Haunted Page 17

  "Yes," Eric sounded certain. "As long as Miss Lizzie is safe, she'll keep the other one away from her." He studied David. "But you know that."

  "How could I know that?" David asked impatiently, though it was true, he did know it. Even if he didn't want to give it credence, he had felt Lizzie's fierce protectiveness during that brief moment when she'd passed through him. She reminded him of a lioness protecting her young and he had also known that, for some reason, this aspect of her personality had concentrated on Amber. Perhaps it was because she had failed to save her own daughter. Okay, Masters, reality check. You know you don’t believe in sentient spirits hanging around.

  Eric was staring at him, a look somewhere between frustration and disgust on his face. "Don't play games, David. Miss Lizzie was on you. You know."

  David had always prided himself on his open-mindedness, on his willingness to consider possibilities. And on his skepticism. To him, they went hand in hand. He made fun of the New Age movement, calling its followers crystal-packers and worse, because they often believed everything, unconditionally. And he made equal fun of their opposites, the people who debunked everything they couldn't prove materially and absolutely. They called themselves skeptics, but they weren't--they were disbelievers, every bit as fanatical as the believers. As Eric waited for an answer, David knew he didn't want to fall into either category, but here he was automatically disbelieving that sentient spirits could exist just because he'd never seen any reasonable proof before. Reasonable proof just zapped you for all you’re worth, Masters, old boy. Consider that.

  "I guess you're right, Eric." His mind was reeling and he was having a hard time accepting any of it. A very hard time. "But, I'm curious. How do you know? Was Lizzie on you too?"

  "No. I just sort of picked it up."

  "Did you feel her emotions as if they were your own?"

  He shook his head. "No. I guess I would if I did what you did, and let her into me." He looked down at the floor, then back up at David. "But I-I felt some of the... others emotions when it touched me…"

  "Christabel's?"

  He nodded. "Don't say the name out loud, don't even think it. It felt like she was trying to drain away my life. She's not nice."

  "I gathered that." Suddenly, David's adrenalin deserted him and he had to stifle a yawn.

  "She hates," Eric told him. "She's practically made out of hate."

  "I think I need to take a nap," David said as they left Amber's room. "I've been having trouble sleeping. I think it's because of Chr--her. What do you do to protect yourself here?" I'm asking this kid for advice, my God, I don’t believe it.

  "I wouldn't sleep here," Eric replied, as they arrived at David's doorway. "But if I were you, and I had to, I'd sleep in Amber's room. I don't think the other will go back in there."

  Unable to bring himself to tell Swenson about his somnambulant sexual activities, he said, "Amber wouldn't want her old man bunking in with her. What about my room, though? How would you make it safe?"

  In reply, Eric walked into the bedroom and looked around. "She used this room a lot," he said at last. "She slept here."

  "Was it her bedroom?"

  "For a while." He stared hard at David. "She liked the room by the terrace on the third floor best."

  "The one with the spilled paint?"

  "Yes."

  He'd check into that later, David decided. He gestured at the room. "Can you tell what happened in here, Eric? Were there murders?"

  Eric shut his eyes a moment. "Some, but not too bad. She did things in here."

  "Things?"

  "She had--" Eric blushed uncontrollably.

  "What did she have, Eric?" David prompted

  "She had lovers. In that bed. Lots of them."

  "The mattress and box springs are brand new."

  "The frame isn't." Eric walked over and touched one tall poster, again closing his eyes. "She used rope. She liked to tie them up." His eyes glazed "The men. Women sometimes. They couldn't say no." He snatched his hand from the frame and gazed squarely at David. "They did whatever she wanted. She used magic on them. They let her hurt them."

  David tried to keep his expression blank. "What if I get rid of the bed?"

  "That might help. When you're asleep it's really easy to pick up on leftovers." He rubbed his hand. "And these are extra strong. Almost like upstairs." He cleared his throat and added, "Getting rid of the bed will make the leftovers weaker, but she could still decide to come in here, especially if you think about her."

