Spirits Read online

  She flopped onto the sunken mattress and drew the down comforter up to her forehead, wondering why the liquor wasn’t working anymore. Her body trembled again in longing for more, but she knew one more drink would probably finish her off. She lay, sweat rolling from every pore in her body. Her underwear was soaked through––not from urine, but from dripping sweat. What she wanted was another bath, something to rinse the fine film of sweat from her body. She couldn’t possibly try the bathroom in her suite again. The snakes could be waiting just inside the faucet.

  Horror clutched her at the thought of going back into the communal bathroom on the second floor. The thought of watching her father step, bloated and putrid, into the shower stall made her grab the blankets and pull them tightly around her body.

  The thing squirming in her body shouted obscenities into her ear. It was angry, and it banged around until Tori’s head throbbed. Her body folded in half at the waist and she rolled onto her side. She vomited onto the plush comforter.

  Something clunked its way upstairs, and Tori screamed. Liquid sloshed as the weight of an unexpected visitor ascended the stairs and halted at the suite door. Tori’s entire body quivered. She shoved herself up and launched herself out of the bed. Glass clanked against the wall. She saw a shadow on the bare walls of the stairwell. Amelia kicked the door open. Blood trickled from a gaping wound framed by blacked, matted hair. Ice shot through Tori’s veins. Amelia clutched two bottles. One was a blood-smeared Bombay bottle. The other was a rich brown bottle of Maker’s Mark, its red wax dripping like its own massive head wound.

  Amelia stepped into the center of the room. Her eyes burned with rage, but she said nothing. The silence horrified Tori more than any gore.

  Amelia didn’t flutter like a ghost. She offered no evidence of her demise. She stood, solid as ever, holding out both bottles as an offering.

  The thing in Tori’s body writhed and smashed itself against her guts. All the breath left her lungs. Amelia drew closer, a zombie with two boozy sacrifices.

  Drink.

  Drink.

  Drink.

  Before long, the house’s restless spirits rattled windows. They shook so violently, Tori threw her arms up over her face in anticipation of them shattering. They all chanted, like some fraternity hazing a pledge.

  Amelia stood just over her. A clotted red blob fell onto Tori’s foot. Tori looked up. Amelia’s mouth was a slit. Her eyes glowed with fury, but she held those bottles inches from Tori’s face, insistent.

  Tori clutched the gin bottle first, cracked it open, and chugged it so hard, the liquid hurt her throat as she glugged. Liquor blew up through her nose, burning her sinuses. Three-quarters of the way through the bottle, gin spewed from her puffed cheeks. Still, she gulped.

  The empty bottle thudded when it hit the floor.

  Amelia shoved the Maker’s Mark at her. Tori shook her head and gasped, desperate to catch her breath. Sweat poured from the top of her head. Her stomach heaved and sloshed.

  She clutched the bottle. The sight of the brown liquor made her want to throw up, but the squirming presence that lived beneath her skin forced her to peel back the seal and put it to her lips.

  The bourbon felt like velvet on her tongue until everything went numb. The oaky, vanilla spiciness of the booze cut through the overwhelming vapor rising into her nostrils. She tried to pull the bottle away from her mouth, but as she pushed, something forced it back up. She couldn’t take anymore. Vomit caught in her throat, and she struggled to swallow the booze being forced down her gullet. Tears gushed from her eyes as she tried to breathe. Finally, the bottle smashed against the floor, and a torrent of vomit flowed from her mouth. Chunks of some indeterminate food plopped out. Once all the food was gone, blood spewed out instead.

  Tori sat in the puddles beneath her and curled into a ball. Her belly groaned with pain. Her body quaked.

  Amelia, now empty-handed, staggered forward and slumped to the floor. Tori tried to scream, but acrid vomit scorched her throat and she couldn’t.

  Her entire body felt depleted and sucked dry. She tried to push herself up but skidded on the thick conglomeration of vomit and blood. She hefted herself up on wobbly legs and moved to the bathroom. She took an upside down, paper-covered glass from the soap dish, filled it with tap water, and slugged it down like she’d been trapped for a month in the desert. Seconds later, it poured from her throat, tinged pink with blood.

