The Visitor (5 page)

Eight

T
he breeze that blew across the Institute's parking area was warm and fragrant, but I couldn't stop trembling as I climbed into my car and started the engine. As anxious as I was to get home to my computer, I sat for several long moments, idly watching crepe myrtle blossoms pepper the hood as I tried to dissect all that I'd learned.

A twin desperate to cling to her dead sister. A commune that had ended in tragedy. A cemetery of keys and suicides. All seemingly linked by a strange stereogram that had turned up in my cellar.

I had no idea how the pieces fit together, but by the time I nosed my car onto the street, I could feel the tightening fetters of an obsession. Who in my position could resist the puzzle of that tiny walled graveyard and the mystery of all those keys? That I might somehow be personally connected to Kroll Cemetery only added to my fixation.

As soon as I got home, I went straight to the office and opened my laptop. An anticipatory thrill quickened my heart as I typed in the name Ezra Kroll and watched the links pop up. Curling a leg underneath me, I relaxed more comfortably into my chair and soon became lost in research.

Nothing I learned about Kroll would suggest the evil charisma of a cult leader or demagogue. To the contrary, he had been a gentle, unassuming scholar who'd eschewed the violent culture that had sent him and so many other young men off to war. He'd chosen, instead, to live simply and in harmony with nature, which made the tragedy at Kroll Colony all the more unfathomable.

Hours passed as I sat spellbound. Twilight came and went. The questions raised by my visit to Dr. Shaw and now by my own research spun on and on until I finally gave up and went to bed.

I'd tossed the cicada husk in the trash that morning, but as I flipped on the light to turn down the bed, I cast a wary glance at the nightstand. Nothing was there. No insect shell or bookmark. I heard nothing in the walls, smelled nothing untoward in the air. All was calm in the house, but it was a very long time before I slept.

* * *

Sometime later I was again awakened by a noise. I lay there straining to hear scratches in the wall or raspy breathing behind my headboard, but the disturbance was different this time. Distant and less distinct. It came to me that I may not have been roused by a sound at all, but by a sixth-sense certainty that I was no longer alone.

I eased open the nightstand drawer and removed a fresh can of pepper spray, which would be of no use against ghosts, but might offer a modicum of protection against the more substantive entities I called in-betweens. If a thing could breathe and scramble through walls, it could also feel pain, I reasoned. It might even be as frightened as I was. A squirt to the eyes might be enough to startle such a creature away.

That my mind would even go to such a place revealed how far I'd come from a time when ghosts had been the only supernatural encounters in my life. Now I lived in a world populated by all manner of shadowy beings.

Clutching the canister, I padded across the room and peered through the door before merging into the thicker gloom of the hallway. As I approached the kitchen, I paused once more to listen. I started to move through the doorway only to stop dead, one foot suspended over the threshold as a breeze stirred my hair. In the same moment, I realized I could hear the faint swish of passing cars out on the street as if a door or window had been left open.

I saw something move in my office then. A flickering shadow. A flash of light. Instinctively, I melted back into the darkness in the hallway and counted to ten before chancing another glance into my office.

A figure stood behind my desk, rifling through the contents of a drawer. The form was dark but well defined against the windows. I couldn't make out any features, but I took note of what I could see—black clothing, slim build, tallish. And human.

Which would explain why I'd detected no abnormal chill in the air, no death scent in the draft that once again lifted my hair. How the intruder had managed to invade my house so stealthily, I had no idea.

My first impulse was to backtrack down the hallway and get to my phone, but I was afraid that even the slightest movement would draw his attention. I couldn't know if he was armed, but I had to assume he was dangerous, perhaps even desperate. I wanted to believe all I had to do was stay out of sight and once he discovered that I had nothing of value in my office, he'd leave.

But he didn't appear easily discouraged. He closed one drawer and opened another, strewing papers all over my desk. I had no idea what he might be after, but if he decided to search the rest of the house, I was a sitting duck. As soon as he crossed through the kitchen into the hallway, he'd spot me cowering in the shadows. I couldn't remain hidden forever. I had to get to the front door or to my bedroom, where I could lock myself in and call the police.

I moved slightly, testing the floorboards. The creak beneath my feet sounded as loud as a gunshot. Before I had time to blink or even draw a breath, the intruder leaped over the desk—in a single bound I would later swear—and lunged toward me.

