Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 38

He hadn’t seen Kendra in three hours.

Wayne Wilson splashed cold water on his face, his stomach finally settled enough for hunger to emerge. He cupped his hands and drank from the bathroom sink, watering down the bile. The erratic pulse had given way to the occasional tha-dump of a skipped beat. He winced as he studied his reflection, adjusting the top hat that now felt foolish, as if he were Bugs Bunny pulled out of some magician’s ass. His face was pale but he’d be able to fake it.

“Showtime, Digger,” he said. “It’s a new day.”

Bury the past yet again.

His last clear memory was sitting next to Cristos at the bar and making the decision to go for that third drink. After that, only flashes remained, a jigsaw puzzle of his night he’d never be able to reassemble: the hostess, Violet, waving from across the bar...a Bud Lite commercial featuring Mike Ditka...the cryptic message “Yaz manchoo” scribbled on the wall above the urinal...Kendra taking his boots off...and…

No. Please, God, you didn’t let her see me like that, did you?

And what if Beth had been watching? His encounter with her swirled in with the broken memories of his binge and the shards of frantic dreams, until he couldn’t sort one from the other. But maybe there was no difference.

Wayne changed the batteries in his walkie talkie and pressed the button. “Burton?”

“Aye, Kip-tin,” Burton answered, in a Scottish brogue parody of engineer Scottie from “Star Trek.”

“How’s it looking?”

“Assembling for night hunts.”

“I’ll be in the control room shortly. Over and out.”

“Roger.”

Professional, controlled, relaxed, just the way Wayne had taught him. And everything Wayne wasn’t.

The trip to the door went smoothly. He made it just fine to the stairs, greeting a couple of ghost hunters and smiling as if to say, “Sure, I’ve been around all day, you just haven’t seen me.” His head swam a little as he ascended, but nothing too unmanageable. Based on distant past experience, he’d have pegged his consumption at between a quart and a half gallon. Only his bar tab knew for sure.

He was nearly to the top of the stairs, breathing hard and wobbling, when one of the guests confronted him. He recognized her face but she wasn’t wearing her name badge. Her clothes were rumpled and dirty, as if she’d been ghost-hunting in a basement somewhere. But it was her eyes that got him.

“Where’s the party, Digger?” she said.

“In the control room. We’re gathering for hunts.”

“I don’t need a group.”

He remembered her now. Eloise Lanier, one of the panelists for “What’s My Line?,” a discussion of why some people were more attuned to supernatural and psychic phenomena than others. He made a polite step to one side to indicate he was in a hurry. His throat was already dry despite the glass of water he’d downed. “Well, ma’am, we can’t accommodate solo—”

She shoved him against the railing with enough force to knock his top hat over the side and twenty-five feet down to the landing below. Off balance, he grabbed at the slick oak rail. “Ma’am, if you’re upset—”

Eloise grabbed a fistful of his ruffled shirt and shook him. Even though she outweighed him by a good eighty pounds, he was startled by her strength. “Upset? Why should I be upset?”

He gripped her wrist with both hands, forcing himself to remain gentle despite the pain. “I’m sorry if—”

“I’m not upset, I’m grateful.” Her voice changed and deepened. “Thanks for inviting me to the party.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re having fun,” he said. “But we also hope to get some serious data on the White Horse Inn.”

She leaned her face closer, spittle flying from her broad, dark face as she hissed. “You want answers, Wayne Wilson? Do you really want to know?”

Wayne blinked. Had her eyes flashed yellow or was he still wobbly from the drinking? He couldn’t trust any of his senses, and it made him feel even more lost than before.

He pulled free but she grabbed his wrist as he tried to slip past her.

As her eyes burned into his, he caught a glimpse of a dim, dirty opening and a crumbled carpet of gray and black. Ashes. In the vision, a tiny dot of red sparked to life underneath, then orange-red sparks winked to life.

He reeled against the railing as the hallucination swept over him. Eloise’s grip was like molten iron, and an electric wire of heat stabbed up his arm. The hallucination broadened and the embers burst into flames, images of naked bodies in the flickering bands of red, yellow, white, and blue.

Hell... the gate of hell....

But he didn’t believe in hell. This was someone else’s illusion, a fire-and-brimstone story from a Southern tent revival. Or a bad horror movie. Yet the warmth engulfed his chest and his heart stuttered. He clawed at the searing band around his wrist, his head jangling with more than a hangover.

The vision swelled until he could no longer see the dull white walls of the stairwell. He was surrounded by darkness, and the searing band was now a lasso, tugging him into the roiling pit of burning human forms. The crackle of the flames was like a soft, sibilant whispering, an almost seductive lulling.

“Dance with us, Digger... stay and play.....”

“No,” he said, straining against the lasso. “I don’t see this.”

And just like that, his eyes snapped open, and he was in the stairwell, holding onto the railing and gently swaying. Eloise Lanier stood a couple of steps above him, her brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.

Wayne looked around and reached for the top of his head. His hat was missing. “I’m just a little...late.”

“I heard you were under the weather.” She gave a sweet smile of sympathy.

He looked over the railing. His black top hat lay on the carpet of the first-floor landing, the brim dented from the fall. When he turned his attention back to Eloise, she eased down a step. He fought an urge to back away. This wasn’t the embodiment of evil.

According to the biography she’d sent in for the conference program, Eloise was a public librarian who fancied herself a psychic medium. She probably baked cookies for her grandchildren. If he gave her credit for channeling a vision through him, she’d probably quit her job and start dressing in black gowns and owl feathers.

It was easier to believe he’d gone through a delayed case of delirium tremens, the scientific name for shaking yourself sober.

“I dropped my hat,” he said.

“Good thing your head wasn’t in it.” Her smile remained frozen in place.

Wayne’s walkie talkie crackled and he jerked at the sound. “Come in, Digger,’ came Burton’s voice. “Where are you?”

“On my way.” He eased past Eloise, half expecting her to trip him up. He was nearly at the top when she whispered, “Catch you later, Digger.”

From the third floor, he looked down to see that his hat was gone. Children’s laughter echoed up the stairwell.

I’m going to have a talk with that goddamned manager. But first things first.

Get the night hunts rolling, find Kendra, and get out of this hotel before my brain pickles in its own juice.