Spirits Read online

  Jon Anderson’s bright, melodic voice rose up from the speakers, and Chris put the car in reverse and rolled onto the pockmarked road. He put it in drive, and brittle brown reeds by the roadside rustled as the car zoomed past. Even with the windows rolled up, the subterranean smell of saltwater and fish wafted in through the heater vents.

  He pulled the wrapped cookie he’d picked up at the Nail from the passenger’s seat. He ripped the cellophane open with his teeth and pulled it back. The buttery, chocolatey smell made him chomp off a large section and fill his cheeks with the sweet, chewy confection that melted on his tongue. The Subaru crested a hill. A terrapin dillydallied along the roadway, and he eased the car to a stop just behind it. He parked and shuffled out to pick up the timid, hissing testudo. He carted the little critter to the other side of the road where it waddled into the brackish water. Something fluttered in Chris’s periphery, and he turned to see an orange butterfly settle on a broken reed. It took his breath away to see the brilliant color against the drab shades of gray and oatmeal that constituted the marsh this time of year. The lighthouse jutted up in the distance.

  He trotted back to the idling car and got in, pondering the orange and black wings pulsing in the bitter wind. Margaret once told him monarch butterflies were a signal that a lost loved one was trying to make contact. He wanted to believe that. He hoped with all his heart that Margaret and Emmy were just stopping in to say, “Hi,” from wherever they were now. The thought simultaneously delighted and agonized him. He wondered if it was a sign that they forgave him. The idea brought him no comfort. He didn’t deserve forgiveness.

  He sucked in a long breath and blew it out, just like the therapist instructed.

  “Mountains come out of the sky, and they stand there,” he caterwauled along with the iPod.

  He pushed down the grief and took the exit for Route 47. Setup started at four, and he was already running behind. He pressed the accelerator a little harder and breezed past browning pines. Soon, the woodlands were replaced with strip malls and chain restaurants.

  He maneuvered the car into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn Wildwood just after five. The hotel had seen better days. The first time he’d attended WildCon back in 1997, the building was fairly new with freshly paved asphalt. Now, the parking lot was a minefield of potholes, and the façade was cracked in places. Greasy-haired men in black T-shirts huddled together in small groups just inside the grimy foyer window. He wheeled into a spot, killed the engine, and walked inside.

  A blast of heat assaulted him as he entered. The foyer was neat but dated in shades of cranberry and forest green. It smelled like artificial cinnamon.

  Chris recognized a few of the bespectacled people chatting in a small seating area across from the check-in desk. He nodded his greeting and bellied up to the counter.

  The clerk, a pretty brunette in her thirties, glanced up from her computer screen and offered him a strained smile that suggested this weekend was going to be her worst nightmare.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, checking in. Name’s Chris. Chris Silver.”

  She tapped on the keyboard and nodded as she tracked down the right reservation.

  “There you are. You’re going to be in room 217. If I could just get your credit card and ID, I’ll get you all set up here.”

  She glanced past him to the congoers coming in and leaned in conspiratorially.

  “So, what is this thing exactly? My boss told me there was an event, but I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  Chris chuckled.

  “It’s a comic book convention,” he said. “If anyone gives you grief, you come find me. I’ll put them in their place.”

  He winked, and she smiled, a look of relief washing over her.

  “I’ll be sure to do that. So, your total for this weekend comes to $242.39.”

  She swiped his card and handed him two keycards.

  “The elevators are just down this hallway and to your left. And if you need anything at all, my name is Jessica. You have a great day, Mr. Silver.”

  Chris smiled and tucked the key into his back pocket. Around the corner, a cardboard sign emblazoned with a red comic POW! blast informed him that WildCon registration was just down the hall. He followed the corridor to a folding table. A twenty-something guy with a beard that looked like an explosion in a pubic hair factory looked up over the black frames of his glasses.

  “Can I help you?” he said in a monotone.

  “Yes. Chris. Chris Silver. I’m a vendor.”

  The youngster rifled through a box until he came up with Chris’s nametag.

