Southern Blood, page 8
part #13 of Max Porter Mysteries Series
Four enormous arms erupted out of the floor. Though the same odd purple color, they lacked the solidity of the orb or the javelin. With long, clawed fingernails on thick hands, these arms reached straight up into the air. Max saw right through them. The spirit had changed itself. It was a pale purple now — ghostly pale.
Drummond’s eyes widened as he registered the difference, too. The arms bent towards him, the hands grabbed hold, and the claws dug in.
Max reached out. “Drummond!” But he didn’t know what to do, what to say. He stared at his ghost partner — ineffectual and helpless.
Drummond pushed at the arms, yanked them off, shoved them aside, but they kept coming back. More emerged from the carpeted floor. Some grew out of the arms already attacking him.
Irene cried out. “Leave this house. I command you.”
While fighting off the arms, Drummond pressed towards Max and Sandra. He reached out for them, his eyes peering between two claws that clutched his face. Max wanted to do something, anything. He felt the cold of the ghost world pushing up to him but had no idea how to help.
Drummond continued to struggle until three more arms shot up, latched onto his shoulders, and dragged him down with ferocious effort. Right through the floor.
In an instant, all grew quiet. The chill of ghostly bodies left the room.
Irene dropped to her knees. Her body wracked with sobs. Sandra covered her mouth in shock. Part of Max wanted to put his arm around his wife. Part of him wanted to say something comforting to Irene. But most of him could only stare at the floor and wonder — had he just lost his closest friend?
“Help!” Drummond’s voice sounded distant through the floor. Irene put her hand on the carpet, digging into the fibers as if she could pull Drummond back into the room. Sandra wiped the tears from her eyes. But Max’s head perked up.
“Did you hear that?”
“Of course,” Irene said. “We all heard him. Calling from beyond.”
“Not from beyond. I don’t hear things from some otherworld beyond. That’s your realm. I hear Drummond but only when he’s here with me. Which means — he’s still here. And if it dragged him through the floor ...”
Max whirled toward the stairs and bolted out of the attic.
Chapter 15
HE TORE DOWN THE STAIRS, skipping the last three with a leap. He dashed out to the balcony and smashed into the railing. His heart rushed up to his neck as his legs lifted and he angled over the edge, staring at the drop to the main floor of the Reception Hall. As the railing dug into his side, he saw Drummond — waist high in the floor, scrabbling with his fingers to find purchase on something that would allow him to pull free. And those hands — those clawed hands cuffed around his wrists, gripping his throat, dragging him deeper down through the wood.
“Hold on,” Max said, rolling back to his feet. He sprinted to the main stairwell and jumped halfway down. When he hit the stairs again, he lost his footing and slid all the way to the bottom. Each step slammed into his back promising a purple-black row of bruises along his spine. When he hit the end, he popped to his feet and jetted for Drummond.
Whatever pain his fall had produced, he felt none of it. Not yet. He didn’t have time for pain.
Drummond punched at the arms beneath the floor. Max looked for anything that he could use to fish Drummond in. Something for the ghost to grab hold of. But his partner sank fast.
By the fireplace, Max spotted an iron poker. He picked it up but hesitated. He recalled reading somewhere that pure iron would hurt a ghost much like pure salt.
“Max,” Drummond said, his voice muted.
Max spun around — no Drummond. But he did catch the last of the man’s hat as it sucked into the wood.
Dashing across to the secondary stairwell that led to the basement, Max dodged the furniture, his flashlight jittering in his shaking hands. When he reached the stairs, narrow and dark, his flashlight did little to save him from another fall. If not for the walls brushing his shoulders, he would have plunged into the darkness and probably to his death. But as he lost his balance, he simply pressed his hands out on either side to stop his momentum.
