C.H.A.R.O.N., page 6
Brent nodded, peering in vain at the spot that held Travis’s attention.
“There’s a heap of maggots that are the size of a man’s head, and they’re moving.”
“Travis—”
“Ghost maggots. Or whatever you want to call them. They look plenty real to me, and I can sense that they’re a manifestation.” Travis still sounded sick. “If Kendall saw them without any warning, I can believe they looked and felt real to him.”
“That’s not normal. Maggots are gross, but they don’t usually attack people.”
Travis shrugged, looking like he had gotten past the danger of losing his lunch. “If they swarmed, I imagine it would feel like an attack. We don’t know what other senses they triggered. Doc Medved said Kendall had circulation problems, so maybe he was afraid of losing a foot or having it go gangrenous.”
“Psychic maggots?”
“I don’t think they’re regular ghosts, and they’re not the demonic sort we fought in Cooper City.” Travis backed up to a careful distance. “Maybe his fears gave the energy its form.”
“Then why are they still in that shape? That’s not my fear—or yours,” Brent asked.
Travis frowned as he studied the image only he could see. “Curious. Maybe once it’s called into its shape, it remains until being dispelled. Or maybe that particular shape is an echo of something from long ago just waiting to be given form.”
“What does that?”
“I don’t know—yet. But I’m going to find out.” Travis sighed. “We’d better get rid of it in case anyone else can see it.”
He pulled out a canister of salt from beneath his rain slicker while Brent leveled his shotgun loaded with salt rounds in the general direction.
“If you want me to shoot, point at what I’m supposed to hit since I can’t see it,” Brent told him.
This time, Travis didn’t bother with banishment. He launched right into the exorcism and doused the ghost maggots with a generous spray of salt.
Brent heard something that sounded like a combination of hissing snakes and buzzing cicadas an instant before the writhing mass of undead maggots became visible. He held his fire, fearing that blasting the heap apart might cause worse problems.
“Keep going! I think it’s hurting them!” he yelled to Travis.
Travis kept chanting, and the hiss-buzz rose to a deafening level as the heaving ball of larvae expanded and contracted. This time, Brent fired, hoping the salt would weaken the building spectral energy.
The sound of the blast reverberated, and the shell hit the center of the maggot ball, vaporizing those with direct contact and launching a spray of undead slugs into the air to fall in wriggling gobbets as Travis finished the ritual.
“Audi nos!”
With the last words of the rite, the manifestation vanished. Travis and Brent couldn’t stop themselves from frantically brushing off their clothing and patting down their arms and legs, assuring that none of the creatures remained.
“Holy shit,” Brent muttered. “At least we didn’t try to chop ourselves up.”
“We knew the maggots weren’t real. We didn’t fully believe in them, so they couldn’t hurt us,” Travis replied with an expression that suggested he was filing that detail away for further examination.
“We’ve got company,” Brent warned.
“What the hell is going on?” A slender, gray-haired man wearing a feed store employee vest strode toward them. His name tag read “Tom.”
Brent turned slightly so that the large lettering on the back proclaiming “Sheriff” was plainly visible.
“Sheriff Calabrese sent us out to take a look at where the death occurred,” Travis said smoothly, with a conciliatory smile. “We’re investigators from Pittsburgh. A raccoon charged us and looked rabid, so my partner shot at it. Can’t be too careful.”
Tom stared into the scrub. “Did you scare it off?”
“Yeah,” Brent replied. “It won’t be back.” He crossed his fingers, hoping that was true.
“That’s good,” Tom allowed, no longer eyeing them with suspicion. “But you gave us a start when we heard the shot. Been too many strange things going on around here.”
“Were you working the night Zeke Kendall died?” Travis asked.
The man nodded. “Yeah. Worked with him all evening. Zeke didn’t seem any different than he ever was—until he cut himself up. I can’t imagine what made him do it.” He shivered, and Brent didn’t think the revulsion was faked.
