Scene Eighteen

I'm by no means a morning person, but never happier to see the light of day again. I scuttle to the lone window and take in the pastoral scene. Lush green grass and deep blue above. No remnants of the storm remain. A quick trip to my bathroom. Baby blues – sparkly. Sorta. Hair – brown and disheveled. No B.O? Check. I head out for some breakfast.

On my way around the corner of the arts room, something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. To my right between the music room and Donna's room sits a narrow corridor. No sconces. Nothing decorative on its walls.

Why haven't I noticed this before?

The sound of heavy breathing stops me as I near the worn oaken door. In and out. I can't tell whether it's on this side of that door or the other. I extend my right hand toward the tarnished brass knob. The breaths grow louder all around me. Something warm pulses on the back of my earlobe. In and out again. It smells like dog's breath. I curl my fingers over the cold metal and wiggle it back and forth. Locked. The presence whooshes by me, blowing the dust from the iron hinges. I push the knot back down my throat and walk out into the main hallway. A low growl turns my head back for one last glance.

Downstairs in the breakfast room, the others nurse and nibble. The masks of misery they all wear speaks volumes. Last night took its toll on everyone.

Emily: "Morning, Sean."

I go to the far counter and fill up a paper plate. "Hey. What's everyone into this morning?"

Doug flicks a finger over the pad on his laptop. "Just scanning through the film footage from last night."

The spirit box sets in two pieces on the table. I take up the chair next to it and dig into my eggs.

Em: "The box is toast."

Jake: "There goes a hundred bucks."

She lowers her head over her plate and sighs. "What would you have done, Jake? Blood! Friggin' blood everywhere in there."

Jake' red hair shakes. "Forget it."

Em: "How can I? This has gone well beyond anything that we've ever done before."

Dylan makes a clicking noise and aims his finger gun at Emily. "Got that right."

Doug: "The phenomena happening here are some of the most intense I've experience in my fifteen years at it."

Doug's brown stare scans the computer screen, his brows crunched up in frustration. "Torture, hauntings, possessions? I'm still wondering why this place has never made it onto a hot list for activity."

Dylan shrugs his pudgy shoulders. "A lot of these places that have real nasty occurrences don't get reported."

Jake's face does his talking for him: Really?

Dylan: "If you were an upstanding socialite that thought he was being haunted, would you go blabbing to your power-playing pals in town?"

Jake's face sags in surrender.

Dylan: "Didn't think so."

Benson comes over into the conversation, leaning up against the wall behind Doug. "In some cases, these forces lie dormant for a long time."

Doug: "True. If there's no energy to feed the entities, then the activity will cease."

Jake lets out a belch and heads for the coffee. "If that's true, then who's been feeding them up until now?"

"Hmm." Doug manipulates his laptop's interface. "The deed chain we researched has the last known occupants as Lyle and Margaret Speese."

Dylan licks the frosting from a finger. "How long ago was that, boss?"

Doug: "1992."

Jake takes his next round of joe and moves behind Doug. "Twenty-five years?"

I join the trio at the computer. "Does it say why they sold?"

Doug shakes his head. "Only owned this place for seven months by the look of it." He opens another file and scrolls through its contents. "They took out a business license with the county and state to open a Bed and Breakfast."

Donna ties her black mane up in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. "Aw. This place would've been an awesome B&B."

Dougie shrinks the business paperwork and enlarges the deed chain. "Before them, one year. Before that – two months, then three, and then another one for thirteen."

Patty looks up from her three-ring binder. "It sounds like this property has had a history of running its tenants off."

Doug: "It's just bizarre."

I down the last swig of my O.J. and set the cup on my empty plate. "Speaking of bizarre, has anyone been in, or seen a key for, the attic?"

Several wagging heads.

Jake: "Nope."

Em: "Not me."

Dylan: "Nada, amigo."

Doug: "Is something up there?"

That's a dumbass question, Doug. I shrug and smile. "Maybe. Just wanted to snoop around, I guess."

Dylan glances up from the computer screen. "If you do find it, let me know. I'd love to do some snooping with ya."