  “You gonna need any help setting up?”

  Chris smirked. The kid was implying he was some dead battery who didn’t have any juice left.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got it under control. Where’s the dealers’ room? I just need to know where to pull my car around to unload.”

  The bearded kid lifted an eyebrow.

  “There’s no unloading area. You’ll just have to bring boxes in one at a time. We do have a dolly you can borrow.”

  Chris’s shoulders slumped.

  “What? There’s not even a loading and unloading area?”

  The guy shook his head.

  “Dolly’s in the dealers’ room in Conference Rooms A and B.”

  Chris pulled the lanyard with his nametag and vendor designation over his head and walked back into the chilly afternoon. He didn’t need a damn dolly. He might have been old, but he was stronger than most people knew.

  Still, he started doing the math in his head to determine how many back-and-forth trips he’d need to unload. By the time he reached his car, he sighed heavily and silently cursed himself for being so damned stubborn. He stacked up three boxes of Mylar-bagged comics and hefted them up, his elbows straining against the weight.

  Fifteen trips later, he collapsed into a folding chair behind his table, sweat rolling into his beard. He batted a drip away from the bandage on his cheek and adjusted his glasses. Across the expanse of conference rooms A and B, fans filtered in. Dinnertime was over, and folks were coming in to shop before scurrying off to room parties.

  Most of the kids were nerds in the most stereotypical definition. Glasses, superhero and rock band T-shirts, frizzy hair, acne. The room already smelled like ass Havarti. That was what Margaret always told him. “This room smells like ass Havarti. Don’t these kids ever bathe?”

  He chuckled at the memory, and a pang stabbed at his heart.

  A tall, thin guy in a Ramones T-shirt walked in, leading a pack of guys who looked like they’d be far more comfortable at a punk club than a comic convention. The smirk on the King of the Turds’ face prickled the hair on Chris’s arms. The instinct that regulated his hero form kicked in. A jolt of adrenaline followed, so he watched––and waited. He perched on the edge of the metal folding chair, hoping this punk would give him a reason to leap.

  The gang walked the circuit of the dealers’ room, pausing a moment at Chris’s table to look through some comics. The kid in the Ramones shirt gave him a shit-eating grin. Chris scowled.

  They exited, but the uneasy feeling remained in Chris’s belly. A few customers bought some rarities he had on display, but business was pokey. An hour later, the room closed, and he dragged a tarp over his merchandise and collected his cash in a locking deposit bag.

  A guy in a flannel shirt draped over a Hulk T-shirt walked up.

  “Chris! Hey, man! Long time, no see. How’s it going?”

  Chris looked up and smiled. He studied the round face and tried to pull the name from the depths of his memory banks. He glanced as surreptitiously as he could at the nametag.

  “Hey, Doug! How’s life treating you?”

  Doug used to come into the store, back when he lived in Rio Grande. He was almost obsessed with Preacher comics and snapped up every Sandman omnibus as soon as they arrived in the store. It had been a while, Chris reasoned, but he usually wasn’
t so bad connecting faces with names. Perhaps that punk kid really had gotten to him.

  “You heading to any parties tonight?” Doug asked.

  Chris hadn’t been to a room party in years, but tonight, he felt like some company.

  “Sure, why not? Any good ones?”

  Doug placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a knowing look.

  “Trisha and Scott have soda on tap, and I heard someone brought handmade truffles.”

  Chris perked up, and the two walked through the room, passing a mannequin dressed as Spiderman. The costume, torn in places, was far too small for the long, lean mannequin, giving it the appearance of an alien. Chris and Doug looked at each other and laughed.

  The elevator was crowded, and Mr. Ramones was in the back, arms crossed over his chest, permanent smartass sneer plastered across his face. Chris returned his focus to Doug.

  “So, where are you living now?” he asked.

  “I’m down in Delaware now, of all places. Not too far from the ferry, so I get over to Cape May from time to time. The last time I was in town, your store was gone,” Doug said.