Stunned by his agility, I was slow to react. By the time I whirled and dashed down the corridor, he was almost upon me. His footsteps, silent earlier, pounded on the old wooden floorboards, the creaks and moans sending a sharp, cold panic up my spine.

I'd walked that hallway hundreds of times. I knew every nook and cranny by heart and as I raced toward the foyer, I searched my memory for a weapon or the nearest escape route.

He was right behind me, gaining on me with every step. I hit the wall, barely evading his grasping fingers, and sent a small table crashing to the floor. We both tripped and in those precious moments it took to right my balance, I stumbled past my bedroom door.

I'd bought myself some time, but not enough to backtrack to the phone, much less unfasten the dead bolt and chain lock on the front door. Instead, I raced through the parlor archway and flattened myself against the wall, trying to control my breathing as I scanned the room.

The windows were all closed and locked. By the time I could wrench one open, he'd be on me again. The house was a death trap. I couldn't hope to hide or evade him for long so I had to take a stand.

All this sailed through my mind as I readied my finger on the pepper spray. I knew where he was in the hall even though he was silent. He knew where I was, too. I sensed his intense concentration and the penetration of his stare through the wall.

Reflex, surprise and that puny can of pepper spray were my only defenses. All I could do was let instinct take over. The moment he appeared in the doorway, I leaped out and pointed the nozzle at his face.

The spray hit him in the eyes and he fell back into the foyer. I used that moment of shock to grab a nearby lamp and swing it at his head. The blow brought him to his knees. He collapsed between the front door and me so I sprinted into the hallway.

His hand shot out and gripped my ankle, yanking me off my feet. I hit the floor hard, air gushing from my lungs as the can skittered across the floor away from my grasp. For a moment I could do nothing but flail helplessly. Summoning my strength, I propelled myself forward on hands and knees, but the assailant grabbed me again.

I rolled onto my back and we were suddenly face-to-face. In that terrifying moment, I could have sworn I recognized the gleam of his eyes through the ski mask. Then I lashed out with my legs, pedaling them frantically until, stunned by the blows and the ferocity of my attack, he fell back into a table. In all that time, in all that commotion, he never made a sound. Not even a grunt.

Clamoring up the stairs to the door at the top, I pounded as hard as I could and called out to Macon. The door had been permanently bolted when the house had been converted into two apartments. He wouldn't be able to let me in, but if he heard my screams, he'd call the police—

Arms snared me from behind, one encircling my waist, the other clamping over my mouth.

For what seemed an eternity, we struggled at the top of the stairs until my feet flew out from under me and I tumbled backward down the stairs. The intruder fell with me and we sprawled side by side on the foyer floor. I must have blacked out for a moment because I saw faces swimming on the inside of my eyelids. Distorted visages that I didn't recognize but somehow knew. One of them said, “Where is it?
Where is it?
”

Where is what?
I wanted to ask, but the question flitted away as light began to filter through the swirling darkness and my current predicament came rushing back to me.

I blinked several times, trying to clear my vision as I searched for a weapon—a lamp or vase, anything with which I could defend myself. I grabbed a leg from the splintered table as I crawled into a corner and propped myself up, preparing for another attack.

It was only then that I realized I was alone. Through a haze of panic, I heard footsteps stumbling down the long hallway toward the kitchen and Macon's voice yelling at me through the front door.

“Amelia! Are you all right? Amelia! Can you hear me? The police are on the way.”

Hitching myself up against the wall, I staggered across the foyer, undid the locks and threw open the front door. The last thing I remembered was Macon's eyes going wide with shock as I pitched forward.

Nine

F
or most of my life, ghosts moved silently through my world, leaving nothing behind when they floated back through the veil but a lingering chill and a dread of twilight. However, once that forbidden door had been opened by my association with a haunted man, some of the spirits had started to communicate—a development that came with a terrifying suspicion that my gift was far darker, far more dangerous than Papa had ever let on.

The encounters had been mostly with entities that were somehow connected to me. I told myself those bonds were the reason certain ghosts could penetrate my defenses so easily.

But as I lay alone in a hospital emergency room cubicle, the voices inside my head were unknown to me. I had the horrifying notion that the random babble came from the morgue. Confused whispers from the newly departed mingling with the tormented moans of lost souls. The macabre cacophony rose up through the hospital floors, swelling in my brain until I pressed hands to ears to try to dull the sound.

