Rhayven House (16 page)

     Bile rose in his throat when the image of the woman blowing him floated to the forefront of his mind. He breathed slowly in, telling himself to calm down.
Breathe out and get a hold of yourself. If you don’t, you’ll either end up passing out or puking on yourself.

     Think about it.

     Couldn’t have been real.

     A nightmare.

     Yes, that made sense. He talked himself into that explanation. It was either that or admit he might be crazy or living in a haunted house. Sure, he believed in ghosts and the paranormal. After all, he made a living out of writing those kinds of stories, and he’d had a few experiences through the years, but he didn’t want to face the option of living alone in a house with a horny ghost.

     Made more sense than waking up and discovering he was being molested by a dead, dry-rotted woman.

     All the creepy little things in the house, had caused his mind to form that dream, and he got caught in a nightmare. His mind used creepy things as ammunition and summoned up that hag. He must have thought he’d woken up, but it was a false awakening. He’d been in another dream, a nightmare. Simple explanation and it made perfect sense to him.

     Still, he felt like he needed a shower and a drink, not necessarily in that order. A drink, then a shower, and then another drink. And a smoke. Maybe another shower. Or a bath. With bleach.

     He wanted a damned cigarette first, and he went on search of his pack and his lighter.

     He couldn't believe he hadn't awakened Toby with all his yelling, unless he hadn't been yelling as loud as he'd thought. Ian went downstairs as quietly as he could.

     Out on the back porch, cigarette in hand, his thoughts returned to the nightmare. Ian had to laugh. It seemed pretty real when he was trying his best to get the hell away from her. He was a writer, for the love of all that’s holy; he should be used to his mind dreaming up such sick stuff. Maybe he could use it in a book.

     He tried to find the moon, but clouds must have been covering it, because it was as black as…well, as black as night out there.

     Ian exhaled a long line of smoke and watched it swirl away from the porch light, out of his line of sight, and into the darkness. Then he flicked the ash into the glass ashtray he kept outside. Taking another drag, he thought about how he could spin his waking nightmare into the manuscript he was currently working on. Working it into the vampire story wouldn’t take too much effort. He hoped he could do it justice putting it into words, to properly capture how vivid it was. When they were reading a horror story, scenes like that turned the reader on, and Ian had to admit, he liked those kinds of scenes, too.

     Satisfied readers talked about books they liked. Word of mouth was the best publicity and led to good sales. And publishers loved good sales. So did his bank account; it was in need of a little resuscitation itself, after he’d pumped so much into this house. He wasn’t poor; there was just less than what he was comfortable having in savings in his account.

     But that laugh. Even though he’d convinced himself it wasn’t real, it still tormented him. The sheer demented delight in that laugh; he didn’t know if he could describe it in words.

     Then he looked down; it suddenly dawned on him: he stood on his back porch, nonchalantly smoking, completely naked. He'd only been living in the house for a few weeks and it wasn't quite autumn yet, but the night air was cool enough to give him goose bumps and make him shiver.

     And then he busted up laughing.

     The whole scenario was just wrong, so fucked up, but if he didn’t laugh, then surely he’d eventually crack under the strain of the deranged bitch.

     Good thing there weren’t any neighbors to see him standing outside in his birthday suit—but there might have been an animal out in the woods staring at him. Maybe some of those mantises masquerading as flowers.

     What if there were ghosts out there on the lawn slow dancing with the moon? Only in his wildest dreams.

    
Only the moon, the stars, and me.

     Ian took a final drag, stubbed out the butt, and went in search of that drink before he headed upstairs to the shower.

~ ~ ~

     After he dried off and dressed, Ian thought about waking up Toby and filling him in on what had happened.

     The moment—as disgusting and disturbing as it had been—was passed. Toby wouldn't be able to see or hear any of the experience for himself, and Ian didn't feel like reliving it yet; so he decided he'd wait until later in the morning when they both got up to share it with his friend. He half-wished Toby would see the spirit of the woman.

