A dead end.
There was no door. No room. No hallway. Just a wooden barricade.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaal…”
Below him, Mal heard feet begin to clomp up the steps.
Why have a stairway leading nowhere? What was the point? It made no sense.
He put his shoulder into it, pressing hard. Felt a slight bit of give.
Could this be some secret passage?
Mal held the keylight, looking for seams along the wall. On the right side, he found some old, rusty hinges.
Mal pushed again. No go.
“Maaaaaaaaaal…..”
Colton was closer, already halfway up the stairs.
Mal ran his hands along the seam, looking for a switch, a release, a button. Anything that would open this sucker up.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal…”
Colton was practically on top of him. Mal’s heart was hammering so hard he could hear the lub-dub in his eardrum. A wooden splinter jammed under his fingernail, and he dropped the flashlight. Mal opened his mouth to scream in pain and frustration when his fingers brushed against a latch.
“MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!”
Colton’s saw touched Mal’s leg just as the passageway swung outward. Mal fell forward, pulling away, then kicking the secret door closed. He looked around, pulling the glow stick from his pants, and realized he’d gotten to the guest room hallway. But it looked different in the dark, and he wasn’t sure which room was his.
The secret passage began to shake, and Mal got to his feet and ducked into the nearest bedroom. He quietly closed the door behind him, then took a minute to catch his breath. His neck throbbed, and he found a mirror on the wall and took a look.
In the green glow light, his blood appeared black. Mal probed the wound, wincing. It hurt, but wasn’t deep. Stitches probably weren’t required, but if he lived through this it would no doubt leave a jagged scar.
Squinting at his finger, he used his teeth to yank out a three inch splinter under his nail. He spat it out, and began to search the room.
The suitcase next to the bed wasn’t his, and he didn’t see any purses lying around. He checked the bureau drawers, and then the desk.
Nothing.
Mal crept to the door and put his ear to it. Then he opened it a crack, peering out. The coast seemed clear, and he quickly exited the room and entered the adjacent one.
Not his suitcase, but there was a purse on the desk. And inside…
Moni’s syringe. He pulled the purse strap over his head and shoulder.
Okay, that’s half the mission. Now to get my gun.
He remembered his room was next to Moni’s, so all he had to do was sneak into it and—
The doorknob began to turn before Mal could touch it. He quickly stuck the light stick back in his jeans and looked around for a place to hide.
The bed.
Quickly dropping to all fours, Mal scooted under it just as the door opened.
“Maaaaaaaaal… I… want… your… other… hand…”
Sara
Sara took off her sweater and tied a knot in the sleeves, trying to make a sling for Frank’s arm. He’d been groaning since Mal left, biting his wallet, his eyes welling with tears. Fishing around in her purse, Sara found a pack of tissue. She gently wiped his eyes, and then mopped some of the sweat off of his forehead.
Frank let the wallet fall from his lips, and stared hard at her.
“I’ve… been hope hope hoping…” he said, the pain straining his voice.
“Hoping for what, Frank?”
“To see see see…”
“To see?”
“You… with your… shirt off.”
He grinned, and Sara laughed. She didn’t even remember what bra she had on until she looked. It was frilly, pink, Fredrick’s of Hollywood. Somehow she’d had the foresight to wear her only good bra. If he’d seen some of her others, he probably wouldn’t have been as impressed.
“When we get out of here,” she whispered. “Maybe I’ll even let you see me without the bra.”
“I’d like that. Sara?”
“Yes, Frank?”
“I think think think my arm is broken.”
“It’s just a bad sprain,” Sara said. “Mal is going to get you something for the pain. He’ll be back soon.”
“I’m scared, Sara.”
“So am I, Frank.”
She kissed his damp forehead, then opened her purse and stared at her last two tiny bottles of Southern Comfort.
Sara needed a drink. Badly. In fact, Sara may have never needed a drink more than she did right then. Her hopes for getting her son back had been torn from her. Seeing the first decent man she’d met in—well—forever—suffer like this was heartbreaking. And the very real possibility that she was going to die soon, and die horribly, made her adrenaline spike so hard her head hurt.
She pulled out the first bottle, twisting off the cap with practiced precision, and tilted it—
—into Frank’s mouth.
He drank, then coughed. “Thanks.”
“Got one more coming.”
She opened the second, and he gulped it down.
“Got any any any orange juice?”
“Other purse.”
She moved her thigh under his head as a pillow, and blotted away more sweat.
She didn’t regret giving Frank the last of her booze.
In fact, in a strange sort of way, she felt liberated by it.
Sara looked over at Deb, who was sitting against the wall with her head in her hands, her fake legs spread out in front of her, looking strangely like skis. She seemed off in her own world. Sara then looked at Pang, and saw he had some new gizmo in his hand.
Pang glanced up at her. “I’d like to try an EVP recording.”
“What is that?” Sara asked.
“Electronic Voice Phenomenon. I ask a question, and record the response. The human ear isn’t as sensitive as a microphone. So answers could get picked up by the recorder that we wouldn’t otherwise hear. Then we can hear them in playback, with the sound boosted up.”
“Why do you want to do this?”
“Because maybe we can find out what these spirits want. I’ve investigated a lot of supposedly haunted houses. They’ve always had rational explanations or have been inconclusive. What’s happening here, now—it’s unprecedented. If we can prove that there is another plane of existence, and if we can get some answers from those who inhabit that plane, it will be the greatest scientific discovery of the century.”
Sara thought it was a bad idea. “Deb?”
Deb didn’t reply, apparently remaining a prisoner of her thoughts.
“Frank, what do you think?”
His eyelids fluttered. “I think it’s a break, not a sprain. Sprains don’t bend the wrong way.”
“Look,” Pang said, “you don’t have to do anything. Just stay quiet. This isn’t just for bad spirits. There may be some good ones around that can help us. But we won’t get that help, unless we ask for it.”
Sara sighed. She was used to life spiraling out of control despite anything she did. If Pang wanted to do this, Sara didn’t see how she’d be able to stop him.
Pang stood, holding up a silver gadget with a red blinking light on it. Keeping it at arm’s length from his face he said, “Are there any spirits here?”
Sara didn’t hear a response, but she supposed that was the point. After ten seconds, Pang sat down and pressed a button. A moment later his recorded voice was heard, louder than he’d originally spoken.
“Are there any spirits here?”
They all listened to the white noise that followed. No ghosts responded to Pang’s question.
Pang pressed another button and asked again, “Are there any spirits here?”
Sara found herself concentrating on the silence. The underground tunnel they were in had a slight echo to it, and the single bare bulb hanging from the wooden brace overhead didn’t illuminate more than a few meters into the darkness.