  "I think she already has," David admitted. "While I was asleep." At this admission, Eric blushed again, and that told David that the boy had also been approached sexually by the succubus. "Well," he said quickly, hoping to lessen the boy's embarrassment, "Let's change the bed and see what happens. I have another bed." He'd had the movers put the components of his huge, beloved waterbed and matching bedroom furniture in the room between his and Amber's. He'd originally intended to have them set it up, but the beauty of the antique poster bed had delayed that order. Already, he missed the waterbed's temperature controls, its gentle movement, its welcoming warmth when he slipped between the sheets.

  "Eric, I have two more jobs for you today. First, we need to put a lock on my office door, and then we need to take the poster bed out and set up the one I brought with me."

  He forced back a yawn. "Guess I'll have to skip the nap."

  "I can do those things by myself."

  "Putting my bed together is a two-man job. Easy with two, impossible with one."

  "I'm really strong."

  "I know." Eric could do it, he knew that, but there was no way he was going to nap while Eric was there--the possibility of humiliation was too great. "Actually, I'm starting to feel quite lively. I want to help."

  "If you say so, David." Eric nodded at the old bed. "What do you want to do with that?"

  "I guess I should have a guest room. Maybe the large room in the other wing? We'll put the rest of this furniture in there too, except for my writing desk and chair."

  The thought of his familiar oak bedroom set, utterly sleek, completely modern, the wood stained a rich warm gold, really did revive him a bit. Standing up, he found that his knees barely buckled. "Let's do it."

  Chapter Sixteen

  August 5

  Body House: 11:45 A.M.

  "Jerry Romero?" David repeated into the phone. "Really?" Gaylord Price responded with his cultured chuckle. "Yes, Jerry Romero. A whole hour, and not the daytime show, my

  boy. He wants to use you and Body House in a prime time special."

  "When will it air?"

  "Currently, it's scheduled for the week before Halloween." Gaylord cleared his throat. "Your new novel will be on the stands."

  "I know," David said happily. "I know. Tell me the details."

  "He'd like to film sometime around the end of August. He would also like to set up a band in the ballroom to play music from the era and have appropriately dressed actors do a bit of turn-of-the-century cavorting. Color, you know."

  "Great."

  "He also wants to bring in a psychic and film a séance."

  David's stomach did a quick square knot. "I don't know about having a séance here."

  "Why ever not? It’s all in fun, after all."

  "I understand that," David said carefully. He wished he knew how to explain his reasons to Gaylord without coming off like a superstitious idiot. "When we first moved in, we had a lot of trouble with the house. I'm afraid a séance might start it up again."

  "Trouble? What sort of trouble?"

  Well, Gaylord, a succubus was screwing my brains out and her mother is protecting my daughter. "Electrical phenomena," he said instead. "Strong poltergeist activity. It, ah, was very frightening. To Amber." He thought that would satisfy his Hollywood agent.

  "I thought your daughter was quite the trooper where these things are concerned."

  Damn my bragging mouth! "Yes, she is. But Body House doesn't harbor your garden-vari
ety bumps in the night." He forced a light chuckle. "Body House does it up brown."

  "I see. But David, Romero's shows are built around sensationalism.

  A haunted house special without a séance? Why not send Amber to spend a night at a friend's?"

  He almost argued, then decided not to. Star Light, Star Bright would be out in hardcover and the paperback edition of Remains to be Seen would be hitting the stands when the program aired, and that kind of prime time exposure was a dream come true. Also, he'd get an early plug in for Dead Ernest.

  Unfortunately, Gaylord was right about haunted houses and séances: one was ice cream, the other hot fudge, each incomplete without the other. A TV journalist/sensationalist like Romero would probably want to use one of his usual very theatrical but very fake mediums--and that, in itself, would help keep anything supernatural from happening. Between that and the fact that true hauntings had a habit of refusing to perform for cameras, everything would probably be fine.

  "Okay, Gaylord, I'll work something out."

  "There's a good fellow."