  “Yeah. After Margaret and Emmy died, I got out of the business for a while. But by the time I cleaned up my act, commercial rents on Beach were sky-high, and I ended up renting out a space on Carpenter Lane, over near the square.”

  Doug nodded sympathetically.

  “Hey, next time I’m in town, I’ll swing by. Maybe we can walk over to Il Fiorino and grab some good Italian. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Delaware is a vast wasteland when it comes to Italian food.”

  The two friends laughed.

  The elevator dinged, and everyone stepped off. Chris tracked Mr. Ramones with his eyes. They all walked down a corridor of rooms, many of which had signs on the door announcing some themed party or another. One had a picture of the Tardis with Dr. Who Fans Unite! written in white letters. Another had a picture of bees and announced it as a Mead Party. The party Doug was taking him to announced itself as the Dry Oasis featuring homemade truffles. The door across the hall was marked with a large black X. Mr. Ramones walked into that door and shut it before Chris could see inside.

  Doug held the door to the dry party room, and Chris followed him, glancing over his shoulder to the room marked X.

  A room full of people lounged on the two beds, the armchairs, and the floor, chattering and laughing. Doug hugged the hosts and made his way to the dresser, which doubled as a serving table for the truffles. Doug bit into a chocolate and closed his eyes in bliss.

  “Ah, Chris, my man. You have got to try one of these.”

  Chris didn’t need much convincing. He plucked up a nut-coated truffle and popped it into his mouth. The crunch of the outer shell gave way to a melty, gooey inside that burst with raspberry flavor. He smiled. It was divine. On the other side of the room, the hosts had set up a soda fountain. He grabbed a plastic cup and wedged himself past the throng of people milling about in the cramped space to get a drink.

  Doug was chatting up a woman in a laser cat T-shirt, and Chris suddenly felt his chest tighten with anxiety. The drink tasted too sweet, like it was all syrup and no water. He set it down on the dresser next to the truffles and shuffled through the bodies to the door. It was too much. The noise, the wriggling mob of people. The chocolates were good, but, damn, they weren’t that good.

  The hallway felt about ten degrees cooler. It smelled slightly better. The pressure in Chris’s chest eased a bit. A few doors down, he saw Mr. Ramones leaning over a woman, his hand on the wall above her head. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and she was looking down at the stained cranberry carpet. Chris pressed his back against the wall and watched. The woman’s lips were twisted into an uncomfortable smile. Mr. Ramones was speaking in a low, deep voice Chris could barely hear.

  “C’mon. I promise it’ll be fun … If you get bored, you can always … my room.”

  The woman fidgeted and inched backward. She shook her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a small, high voice. “I don’t think so. I promised my friends I’d go to their party.”

  Mr. Ramones slapped the wall just above her head and growled, “Stupid, uppity bitch! Bitches like you think your cunt is lined in gold.”

  He leaned in closer and grabbed the woman’s arm.

  “Let me tell you something. I’ve had a hundred times you. And you’re not even worth the effort.”

  Chris was across the room in a few steps. He felt the change as he moved. The adrenaline coursed through him, and he clasped Mr. Ramones’ arm and twisted it before the boy even realized QuickSilver was upon him. The woman bolted down the hallway and pounded on a door.

  “Hey, this old guy is beating up some asshole,” she yelled.

  Chris smashed the guy’s head into the wall and kicked him in the chin when he slumped to the floor. Mr. Ramones looked up, pink spreading across his teeth and terror in his eyes.

  “What the fuck, man?” he spat, blood splattering with each word.

  “That’s not how you treat a lady,” Chris huffed.

  Mr. Ramones curled himself into the fetal position, and Chris turned to the find the woman.

  “Are you okay, Miss?”

  Her bottom lip quivered.

  “That was fucked up,” she said. She seemed to consider what just happened for a moment, and she took a deep breath. “But seriously, though. Thanks for helping me. That guy was a real dick. He was bothering one of my friends earlier.”

  She turned to look down the hall and leaned closer to Chris.

  “If I were you, I’d get the hell out of here before security gets to you,” she added with a mischievous grin.

