Spirits Read online

  Electricity spat and sputtered on the line. A voice, distant and pained, growled, “Get out of here! You bitch! You get out of here right now!”

  Tori returned the phone to its hook. Sweat gathered under her nose. The booth shuddered against the wind, a stifling sanctuary from the groaning cold.

  She pushed the door open and crossed the street to the splintered wooden sanctuary where she looked out over the edge. Waves rolled in and smashed themselves against the wood pilings. Globs of water came to rest on her face. Angry heat rose up in her again. This time, her stomach heaved, and she lurched forward involuntarily. A gripping pain seized her belly, and she retched into the spray below. Unending torrents of vomit spewed over the edge of the frame. Her sternum spasmed. Her hair clung to her face in sweaty strings. Empty at last, she stumbled back from the edge and clutched a beam. Her body felt depleted and weak. Her knees wobbled as she tried to get out of the shelter.

  Hot and desert dry, Tori coughed and felt a lump clogging her windpipe. She tried to clear it, but it remained.

  Electric words, threatening and vile, echoed in her head.

  Fuck with me, and you’ll wish you were dead.

  The lump wouldn’t clear, and she struggled to suck in a breath. Panic set in, and she clutched the wood, splinters digging into her fingers. She heaved, willing air to fill her lungs. Soon, the landscape rippled in foggy waves across her field of vision. She sank to her knees. Her jaw fell open, and she gasped like a fish flailing against the shore. Down on the weather-worn planks, she panted, taking shallow puffs of air until, at last, she inhaled. A few more breaths, shaky at first, she stood.

  She knew instantly what it wanted her to do. Her vision blurred, and her whole body vibrated as she crossed the sand-strewn dead end. She hiked the few blocks to the Rusty Nail, the place she’d passed on her way into town, the local dive Amelia told her about.

  There was a neon red OPEN sign, even though it couldn’t have been later than ten-thirty. Still, she needed something, anything to stop the shaking. She worried that she might encounter someone on the sidewalk who would see her convulsing like this. Embarrassment flushed her cheeks, and she rushed across the gravel driveway and ducked inside.

  A butterfly struggled in the gale on its way out of town.

  CHAPTER 8

  Chris Silver scooped a glob of ketchup onto his French fry and plopped it into his mouth. A red blot dripped onto his salt-and-pepper beard, and he swatted it with a stained napkin. He swiped at the gauze patch on his cheek, paranoid he’d gotten food onto the bandage. Eleven was early for lunch, but he had to be in Wildwood for a comic book convention by three, and boxes of comics, T-shirts, and toys still sat at The Wizard’s Realm, waiting to be packed into his Subaru.

  The Nail catered to drinkers, and Chris never touched the stuff. Still, the burgers were good, and they had a giant chocolate chip cookie on the menu that excited Chris like nothing else.

  The only other person in the joint was a woman who’d been sitting––rather, shaking––at the bar when he walked in. She was conventionally pretty. Probably mid-forties. Something about her made him inexplicably sad.

  When he came in, she held a tumbler in both hands, unable to stop the quaking. Her drink sloshed onto the counter, and Bracken, the bartender, mopped it up robotically. It was just another day on the job.

  Chris pulled another fry through the puddle of ketchup, slurped the dregs of his root beer until the last few drops rattled in the straw, and crumpled his napkin on his plate. He stood and walked to the bar, a few stools away from the woman, who now appeared to have settled down a bit.

  “Hey, Brack,” he called. “Can I get one of those giant cookies and my bill? I’ve gotta get a move on.”

  The burly, blond bartender rubbed the counter with a filthy cloth and nodded without looking up. He lifted a hinged segment of the counter and disappeared behind a swinging door.

  The woman looked up at Chris. He smiled. She didn’t. He tried not to stare, but something in her pale blue eyes startled him so much, he didn’t look away until she turned her head and took a sip of her drink. It bubbled and fizzed. A G&T, he figured. There had been a fog that wisped across her irises, hazy and dull. She was killing something secreted deep inside her, slowly poisoning it. His stomach churned, and he lost his appetite for that cookie just as Bracken bopped back into the bar, crinkling the bag containing his takeout dessert. Bracken dropped it and the bill in front of Chris and walked back over to the woman.

