Ghost Town (11 page)

A storm raged around her. Wind and rain lashed her skin, and muddy brown water surrounded her. She was drifting with the current, floating past rooftops, most of which had people clinging to them for safety. That's what had happened to her, she realized. She'd fallen off a roof and into the water.

“Hey!” she called out to a family—a man, a woman, and two children—as she floated by. “Help me! Please!”

They just looked at her as the current pulled her away from them, and really, what else could they do? It wasn't as if they had a life preserver tethered to a rope to throw to her. She knew there had been no point in calling out to them for help, but she hadn't been able to stop herself.

How could this possibly be happening? It was as if she had fallen through a hole in time and had somehow ended up in Exeter in the middle of the famous flood. Suddenly, the museum's title for the exhibit, “Rain of Terror,” no longer seemed so stupid.

She used to tease Donner about his fascination with the paranormal and his willingness to believe weird shit. If she somehow made it out of this, she vowed that she would never tease him again.

Something big and solid slammed into her side, knocking the air out of her lungs. She slipped beneath the surface and sucked in another mouthful of river before regaining control of her body and treading water again. She saw a large shape bobbing next to her and with horror realized it was the body of a horse. Something else struck her back, and when she turned her head, she saw it was a dead pig. She remembered the photo of all those bodies laid out in rows on the wet, muddy ground. Those bodies were there now, floating in the water with her. And if she couldn't keep treading water, she would end up drowned and laid out with them. She wondered if someone back in the present, examining the photo on the museum wall closely, would see that one of the bodies was that
of a young woman dressed in black who looked more than a little out of place among Exeter's dead.

She knew she couldn't keep treading water forever, especially if she had to keep fighting the current. She needed to find something that floated to hold on to, preferably not the corpse of a large farm animal. A chunk of lumber or a big tree branch, maybe. If only she—

With the black clouds and driving rain, visibility was poor, and when Rach saw the shapes in the water in front of her—dozens upon dozens of them, smooth and rounded, some light, some dark—she couldn't make out what they were at first. But as the current bore her closer to them, she realized that they remained stationary, somehow resisting the floodwaters' flow. Almost as if they were waiting for her

When she was within ten feet, they lifted their heads out of the water, and Rach understood that what she had been looking at before were the backs of bodies,
human
bodies, that had been floating facedown. Men, woman, children, infants—all stared at her with milky-white eyes, their skin wrinkled and bluish-white, as if they had been in the water for a very long time. Then, as one, they smiled at her, revealing rows of sharp teeth like a shark's.

She screamed, spun around, and began swimming as hard as she could in the opposite direction. But the current was too strong, and it swept her into the townspeople's waiting arms.

“Rach? You OK?”

Donner was worried. Rach had been standing in front of the photo of the flood victims for several minutes. She hadn't moved in all that time, and what was even more surprising, she hadn't
said
anything. It was the longest period he had known her to remain silent—when she wasn't sleeping, that is. Maybe the exhibit had gotten to her, had broken through her ever-present veneer of cynicism. But there was something about the too-rigid
way she stood, as if her joints were locked tight, that seemed wrong. His stomach twisted into a cold knot of anxiety, and he stepped toward her.

“Rach? Rachel?”

He reached out and put a trembling hand on her shoulder, which felt cold and strangely damp. He took hold of her other shoulder and gently turned her around to face him, pulse pounding in his ears. Her eyes were wide and staring, and for an awful instant, he thought she was dead. But then she opened her mouth and vomited a gout of brown water onto his chest. Her body went slack, as if she were a machine and someone had flicked her off switch, and she collapsed to the floor.

“Shit,” Donner whispered. Water—river water, from the smell of it—dripped off the front of his coveralls, and a trickle of it still ran from the corner of Rach's mouth. Her eyes remained open, focused on nothing, and Donner was certain she was dead. How could this have happened? She was a lot younger than he was and in good shape, too. It didn't seem—

“Turn around.”

