Mal began to stand up. “Look, kid—”
But the teenager stepped back and pointed, then began to yell, “FREAKS GONNA DIE! FREAKS GONNA DIE!”
Mal turned to his wife. Her face had lost all color, and she looked ready to throw up.
“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”
Again Mal looked for the boy’s father or mother, but instead he only saw people staring. Not only those in the restaurant, but passersby had also stopped to watch.
“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”
Finally an older woman came rushing over, tugging at the boy’s arm, saying “Calm down, Petey, calm down.” She offered Mal and Deb a quick, soulless I’m sorry, and then managed to pull her son away from their table as he continued to shout.
“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”
The woman tugged the child further into the terminal, until his voice melded in with the rest of the airport noise. In the restaurant, the clinking of silverware on plates resumed, and conversations picked up to levels prior to the interruption.
Mal, his whole body flushed and twitching, turned to his wife.
“You okay, babe?”
Deb’s face pinched, and then she vomited all over the table.
Solidarity, South Carolina
Forenzi
Dr. Emil Forenzi sat on the mattress—the one piece of furniture in his bedroom that wasn’t an antique—and squinted at the Bruno Magli loafers he’d just put on. There was a stain on the toe. He pulled it off and licked his thumb, rubbing off a reddish-brown streak.
Blood.
Forenzi couldn’t remember wearing the shoes in the lab area, and his mind wandered as to elsewhere he might have trod in bodily fluids. His revere was interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door.
“Enter,” he said, dropping the shoe next to the bed.
Sykes came in, holding a sheaf of papers. He silently presented them to Forenzi. It was reports on their guests.
Tom Mankowski, the cop, had just arrived at the airport. Excellent. He would make a sturdy test subject.
The amputees, Mallory and Deborah Dieter, had boarded their plane in Pittsburg. Forenzi had high hopes for them.
Dr. Frank Belgium and Sara Randhurst were due at Butler House any minute. Forenzi’s intel provided an interesting tidbit.
“They’re sharing a cab?” he said to Sykes. “Do they know each other?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
Forenzi glanced at him, caught a glimpse of the man’s sharp dentata.
“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Sykes?”
“Nothing is personal to me, sir.”
“Do you ever bite your tongue while eating?”
“As much as anyone else.”
Sykes didn’t elaborate. Forenzi flipped through more pages, seeing who else was attending, and frowned at the lack of a dossier on the VanCamps.
“Josh and Fran VanCamp didn’t confirm?”
“No, sir.”
Forenzi clucked his tongue. That was a shame. They would have been ideal.
No matter. This weekend would proceed without them, and it would be a success nonetheless.
“Have you spoken to your team?” he asked Sykes.
“Yes, sir. We’re ready.”
“My team?”
“I checked on them half an hour ago. Proceeding as scheduled.”
“Dinner?”
“Planned for seven, as requested.”
“Will we have those little Swedish meatballs? Those are wonderful.”
“Those are listed on the menu, sir.”
Forenzi nodded. In the hallway, floorboards creaked.
Both Forenzi and Sykes turned to look. No one was there.
“The ghosts are getting anxious,” Forenzi mused.
The paranormal history of Butler House was well-documented, and Forenzi had lost count of the strange phenomenon he’d encountered since coming here. Doors closing by themselves. Sharp drops in temperature. Strange odors. Creepy sounds. Last week, he was awoken from deep sleep, absolutely positive someone had been at the foot of his bed, watching him
“Do you believe in ghosts, Sykes?”
The man shrugged.
“So you aren’t afraid of the supernatural?”
“I’m not afraid of anything, sir.”
“Of course you’re not. Dismissed.”
The man left, closing the door behind him. Not much of a conversationalist, Sykes. But he had other areas of expertise.
Forenzi stood up and looked into the ornate, full-body mirror hanging above the bureau. He laced a tie through his collar and fussed with a half Windsor knot, trying to get it even. As he fought the fabric, he noticed something moving in the lower corner of the mirror.
The dust ruffle of the bed.
Forenzi looked down, behind him, and the rustling stopped.
Mice? Rats?
Something else?
And what happened to my shoe?
Forenzi searched the floor, turning in a full circle, looking for the loafer with the blood stain. He could have sworn he’d dropped it on the floor before Sykes came in.
Under the bed?
The doctor got on his hands and knees, ready to lift up the dust ruffle. But something gave him pause.
Behind the dust ruffle, something was making a sound. A distinct, recognizable sound.
Chewing.
I hear chewing.
A streak of panic flashed through Forenzi, and he crabbed backward, away from the bed. Then he quickly scanned the room for some sort of weapon. His eyes settled on an old, cast iron stove. Atop the bundle of kindling next to it was a fireplace poker.
Forenzi got to his feet and snatched the poker, turning back to the bed. Then he held his breath, listening.
The chewing was now accompanied by a slurping noise.
What the hell is that?
He knelt next to the bed, firmly gripping the poker with his right hand, reaching toward the dust ruffle with his left—
—and hesitated.
Do I really want to know what’s under there?
The chewing and slurping sounds stopped.
Forenzi continued to hold his breath, focusing on the silence.
After ten seconds, he let out a sigh, already starting to convince himself he’d imagined the whole thing.
Then he heard something else.
Scratching.
From under the bed. As if something was raking its nails on the floorboards.
Acting fast, before he lost his nerve, Forenzi lifted up the dust ruffle and jammed the poker underneath, flailing it around.
He didn’t hit anything. And the scratching sound stopped.
Forenzi leaned down, squinting under the bed. But it was too dark to see anything.
Moving the poker slowly, he swept it across the floor, kicking up vast colonies of dust clods. When his poker touched something solid, he retracted quickly—
—pulling out his missing loafer.
He stared at it, trying to make sense of what he saw. The shoe was damp with a viscous goo, and the toe had a large hole in it, surrounded by what appeared to be…
Bite marks.
Charleston, South Carolina
Tom
Fetzer Correctional Institution was known as a Level 3 prison. It housed the worst of the worst. Violent offenders and lifers did their time here, as did the death row inmates, up until their appeals ran out. In order to arrange a last-minute visit with one of its prisoners, Tom had to call in a big favor with his old boss, a retired Chicago Homicide Lieutenant named Daniels. She’d pulled a few strings and gotten him an audience with possibly the most depraved and sadistic murderer in this nation’s history, Augustus Torble. The millionaire heir who bought Butler House then tortured several women to death.
Tom drove the rental SUV to the perimeter fence, and an armed guard looked at Tom’s badge and checked his name on the visitor roster. Tom was allowed through the double fence, electrified and topped with razor wire, and he drove past one of the prison’s five gun towers. The main building was a red brick monstrosity that was among the drabbest, ugliest buildings Tom had ever seen. It had a flat façade devoid of any embellishments, save for barred windows and an arched entryway with ugly steel doors.