  “Anything else, Miss?”

  “’Nother vodka and tonic, please.”

  She was already slurring. He assumed she was at least four drinks in. Pity. She was a lovely woman. A bit young for a romantic interest, but he hated seeing anyone in pain. Maybe his days as a superhero weren’t over just yet. He absently pressed his fingers against the bandage, a reminder of the last time he’d leapt to someone’s aid. His face burned remembering the incident. It left a scar he’d probably have forever. He wasn’t ashamed of rushing to save that woman months ago. He was mostly horrified that he’d been the one taken out on a stretcher. Yes, QuickSilver was back––he never went away. But this time, he’d have to be more cautious.

  He fished the wallet from his back pocket and plucked out enough cash to cover the bill, plus a generous tip for Bracken, who was the only one working this early in the day. He plunked down the cash, then thumbed out a business card.

  “Miss?”

  The woman looked up, alarmed.

  “I don’t mean to intrude, but you look like something might be bothering you. I’ve been through some stuff myself, so if you ever need a friend, here’s my card. My name’s Chris. Chris Silver.”

  The woman didn’t respond, but she took the card and studied it for a long time, narrowing her eyes as if trying to focus on the words. He turned and walked out, but he couldn’t shake her from his mind. He’d fallen into the bottle himself a long time ago, and damn if it hadn’t been hell trying to crawl back out.

  Chris. Chris Silver. Tori flipped the card back and forth between her index and middle fingers. Could it be the Chris? Chris Silver? She searched her memory for the face, but her head fuzzed, and she just couldn’t recall what the man who’d saved her all those years ago looked like.

  Keyboards set to a faux steel drum blinged and blonged, and a white-haired man in a blue and purple Hawaiian shirt strummed a guitar and sang about searching for his lost shaker of salt on the stage to an audience of two.

  The bartender sidled up to the counter again and said, “Get you anything else, Miss?”

  The shaking had subsided. She felt calmer. The buzz that coursed through her body dulled the incessant sizzle and hum of whatever dwelled within her. Even so, she said, “I’ll have one more.”

  He plucked up a spouted, blue-tinted bottle of vodka and poured, dousing the ice cubes until they cracked. Then he held the glass under the soda spigot until it was filled. He rimmed it with two lime wedges. Tori’s glands ached in anticipation at the sight. He set it on the bar and walked away. The drink crackled and fizzed. Her medicine was right there, and her fingers buzzed with the need to pick it up. Her arm shuddered. Still, she clutched the glass and brought it to her lips. The bubbles tickled her nose hairs.

  The singer droned on in a key that Jimmy Buffet probably hadn’t intended for this song. She was not instantly transported to the Florida Keys. If anything, the fake steel drums and the off-key caterwauling made it seem even more depressing. Trying to fend off the urge to drink in a mostly empty bar in the offseason of a beach resort town was damned near impossible.

  It was her own damn fault. So she drank down her medicine, poisoned herself just a little bit more. Her belly ached as she swallowed it, not really tasting the bright, lime flavor. Her throat bobbed as she gulped, and she pulled the glass away empty save for the ice.

  She leaned forward and motioned for the bartender to come back. “Who was that guy with the bandage?”

  “Chris Silver. He owns
the comic shop over on Carpenter Lane. Why? Was he bothering you?”

  The word bothering puzzled her. That coupled with the white bandage that covered the left quarter of his face elicited a shiver.

  “No, not really. Why? What the hell happened to his face?”

  A long sigh escaped the bartender’s pouty lips. A black lacquer nametag identified him as BRACKEN, and Tori thought it was the oddest name she’d ever seen.

  “Guy has some serious issues. He’s some self-appointed Superman or something.”

  Bracken’s nostrils flared.