When he reached the bottom, he found a finished basement with a hard, black-rubber tile floor. A billiard table took up the space of one section, and signs pointed to a bowling alley, shooting gallery, and ping-pong tables. But Drummond’s voice led Max down a winding hall and into a room designed to mimic a 1930s-style bar. Mirrors lined the curved walls. Bright red upholstery shined, reflected in the chrome surfaces of circular cocktail tables. Very Art Deco. And in the middle of the dark floor, Drummond fought the numerous purple clawed hands.
Though the orb had disappeared, its flickering light rippled from beneath Drummond. This was it. Max could tell — this was the hole that would swallow Drummond for good.
The bright lights bounced off the mirrors and the chrome surfaces creating a dazzling, disorienting display as if plum wine splashed in the air. Max needed something to help his partner — something not made of iron, or metal since he didn’t know how far that concept went. Wood. That might work.
Max rushed back to the billiard room. From the wall, he grabbed a pool cue and raced to Drummond. “Grab onto this.”
Drummond reached out, willed his body to take solid form, and endure the pain of touching the corporeal world as his hands latched around the end of the pool cue.
Max leaned back like the anchor in a tug-of-war. His muscles burned, and the abuse his back had taken flared up. Grunting, wincing, he dug his feet in and tried to push back another inch. Another one. Every little bit pulling Drummond out of that nightmare hole.
Salty sweat seeped into Max’s mouth. A wretched stink like rotten eggs burped up from the hole in the floor. Drummond managed to get his other hand free and clasped the pool cue immediately. The claws digging into him tore at his shirt.
He screamed.
Max had no idea if the clothes a ghost wore were simply clothes or if they were part of his ghostly being, but one thing proved true enough — it all hurt. He had never seen such anguish on Drummond’s face before. Anguish and doubt. Drummond didn’t think he was going to make it.
“Don’t give up,” Max said.
A large, muscular arm spewed from the floor. It grew long and limber, and Max watched it tower behind Drummond. He thought with certainty that this hand would clamp onto Drummond’s head and shoved the ghost down. But Max was wrong.
The hand did come down, but not upon Drummond. It smashed through the pool cue, severing the stick in two. Wood splintered off as Drummond and Max fell away from each other. Max’s head banged against one of the cocktail tables. The numerous arms around Drummond wrenched him all the way down to his chest.
“No!” Max scuttled across the floor. He thrust out his hand. “Grab me.”
Drummond clinched hands with Max. Razors of ice sliced through Max’s palm, up his arm, and straight to the bone. He swore, he wailed, his throat scratching at the volume forced out of him. Drummond bellowed his own wracking pain.
Trying to contract his muscles, Max worked to haul Drummond closer. But the cold numbed his body at the same time as it burned him in ice-drenched fire. He could barely think let alone force his body to perform an action.
Through his narrowed eyes, Max saw Drummond, saw the look on his face, saw the loss in his eyes. The ghost knew it, and so did Max. There were too many arms to fight against. They didn’t have the strength between them. Not when touching each other caused such intense agony.
Sounding too much like an old man, Drummond said, “I won’t stop fighting.”
He let go of Max’s hand.
Max flopped onto his back and listened to Drummond’s cries die into silence. Warm blood flowed through his veins causing the most excruciating pins and needles he had ever experienced. Forcing his body to sit up, he stared at the empty floor as he massaged his arm.
Sandra and Irene rushed in. They looked around, looked at Max, trying to understand the situation. Max lifted his head toward both of them.
A tear streaked down to his chin. “He’s gone.”
Chapter 16
FURTHER DOWN FROM THE BAR, the hallway took a sharp left and ended with another highlight of Reynolda House — the indoor pool. Encased in textured glass like a greenhouse, the pool provided a comfortable climate for swimming at all times of the year — even with winter nipping at the break of autumn. Max, Sandra, and Irene sat on the patio furniture surrounding the pool. No one could speak.
At times, Sandra rubbed Max’s back or leaned her head on his shoulder. At times, he did the same for her. There were even moments when the two of them comforted Irene with a nod or a grim smile. They all felt the loss.