     He still half-anticipated the ghost putting in an appearance every time he got in the shower. Even though she didn't always do so, the fluttering in his stomach started whenever he stepped in and turned on the water. He hung the towel on the hook and got dressed, wondering if it was worth it to go back to bed. The weird-ass dreams—some of them full-blown nightmares—were making him gun-shy about going to bed.

     Toby said he had a lot of balls for staying in the house, but Ian found himself feeling more and more like it was all an illusion of bravado, more than actual testicular fortitude.

     Piano music filled the room. Not ethereal and seductive or playful as before. Violent in intent, almost chaotic in nature—deliberate chaos.

     Pounding and pounding of the keys, producing frightening notes. It nearly forced Ian to cover his ears. He waited for Toby to wake up and come running down the stairs, demanding to know what the hell was going on and why.

     Almost like a whisper, the answer came to Ian and he said it aloud.

     György Ligeti.
L'escalier du diable—The Devil's Staircase.

     And how did he know that? Ian wondered. Classical style music had never been a favorite. And that sure sounded like it was an obscure title.

     After a handful of minutes, the cacophony petered out into an echoing dirge and then came to an end.

     Silence reigned once more.

    
Wait a minute.
He froze in mid-stride. Ligeti's piece was written in the last twenty-five or thirty years. How did a spirit—one who'd supposedly been inhabiting a house which had allegedly been abandoned for five or six decades—happen to know the music written so recently?

     Ian wondered how he even knew it and about the source of this information.

~ ~ ~

     “Have you really not had anything else happen to you since you've been here?” Ian asked his friend the next morning—it was after eleven but it was still technically morning. “Not a single thing? Not even the pounding piano music last night?”

     Shrugging his shoulders, Toby grimaced. “I haven't.  And I didn't. Seriously. No seeing, no hearing. Just the fire creature. I've had some wicked-ass dreams though, but that's not evidence of anything, just my mind being all convoluted.”

    
Dreams?
Ian had had some pretty wicked dreams himself and wanted to ask Toby to describe some of the things he'd dreamed. If they were anything like Ian's, they were probably on the embarrassing side and what happened in then was better left unmentioned.

     Clearing his throat, Ian let seconds lapse and then said, “If something in your dreams bothers you or you find they—your dreams, nightmares—are influencing your waking moments...” He let his voice trail off because he wondered how much sense he was making and he didn't want to confuse his friend.

     “Gotcha. Will do,” Toby said, his head still turned away. “Don't worry. I have a good head on my shoulders. It will take more than her mind fucks to send me over the edge into the abyss of insanity.”

     “That's a good line,” Ian said.

     Ian wondered if his friend had been plagued by nightmares similar to his, and he hoped Toby would confide in him if that was the case.

     Changing the subject, Toby asked, “Did you put up the covers of your books? I haven't seen them yet.”

     “Still packed away in a box somewhere,” Ian said. “I'm thinking I want them in the library, with the
Dogs Playing Poker.
”

     Standing in the doorway to the living room, Toby laughed. “You're the only person I know who would frame an M&Ms ad where they're dressed like the
Addams Family
, and hang it above a mini collection of Ganesh statues. Could that be considered sacrilege?”              

     Looking over and seeing both the statues and the framed ad, Ian felt more comfortable, felt like the house truly was finally becoming his home—and he was not an unwanted squatter.

     “Keep your eye out for the one where they're dressed like the members of KISS,” Ian said. “It should be in a frame matching that one. I know I packed it and I double checked the townhouse, but it has apparently evaporated or something because I can't find it anywhere.”

     “Pal, you can buy another ad online if yours doesn't turn up,” Toby said as he scratched his stomach.

     “That's attractive,” Ian said.

     Toby ignored the comment. “Did you make breakfast yet?”

     “Not yet.” Ian looked at the clock. “It's closer to lunch anyway. You want to ride into town with me and get something?”

     “Not really. I'm still half asleep.” Toby stifled a yawn as if to prove the point. “And by the time we get dressed and get into town, it'll be closer to one.”

     “We can manage something good. There are waffles and pancakes in the freezer,” Ian said. “And I can make a pretty mean breakfast scramble.”