  "Is Romero intending to focus the entire hour here or will there be other segments?"

  "That depends."

  "On what?"

  "He wants to uncover the secret of, as he puts it, "The Lost Chamber of Sexual Tortures." He'd like to build the entire show around it."

  David groaned. "No one has ever found it, Gaylord, including me." In the last few weeks, he'd spent hours in the Red Cay library, though he'd perversely avoided the newspaper office. But he'd found nothing new so far and, if he wanted a shot at locating the thing, he had a feeling he'd have to go to the Guardian and brave Calla Willard.

  "Well, if you do find the chamber," Gaylord was saying, "and I have every confidence that you will, dear boy, Romero would like you to keep it mum so that he can focus the show around it. He's willing to send an escape artist out to help you find the entrance. At his expense, of course."

  "I see. I don't think I want to try that at this point."

  "It's your choice, of course, David, but if you can find that dungeon, he'll give you the entire hour. If not, you still get the majority of air time."

  "Sounds good either way," David replied, still mildly worried about the problems a séance might cause.

  They discussed a few more details before hanging up, then David tilted back in his desk chair, putting his feet up and twining his fingers behind his head. "The Jerry Romero Show," he thought. Not bad, Gaylord, not bad. On second thought, it was better than that--it was fantastic. Over the last few weeks, he and Amber had acquired a number of antique and neo-nouveau pieces with which they were slowly restoring the parlor, dining room, billiard room, and downstairs bath to their early twentieth century glory. By the end of the month, the final pieces should have arrived and the house would truly be a showcase.

  Sitting back up, he stared out the window at the lighthouse rising stark and scenically severe against the blue sky. Since the atmosphere of the house had calmed down, something which Eric attributed to Christabel's withdrawal into the still paint-stained third-floor room to recuperate from the energy draining fight in Amber's room, David had spent too much time trying to find the entrance to the cellar, in an attempt to satisfy his curiosity. The Lost Chamber of Sexual Tortures, he corrected, smiling to himself. He was behind on the book now and knew he should get down to serious work, but the mystery continued to haunt him.

  He first began to feel guilty when he'd found himself knocking on walls and pressing on odd-looking spots inside cabinets during writing hours. The frustration ate at him and he'd remind himself that Houdini had once attempted to locate the elusive entryway and had failed, and that he himself was a fiction writer and could very well rely on his imagination, which was probably far more gruesome than reality. He'd go back and try to write, but he couldn't stop thinking about it.

  Now, Jerry Romero would be phoning next week and that gave David the excuse he needed to redouble his efforts. He had several more leads that might yield clues. One was poking around in the unfinished attic at the back of the third floor. He thought he might do that today, especially if he could talk the radar-like Eric into helping. Theo had told him that as far as she knew, it had been locked up since shortly after the 1915 investigation ended: no one had ever stuck around long enough or had the desire to poke around in its lightless depths.

  He also intended to talk to the townsfolk, including the dreaded Calla, who'd taken to leaving messages on his machine at all hours. Until now he'd avoided her calls requesting an interview, a torture he decided he'd have to endure soon, not only to keep the locals from thinking he was a snob, but mainly because the lit'ry Miss Willard with her newspaper connections might prove invaluable as a source of information on Body House's history. More likely, though, she'd probably prove to be as fun as a boil on his ass. He expected that a chat with history buff Andy Cox would be far more useful, but he needed to spend an evening in Barnacle Bob's for that and he couldn't bring himself to leave Amber alone in the house.

  He might get his opportunity soon, though. Theo had made good on her offer to introduce Amber to Kelly Cox, Ferd's granddaughter, and the two were not only spending a lot of time together, but as a consequence, Amber had met most of the kids who'd be in her senior class next fall. She was also practicing to try out for the cheerleading squad--Kelly, the head cheerleader, had assured her she was a shoe-in. Though Amber normally abstained from such activities, she seemed to be getting a real kick out of it.