But after a few minutes, Max jumped to his feet and paced a circle around the pool. “This isn’t over. We’re going to get him back.”
Sandra said, “Of course, we will. Tomorrow, we can —”
“No. We start now.” Max rolled his lips in and thought.
Irene motioned as if she was going to interrupt him, but Sandra put a stop to that. Like a voice in the distance, she said, “Let him think.”
Yeah. Let me think.
It sounded good, but his thoughts did not lead anywhere useful. He kept seeing the desperation on Drummond’s face. He saw the pain and the impending loss in the way Drummond accepted his fate. All because of that inhuman spirit.
And thinking of the inhuman spirit brought to mind the images it had dropped into Max — images of his father with a malicious and terrifying grin. Images of blood and death.
Max stopped mid-step. “Why Drummond? This thing has focused on me since we got here. It threw me across the room, it gave me that horrible experience in the Lake Porch. Yet in the attic, it tried once to attack Irene and once to strike at us, but then it gave up. It went right after Drummond. Why?”
He paused, waited, and realized they thought he had asked rhetorically. He gestured for an answer. He needed an answer. This wasn’t a normal case where he could ponder the situation and let his thoughts lead him to deeper research. He didn’t have uninterrupted hours upon hours to get lost in the rabbit holes of books and the internet to find one little nugget that would glue it all together. He only had his researching intuition — the thing that led him to ask questions.
Finally, Sandra said, “Perhaps the inhuman spirit wants to use Drummond as a bargaining chip.”
Irene jumped to her feet. With her mascara running deep rivulets down her face, she looked both crazed and fierce. “An inhuman spirit does not bargain. It wants what it wants and this one does not appear to be willing to stop until it gets when it came for.”
“Which is not Drummond,” Max said, stabbing his finger in the air as if pointing at the answer.
“Not if we believe what it said to us — and I do believe it. When I asked the spirit what it wanted, it said quite clearly that it needed a body and a soul. In other words, it wants to possess someone so it can walk freely in our world. It wants to possess that person completely, down to the soul, so that it cannot be removed from the world without ripping apart the possessed person. It wants the soul as insurance.”
Sandra said, “Oh, is that all?”
“It’s not that uncommon.”
“Really? Because we’ve never seen one of these inhuman spirits before.”
“I mean to say that yes, it’s rare for an inhuman spirit to touch our plane of existence, to come close enough that we have problems like this; however, when these instances do happen, it’s fairly common for the inhuman spirit to want to possess somebody. I had hoped that this would’ve been different. But I guess not.”
Max resumed his pacing. “This brings me back to the first question — why Drummond? If this spirit wants a body and a soul, of what use is a ghost?”
“None, in regard to its ultimate goal. Still, if I had to hazard a guess, and I suppose I do, I would say this spirit hopes to siphon power off of Drummond, off of his ghostly essence, until it finds an opportunity to try for a more permanent solution again.”
“Again? So, all those attacks on me before were its attempt to possess me?”
“More likely, the spirit tried to send you into a negative spiral so it could feed off that energy. Get stronger. Strong enough to possess you. But in the attic, it could no longer get that source of food. You and Sandra together were able to repel its attack. My faith in the Lord protected me. But Drummond is a ghost. Faith does not protect the dead.”
Sandra said, “Once it could no longer get a human, it took what it hoped would be an easy path. Grab Drummond, and it’s now feeding off his energy.”
“That’s right,” Irene said. She turned to Sandra. “You should understand that this thing will get more than enough energy from Drummond. He’s a strong ghost. His time with you has filled him with a sense of life that he hasn’t had since the day he died.”
“You could feel that?”
“No, sweetie, he told me. We’re friends. I don’t need to read him like a client.”
Max said, “Then we’ve got to stop this thing. We’ve got to save Drummond before it drains him dry.”