     “Sounds good to me. You're better than me at the fixing of food.”

     “I know,” Ian said as he got up. “The last time you attempted to cook something, you ended up summoning a demon.”

     Flipping Ian the bird, Toby yawned again. “You can’t let this whole ghost thing get the better of you.”

     “What makes you think I am?” Ian asked.

     “Give yourself the power in this situation you got going on here with the ghost.” Toby looked at him like he should understand. For example, you need to think of yourself as the
Glaucus atlanticus
, that cute little blue sea slug. Some people call it the blue angel or blue demon. You know the one?”

     Ian nodded.

     “Well, that beautiful little creature has a pretty painful and possibly dangerous sting. I’ve given this some thought. Follow me here.” Toby rubbed his eyes and stifled another yawn before continuing. “The inch long angel or dragon or whatever you want to call it makes meals out of larger venomous creatures, swallowing their venomous nematocysts and storing them in its feather-like appendages to use as weapons. Pal, be like the blue sea slug.”

     “And all that means?” Ian queried with a raised eyebrow.

     “Be the predator instead of the prey.”

     “Gotcha! While we eat, I want to talk to you about an idea I have,” Ian said.

     His friend looked at him. “Does this idea involve an old priest and a young priest?”

     “Maybe if one of the priests is Dolph Lundgren.”

Seventeen

     “Séance?”

    Ian had finally told his friend he wanted to conduct one with him and attempt to contact the spirit of the woman who was trapped the house and haunted it. Toby wasn't feeling it.

     “We'll do it in what's going to be the dining room where I have the table I got downtown,” Ian said as he lead his friend to the assigned room.

     “This can’t be the brightest idea you ever had,” Toby said, giving Ian the eyeball. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

     “Nope, not sure at all; we'll give it the old college try and see what we get.” Ian busied himself with placing the candles where he wanted them.

     “You need prayer or therapy.” Toby cocked his head to the side and said, “There could possibly be something wrong with your line of thought.”

     After a few minutes, Ian stood back and surveyed the layout of the candles on the table. He wanted to make sure the arrangement was right, just as Belle and his research suggested. “Communication is the key, my friend. We need to get in communication with her. Hopefully she will speak to us and tell us her story and maybe we can convince her to warn us when she's feeling crazy.”

     “And you really think summoning a spirit and having a nice chat with it is going to make it knock off the creepy shit?”

     “Unless you have any other suggestions. I think this is a viable option. You can talk to spirits. Haven't you ever heard of the Greenbrier Ghost? Happened right over in West Virginia in January 1897, I believe it was.

     “Elva Zona Heaster was the name of the victim. Found dead in her house, her husband carried her upstairs to the bedroom, bathed and dressed her, and put her to bed. The official cause of death was listed as 'everlasting faint'—later changed to childbirth because, although it's not known if she was pregnant, the doctor said he had been treating her for 'female troubles' in the weeks prior to her death.

     “Anyway, she was buried and then about four weeks later, over the course of four nights, Elva's spirit visited her mother, describing what her life had been like with an abusive husband, and telling her mother she had been murdered by her husband.”

     “What happened then?” Toby asked.

     Ian continued telling the story. “Her mother went to the prosecutor, and whether or not he believed her, he had Elva's body exhumed and autopsied. The original doctor admitted he hadn't examined the body as close as he should have, due to the grand mourning behavior exhibited by Elva's husband. The autopsy showed her neck had been broken. It was enough to charge her husband and put him on trial.

     “He was found guilty in a trial that is said to be the only documented case in which testimony from a ghost was included as evidence to convict someone.”

     “Was he sentenced to jail for the rest of his life for her murder?”

     “He was locked up in the State Penitentiary in Moundsville—which is an allegedly haunted site in its own right—and ended up succumbing to an unknown epidemic sometime in 1900. He's supposed to have been buried in an unmarked grave in the local cemetery.

     “Given that, I don't think it's at all odd to think I can communicate with this spirit, if she wants help,” Ian said in defense of his séance idea.