The young resident who had examined me earlier came through the door and flashed a sympathetic smile as he approached. “It always gets crazy during a full moon.”

I stared at him in astonishment as I dropped my hands to the bed. “You hear them, too?” Then I realized he was referring to the rumble of human misery coming from the other cubicles. That was
not
the sound in my head, I was certain. “How do you stand it?”

“You get used to it.” He pulled up a rolling stool and sat down at my bedside. “You look as if you could do with a little good news.”

“Yes, please.”

“We've got most of your test results back and everything looks normal. No broken bones or signs of internal bleeding and your vitals are all stable. For someone who took a tumble down a flight of stairs, I'd say you're a very lucky woman.”

“That is good news.”

“You'll be sore and bruised for a few days and you may experience headaches from that bump on your head. I don't think there's any cause for alarm, but even mild concussions are nothing to take lightly. I'd like to keep you overnight so that we can monitor your reflexes.”

The last thing I wanted was a stay in the hospital, but I wasn't foolish enough to second-guess a doctor. And I wondered if a concussion might be the cause of the weird disturbance in my brain. I'd never heard anything like that noise. Not even close.

“If I do have a concussion, what can I expect in the way of symptoms?”

“Depending on the severity, amnesia, dizziness, nausea, confusion. Maybe some sensitivity to light and sound.”

“Sensitivity to
sound
?”

“You seemed to be experiencing a bit of that when I came in just now.” He scribbled something in my file as he talked. “That's another reason I'd like to keep you overnight. As I said, I don't anticipate any problems, but with head injuries, symptoms don't always show up right away. It's best to err on the side of caution.”

“What about noises
inside
my head?”

He glanced up. “You mean like ear ringing? It's not uncommon. Are you experiencing that right now?”

“Not exactly.”

“What kind of noise, then?”

I hesitated. “It's like...babbling.”

“As in people talking?”

“In hushed voices. It's probably coming from the hallway,” I said. “Maybe I am a little sensitive to sound right now.”

He rose and rechecked my pupils with a light. “Do you have a headache?”

“A slight one.”

“Blurred vision?”

“No.”

He had me follow his finger with my eyes and then made another note or two in the file. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“Not really.”

“Can you tell me what day it is?”

I complied. He asked and I answered several more questions until he seemed satisfied.

“Try to relax. Someone will be in shortly to take you upstairs. It'll be quieter up there. You should be able to rest.”

Macon stopped by a few minutes later, his rumpled attire and days-old beard giving him the appearance of someone who had just wandered in off the street. But despite the late hour and circumstances, he seemed surprisingly chipper, even whistled an inane tune as he removed the chart from the door and skimmed the contents.

“What's the verdict?” I asked.

“You look like something the cat dragged in,” he said as he returned the file to the holder. “But you'll live.”

“That's a relief. What are you still doing here anyway? Don't you have an early shift?”

“I thought you might need a little moral support and besides, I wanted to get a look at your X-rays before I left. I don't have to tell you how lucky you are, do I?”

“That seems to be the general consensus,” I said with a nod. “But I've been informed that I have to stay the night so that my reflexes can be monitored.”

“Normal procedure,” he assured me. Then he very casually checked the dilation of my pupils just as the doctor before him had. “Headache?”

“A mild one.”

“Any other discomfort?”

“Not really. Nothing I can't handle.”

“Wait until morning,” he cautioned. “You'll feel as if you've been hit by a freight train.”

“Thanks for the warning. And by the way, may I compliment you on your bedside manner?”

He grinned. “A piece of advice? If you're offered something for pain, take it. Don't try to tough it out.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” I tugged the blanket a little higher because it was chilly inside the cubicle. “Right now I'm still trying to figure out how someone broke into my house without waking me. I'm normally such a light sleeper.”

“One of the cops told me that the back door was jimmied with a special tool. Whoever it was knew what he was doing. You probably wouldn't have heard him even if you'd been wide-awake in the next room.”

“So he came prepared,” I said with a shiver. “Doesn't exactly sound like a random break-in, does it?”

Macon shrugged. “I don't know about that. According to the cop, even petty thieves have sophisticated equipment these days. They just order whatever they need off the internet.”

“What else did the officer say?” I asked anxiously.