  A thick, cottony bubble built in her throat. All she wanted was to wash it down. She glugged down another glass of water, but it gurgled back up.

  Her heart thudded at her jaw. She pressed her fingers into the bed frame. Dizziness overwhelmed her, and her knees buckled. A blur swirled around her. Something roared in her ears. A white blob at the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned her head, but vomited thick globs of blood onto the hardwood. She put a hand to her gummy, sweaty forehead and pushed herself along the wall until the white blob came into focus. It was the antique phone on the bedside table.

  She picked up the receiver and pressed 9-1-1. It brrrrrred, a soothing sound in her throbbing ears.

  “Nine-one-one. Your emergency is not important at all to us. You should eat shit and die.”

  The voice on the other end was cold and metallic. “Help. Me.”

  Tori couldn’t hear herself say the words. Her voice barely choked out the plea.

  “Ma’am, this line is for emergencies only. A dying drunk bitch is not an emergency.”

  The dial tone buzzed. Boiling fluid built up in her throat, and a rush of lava-hot blood bubbled out.

  The overwhelming desire to live clutched her. She gripped the bedside table and dragged herself out of the bedroom and down the stairs, clenching the banister until her fingers ached. She slumped against the wall and lurched, one leg at a time toward the front door. After four steps, weakness pulled her down to her knees, and she crawled to the door. She stumbled out and pulled herself to the edge of the porch. She vaulted herself over the edge and tumbled, head over feet. A crack ripped down her back as she flipped against the sharp edges of each step all the way to the street below.

  Tori’s face pressed against the hard asphalt. The glitter of the road came into focus against her blurred vision. Wind swept over her. She lay there, all the energy drained. Maybe this is where she would die.

  The hum of an engine vibrated the ground beneath her. She tried to push herself up, but her face smashed back against the street. The vibrations grew stronger, and a dull whirr rose up in her ears. The hot air from the hood of the car bore down on her. She braced herself for the crushing roll that would disconnect her parts and smash her into the ground.

  Brakes screeched, and a car door chunked closed. A scurrying sound followed and someone was at her side. This person flipped her over, and she saw the glare of streetlamps. The light shattered into a million stars just beyond. The black outline of a person’s face broke into the field of light. The figure pulled at her arm, and a jolt of pain ripped down the left side of her body. The pain rippled and expanded until her entire body was a pulsing chunk of flesh. The figure hefted her into its arms. Her savior’s torso smelled like laundry detergent and fast food French fries. For some reason, the smell of food sparked memories of her childhood visits. Her dad might’ve been lifting her, exhausted and sunburned after a day on the beach, into the car. They’d just picked up basket of hot, salty fries from a boardwalk stand, and she would eat them in the backseat as they drove away. She inhaled it on the mysterious person she now relied upon for her life, and those smells engulfed her until her muscles released. She felt herself flop backwards. Something drained from her mouth.

  Faint sounds and movements whirled. The engine rumbled. Night breezed by. Colors in negative blurred against the windshield. The roadway rocked her. Someone pulled her again, this time slamming her against something white and soft. A needle jammed into her skin, and everything twinkled. Blinking lights exploded in her vision. Voices droned. Her ears perke
d, and she tried to understand, but the words all sounded like gibberish.

  Her eyes strained to open. She felt the presence of someone at her side, and she wanted to see who it was. Each time she tried to open her eyes, they fluttered shut again. Once, she saw the outline, a shadowy flutter of cloth against metal. She tried again. Something oozed down from the cloth, and she clamped her eyes shut. Before long, she drifted into the darkness behind her eyelids.

  CHAPTER 15

  Chris’s whole body ached. Roughing up Mr. Ramones had taken a greater toll on him than he realized. His lower back was stiff, and he rubbed the spot with his gnarled fingers. There was a time he could go to a convention and come home feeling energized and refreshed. Tonight, he felt like he could crash into bed. The microwave beeped, and the rattle of popping popcorn ceased. He grabbed his dinner and headed for the living room. Boxes of comics sat unmoved in his trunk, but he sank into his recliner and dipped his hand into the warm popcorn bag.