     “Sometimes you're so scientific in your approach and other times you're bat shit crazy, pal.” Toby grinned at him. “Maybe we can ask her if the Sphinx really did originally have the head of a jackal in honor of the god Anubis and exactly how old it is. Oh, and if there really is a second Sphinx, where is its location. And if there really was an alien presence and influence in ancient Egypt or in the civilization which predated it—like in all those strange History Channel documentaries you told me to watch. There's so much I want to ask her.”

     “I doubt she will have that information,” Ian said. “It’s a little before her time.”

     Toby stared at Ian and said, “She might have ways of finding out. You never know.”

     “Stop looking at me with those baleful basilisk eyes or I’m locking you out of the house,” Ian threatened.

     “Wow, that's a new one. I've never been told I have baleful basilisk eyes. I'm not sure what baleful means, but I have somewhat of an idea what a basilisk is,” Toby said as he lit a match and watched it burn down, “and I don't know whether I should be flattered or offended.”             

     “Take it as a compliment. Stop,” Ian said and took the matches. “I'd rather you not burn my house down, firebug.”

     “Speaking as the man who's going to light nine hundred candles in a concerted effort to summon a spirit.”

     “Nine hundred is an exaggeration. Maybe ten or twelve.” Ian continued to set the stage. “From the stuff I've read online, which, incidentally, jives with what Belle told me, it has a lot to do with the flames. I suppose the flames are sources of power and the light attracts the souls, luring them in.”

     “Under the light of a full moon.” Toby rubbed the side of his face. “You think the werewolves will seize the opportunity and attack?'

     Ian just shook his head and continued what he was doing. “And yet you think I'm nuts.”

     “We all get a little nuts sometimes.”

     “Paraphrasing Norman Bates isn't the best way to cement the concept of your sanity, you know. I think it makes me doubt it even more.”

     “Very true. Back to this séance.”

     “Death comes to us all, my friend. Each one of us spends our life dying, but death is not the end; it's only the beginning if you follow a certain existential thought.”

     “Existence precedes essence,” Toby acknowledged.

     “And what better way to converse across the veil than a séance?” Ian pointed to the chair. “Just sit there and be quiet. We're going to start in a minute, as soon as I get all the candles lit and the lights turned down.”

     “Why do you have to turn the lights off?”

     “Didn't I just say sit there and be quiet?”

     Toby mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key. Then he grinned at Ian.

     “I'll be here until tomorrow night lighting these, if I have to use matches. I think my lighter's in the kitchen. I'll be back.”

     Once he retrieved the lighter, the process sped up considerably and soon they were seated on opposite sides of the table.

     Ian reached to the center of the table with both hands, palm side up, and told Toby to place his hands on top palm side down.

     “How romantic. You set all this up just to hold my hand. You going to read me some poetry?”

     “Be serious. Concentrate,” Ian ordered.

     Toby squeezed his eyes shut. “I'm concentrating. I swear.”

     “Lady of the house, we ask you to make yourself known to us,” Ian said. “We come in peace, to speak with you.” Ian began to whisper, the words coming to him so rapidly it was difficult to give voice to them.

     “What are you saying?” Toby asked.

     Ian merely squeezed his hand in reply. The quick whispering continued.

     And then, as suddenly as he started, Ian stopped.

     They waited.

     “Can you give us a sign if you are here with us?” Ian asked.

     Nothing happened.

     The flame on the red stone candle fluttered out as if a whisper had blown it out, and then it leaped back into existence, rising high into the air.

     “Holy shit,” Toby said.

     Ian shushed him. “Was that a sign from you?” he asked the woman as he looked around the room.

     The candle flames swayed and dipped in an almost rhythmic, serpentine fashion; it made Ian think of Morse Code. His eyes looked from flame to flame to flame. He knew Toby did the same.

     “You asked for a sign,” Toby whispered. “Twice. And you got it.”

    
She'd heard him
, Ian thought.
And she'd signaled her presence
.

     “Does it make me less than a man to acknowledge I'm more than a little scared?” Toby said.