“I only spoke with him briefly and he was pretty cagey. As far as I know, they haven't taken anyone into custody so let's hope they're still out canvassing the neighborhood. Don't worry about your place. I'll keep an eye on things until you're released.”

“Thanks, Macon. For everything. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been home tonight.”

“I'm just glad you were able to wake me. I've been told it's like raising the dead. Anyway, all I did was call 911. You're the one who fought him off.”

I mustered a smile. “One rises to the occasion. You should go home and get some sleep before your shift. I'll be fine.”

“I'm headed that way now. Can I get you anything before I go?”

“No, you've done more than enough, thank you. And...Macon?”

He glanced back as he started toward the door.

“Be careful, okay? It's possible someone could still be lurking about.” I was thinking about the cellar and all those dark recesses where someone—something—could hide, even from the police.

“I wouldn't worry about that. Dude's long gone by now. You just get some rest.”

After Macon left, I lay alone for the longest time staring up at the ceiling tiles as all those strange sounds droned on in my head. When I was a child, I'd had a recurring dream about being lost in a tunnel. I could see a light at one end, but the other end was pitch-black. I'd start toward the flicker only to be drawn back by something unseen in the dark. The tug-of-war waged on and on while disembodied arms reached through the walls to clutch at me.

I felt that same smothering claustrophobia of my dream. I couldn't see the arms, but I had a sense that something was reaching out for me, pressing in on me. The sensation was so strong I had to sit up on the gurney to catch my breath.

A panic attack, I told myself. Surely I was allowed a lapse after everything that had happened to me. Still, I didn't like feeling out of control. I wanted to be home, safe and sound in my own little sanctuary, but even that peace of mind had been taken from me now.

My head began to pound and I felt dizzy, so I lay back down and was just drifting off when I had the eerie sensation of being watched. I opened my eyes and turned my head toward the entrance, expecting to find a nurse or an orderly who would transport me upstairs. The doorway was empty, but I was certain someone had been there a moment ago.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I got up and padded across the room to glance down the hallway. I found nothing unusual in the chaos of the emergency room and was about to chalk the sensation up to paranoia when a man at the end of the corridor caught my eye. He was turning a corner so I only had a glimpse of his profile, but something about his attire and the style of his hair reminded me of Owen Dowling.

It couldn't be him. The coincidence would be too great. Unless...his presence at the hospital
wasn't
a coincidence.
Maybe the stereoscope was more valuable than he'd let on.

The business card I'd left only listed my name and phone number, but finding my address wouldn't have been at all difficult. And there'd been that odd awareness as I stood outside the shop, a niggling premonition that my visit to Dowling Curiosities had triggered something dangerous.

I told myself not to jump to irrational conclusions as I returned to the bed. But I lay with my eyes wide-open until someone came in to take me upstairs. The ghost voices in my head grew even louder as I was wheeled down the hallway, but once inside the elevator, they became muffled. As the car rose to the upper floors, the sound grew dimmer until a measure of calm returned to me. By the time I was rolled into the room, the sounds had vanished altogether, leaving nothing in my head but a dull throb.

A nurse helped me settle in, and then a police detective named Prescott arrived to ask questions. I would have preferred Devlin, of course, but I hadn't been able to reach him.

This detective looked to be in his mid-to late forties with thinning hair and a condescending attitude that did nothing to put me at ease.

The first thing he did was to jot down my name, address and phone number in a small notebook he pulled from his pocket. Then he took a position at the foot of my bed, where he could peer down at me. Whether he had placed himself there deliberately to intimidate me, I couldn't say, but his impervious stare unnerved me.

“I know you already gave a statement to the responding officer, but I'm going to need you to take me through it again,” he said.

“Okay.” I was happy that I could think a little more clearly now that the chattering in my head had subsided. “Something roused me from sleep. I don't know what it was because I don't remember hearing anything. But I woke up with a feeling that something wasn't right in the house. So I got up to investigate.”

“You didn't think about calling 911?”

“No, not then. It's an old house and there are a lot of night noises.” And at that point I hadn't thought the intruder human.

The door to my room opened just then and I felt a familiar tingle up my spine, a rush of hot blood through my veins that always signaled Devlin's arrival.

He strode in—tall, lean, purposeful—and the air seemed to crackle with electricity as he moved toward me.