Dana wished she could check out the effect. Maybe tomorrow night. Do it again, only in Jason’s room. He had a full-length mirror. Maybe have him spread the flour on her. And she would do the same for him. And then they’d make it.
Only one problem. Jason might not be overjoyed that she had paraded in front of Roland bare-ass naked.
He should complain, the shit. He’s the one showed Roland the Polaroids.
Dana took a trembling breath through the wool cap.
Time to get going and give Roland the thrill of his life.
She started across the kitchen. After a few steps, one of her feet landed on something sticky, like paint that hadn’t quite dried.
Her nose wrinkled.
Hadn’t they cleaned up the mess from last night?
She sidestepped and got out of it, but her foot made a quiet snicking sound each time she lifted it off the linoleum.
With her back to the kitchen windows, she couldn’t see much.
Blindman’s buff.
Hands out, she finally touched a wall. She made her way slowly along it, and found a door. When she opened the door, a cool draft wrapped her skin. Something wasn’t right about this. Clutching the door frame, she slipped her right foot forward and felt the floor end.
Stairs?
Maybe a stairway leading down to the wine cellar, or something.
Roland might be down there.
Not a chance.
Dana shut the door and continued following the wall. Soon, she touched another door frame. Reaching past it, she felt wood. Ribbed wood. A louvered door of some kind.
Moving in front of it, she gently pushed. The hinges creaked slightly.
That’s okay. Let Roland hear it. Give him something to think about.
Holding the door open, she stepped through. Her side hit something that squeaked and wasn’t there anymore, then bumped her again from armpit to hip. Even without being able to see, she knew what must have happened; they were double swinging doors, and she’d only opened one side before trying to go through.
Roland must have heard that.
Give him a little more?
She considered moaning like an anguished spirit. But maybe spirits don’t moan. Besides, he might figure out who it was from her voice.
Dana stepped through the doors, eased them shut, and stood motionless.
It was a big room.
Roland might be here. Might be looking at her right now. Frozen with terror.
This is it.
Dana’s heart pounded furiously. Tremors of excitement shook her body. Drops of sweat slid down her sides, tickling.
Several windows along the three walls let in hazy gray light, but vast areas of the room were black.
Dana looked at herself through the fuzzy holes of her cap. The flour gave her skin a dull gray hue, not the glow she had wanted. But good enough. Maybe better, in fact. Bright enough to let her be seen, but only dimly.
What you can’t quite see—that’s what is really scary.
So how does a ghost walk? she wondered. They probably don’t. In movies, they generally swoop through the air. But zombies kind of stagger around with their arms out.
Dana lifted her arms as if reaching for her next victim and took long, stiff-legged strides toward the center of the room.
Shit, this isn’t a zombie walk, it’s Frankenstein.
Frankenstein’s the scientist, stupid, not the monster.
Yes, Roland.
She stopped strutting and changed her gait to a slow lurching stagger.
Perfect.
So where the fuck are you, Roland? If you’re too scared to scream, let’s at least have a few gasps or whimpers.
Are you crouched in a corner, wetting your pants?
Dana slowly turned around, searching for his huddled shape in the gray near the windows, trying to find him in the black areas.
He isn’t here, she decided. Even if I can’t see him, he for sure would’ve seen me by now. He would’ve done something—yelled or maybe run for it.
Dana turned toward the front of the restaurant, lowered her arms for a moment to smear the sweat rolling down her sides, then raised her arms again and shuffled forward.
Over to the left, the room branched out. Dana saw a vague shape that might be a bar.
He’s probably hiding behind it.
She took a few steps in that direction and a rush of excitement stopped her.
Roland’s sleeping bag.
Mummy bag.
One dark, puffy end of it was barely visible in the gloom from a front window.
I can’t see him, but he can see me. If he’s looking this way. If he’s awake.
For a few seconds, Dana couldn’t force herself to move. She stood there, shaking and breathless, feeling as if her legs might give out.
This’ll be good, she thought. This’ll get him. The shit-head’ll wish he’d never been born.
Go for it, she told herself.
She lurched toward the sleeping bag. Her legs felt like warm liquid, but they held her up. She let out a low moan.
That’ll get his attention.
When she stopped moaning, she heard him.
He was taking quick, short breaths.
Awake, all right.
She stood over him, no more than a yard away, peering down but still unable to see anything in the darkness. No, maybe that was a face—that oval blur. If so, Roland was sitting up.
Bending at the waist, she reached toward him.
A shriek blasted her ears.
Every muscle in Dana’s body seemed to jerk, snapping her upright, hurling her backward. She waved her arms, trying to stay up, then fell. The floor pounded her rump.
A light beam stung her eyes.
She shielded her eyes with a hand. “Take it out of my face.” The beam lowered. She pulled off the cap. The light was on her chest, moving from one breast to the other. It dropped, streaking down her belly and shining between her legs. She threw her knees together, blocking it. The light returned to her breasts. She covered them with one arm and used the other arm to brace herself up. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath.
“So,” she gasped, “did I scare you, or what?”
In answer, the light tipped downward. Roland was sitting on top of his mummy bag, his legs stretched out. The lap of his faded blue jeans was stained dark.
Dana grinned. “You wet your pants.”
“I wanta go,” Roland said in a shaky voice.
“Hell, you already went.”
“You won, okay? You won. Let me loose.” He turned his light toward a nearby card table with bottles on top. “The key’s up there.”
“Key?”
The beam moved again, this time to his left hand. It was cuffed to a metal rail near the bottom of the bar.
“Holy shit,” Dana muttered.
“My insurance. That’s how I knew I’d win.”
“You cuffed yourself?”
“Get the key, okay?”
So that was why Roland had insisted that she come in at dawn to get him—so she could unlock the handcuffs.
“Where are the Polaroids?” she asked.
“In my pack.”
“Give me the flashlight.”
Roland didn’t argue. He lowered it to the floor and pushed. It skidded toward her feet. Dana sat up, stretched forward, and grabbed it.
Getting to her knees, she shined the beam on Roland. His gaunt face, dead pale, looked even more cadaverous than usual. Squinting, he turned away from the glare.
She aimed the light at his crotch.
“Peed your fucking pants,” she said. “Did you really think I was a ghost?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled.
Dana chuckled. Then she crawled to the pack, searched it, and found an envelope. Inside the envelope were the photographs. She flicked through them, counting. All ten were there. She set the envelope on the floor and took her camera from the pack.