  “Anyway, to answer your question, some asshole slashed his face this summer. This tall dude from somewhere up in New England brought his girlfriend here a couple of times. One night, they got into a fight, and he starts beating the shit out of her, so Chris took it upon himself to bring the guy to justice. Stomped right up and stuck his hand out like a motherfucking crossing guard. No lie. The guy took out a pocket knife and ran it across Chris’s cheek. Girlfriend left on a stretcher, and so did Mr. Fantastic.”

  Bracken’s expression softened a little.

  “He’s not a bad person. Quite the opposite. He’s too good almost. But he sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong. I think he really believes he has superpowers.”

  He waved his ratty dishrag. “I’ve heard rumors about him, but I don’t know if any of it’s true,” he said. He flipped the rag over his shoulder and leaned against the counter on one elbow. Tori noticed for the first time that he was attractive. Not the type she typically went for, but he had potential as a hookup.

  The singer mumbled into the mic about taking a break, and the blips and bloops of ELO’s Telephone Line played over the speakers, tinny at first like the earpiece of the rotary phone her family’d had when she was small. The shudder that had been almost constant for the past two days eased, and it felt like she really was living in twilight, soft and fuzzy and quite unlike herself. Blue days, black nights. No other words could better describe the past year of her life. The music pulled her back to summer in the early 80s when this song played over the speakers at the arcade. She and her parents would eat hot French fries and sip slushy lemonade and walk across the blistering sand to the soft shore. The waves would rock away all the turmoil the family experienced when they weren’t on vacation.

  The love you need ain’t gonna see you through.

  It was cheesy, over-the-top, and so out of character, but her heart fluttered as the music rose and he leaned closer.

  “So, you new in town?”

  She couldn’t look him in the eyes, so she focused on the dirt-mottled linoleum floor.

  “Just in town for a couple of months. I’m staying at the Seaside.”

  “Nice place,” he said. “Amelia’s a sweet lady. Shame about her husband. He was a nice guy. Bit of a character. Name’s Bracken. And you are?”

  “Tori. Nice to meet you.”

  He held out a hand, and Tori took it. It felt rough and thick in her smooth palm. Electricity sizzled from the touch, and she felt like she might burst into flames.

  “Pleasure’s mine. Hey, listen. I get off at five-thirty. Would you like to have dinner?”

  A twinge of embarrassment rushed over her. She definitely had a type, and Bracken the Bartender did not fit. That type was usually self-centered, professional, and aloof. And the long list of exes veered little from the pattern. There was Jay, her first live-in boyfriend, the one who broke up with her because she was a “fat bitch,” his words, not hers. She’d been a size four then. Imagine what he’d think of her now, twenty years later, a massive size eight. He’d probably puke. Fucking idiot. Then there was Peter, the tall Brit who’d been so involved in his late-90s startup that he worked twenty hours a day. She’d grown tired of waiting for the one night a week he could devote to her, so she’d moved on to Tim, the man she married. She survived more than ten years of his infidelity, neglect, and anger. He seemed to have a never-ending hunger for something that wasn’t her. It was a testament to her love for him that she lasted more than two years. So, why were her cheeks flushed? Why was her heart racing?

  He smirked uncomfortably as he waited for her response.

  “I don’t know,” she said at last. The fear that she would do something reckless, involuntarily or otherwise, weighed heavily on her.

  “Well, could I at least give you my number, and maybe you could give me a call sometime?”

  Tori’s stomach sank at the thought of her phone sweeping across the ocean floor.

  “I don’t really have a phone right now.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her and said, “Seriously? You must be the only person on the planet without a cellphone.”

  The shudders radiated through her body again. Her gin and tonic melted just a foot away. She clutched the sweaty glass and swigged it. It did very little to stop the shakes.

  “It’s a long story,” she said.

  He was already turning away, shoulders hunched up.

  “Hey, listen,” she called. “Maybe we could go for a walk later. Meet me at the Seaside at seven?”

  He paused and turned back.

  “Rain in the forecast,” he said.

