Page 34 of Spooked
“There are things outside of our experience,” I start, choosing my words carefully. “Some things aren’t black and white, and not all time follows a continuum.”
“Speak fuckin’ English, Bro,” Blade admonishes. I don’t miss the knife that’s appeared in his right hand. Even though his fingers are bent, he’s still managing to juggle it expertly. “All I can see is that we’ve got a man down and you don’t want to raise a finger to help him.”
“Hound thinks he’s been hallucinating. I think it’s more than that.” I take a deep breath, hoping they remember my history, and the years they’ve ridden with me, and don’t immediately summon the men in white coats with strait jackets to take me away. “I think he’s seen spirits.”
“Whisky? Brandy?” Peg quips.
Drummer waves his hand at him. “You serious, Mouse?”
Before I can answer, Hound starts moving at our feet, not regaining consciousness, but moving in an agitated way. His hands come up as if to battle an enemy, and out of his mouth comes a stricken plea, “Maeve, don’t go in there. Keep back!”
With the exception of Peg, who has only one working leg, he’s not so agile, the rest of us fall to our knees with a variety of creaks that show our age.
“Hound,” I admonish, giving him a shake. “Hound. What the fuck’s happening?”
I almost fall back on my heels as he opens his eyes, catches mine, his wide with distress as he says clearly, “Maeve’s at the house. She needs help.”
“Maeve?” Drummer snaps.
Quickly, I fill him in while at the same time helping Hound to his feet as he’s struggling to get up on his own. “Maeve’s a woman who has a connection to that fuckin’ house, and she was in a coma at the exact same time as him.” Passing Hound his crutches, I try to get Drummer on side. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but Maeve and Hound met in their dreams, while they were unconscious.” Drummer’s eyes go to the heavens, Blade barks a laugh, and Peg snorts. Wraith is just watching me warily. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, but if Hound thinks Maeve’s at the house and that she’s in danger, well, that’s enough for me.” Hound’s frantically trying to get loose from my hold, so to him I say, “I got you, Brother. I’m coming with you.”
“He needs a hospital.” Wraith steps in front of us, barring our way.
“He needs to see this through,” I contradict, my arm around Hound, feeling how tense and wound up he is.
Drummer’s eyes glare into me. “You really taking him to the Sullivan House?”
Hound speaks for himself, clearly having regained some strength. “If he doesn’t, I’ll drive myself. Ain’t no one stopping me. I’ve got to get to Maeve.”
His challenge stands for nothing. He’s a one-legged man, helpless if anyone takes his crutches away.
“Oh fuck it,” Blade states, grinning widely. “We’ve got a sergeant-at-arms who thinks he’s seeing things, and believing he has to go rescue a damsel in distress.” He waves his hand around at the decorations in the clubhouse, put there for the kids who had a party earlier. “It’s fuckin’ Halloween. I’m up for a ghost hunt. I’m going with Mouse.”
Wraith’s still blocking our route. I hesitate before ploughing through him and pushing him out of our way, especially when I see him give a querying glance toward Drummer.
Drummer sighs loudly, places his whisky glass down on the bar with a thump, then shakes his head. “So either Wizard’s got a sergeant-at-arms with a traumatic brain injury that will end his ride with the Devils, or he’s really been seeing ghosts.” He shakes his head. “Can’t believe I’m fuckin’ saying this, but I’m coming with you. Got to sort this out one way or another.”
“Not leaving me out,” Peg states.
“Life’s been too fuckin’ boring,” Blade says. “Lead the way.”
Wraith’s eyes gleam. “Kids have too much fun on Halloween. Think it’s time us old men got in on that.” He flexes his gnarly hands. “Ghost hunting? Bring it the fuck on.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HOUND
Mouse gets me seated in one of the club’s SUVs while the revving of motorcycle engines fills the air. Right now, I’d donate a kidney if it meant I could be riding a two-wheeler alongside my brothers. Even if my leg was good, with my damaged brain, I doubt that’s something I’ll ever be able to do again. I wouldn’t be surprised if I lose my licence and can’t even drive a cage. Who wants someone who blacks out at the drop of a hat controlling any type of vehicle?
And now I’ve got the whole club—or a significant part of it—following me on a fool’s errand. They’re only coming along as I’d had yet another vision, for fuck’s sake. This one telling me Maeve is in danger, yet the rational part of me screams it’s all in my fucked-up head. There’s no way I can know anything about her, let alone her whereabouts and needs. Realistically, why should she even be at the Sullivan House? Last I knew, her physical body was still in the hospital, hooked up to machines.
Yet, somehow, Mouse has convinced everyone to come along for the show—the one where they all end up knowing what a freak I’ve become. As we leave the compound, I convince myself that we’re just going to see a derelict house, unoccupied by anything living or otherwise. My hands form fists as I realisetonight might be the time I’m asked to give back my patch. Or, at least temporarily surrender it while the psychiatrists figure out where my head’s at, and whether the damage is permanent.
The sun’s setting below the horizon, and darkness falls as we head toward Tucson, turning off before we get into the city to head for the Sullivan House set in the foothills. As the roar of the motorcycles following reaches me, I wonder how the hell I’ll cope when my brothers discover what a fuckup I am.
For a moment, I blame Mouse. It’s he who believes in spirits and the supernatural, not me. If it wasn’t for him, I’d put everything down to hallucinations. Even though Wizard is still confined to the hospital with both legs in traction, I now think I’ve come off the worst. Broken bones will mend, but a damaged brain? Nah, ain’t no cure for that. And Mouse is just making things worse by trying to translate the visions in my fucked-up brain and attempting to ground them in reality.
I take my role as sergeant-at-arms, the protector of the club, seriously. I don’t want Peg to regain that position permanently. But I have to accept that I’m no longer the man who should be trusted with that officer role in the club. If I can’t have faith in myself, no one else should want to follow me.