  In fact, this very morning Amber had asked him if she could spend the night at Kelly's, and he'd readily agreed. She teased him then, asking if he'd be okay alone in the house, and he'd said of course, with total honesty. Since that day when he and Eric had encountered the two apparitions, nothing more had happened other than catching an occasional whiff of jasmine. To be honest, the third floor room was as horrible as ever, but the horror was staying put, putting credence in Eric's theories. David had also experienced half a dozen more wet dreams, though they were more fun than disturbing because they seemed like dreams, not reality. Still, he'd become very clandestine about washing his sheets.

  Before she left for the beach today with a batch of her new friends, Amber had also told him she'd been invited to the Come As You Were Dance, coming up in a little over two weeks, by one Rick Feldspar, a boy she described as tall, thin, and dark-haired. He wanted to be a graphic artist, she explained, and when David had asked her if Rick wore glasses, she'd looked at him oddly and said, "How'd you know?" David just smiled and told her it was fine by him, especially since they were double-dating with Kelly and her date.

  The minute Amber took off, he'd realized he could leave the house tonight, so he immediately called Theo Pelinore and asked her out to dinner, something he'd wanted to do since he'd met her. Tonight, in the Rusty Anchor, a pricey seafood restaurant overlooking nearby Morro Bay, he'd accept her invitation to the dance. She'd issued it several times since he'd moved in, the last time just two days ago. He was glad he could finally stop putting her off.

  His thoughts drifted back to the missing dungeon and he turned to his computer, wondering what clues might be staring him in the face. He called up a file he'd compiled on the house's history and began to review it, searching for anything he might have previously overlooked.

  According to his notes, Byron Baudey built the house for his wife Margaret Cross Baudey. Their child, Charity, was raped in 1905, when she was only fifteen. Even younger than Amber. After the child was born, she took it to the third floor of the tower, where she strangled it then took her own life, accounting for the first two hauntings.

  In 1908 and 1909, Byron and Margaret died, the former of a heart attack near the lighthouse, the latter by throwing herself from the aptly named Widow's Peak at the seaward tip of the finger. That made four hauntings altogether.

  Lizzie and Christabel Baudey moved in in 1912 and in 1914, the decapitated body of Ezra Wilder, spice merchant and captain of the clipper ship Gol
den Horde, was found. Soon, his ghost was sighted. The captain was in love with Lizzie, according to Eric, and that was something David wanted to verify.

  The captain fascinated David. On the surface, the tale was such a traditional ghost story that he had always assumed that, though Wilder had been murdered in the lighthouse, the haunting aspects were probably born of repeated telling of the tale.

  Wilder's was the first mysterious death to take place on Byron's Finger after Lizzie and Christabel moved in. He had, according to history, been the son of a naval officer who had been a close friend of Lizzie's father, and it was he who detoured his ship to the island where Lizzie was thought to be living.

  Wilder had brought Lizzie and her daughter back to America, spiriting them away in the night and, though Lizzie was extremely happy to be rescued, the daughter was horrified. She wanted to stay with her father, who was also her teacher, but according to the legend, Lizzie hoped she would turn into a normal child once she was away from the voodoo priest's influence. She should have left her there.

  Christabel would have despised Wilder, whom she considered her kidnapper. And, if Eric was right, and Lizzie and Wilder had fallen in love, this would have served to further anger the girl. She had to hate the man. Given the circumstances and her nature, how could she not?

  Early in the morning, the lighthouse keeper had descended the stairs and discovered Ezra Wilder's headless body just inside the lighthouse. The head, never found, was assumed by police to have been thrown into the ocean, but the condition of the neck had confounded police: the severing had not been done with a blade, but gave the appearance of being torn off by a huge wild animal. The police normally closed the case, saying that a bear had probably wandered down from the mountains fifty miles to the east, and done the damage.

  This was accepted for lack of a better explanation, even though the lighthouse keeper had insisted that sound carried very well up the tower and he would have heard the struggle. In response, it was suggested that the bear killed the captain elsewhere and deposited his body in the lighthouse. Pretty neat, for a bear.