He kept moving, and came upon a large, black crate in the center of the floor.
No, not a crate. A coffin. And not a real one. This was another Halloween prop, made of plywood. Tom approached, knowing exactly what was going to happen. The lid would open, and some fake monster—maybe a vampire or a mummy—was going to pop out.
Tom got within a meter of it, gun pointed forward, anticipating the obvious.
As predicted, the lid opened.
As predicted, a monster sat up in the coffin.
It wasn’t a vampire or mummy. It was some bizarre, bloody mannequin with a gas mask on. There were many gashes on its bare chest, glistening with stage blood.
“Hee hee,” went the prop.
Tom kept his Sig on it, then slowly walked past. It was creepier than the zombie in the breakfront, and the body bag on a conveyor track, but Tom was going to save his adrenaline for real threats, not fake ones.
“Hee hee hee.”
Movement, in front of Tom. He held fire as another body bag swung past on a pulley track. He watched it swing past the empty coffin, and disappear into the darkness.
Tom pressed forward, and then his fear spiked. He spun again, staring at the coffin.
The gas masked prop was gone.
Tom looked side to side, sweeping with his Sig. That prop apparently wasn’t a prop. Tom remembered Forenzi’s dinner speech and realized it was—
“Hee hee hee hee.”
The Giggler.
Now where the hell did it go?
Tom turned in a slow circle, ready to shoot anything that moved. He was so focused on what was around him that he wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking, and suddenly he lost his footing and stepped into a hole, falling onto his ass.
He tried to pull his leg free, and his calf screamed at him. Tom holstered his gun and reached into the hole in the floor.
Spikes. Digging into his skin.
“Hee hee hee hee.”
The Giggler walked out of the dark, into view. He was rubbing a large, bloody meat cleaver against his chest.
Tom drew his Sig and emptied his clip into the demon.
Nothing happened. The Giggler stood there, staring, swaying back and forth.
“Tom…”
Tom checked his other side, and saw a pink glow in the distance.
Moni. She had a pink light stick.
“Moni! Run!”
The pink light got closer.
“No, Moni! Get away! You need to get out of here!”
Moni slowly came into view. But it wasn’t Moni.
It was Aabir, holding Moni’s glow sick. Her eyes were completely black. She opened her mouth and roaches dropped out of it.
“Hee hee hee.”
The Giggler had halved the distance between them. Tom realized he wasn’t simply rubbing the meat cleaver against his bare skin. He was actually cutting himself, blood streaming out of the wounds he was making.
Tom blinked. His vision was getting blurry. His thoughts, fuzzy.
Drugged. Something in the spikes.
He stared back at Aabir. She was kneeling next to him. Tom held up his knife, pointed it at her, but he’d begun to see double.
He slashed at her, trying to keep her away, but everything started to fade.
Her hand shot out and she grabbed his wrist, easily prying the knife away.
Tom’s eyes closed, but he forced them open.
Can’t pass out. Not now…
Blackout.
And then he was in the throes of a full blown nightmare, unable to breath, drowning in some sort of slimy sea.
Tom’s eyes popped open, panic making him shake. Aabir was on top of him. She had her mouth around his nose, her wet tongue sticking up his nostril.
He pushed her away, eyelids fluttering.
Must. Stay. Awake. Must…
Blackout.
Then Tom was choking, thrashing around, coughing and spitting—
—because his mouth was filled with cockroaches.
Tom looked up, and the Giggler was pinning down his shoulders, staring down at him. Aabir had her hands down Tom’s pants, and she was jamming her fingers into his ass, feeling like she was tearing him apart.
“Hee hee hee.”
Tom screamed.
He screamed louder and harder than he ever had in his life.
Then the Giggler pulled off his gas mask, and maggots rained down on Tom, squirming in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, as he continued to scream and scream until unconsciousness finally took him.
Mal
The dust under the bed got in Mal’s eyes and the ragged gash on his neck, amplifying the pain.
He was so frightened he couldn’t breathe.
Under the dust ruffle, Mal saw Colton’s feet enter the bedroom. When he took a step, his old leather satchel clanged.
His bag of ghastly surgical instruments, still trying to conduct his insane experiments upon the living.
Mal let his breath out slow, then sucked dust into his nostrils—
Oh jesus I’m going to sneeze.
Mal clamped his hand over his mouth and nose, pinching his nostrils shut.
Please don’t please don’t please…
The urge to sneeze passed.
Colton continued to move toward the bed. His feet stopped less than half a meter from Mal’s face.
He doesn’t know I’m in here. If I keep absolutely still, he’ll go away.
Mal kept absolutely still.
Then something tugged on Mal’s foot.
Then he felt his pants cuff being raised up, baring his calf. He shook with effort as he fought not to scream.
What the hell is that?
It was small. Small and—
Hairy.
A rat? A rabid raccoon?
“Maaaaaaaaaaal,” Colton droned.
The ghost dropped the medical equipment bag, which clanged inches from Mal’s nose.
Then whatever was tugging on Mal’s leg bit him.
The pain was immediate and excruciating, and Mal yelled and kicked out, hearing something screech, and then he was trying to paw through the dust and get out from under the bed. When he did, he stared up at Colton, standing over him.
“I… want… your… hand…”
Fast as a striking rattlesnake, Colton reached down and grabbed Mal’s hand—
—pulling it off.
Mal clawed himself up to his feet and scampered past Colton, letting the ghost have his rubber prosthetic, rushing out of the room and down the hallway. He tugged out his light stick, flew down the staircase, found the route to the basement, and took more stairs down to the lower level where he’d left his wife and the others.
But they were no longer there.
Out of breath, scared shitless, and now in a state of full-on despair, Mal filled his lungs and cried out, “DEB!”
She didn’t answer.
Mal began to jog, deeper into the underground bowels of Butler House, until he came to a V with tunnels leading off to the right and left.
“Deb!”
No reply.
Left or right, Mal? Which way to go?
Is she even down here?
He went right. The bare bulbs hanging from the overhead braces were dim and far apart, and Mal’s light stick was getting weaker.
“Deb! Where are you?”
Mal heard his voice echo down the tunnel. But Deb’s voice didn’t echo back.
His neck hurt like crazy, but the bite on his leg was really starting to throb—bad enough that he’d begun to limp. He lifted his pants leg and took a quick look at it.
The bite was an oval, and some of the flesh was missing. Like he’d had a hunk gnawed out of him by a baby vampire.
He pulled his sock up over the wound, which was really all he could do with only one hand, and then the darkness was split by a sharp CRACK! and Mal felt his back scream at him.