“Are you from South Fork?” Travis asked and got a nod in reply. “What happened to Zeke—does it remind you of anything that might have happened in the past?”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking about One-leg John, ain’t you?”
Travis shrugged. “Tell us, please.”
The feed store man glanced back toward the building, but no one seemed to care he’d walked off the job. He swiped a hand across his mouth in a nervous gesture. “I don’t think the younger folk have heard the story, but my grandpa used to tell us when we sat around the campfire. Wanted to scare the bejeezus out of us, most likely.”
He cleared his throat. “After the war, ol’ John came home not quite right in the head, if you take my meaning. Shell shock, or whatever they call it these days. Took a lot of shrapnel to his legs, but they managed to patch him up. Or so they thought.”
Tom gave them a crafty look. “One night, John was fidgety. Couldn’t seem to keep his mind on anything, jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof. One of the guys working with him said there was a real bad smell coming off him, and it got worse as the night went on. Then round about closing time, John lost it. He started jumping up and down and screaming, and he grabbed a hunting knife when he ran out of the building.”
Brent could tell Tom was working up to the big finale. He wondered whether the story had faded from popular knowledge before Calabrese’s time.
“Of course, everyone followed him, wondering what’s going on. He was still dancing around and shouting, and then he started slicing up his bad leg with that knife. A couple of the guys ran up to try to stop him, but the smell was even worse.” Tom looked like he was enjoying his salacious tale.
“When he cut into his leg, it had gone rotten. That’s why it stank so bad. They said that pus and maggots poured out. John kept slicing, cut into the bone, and finally got an artery. Bled out right on the spot. Folks said that when they opened him up at the hospital, he was full of worms.” Tom stood back, awaiting their reaction.
“When was this?” Brent asked.
“Maybe 1946, not long after the boys came home from overseas,” Tom replied. “Before my time. Like I said—younger folk might not know the story, but it sure made an impression on my grandad.”
“Thank you,” Travis said. “That helps a lot.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, there’s no telling what suits folks. Just don’t be shooting off guns in the lot.”
“I think we’re done,” Travis assured him. Tom gave him a nod and headed back to the store. Brent salted the area around where the ghost maggots had turned up, just in case, although the steady rain would sluice away the granules soon enough.
They shook the water off as best they could before getting back into the Crown Vic.
“What did you make of all that?” Brent asked as Travis pulled out of the lot and headed for the next site.
“I think there’s a connection between One-leg John and what happened to Kendall. It’s too much of a coincidence,” Travis replied.
“If Tom’s memory is correct, John died almost seventy years ago,” Brent pointed out. “Why wait until now for a re-run?”
“Maybe Kendall wasn’t the only one to die like this. Given what seems to pass for ‘normal’ here, maybe the other occurrences got lost among all the general crazy.” Travis stopped at the town’s single traffic light and waited for a few cars to go through the intersection.
“You think we’re going to find something similar with Becca and Rick? Or other events in town history?” Brent suspected as much, but he wanted confirmation.
“Maybe. We need to test the hypothesis. I’m curious to see what the librarian can find when we finish,” Travis said.
Brent expected the diner to be busy, given that it was mid-afternoon, but the rain seemed to have kept most people at home. They found a parking space to one side of the lot and walked over to the spot the sheriff had reported finding the body.
“We might drown by the time we’re through,” Brent grumbled as cold rain trickled under his collar despite the coat.
“Doubt we’d be that lucky,” Travis replied, looking cold and miserable.
They walked around the area where Becca had died. “I don’t know what we’re looking for,” Brent admitted.
“Guess we’ll know it when we see it.”
Fifteen minutes of fruitless searching later, Brent swore under his breath. The damp cold made him shiver and darkened his mood. He concentrated, trying to sense dark energies, but did not feel the dangerous shadows he had at the feed store or near the road.
Travis’s outcry brought Brent running. “What’s the matter? What do you see?” Brent prodded, gripping Travis by the shoulders as his partner sank to his haunches. Tremors ran through Travis’s form, and his unfocused gaze stared into the distance.