"No problem." I wander off in the direction of fountain at the foot of the stairs. Marble and ivory. This guy had money all right.

If I were a secretive key, where would I hide?

My eyes come to rest on the Study. "Bingo."

Inside the cozy chamber are a small writing bureau, a few chairs, and a large bookshelf crammed with green volumes. Legal books, maybe. They have no markings on their spines. The desk's long drawer seems so old and frail. I don't wanna break it, but it's the most logical place to start.

"Here goes nothing."

Its sides whine and groan, but the shallow drawer slides out. Inside – another green book and some loose papers, but no key.

"Crap."

I set the book on the desk and crack it open. A leger. Line after line of itemized expenses, bills, and payments for stuff. My right index finger traces over the faded strokes. The scent of coal burning. Billowing steam and excited patrons. The hiss of locomotive pistons jar me.

"No sense in burning more daylight in here."

The office next door mocks me with another desk. This one's much larger and more elegant. Dark wood, sharp corners, and dynamic curves. Must have been hand-crafted. Its drawer, too, has nothing to offer me in terms of attic access.

"Whoa, shit!"

I look up, my gaze searching. Nothing.

"I know I just heard a baby crying--"

More faint whimpers.

Where are you coming from? I slide around the nearest corner and let my ears take center stage. The baby's crying intensifies. My right ear hones in on the far wall. Whatever's going on is happening behind that wall.

"Keep talking."

As I approach, the high-pitched whir of a saw or drill joins the baby's shrieks.

"The dream."

I lean my ear to the wall and knock. Hollow. My hands run across the smooth wall searching for a crease or a—

"Damn it." The sconce to my left tilts away from me toward the floor. "I'll pay to replace that."

A section of the home's structure pops free and folds inward. More buzzing and terrified screams. Pungent staleness. The wooden slats in the daylight wear a thin coat of dust and broken cobwebs. The rest remains in the comfortable anonymity of darkness. No light in my pockets. No candles nearby.

The poor kid. "Okay. Fine. I'm coming."

The secret door swings aside. I stumble into the dark unarmed and without a light. Jesus, Sean. I hope you know what you're doing. I stretch out both arms until I can feel either wall. Cool timber and silky web. Bit by bit, my sneakers shuffle forward.

"What the?"

Something small and hard in front of my right foot. Please, don't be a head. The infant wails as if the madman's instrument of torture has invaded. Those cries! Like scraping your fork across your plate.

Little unseen legs scurry over the ends of my left fingers. "Holy fuck!" I flick them at the floor.

Wet gargles choke the baby's cries. A few steps later, its tantrum ceases.

"Not goo – ood!"

The floor disappears from under me. I stumble forward down three wooden stairs, scraping a knee in the process. My right shoulder takes a bruising against the curved wall, too. I gather myself and use my right hand to guide me down the spiraling steps. As I reach the bottom, the whirring stops. Glowing rectangular lines about thirty feet ahead.

My hands search the dark for the walls, and when they find them I make my move. A known odor hits my senses. Chlorine?

"Where the hell am I?"

Churning waters. My hand finds the beam of wood on the door and I pull it open. Even the dim light in this changing room punishes my eyesight.

I close the passageway behind me and go out poolside. It's taken me down into the basement, but why? Did Henry dissect babies in that passage? Emptying out near the pool doesn't make sense. The others have gotta know. My heart's beating out of my throat as I bound up the steps in pairs. No! Not everyone. Just Doug, for now.

A trot down the hallway into the foyer and I'm soon back in the breakfast room with the others.

Dylan's still tinkering on the laptop. "Any luck, pard?"

My breaths still come in spasms. "Wh-where's Doug?"

He pokes a fat finger back toward the Kitchen. I nod my gratitude and blow out in a blur. I nearly bowl over him as he returns to the table in the nook area.

Doug: "Easy, man."

I step back, hands raised. "Sorry."

He flops into a seat behind an open notebook. "You find that key?"

I rest my hands on the table's edge. "No, but I found something way more interesting."