“I believe they’re all haunted,” The Roach said.

“Got any demons here?”

“Only the ones you brought with you,” The Roach said, wishing it were true.

The hall was buckled and warped, the angles slightly skewed by decades of wooden bones shifting on concrete footing. The scarred oak floorboards creaked under their feet, and mirrors placed at strategic angles suggested subtle movement at the edges of the shadows. The Roach had been in a number of reputedly haunted structures, and most of them had age and faulty architecture in common. It was another of those contrived truisms of the field: ghosts avoided clean, well-lighted places.

They were heading up the stairs to the second floor when a brittle crash sounded on the landing above. The Roach looked back at Amelia, whose plump face bore a look of childish pleasure.

“Sometimes I don’t know my own power,” she said.

Either that, or the game has already begun.

“I’ll inform the front desk,” hubby said, as if pleased at a chance to escape, lest Amelia’s glare turn him to glass and then shards and slivers.

“Wayne’s going to love you,” The Roach said.

Amelia beamed, though The Roach was sure she’d completely misinterpreted his statement.

Too bad you’re not clairvoyant, because if you could see the future the White Horse demons have in mind, you’d be swallowing that smile.