He paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath, trying to hear any sounds of pursuit.
There was only silence.
Tom sniffed the air, but the scorched meat smell was gone.
“Aabir?” he called in a stage whisper. “Dr. Madison?”
No one responded.
Tom holstered his gun and began to crawl, sweeping his hands out in front of him, seeking the dropped flashlight. Remembering the light sticks in his pack, he fished one out, opened the package, and gave it a quick snap and shake. He was immediately bathed in a faint blue chemiluminescence. Tom spotted the flashlight, under the grand piano, and scurried over on his hands and knees, getting beneath the instrument’s legs and snatching it up.
From the darkness, a scraping sound.
Ol’ Jasper.
Tom shoved the light stick into his pants so it couldn’t be seen, and then held his breath.
The scraping got closer.
Had he seen me? Does he know I’m hiding under the—
PLINK!
Something hit a key on the piano above him.
Tom’s bladder clenched, and he fought not to wet himself.
As a Homicide cop, Tom was familiar with fear. Every time he served a warrant, kicked in a door, made an arrest, or pursued a suspect, he relied on his training and a shitload of good fortune to make sure he didn’t get hurt.
But there wasn’t any precedent for this. Ghosts? Demons? Undead zombies?
Whatever these things were, one of them killed Wellington, and bullets didn’t do a damn thing to stop them.
All of Tom’s experience, all of his training, was worthless when a hostile hundred and fifty year old slave with four arms wanted to hack your head off.
Tom waited.
He listened.
He sweated.
Every second that passed felt like a minute.
PLINK PLINK PLINK!
Tom shuddered, holding his knees so he didn’t make noise.
Does it know I’m under here?
Is it playing with me?
Was Wellington unlucky to die so quickly?
Or was he the luckiest one here?
Tom realized, with chilling certainty, that if Roy had come to Butler House, he was dead.
And I’ll be joining him soon.
Tom slowly removed the Mangus knife from his ankle sheath. He opened it with both hands, silently, grateful he kept the hinges oiled.
Whatever these things were, they had weight and mass. They were solid.
Bullets might not work.
But that didn’t rule out stabbing it in the eyes.
Tom remained crouched. His muscles had begun to ache, to cramp. But he didn’t adjust his position. If his legs fell asleep, he’d be compromised. But that was preferable to making a sound and giving away his position.
Time ticked by.
Tom heard a scraping sound, wondered if he was imagining it, but was able to confirm that it was real, and it was getting fainter as it moved away.
Tom stayed put.
He counted to a hundred.
Then two hundred.
Rubbing the on button of his flashlight, he knew he needed to take a look around.
After another count of two hundred.
A slow count.
Several minutes passed without any strange sounds, or weird smells. Tom flicked on his beam.
He didn’t see some horrible disfigured face staring at him.
He didn’t see any threat at all.
Tom made a slow sweep with the light, and the room appeared empty.
Wellington’s body was gone.
Aabir was gone.
Dr. Madison was gone.
Fishing out his cell phone, he again searched for a signal that wasn’t there. Then he unfolded his six-foot frame from underneath the piano, and practically cried in relief as his cramped muscles stretched and circulation returned.
Now I need to find the front door. If it’s unlocked, I can grab the others and—
Then the edge of his light beam caught something. Movement, behind a love seat ten meters away. Tom turned the focus on the flashlight, amplifying it, and seeing—
Wellington?
The man was behind the loveseat, his head peeking out over the backrest, the rest of his body hidden. He looked pale and in shock. Eyes wide and vacant. Mouth hanging open. Jaw opening and closing, as if trying to speak.
“Cornelius!” Tom spoke as loudly as the conditions warranted. “I’m over here!”
Wellington’s head turned toward Tom. The guy looked positively devastated. Tom had no idea how he was even alive, let alone still able to move. But the guy needed medical attention. Fast.
“I’m coming to you,” Tom said.
Wellington nodded robotically, and then stuck out his tongue.
No—
That’s not a tongue.
It’s…
Two fingers.
Wellington has two fingers in his mouth.
As Tom was trying to comprehend why the man was eating human fingers, another possibility sprang, fully formed, into Tom’s head.
Oh my god.
Wellington isn’t chewing on fingers.
He’s…
That’s when the burned ghost of Sturgis Butler stood up from behind the love seat—
—wearing Wellington’s severed head on his hand like a puppet.
Tom’s muscles locked. His mind couldn’t comprehend the horror of what he was seeing.
Sturgis continued to manipulate Wellington’s skull as if it was a ventriloquist’s dummy, making the jaw move.
And then he made it talk.
“Hello… Tom…”
The ghost’s voice sounded like he was gargling motor oil.
“I’ve… got… my… eyes… on… you…”
Incredibly, Wellington’s eyes began to bulge. Tom didn’t understand how that could be possible—then they popped out and two black fingers wiggled through the empty sockets.
That was enough to get Tom to move. He sprinted across the great room, heading down a hallway, and then he slowed when he smelled something.
Smoke.
A cigarette? Moni?
He swept the hallway with his flashlight, finding a half-open door with a wisp of fumes coming out of it. Knife in hand, Tom cautiously approached the room.
“Moni? Is that you?”
Tom stopped before entering. He listened, and was answered with silence. Sniffing again, he realized it wasn’t a cigarette. It was more like burning hair.
Tom gave the door a small push, and it squealed on its hinges, causing hackles to rise on his forearms. The room was brighter than the hallway, an orange glow from several candles.
Black candles. On a black stone slab, which was atop an old mortician’s gurney. Next to the candles was a tarnished silver chalice with a lid on it.
It was a portable satanic altar.
Behind them, on the wall, an ornate wooden cross, over a meter tall. It had been turned upside-down. A naked figure of Jesus hung on the cross, painted in exquisite detail. His face was contorted in pain, and rivulets of blood ran from his crown of thorns and the spikes in his hands and feet. A bloody pentagram had been carved into his chest. Despite the obvious agony, the Christ figure had an obscene, blasphemous erection.
Tom wasn’t religious, but he guessed he’d walked in on the unholy ritual of the black mass. Which wasn’t something he wanted to take part in.
He was about to get the hell out of there when he noticed movement next to the altar.
Something under a black sheet.
Something human-shaped. Just sitting there.
Tom continued to stare. Maybe it hadn’t moved. Maybe the shadows from the flickering candles just made it look like—
It moved again. A shudder.
Followed by a low moan.
Tom knew how important it was to act on instinct, and every fiber of his being told him to run away. His neck was gooseflesh. His hands were shaking. His tongue was so dry that it stuck to the roof of his mouth.