  Chris knew she was right. He walked to the elevator, hit the down button, and climbed aboard just as hotel security arrived. The elevator zipped down to the lobby. He went to his car, gathered up his overnight bag, and headed to his room. His muscles ached, and he felt like he’d run a marathon. He was getting too old for this shit.

  CHAPTER 10

  Amelia shoved open the door and stared as Tori straddled the sheets, hair dripping, eyes stricken with terror. The nude woman motioned to the bathroom door. The room smelled like lavender. Apart from the disheveled woman hunched on the bed, nothing else seemed out of order.

  She rounded the corner and opened the bathroom door. Soap bubbles crested onto the floor. The water sprayed and overflowed onto the tile. She shut off the tap, gathered up the guest towels perched on the pedestal sink, plopped them onto the floor, and swirled them around with her feet, drying up as much of the mess as she could.

  She went back into the bedroom to find Tori had wrapped the sheets around her body.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  The terror had not left Tori’s face yet.

  “The snakes. Are they gone?”

  Amelia’s eyebrow lifted on its own.

  “Snakes? There are no snakes here. There’s nothing here. You left the water running, and it soaked the floor.”

  Tori scampered toward her and got so close, Amelia could smell the hot, burning odor of liquor on her breath.

  “They were there. I promise. I saw them. They came out of the tub.”

  “Just look,” Amelia said, the annoyance in her voice impossible to suppress.

  Tori peeked over the edge of the bed. Confusion replaced the terror in her eyes.

  “I swear to you …”

  Amelia sucked in her breath.

  “Listen, I didn’t want to say anything, because, hey, it’s your life, and I don’t want to be that bitch, but do you think maybe you have a drinking problem?”

  Her gaze instinctively went to the bottles on the writing desk.

  Tori’s chin grazed her chest.

  “I know I have a drinking problem,” she said, her tone even and soft. “I want to stop. Do you know what I see every time I try to stop? I see the face of the girl I killed.”

  Tears were spilling over her eyelashes now.

  “I see
a life I took. I relive the moment I got out of my car and saw her smashed against the asphalt. I get to look at it over and over and over …”

  Her voice was wild now, high-pitched and garbled with tears until Amelia couldn't understand the words.

  Amelia stood rigid, arms crossed over her chest. She wanted to feel empathy. She really did. Her mind raced back to all those nights she’d cried her eyes out, begging Bill to put the damned bottle down, to knock it the fuck off already and get some help. She knew, more than anyone, how charming a drunk could be because one had charmed her and wooed her and left her all alone.

  “I think if this continues,” Amelia started, her voice cool, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave my home.”

  A flicker of icy terror resurfaced in Tori’s eyes and dulled again as she realized she had to do something.

  “Can we at least talk?” she asked.

  A shudder of discomfort overcame her, and Amelia said, “Sure. Just put some damn clothes on.”

  She turned and walked back downstairs.

  A short time later, the creaking of the steps heralded Tori’s descent. She’d slipped into a cream fisherman sweater, a pair of jeans, and marled cotton socks. Her hair was damp and flowed in loose curls around her shoulders. Funny how the most fucked-up people could look so normal. Amelia shook the thought from her mind. She wanted to be fair and give her the opportunity to explain. She wasn’t committing to anything. If this woman continued to make her feel uncomfortable, she was within her rights to make her leave.

  Tori sat on the wingback chair across from the desk and crossed her legs.

  “Listen, I’m really sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what happened. I’m not crazy. Well, at least I don’t think I’m crazy. Given everything that’s happened to me over the past day, maybe I am. Yesterday, I got fired from my job. I was drunk at a client meeting, and I lost my job. And, I don’t know, I remembered all my childhood memories from this place, and I just had to run away from my problems for a while. Except for the past twelve hours or so, my life has been nothing but problems.”

  Amelia set her jaw.

  “What about the alcohol? Is it possible you’re just drinking more than usual because you lost your job? Maybe that’s the root of your problems.”