Moni. She had that syringe filled with heroin.
“Did Moni have her purse when Deb was in the exam room?”
He tried to picture her when they were all in the hallway.
“No,” Sara said. “She didn’t have one.”
“She’s got some heroin in her room. And I’ve got a gun in my room.”
Deb met his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I guess I’m saying I’m going to go get some drugs and a gun.”
“I’m going with you,” his wife said.
“No.”
“Mal—”
“It’s stairs Deb.”
Deb could do triathlons, but stairs were her nemesis.
“I got down here fine.”
“Down isn’t the same as up. You don’t do well going up.”
“I’m still coming.”
There was no way in hell he was going to let Deb go back into the godforsaken house.
“You’ll slow me down, Deb.”
Mal saw a flash of anger.
“I’m coming, Mal.”
“No, you’re not. And if I have to wrestle your legs away from you and take them with me, I’ll do it.”
“You’re being an asshole.”
“I’m being the man you deserve, Deb. Because I don’t deserve to have such a wonderful, strong, loving woman in my life.” He smiled. “But that changes right now. I’m going to do this, and when I come back we’re all going to get out of here. I love you, Deb. And I’ll die before I let you go back up there with those… those things.”
Deb’s eyes got glassy. “Mal… we’re a team.”
“Always and forever, babe. But you have to let me swagger a little.”
She nodded, tears on her cheeks, and Mal kissed her. Softly. Tenderly. With his heart as well as his lips.
Then he turned to the ghost hunter. “Pang!”
“I’m not going back into that house, bro.”
“Stay here, make sure no one comes downstairs.”
“I’m your man, bro.”
“You got an extra flashlight?”
Pang reached into his front pocket and took out his keys. There was a tiny LED flashlight on the ring, which he took off and gave to Mal.
Mal took it, then looked at his wife. A terrible, powerful thought popped into his head.
Could this be the last time I ever see her?
He rushed to her once more, taking her in his arms, and kissed her again. But this time it wasn’t soft or gentle. It was with all the passion, all the strength, of a man who loved a woman so much it practically consumed him.
When Mal broke this kiss he stared deep into her eyes and said with all the feeling he could muster. “I. Love. You.”
“Then you’d better come back to me.”
He winked. “You couldn’t keep me away.”
Then Mal headed up the stairs before he lost his resolve.
When he reached the top Mal put his ear to the door, listening for sounds from the hall. After twenty seconds of not hearing anything, he jammed the glow stick Tom had given him into the waist of his jeans, then snuck through the door. A quick press of the keychain light proved it was about as illuminating as a firefly, but the hallway seemed empty.
Mal moved quickly but carefully, heading for the great room. His original plan was to sprint up to the second floor and grab the drugs and gun. But when he saw the front doors, he realized he should check them to make sure they were open. His experience at the Rushmore Inn informed him that once the bad things started happening, it became increasingly difficult to leave. Though Mal readily admitted he suffered from paranoia—a paranoia he felt he’d earned—Butler House was beginning to feel more and more like the Rushmore. So it was with a sick, sinking feeling that he approached the exit, willing to bet everything he had that it would be locked.
Wellington’s body had been moved, but the doors and floor were still splashed with his blood. Mal did a quick look around, making sure he was alone. Then—
—he stuck the key light in his teeth—
—put his hand on the door knob—
—turned and pulled—
—and it opened easily—
—revealing a shirtless man wearing a gas mask, holding a meat cleaver.
“Hee hee hee,” the man giggled.
Mal backed away so quickly he slipped and fell. He tried to get up, but his feet couldn’t get any traction on the bloody floor. At the same time, he couldn’t look away from the Giggler, as Forenzi had called him during dinner.
A masked demon who would mutilate himself…
Which was when the Giggler raised his cleaver, and sliced a line down his scarred chest.
Mal stared, the fear so absolute he ceased to be a human being. Exactly like when he was strapped to the table at the Rushmore Inn. Mal lost his personality, his identity, and was reduced to an animal state. The evolutionary fear response, a chemical cocktail millions of years in the making, took over his body until every cell screamed fight or flight.
Acting on pure instinct, Mal chose flight, flopping onto his belly, getting his one hand underneath him, and then bicycling his feet until his toes found purchase on the hardwood floor.
And then he was off and running, beelining for the group of chairs and sofas in the middle of the great room.
Which was where he found Wellington’s body.
The dead author had been stripped naked and was sitting in a chair, his severed head placed between his legs so he was giving himself oral sex. Stuck in his neck stump were a cluster of cattails, jutting out as if in a vase.
Mal kept running, trying to remember where the stairs were. He headed for the hall to the dining room and saw it had been blocked with a sofa. So he detoured and took another corridor.
He heard a high-pitched whining sound and realized he was the one making it. So ensnared in the throes of terror, he didn’t even know where he was until the hallway he’d sprinted down abruptly ended at a closed door.
Confused, out of breath, panicked and sickened, Mal turned in a circle, trying to get his bearings. He began to backtrack, to get out of this dead-end, when he heard a CRACK! from the darkness ahead. Like someone slapping their hands together. Or…
Or a whip.
The ghost of the one-eyed slave master, Blackjack Reedy.
Mal spun back around, reaching for the doorknob, opening it and easing himself inside, then closing it behind him.
The room smelled of stale mildew. Mal used his tiny flashlight to look around, and even though the beam didn’t penetrate very far, he realized he was in the laundry room.
He saw a large sink. Some rusty, metal wash basins. Clotheslines hanging on the walls. An old fashioned washing machine with rollers. A large pile of dirty clothes. Several washboards. A shelf full of antique detergent boxes.
But something about the room was… off. Though it didn’t look like anyone had been in there in decades, Mal had the uneasy feeling he was being watched.
He got his breathing under control and listened.
The room was silent.
Mal took a few steps into the room, noticing a door on the other side. Maybe it was a closet. Or maybe it was an exit. Old houses often had a laundry room next to an outside door, to make it easier to haul wet clothing outside to dry in the sun.
Halfway into the room, Mal heard something.
A moan.
He stopped, mid-step.
Had it been a voice? The wind? Some other, harmless sound? His imagination?
Once again he played the flashlight beam around the room.
The sink, old and filthy.
Rusty basins.
The washing machine, its pulleys misaligned.
A pile of clothing with an old coat on top, its buttons glinting in the light.
The stack of washboards.
Shelves.
“Hello?” he whispered.
Immediately after speaking, Mal regretted it. Who was he talking to? And did he really want someone to answer?
Thankfully, no one replied.
Mal wasted no more time getting to the door at the end of the room. He grasped the ancient, metal door knob and turned.
Locked. He gave the door a sharp tug. It peppered him with dust, but held firm.