  Tori smiled.

  “It’s only water.”

  Now more than ever, Tori wanted a bath. She hadn’t had one since she left Montclair. She smelled like alcohol-soaked sweat, an aroma with which she’d become deeply intimate. Many a family beach outing, she inhaled it on the breeze from the open car window as her father drove them home from the beach after a day of sitting under an umbrella, throwing back can after can of Old Milwaukee.

  Upstairs at the Seaside, she slipped off her shoes and rubbed the red, swollen bunion on her left foot. It felt heavenly. A dull ache behind her eye socket accompanied the foot pain. She undid the buttons of her jeans and folded them on the bed. She lifted her sweater over her head and unclasped a string of pearls and tossed them on top of the jeans. She walked into the en suite bathroom in her underwear and gasped at the luxurious facilities. A claw-foot tub took up about a quarter of the room. A wooden blue vanity topped with more Victorian photos and a few tapered candles stood along the far wall. A pedestal sink offered soaps, lotions, and puffy white towels.

  A large mirror sat atop the vanity, and she stared at the reflection. A white mist, ephemeral and faint, appeared just above her head. It was just visible enough to catch her attention. She saw the swirling steam outline of a pair of eyes. The vision dissipated as quickly as it appeared, leaving her unsure about what exactly she’d seen.

  Uneasy now, she plugged the tub, selected the lavender-scented body wash, and poured it in. The hot water steamed as it filled the antique tub, and bubbles rose up to a fluffy swell. She unhooked her bra, slipped out of her panties, and sank into the warm, frothy womb.

  She felt almost human again, now unsure if she’d even seen the vision in the mirror, cradled and soothed by the calming scent of the bubbles, lulled into a sense of serenity by the warmth. The ache behind her eye eased. She sank down, letting the bathwater soak her hair and eradicate some of the sweat and filth that clung to her.

  The suds popped and fizzed around her, and the subaquatic thrum drowned out everything except for the dulled bump-bump bump-bump of her own heartbeat.

  Something quivered in her belly and roiled sickly. She bolted upright and her skin crawled at the sensation of ripples sliding on the inside of her flesh.

  A long, slow bubble worked its way up from the back of her thigh up to her knee, and it migrated along her hip until it came to rest on her elbow. It slinked around her arm, and she leapt up, sloshing water over the side of the tub. A silver and pink snake poked its head out of the water. Its forked tongue wagged out at her. She threw her leg over the edge of the tub, dragging the rest of her body behind, dripping soap and water in her wake. She watched from the white bathmat as snakes wriggled free from the confines of the froth. They slapped against the tile floor as they exploded from the lip of the tub.

  Tor
i’s scream bounded off the walls. It sounded like a roar in her ears. She slipped and smashed her big toe against the tile as she barreled through the door and back into the bedroom. She slammed the bathroom door as they wormed their way across the slick floor.

  Shivers rocked her entire body. She stumbled to the other side of the four-poster bed and watched as the serpents snaked beneath the door on a flood of bathwater.

  The bedroom door slammed open, and Tori leapt forward onto the bed.

  Amelia stood there, eyes wide.

  “What the hell is going on?” she squeaked.

  Tori gulped in a breath and motioned to the bathroom door.

  CHAPTER 9

  Chris Silver slammed the trunk of his Subaru shut and lumbered to the driver’s side. He buttoned the red cable knit sweater over his Black Lightning T-shirt. The sweater bulged in places where the buttons couldn’t quite pull the fabric over his belly.

  He flopped behind the wheel, clicked on the radio, and plugged his iPod into the auxiliary outlet. The iPod was his one foray into newfangled technology. It was a phenomenal convenience to carry all his favorite music in this pocket-sized device. He didn’t much understand the need for a smartphone when his stupid phone worked just fine. He didn’t understand the concept of sharing every aspect of his life on the internet, especially when necessity demanded he keep a lot of his life private. One slip, and the world would know he was QuickSilver, and he didn’t want to think about the fallout from that revelation.