“Knives,” Travis mumbled. “Sharp. So much blood. He keeps on stabbing…”
Brent knew from experience that he could do little when Travis was gripped by a vision except to protect him and wait it out. Neither salt nor exorcism would make a difference since the vision wasn’t imposed by an outside spirit and couldn’t be banished. This was Travis’s mind and part of his psychic gift, an ability to catch snippets in time and witness things past, present, or future that he would otherwise have no way to know.
Travis’s gaze tracked something only he could see. “Thank you,” he murmured before he slumped forward.
When Travis relaxed, Brent knew the vision had passed. “Come on.” He helped Travis stand. “Let’s get some hot coffee—and pie. The investigation can wait long enough for you to get your feet under you again.”
“I’m fine,” Travis protested, although his pallor and wide eyes betrayed the lie.
“Well, I’m hungry and cold—and I want to go inside.” Brent knew Travis would turn down taking a break on his account but wouldn’t force Brent to be uncomfortable.
Travis gave in and followed Brent inside. The diner had a soda fountain vibe, with Formica-topped chrome-trimmed tables, red swivel seats at the counter, and a tile floor. Brent nudged Travis toward the counter, focused more on getting him to consume sugar and caffeine than nabbing a private place to talk.
Once they ordered—coffee for both, cherry pie for Travis, and apple for Brent—he bumped elbows with his friend. “Better?”
Travis grunted. “Pie helps. Thanks.”
Since Travis polished off dessert in record time and downed a couple of cups of java, Brent felt reassured that the shock of the vision hadn’t caused lasting damage. They paid the bill and retreated to the Crown Vic, where Brent held out his hand for the keys.
“I’m fine,” Travis protested.
“I’m sure you are,” Brent lied. “But it’s okay to give yourself some time to bounce back. We don’t have far to go—just over to Rick’s trailer. Take a minute and rest. We’ll need your mojo at full strength if anything happens.”
Travis gave in with a glare that wasn’t quite as menacing as he might have intended. Brent could tell Travis hadn’t pulled himself together yet and stayed silent during the drive so Travis could rest or meditate.
“A woman was stabbed in that parking lot,” Travis said finally. “Multiple times—the attack was savage. Personal. I saw her ghost, and she linked me to the memory like a record on repeat. The killer knew her—ex-boyfriend or husband. He was furious. She didn’t stand a chance,” he added, choking up.
“There were other women killed in that lot over the years—it makes sense, doesn’t it? All-night diner, waitress comes off the evening shift, no one’s around. Perfect place for an ambush. I’m betting that they all knew their killers. I think what I saw is important, and I believe it’s a clue.”
“But Becca wasn’t killed by an old flame,” Brent countered. “The witnesses said no one was around.”
“Maybe enough evil stained the energy there that, with the right circumstances, it took on a life of its own,” Travis replied.
Brent nodded. “Well, that’s terrifying. How the hell do we fight that?“
Travis shook his head. “We don’t know everything yet. Maybe we’ll find something at the next stop that helps us pull everything together.”
Calabrese had entrusted them with the key to Rick’s trailer since the official crime scene had been released. Brent couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding as they drove back the lane. He had learned to take his gut feelings seriously—doing so had saved his life more times than he could count.
“Guess he liked his privacy,” Travis observed as they parked in the driveway, turning around so they could leave fast if the need arose.
“Pretty spot,” Brent replied, taking in the woods that surrounded the trailer. “Maybe Rick just liked nature.”
“Grab the shotgun and iron. I can’t see what’s here, but I can damn well feel it,” Travis said, reaching for salt, holy water, and a piece of rebar.
Crime scene tape fluttered in the wind. Brent could enjoy solitude as much as anyone, but the area around the trailer felt unnaturally silent as if everything around them was holding its breath.
“Let’s save going inside for last,” Travis said. “Don’t want to get trapped in there.”
