But this felt different. So, against all logic, I kept chasing the girl, flipping on lights as I went.
“He’s coming!” she said as we came out in a hallway. “Quick! We have to hide!”
“There’s no one coming. You’re—” I paused. It’s never fun to tell a ghost she’s dead. Normally, though, that only happens if you have the misfortune of meeting one at the moment of death. From this girl’s outfit, she’d been dead nearly a century.
“You can’t be hurt,” I said instead. “Tell me what you see, and I’ll—”
“He’s coming! Hide!”
She darted through a closed door. I ran to it and turned the knob. It wouldn’t open. I threw my shoulder against it, a move I’d seen Jeremy and other werewolves perform all the time, one that works far better if you have super-strength.
Pain slammed through my shoulder. The door didn’t budge.
On the other side, the girl screamed. I twisted the knob again and shoved the door. It flew open so suddenly I stumbled through, my heels flying from my hand and clattering to the cement floor.
The girl screamed again. I looked up to see her crouching in the shadows, the room lit only by the light from the hall. I patted the wall for a light switch but couldn’t find one.
I started forward. “It’s okay. Whatever you’re seeing, it isn’t real. You’re—”
She screamed and fell back as blood blossomed on her beaded dress. A jagged hole appeared, blood seeping through. Then another one, as if an invisible knife was stabbing her. I raced over, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t see what was attacking her. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t drag her to safety.
I tried reaching out, but of course my hands just passed through her. All I could do was stand there, babbling that it wasn’t real, she would be okay. The knife kept plunging in until the whole front of her dress was shredded and bloody. Then, finally, she dropped to the floor, and the blows stopped.
I stood there, breathing hard, shaking as I stared at her crumpled body, waiting for it to fade. Instead, her arms twitched. Then one reached out, clawing at the concrete.
“Help … me …” she whispered.
“If you can hear me, it’s okay,” I said. “Just hold on. It’ll all be over in a second.”
She lifted her blood-freckled face. Her dark eyes met mine. “Why didn’t you help me?”
“I can’t,” I said, crouching. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re … you’re out of your time. Whatever happened to you, it was a very long time—”
She reached for my foot, hand passing through it. Then she looked up at me with her tear- and blood-streaked face. “Stop him. Please stop him.”
She disappeared. I took a deep breath. Then I felt a draft behind me, a sudden whoosh of air, and I spun to see the door closing. I raced toward it, but it slammed shut, plunging the room into darkness.
I didn’t give up on the door for a while. It hadn’t wanted to open earlier, so I told myself it was just stuck again. As for how it slammed shut, well, I’d felt a draft, hadn’t I? I told myself that a crooked foundation made the door swing shut. When it comes to anything potentially paranormal in origin, I’m the worst skeptic, always searching for natural answers. That may seem perverse, but knowing the supernatural exists makes it too easy to jump on paranormal explanations. It’s like people who religiously watch ghost shows and interpret every groaning pipe as a sign that the dead walk among us.
So I kept yanking on the door. The handle refused to even turn. Next I searched for that missing light switch. The room was pitch-dark, without even a sliver of light coming under the door. I systematically felt my way along all the walls. Still no switch.
Finally, I did what some might argue I should have done when the door first shut: I took out my cell phone. I used the glowing screen for another round of the tiny room. Still no light switch.
As for using the phone to actually call someone, that might seem the obvious solution to my predicament, but I wanted to be absolutely certain I couldn’t free myself first. Getting locked in an inn basement was not going to help my reputation at all.
But the door wasn’t opening, and the light was staying off, so I hit my speed-dial for Jeremy. A recording came on immediately, telling me my call couldn’t be completed. I looked at my screen.
No service.
How was that possible? I’d had a couple of bars upstairs.
I lifted the phone overhead as high as I could. Still no—?
“Run,” a man’s voice whispered behind me.
I spun so fast I almost dropped my phone, fumbling to catch it as I backed into the corner. I lifted the screen to shine it in front of me.
“Who’s there?” I asked.
No one, you fool. It’s a small, empty room.
No, it had been empty. I’d had my back to the door when it slammed shut. Meaning someone could have come in and closed it behind him.
I pressed my back against the wall and waved the phone around. Nothing. I could see nothing.
“If someone’s there—”
“Help me,” whispered a voice from below.
I swung the cell phone light down to see the girl on the floor. She was rising, bloodstained hand reaching for me.
“Help …”
See, it’s a residual. It’s replaying.
But she hadn’t reached up before. She’d reached out for my foot.
“Why didn’t you help me?” she said. “Why won’t you stop him?”
“Can you hear me?” I said. “If you can—”
“You need to stop him.”
“Run,” the man’s voice whispered.
I wheeled, back slamming into the adjoining wall. My cell phone flickered. The light went out. I banged it against my thigh. I hit buttons. I held down the power switch. Nothing worked.
It had a full battery when I left New York. There’s no way—The light. It drained because you were keeping the screen on at full brightness.
That was silly, of course. I had enough power. I knew I did.
A click sounded, like the door opening. When I looked over, though, I couldn’t see any light shining through it. With my back against the wall, I sidestepped to the door and ran my fingers along the edge. It was shut tight. I tried the handle. It still wouldn’t—
Another click, as if the door had closed. I yanked my hands back. I hadn’t pushed it shut. I knew I hadn’t—
A whimper sounded behind me. I turned, instinctively lifting my dead phone. All I saw was darkness, but I could hear someone there, sniveling and crying softly. Then, slowly, I began to make out the edges of a faintly glowing figure. It was pressed against the far wall, as if hiding behind some invisible object. The figure came clearer. It was a girl—a young woman, maybe in her early twenties—dark-haired, with a chiffon head scarf and polka-dot fifties-style dress.
Tears streamed down her face as she hid there, breathing so hard I could hear it. When I took a step toward her, she jumped and then looked up, her eyes meeting mine.
“Hide!” she said. “Quick! He’s coming!”
“Who’s coming?” I asked.
She struggled for breath as her eyes filled with panic.
I walked closer. “Who’s coming?”
“He’s going to find me. I know he’s going to—”
She let out a shriek, head jerking up, eyes rounding. Then she fell back against the wall, hands up. Blood spread across her dress as she screamed. The knife plunged in again.
“Help! Please help!”
I did. Not by running to shield her or pull her away. I couldn’t do that. Instead, I focused on whoever was stabbing her, to see him, to pull him through the ether. I tried every trick I knew to summon the ghost attacking her, and I didn’t see so much as a flicker. An invisible force just kept stabbing her with an invisible knife until she lay there, heaped by the foot of the wall, eyes closed.
I knelt down to her and said, “Can you hear me? I don’t understand what’s—”
Her eyes flew open. “Help us. Stop him.”
Before I could say a word, she disappeared.