  There was an old Twilight Zone episode on television, and he cranked up the volume.

  “Oh, cool. ‘The Hitch-Hiker.’ I love this one.”

  He grabbed a handful of popcorn and stuffed the buttery snack into his mouth. Inger Stevens stepped into the telephone booth and picked up the receiver to call her mother. Chris smiled. He loved this part.

  Inger was such a beauty with her dimpled cheeks and fresh skin. He recalled when she died. He was a teenager then. Suicide by overdose. He’d never admit to anyone that he once considered a similar way out in the days after Margaret and Emmy died. It would have been easier than the path he ultimately chose. He was trapped in the life of a superhero, unable to stop even if he wanted to. When he saw someone in peril, it was an automatic change. He didn’t need to change in a phone booth or spin in a circle or even pull open his button-up to reveal some QS in bright primary colors emblazoned upon his undershirt. QuickSilver was emblazoned upon his soul. After thirty-five years of leaping tall buildings in a single bound, you’d think he’d have earned a break by now.

  A thunderous knock rattled his door, and he jumped up, knocking the popcorn onto the floor. It scattered into a million places he’d probably never think to clean.

  His knees wobbled at the intrusion, but he lurched to the door. A police officer stood on the other side, holding a notepad.

  “Mr. Silver?” he asked.

  Chris nodded and said, “How can I help you, officer?”

  His stomach sank at the thought of Mr. Ramones pressing assault charges. Doug warned him. If only he could’ve stopped himself.

  “I need to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”

  Chris grimaced and pulled the door open the rest of the way.

  “Sure. Come on in. I apologize for the mess. Your knock startled me, and I dropped my snack.”

  The officer gave him a puzzled look and shrugged.

  “Do you happen to know a blonde woman, about five foot six inches tall, approximately 140 pounds?”

  It was Chris’s turn to adopt a puzzled look.

  “I can’t think of anyone I know matches that description. I wish I did know a woman who looks like that,” he laughed nervously.

  “Mr. Silver, we found your business card in her back pocket.”

  A chill worked its way up from Chris’s feet. The word found rattled him.

  “Found? Is this woman in some sort of trouble?”

  “She’s very ill and in the hospital. She was almost hit by a truck earlier this evening. She had no identification on her, and when we searched her clothing, we pulled your business card from her back pocket. We visited your store, and one of your employees told us you were home.”

  The relief Chris felt that this police visit wasn’t about Mr. Ramones dissipated and was replaced by the terror that someone out there needed him. His mind raced when he thought back on the people who had taken cards at WildCon. He’d placed a cardholder on his exhibitor table. God only knew how many people grabbed one while browsing or breezing through. Then he remembered. The last card he’d given out was at the Nail before he left for Wildwood.

  “Officer, is this woman’s hair long and dark blonde?”

  The policeman nodded.

  “Can you tell me what happened to her?” Chris asked, starting to put the pieces together.

  The officer looked like this line of questioning was getting on his nerves.

  “I’m afraid I can’t get into details with you, Mr. Silver. Do you know this woman or not?”

  “I think I know who you’re talking about. Would I be able to come down to the hospital with you and see her? Let me ask you this. Did alcohol land her in the hospital?”

  The officer’s stern countenance softened a bit.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “I believe I do know this woman. I think I can help you. I’ll follow you in my car.”

  The officer motioned toward the door, and Chris slipped his feet into a pair of shoes and grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter.