Sandra gazed upon him with such pride, that he could not help but swell a little in the chest. When she stood, however, her brow knitted into inquisitive concentration — he’d seen that look many times whenever she studied witchcraft. He waited. A question would be coming soon, one he had not considered, and one he expected would help them greatly. Sandra did not disappoint.
Facing Irene, Sandra said, “How does something like this inhuman spirit even start?”
Max wanted to kiss her. She was absolutely right. They needed to understand the foundation of the problem before they could unravel a real solution.
“Two ways, usually,” Irene said, scooting forward to set her feet on the floor. “Sometimes, it happens by accident. Same way they get this hunger to possess another and be in our world. Within their plane of existence, they somehow skim the surface of ours.”
“And the second way?”
“That’s a more insidious situation. If it is indeed the second way, and there are no other ways I know of to consider, well, it means that somebody must’ve called for it. On purpose.”
“Like with a summoning spell?”
“It can be done that way. Difficult witchcraft, but possible. However, y’all said you’d searched this place and found no evidence of witchcraft.”
“That’s right.”
“A spell like that would require close proximity. And the summoned creature would be bound to the spell. There’s nothing like that around here.”
Max’s synapses started firing links between his thoughts. Not enough to form a conclusive idea in his head, but enough that he felt it — a foreboding in his chest that punctured his pride with worry. “If not by witchcraft, how else would somebody go about calling this inhuman spirit?”
Irene looked away. She suddenly discovered the need to freshen her face. Gazing in the mirror of a compact that she pulled from her purse, she wiped clean her mascara and touched up whatever blemishes she found. All the while, she spoke with enough trepidation to chill Max’s skin. “There are other spells — ceremonies, really. Not witchcraft. It doesn’t use the standard symbols and procedures of witchcraft. As a result, these ceremonies produce widely varied and highly unstable results. But some people believe that it is possible to call upon an inhuman spirit and strike a deal. In many religions, they consider it a deal with the devil, a crossroads deal, an unholy bargain. What you call it depends on where you come from, but the idea is the same.”
“You’re saying that somebody summoned this inhuman spirit to make a deal for fortune and fame?”
“Could be for anything a person imagines.”
Nodding as his brain connected more ideas, Max said, “I take it that in exchange for whatever this person wanted, they’d have to provide a soul.”
“In most belief systems, people are taught that you have to give up your own soul for the deal. But that’s a bending of the truth intended to caution them away from this stupid and dangerous act. The full truth is that the inhuman spirit doesn’t care where the soul comes from.”
Sandra said, “It also wants a body, right?”
“Most certainly.”
Max’s eyes widened as the implications mounted. His face tightened, and he threw several wild punches into the air. “We were set up. We were intended to be the sacrifice for this inhuman spirit all along.”
“Offering,” Sandra said, her own muscles contracting as she clutched her hands together.
“Only one person put us here. That bastard, Mr. Carroll. He didn’t even care which of us got destroyed. He must’ve figured that the inhuman spirit would take down one of us and the other would simply think it was a case gone bad.”
Irene put away her compact and stood. “More than likely. Now that we know, what do we do about it?”
As Max spoke, he stormed toward the exit of the pool. “We go to Mr. Carroll’s office. That man has to answer a lot of questions.”
Chapter 17
MARCHING BACK UPSTAIRS, through the halls of the house, into the lobby, and down the stairs toward the administrative offices, Max felt energy surging through him — strong, positive energy. He needed to do something that moved them forward toward Drummond, and now he gained a chance. He had a lead, and he wasn’t going to waste it.
When they reached Mr. Carroll’s door, Max turned the knob. Locked. He pulled out the master key Mr. Carroll had provided, but it would not fit. Max stared at the unmoving handle, and for a moment, he had no idea what to do. In the past, he would ask his partner to slip through the wall, endure the short burst of pain required to touch the knob, and unlock the door from the inside. But he didn’t have a ghost partner anymore. At least, not one who could help him right now.