     “This is amazing,” Ian said to Toby. And then to the spirit, he said, “I would like to ask you a few questions, to get to know you better.”

    
Suspiria de profundis.

     Sweet and sad, the voice came from nowhere specifically but from everywhere at once—manifesting in his mind. Ian looked to see if Toby heard it as well. Toby's wide eyes told Ian his friend heard it loud and clear.

    
You are a dove amongst ravens, child
.

     “Riddles?” Toby said, his hand gripping Ian's. “Are we supposed to decipher this?”

     Her laugh filled his ears, dark and bordering on madness.
Memorial suspiria—an eternal imprisonment.

    
Confusion crept into Ian, wrapping around him. The Latin phrases were easy enough to translate, even with his rudimentary understanding, but what she meant by them escaped him and she didn't seem to want to provide further explanation.

    
Punished for perceived sins.

     “I don't understand.”

    
You will never understand.

     Screams—ululant, agonized wails—came like the wind and whipped through the dining room as she lost her grip again and insanity bled through. Shrill crying interspersed with shrieking bounced off the walls and slowly faded away. The only sound breaking the silence was the quick, jagged breathing of the two men.

     “Whoa. Just whoa. She dropped off the deep end real quick,” Toby said.             

     Ian opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the spectacle in front of him.

     Flames hissed and contracted until they looked like white-blue flames from an oxy-acetylene
welder and began melting the candles so rapidly the wax ran like white streams across the table and flooding over the edges. Both Ian and Toby immediately pushed their chairs back from the table. The wax cooled as it ran over the table edges. The remains of the virginal white pillars Ian had bought from Belle’s Books and Candles formed what looked like albino
stalactites hanging from the perimeter of the table.

     “Let me say that was totally fucked up. I don't know what to make out if it. What the hell just happened here?” Toby pushed back his chair even further and stood up. “Whacked out insane.”

     The red quartz candle Belle made for Ian, stood alone and intact in the center of the table—a beacon of calm in an ocean of madness.

     Ian looked down at the drops of wax on the floor. “If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say we made contact. Without question.”

     “And the bitch was either pissed or crazy or both. Holy shit, dude. What were you thinking?”

     Ian looked up at his friend. “Why are you so freaked out? You didn’t even think it would work. And you're surprised it did.”

     “But it seems like it did. How else can you explain it? This wasn’t some hoax or practical joke. Nobody else here except for us,” Toby said.

     “Obviously, nobody else in the flesh.” Reaching out to break off one of the stalactites, Ian said, “This better not ruin my table; I paid a lot of money for this.”

     “Yeah, it's wax, not acid. Not to mention you might have to have the floor done again if you can’t clean up the wax.” Toby toed the wax drops with the toe of his shoe, smearing one.

     “Quit it. It should come up easily enough if we get it before it’s completely cooled and solid. I think I have a real thin metal spatula.”

     “Man, I hope we didn’t just open the gate and let in a shit storm,” Toby said to his friend as Ian went to the kitchen.

     Ian came back with the spatula and started pulling the wax off the hardwood floor. “I’m thankful I didn’t put the rug down yet. But then again, it might’ve been easier to get cold wax off a rug.”

     Toby watched his friend finish with the wax and then said, “Maybe the spirit is weirded out because she had some type of Rube Goldberg-style death and she doesn’t want anybody to know about it. Never underestimate the power of embarrassment.”

     Ian gave him a prolonged blank look. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.”

     “How else would you explain it? She’s clearly devastatingly embarrassed, not to mention pissed off, at being the victim of a Rube Goldberg machine scenario.” Toby absentmindedly scratched his chest. “In the grand scheme of things, it's plausible.”

     “It’s also plausible I might seize this opportunity to drill a hole in my head.” Ian blinked a couple times. “But I won’t because trepanation doesn’t sound like too much fun.”

     Toby snickered at the thought. “Twisted. Another hole in the head.”

     “Did you ever think she just might be a graveling,” Ian said, ignoring his snickering friend, “an unhappy spirit who refuses to move on for whatever reason she may have, who refuses to stay in her grave?”