  Chris climbed behind the wheel of the still-loaded Subaru, and he watched the police officer pull out of the driveway. Blue and red lights swirled, and Chris followed. The cop sped along the narrow roadway, whooshing past reeds. Chris struggled to keep up, but he knew where the hospital was. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his breath sped up. Panic set in, and he sniffled and huffed as tears built. The last time he’d raced behind a police car on the way to the hospital, it’d been the night the cop came to his door to tell him about Margaret and Emmy. Their faces flashed in his mind, and his shoulders shuddered. His nostrils burned as he ran red lights along with the cruiser, history repeating itself. He’d believed all those years ago that his heart would explode, and he wasn’t entirely certain that wouldn’t happen now.

  The cruiser pulled into the hospital parking garage, and Chris smeared tears away from his cheeks. He pulled in behind and waited for the boom barrier to lift and let the cop move forward.

  The cop car edged ahead. Chris took a ticket, and the boom barrier lifted again. He watched the cop pull into a spot, and he found one a few spaces away. He put the car in park, pulled down the visor, and flipped up the mirror. He studied his eyes for signs of tears and wiped away a few stray ones.

  He climbed out and ran to catch up to the officer, who was already marching briskly toward the emergency entrance. The two men walked in silence and got into the elevator. At the sixth floor, they got out and moved to Room 627.

  Something beeped incessantly. He didn’t even notice the woman at first. She was buried beneath intertwined tubes and wires. Her hair was matted to her face, which was bleached of all its color. Her blue lips framed a large tube that jutted into her throat. Machines whirred.

  Was this the woman he’d seen at the bar? She looked like a ghost, especially wrapped under layers of white hospital sheets. Chris studied her features. She had a smooth, flat cheeks and a perky nose. Her hair might have been dark blonde, but she was soaked through with sweat, so he couldn’t tell for sure. The smell coming from her, however, was undeniable. Alcohol bursting from her pores. It smelled like fermented fruit and the watery mess that sometimes collects at the bottom of the garbage can. There was no denying that smell. This woman almost drank herself to death.

  “Alcohol poisoning?” Chris asked the cop, who stood on the other side of the woman and stared down at her.

  “Hmmm? Oh. Yeah. Worst case I’ve seen. She’s lucky. Staggered out into the street. Some guy in a truck nearly took her out. Nearly shit myself when her BAC came in––0.8. Had enough in her blood to kill at least three people. I don’t see how she survived the trip to the emergency room.”

  Chris’s face flushed.

  “I think she’s a woman I saw at the Rusty Nail the other night. I’m afraid I never caught her name, but you might want to try Bracken Nunnally. He was working the bar when she was there.”

  The cop flipped open his notebook and jotted down the name.

  “Thanks. I’ll give him
a call. You’re free to go.”

  “Officer, do you think it would be all right if I stayed? I hate to think that this poor woman will be up here all by herself. At least until you can reach a relative.”

  The cop shrugged.

  “Suit yourself. If the hospital staff tells you to leave, you’ll need to obey their orders.”

  Chris gave a smile that turned down at the corners of his mouth.

  Tori woke surrounded by white. She clutched at some tubes jutting from her arms and winced at the jab of pain from the IV in her hand. Someone was in the room with her, but she couldn’t make out the form. Time was a vague matter. There was no way to tell how long she’d been out or if it was morning, afternoon, or night. Her vision blurred, and her head felt fuzzy. Turning her head seemed like it took all the energy stored in her body.

  A face loomed, nose-to-nose. A lightning bolt shot down her spine as she jerked up. The curve of the cheek. The black eyes were wild and crazed, lined deeply with wrinkles. A furious vertical line split the eyebrows. A smile, devoid of any happiness, stretched preternaturally across the face.

  Don’t you want a drink? It’s been a whole day since you drank. The voice growled into her ears.

  “Hello? Are you all right?”

  A man’s voice rose up from somewhere in the room.

  Tori closed her eyes and opened them again. The face that had hovered so close was gone. Her vision remained foggy. Lights glared, and it hurt to look at them. Like some strange, dream-fueled concert, lyrics popped into her mind. Telephone line, give me some time.

  She sensed that the man sat on the far end of the room, beyond the curtain that separated her bed from the other one. Metal-on-metal scraped, and the curtain opened.

  A featureless face stood just inside. A hand touched her own.