Donner jumped at the sound of the voice. He turned to see a man dressed in a brown flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots standing there, hands balled into fists at his sides, a cold, unreadable expression in his eyes.

“Do you work here? I didn't do anything to her, I swear! We need to get her to a hospital, call an ambulance—something!”

The man didn't reply. He just continued staring. For an instant, Donner thought he saw someone else standing next to the man—a woman wearing a long, old-fashioned black dress. But he blinked, and she was gone. He was seeing things, he figured, because of the shock of Rach collapsing.

The man still wasn't talking. At first, Donner had taken him to be a museum employee, perhaps drawn when he had shouted Rach's name. But the freak just kept standing there, silent, doing
nothing. Donner didn't know what the hell his problem was, and he didn't care. Rach needed help. He pulled out his cell phone, intending to dial 911. But before he could enter the first number, the man finally spoke.

“I wouldn't do that, Drew.”

Now it was Donner's turn to stare.

“Um . . . who?”

Mitch was filled
with cold fury. Not because this sonofabitch had killed Amber but because he'd done it before Mitch had got his chance to teach her a lesson. Amber had been so proud when she had told him she was dating a psychologist. “A real great guy,” she had said. Looked like her real great guy had turned out to have one hell of a temper. Mitch wondered what she had done to piss Drew off so much that he had killed her right there in the museum. Come to think of it, no matter how angry Drew had been, wouldn't he have waited to do the deed until they were somewhere private, where there weren't any witnesses? He didn't know much about the man, but he didn't seem like the type of guy who would suddenly snap and fly into a homicidal rage.

In fact, the woman lying on the floor didn't resemble Amber all that much now that he took a closer look. And the man didn't look as much like Drew as he had a second ago. He was shorter, fatter, and dressed in some kind of uniform.

Mitch felt a cold hand clasp his, and then the Dark Lady leaned close to his ear and whispered. Her voice sounded like rustling leaves, her breath as frigid as January wind on his flesh.

“Hesitation is a sign of weakness.”

Rage welled strong within him, burying his doubts, and he clearly saw Amber lying on the floor, Drew standing next to her, cell phone in hand.

“I wouldn't do that, Drew.”

The man mumbled something in reply, but Mitch paid no attention.
He ran forward, locked his hands around Drew's throat, and began to squeeze.

Drew fought back. He tried to pry Mitch's hands off his throat, and when he couldn't break his grip, he pounded his fists against Mitch's forearms and then the sides of his head. Mitch ignored the pain, such as it was. Drew might have looked in shape, but his blows lacked any real strength. What a fucking wimp!

Drew's face reddened, then purpled, and then his knees gave out on him, and he slumped to the floor. Mitch followed him down, maintaining his grip. He was squeezing so hard he thought he could feel the man's neck bones beneath his hands. In the movies, tough guys could break someone's neck simply by giving the head a single savage twist. Cool as that always looked, he had figured it was Hollywood bullshit. But now, feeling Drew's bones like this, he understood just how fragile a neck could be, and he believed that it wouldn't take a lot to snap it. All he would have to do was—

Drew's body went slack, breaking Mitch's train of thought. He examined the man's swollen face, his open, bulging eyes, and realized it was too late for him to try to break his neck. Oh, well. Maybe next time.

He released his grip, and Drew fell to the floor, only a couple of feet from where Amber was lying. He stood up and regarded their still forms. He expected to feel something—exhilaration at having broken one of society's greatest taboos, satisfaction at showing Drew what a real man could do, a sense of justice at knowing that Amber had gotten what she deserved, even if he hadn't been the one to give it to her. But the truth was, he didn't feel much of anything, and that lack of emotional payoff made him feel cheated.

His vision blurred for an instant, and when it cleared, the two bodies lying on the museum floor no longer resembled Amber and Drew. Instead, they were two strangers: a young girl in a black minidress and an older guy dressed like a sanitation worker or
something. Before Mitch could question what was happening, the Dark Lady whispered to him again in her autumn-leaf voice.

“We need to leave before anyone comes and sees what we have done.”