Brent nodded, glad they were thinking the same thing. “He got badly hurt out here—that’s where the bad juju should be.”
Brent made a mental note to ask Travis why the spirits of the recent murder victims hadn’t stuck around, but the entities that killed them persisted. Something is definitely fucked up around here, and if we don’t figure it out, there’ll be more bodies to bury.
Travis and Brent moved warily, doing a sweep of the small grassy area in front of Rick’s old travel trailer. The rain hadn’t let up; still a steady drizzle. A security light on a telephone pole glowed thanks to the solid cloud cover.
The trailer looked well-maintained despite its age. So did the worn pickup truck parked nearby, a vehicle Rick might never be able to drive again. Bushes and plants along the front of the trailer suggested permanence. In the back, Brent saw the remnants of a small vegetable garden. Whatever had brought Rick out here to the woods, he seemed to have found stability and made a home, and it angered Brent that the attack had stolen those away.
“Got colder,” Travis warned, and Brent realized he could see his breath. Frost spread across the wet grass, and just near the trailer, the rain turned to sleet.
Brent caught a glimpse of a gray figure taking shape. He raised his shotgun and fired, figuring that each volley weakened the ghost.
Travis laid down a circle of rope that had been soaked in salt and colloidal silver, the only way they could protect themselves on wet ground. The warded area was large enough for both of them, and Brent stepped inside, in no hurry to be thrown around again.
“Next time, let the ghost form,” Travis told him. “Let’s get a look at Hammer Guy.”
“As long as he keeps his distance,” Brent muttered. “We don’t know how strong he is.”
Travis closed his eyes, and Brent knew his partner wasn’t waiting for the ghost to make an appearance—he was calling to the spirit, inviting it to show itself.
“We’ve got company,” Brent said quietly.
The ghost appeared about six feet away and gradually grew more solid. The grizzled old man matched Tim’s description, looking like what Brent had seen on TV as a “miner forty-niner,” complete with suspenders, wide-brimmed hat, and a wild beard. The spirit’s eyes held malice, and there was no missing the sledgehammer he held in one hand.
“We can send you to your rest,” Travis told the spirit. “You can move on.”
The specter’s form shuddered, and suddenly he stood just outside the salt circle.
“Watch out!” Brent shouted, trading a blast of the shotgun for the ghost’s swing of his deadly hammer as he pulled Travis into a crouch. He felt the swish of air as the hammer sailed over their heads, and the apparition vanished.
“How the hell—” he started, wondering how the revenant managed to swing his hammer into what should have been warded space.
“Not the usual ghost—maybe not a ghost at all. I don’t think it’s a demon, either. Some kind of spirit creature?” Travis replied in a grim tone. “He’ll be back.”
“Plan B?” Brent asked.
Travis gave a curt nod.
Brent kept the shotgun close at hand, but they knew now that this spirit was too strong to be dispelled by mere salt. He pulled out a hand-held flamethrower from the gear bag and stood ready as Travis launched into the exorcism. Fire worked on many supernatural creatures, and whatever this was, it manifested solidly enough to harm the living.
The miner’s spirit creature wasn’t a demon. But a second before the apparition appeared again, Brent swore he heard Danny scream a warning in his mind.
Travis’s cadence never faltered, even as Brent loosed a torrent of flame at the spirit and trapped it within the fire. “Hurry! This thing has a small tank.” He mentally counted the seconds the gas canister would last.
Travis didn’t react, but he picked up the pace of the ritual as the miner’s spirit writhed, engulfed by flames.
“It’s working,” Brent said as the edges of the ghost began to burn like charred paper.
Brent knew the ritual by heart. Travis was nearly done, and the creature had started to fade. Only a few more lines.
The flamethrower died.
Brent ducked as the hammer swung once more. He pushed Travis out of the way, turning so that the impact hit his gear bag instead of his shoulder. The force of the blow still drove him to his knees, and he knew he would be bruised. Better than a broken arm.