She wrapped fingers of ice around his hand and led him away from the bodies. He accompanied her without resistance, trying to understand what had just happened.

“I wanted to send another message, and I needed to see how far you would go for me. Your former girlfriend has a strong spirit, stronger than she realizes. Where others are blind, she can see. She may prove a threat to me—she and her friends. Stay with me, help me take care of them, and when this night is done, we will both have what we most desire.”

Mitch still wasn't sure how much he liked the idea of taking orders from a woman, but so far, the Dark Lady hadn't steered him wrong.

As they walked through the museum lobby and out into the daylight, he asked, “All right, what next?”

“I think it's time you and Amber had a reunion.”

“Thank you very
much. I hope you enjoy it.”

Trevor slid the copy of
Insidious Inns
across the table. The woman who had bought it—early twenties, thick glasses, blond hair almost white and tied in a ponytail—picked it up and added it to the stack she carried. All of her other books were ones Arthur Carrington had written.

“Thanks. I figured I'd get you to sign for me first since Arthur's line is so long.”

Trevor resisted sighing. “I've noticed.”

The woman smiled, then went off to take a place at the end of Carrington's line with the rest of his fans, of which there were currently several dozen—and those were just the ones whose books he hadn't signed yet. He'd already signed close to fifty, Trevor figured. Counting this last book, he had signed only eleven. Honestly, though, he had done better than he feared he might, considering that Carrington had been at this a lot longer than he had.

He wondered where Amber and Drew were. After bringing bottled water for both Carrington and him, Amber had left the Exhibition Hall. She hadn't said anything, but Trevor had been able to tell that something had upset her. A few minutes later, Drew had returned and looked around—presumably for Amber—and when he didn't see her, he left, too. That had been a while ago, and Trevor hadn't seen either one of them since. He hoped the lovebirds weren't having a fight, but he supposed it was inevitable. All of the experts said that it was normal and healthy for
people in a relationship to fight from time to time. They were both good-hearted, intelligent people, and they loved each other very much. Whatever was going on, they would work it out. He hoped.

Jenn stood behind the table between Trevor and Carrington, in case they needed her to supply more books. Erin stood off to the side, filming the signing with her hand camera. Carrington was in his element, chatting with fans, posing for pictures, telling amusing anecdotes. As much as Trevor disliked Carrington's less-than-scientific approach to paranormal investigation, he had to admit the man oozed charm and knew how to work a crowd. If Trevor could pick up a few pointers from him, he might sell more books.

Jenn leaned down close and spoke softly. “Jealous?”

Trevor pretended to be hurt by her question. “Me? I'm a professional!” He paused for effect. “Of course I'm jealous!”

She laughed, as he had hoped. It was good to see her smile after what she had been through. Since he had no other readers waiting for his signature, he figured this might be a good time to press Jenn for some information. But he knew he had to do so carefully, so as not to upset her any further.

“If I remember right, the Forgotten Lore building is one of the structures that made it through the flood intact.”

“More or less,” she said. “It's been refurbished so many times over the years, I'm not sure how much of the original building is left. A number of the buildings in the downtown business district are at least partially preflood. The museum is one. And there's a farm outside town. Erin could tell you better than I could.”

“Why is that?”

“She researched which buildings in town date from before the flood, whether in whole or in part. She wanted to film them for her documentary. That's the main reason she shot some footage in the bookstore.”

A devastating tragedy like the flood could create a major disruption in the psychospiritual plane, resulting in a nexus for all manner of paranormal manifestations. It was the most common theory behind Exeter's reputation as a hotbed of ghostly activity and, in Trevor's opinion, the most likely. The fact that the building that housed Jenn's store dated from before the flood might be significant, too. It could account for why such a powerful manifestation had taken place there the night before. The stronger a place's tie to past tragedy, the stronger the manifestation. Still, a manifestation powerful enough to hurl books around a room via psychokinetic force was in a whole different category from a few phantom footsteps in the night or a couple of unexplained cold spots.