Page 7 of Spooked
Once my heart rate has returned to normal, I continue to explore. The second bedroom and third bedroom are in about the same state, devoid of all furniture, and the floors look so weak that I hastily retreat. Retracing my footsteps, I return to the staircase and head down the other corridor. The next bedroom here is smaller, empty and bleak, with cobweb-covered glass obscuring the windows.
Feeling hairs rising on the back of my neck, I realise this place is giving me the creeps, and I’m one of the most levelheaded guys you could ever meet. I don’t follow religion, worship a spiritual being in the sky, or believe there’s anything after this one life we’re given. Which means there should be no reason at all why I keep looking over my shoulder, or why I’m experiencing the overwhelming feeling that I should get out of herenow.
I force myself on, ensuring I’m photographing everything, wanting to make sure I capture everything the first time. I’m already starting to feel I never want to come back.
I look into the next room, where magazine cuttings from the 2000s hang on the walls, showing pop stars of the day, suggesting that once a teenager lived here, but there’s nothing else to be seen. I take photos but otherwise leave the room as I found it.
The final door on this floor, I hesitate before opening, as if I’ve some sixth sense of warning. Despite the hairs rising on the back of my neck, I straighten my back, reminding myself that I’m here to do a job. My hand shakes as I press down on the handle, then I can’t suppress my gasp. It’s a room trapped in time, this time fully furnished, dominated by a four-poster bed, complete with brocade hangings and a mattress. There’s a dressing table, adorned with three surround mirrors, with a full set of brushes and combs laid out on top, and a full-height, ornately carved double closet. While the overwhelming smell ofdecay sweeps in from the corridor behind, here there’s a faint lingering odour of perfume. I feel like an intruder as I snap picture after picture, without venturing fully into the room.
Slowly, I become aware that the house is darkening although it’s only midday. The light coming in from the windows has diminished to the extent I need to turn on the flashlight on my phone. I leap back as a flash of lightning briefly illuminates my surroundings, followed by a crack of thunder so loud, it has to be right overhead.It’s fucking October. Too late for monsoons.Must be an errant storm that’s blown up. But hell, that was so close I swear I can smell sulphur.
I don’t understand my urgent urge to retreat, but I obey it anyway. As I manoeuvre my crutches to take me closer to the stairs, I hear a sudden crack, and a huge beam falls from the ceiling only inches in front of my feet. Frozen, I look up to see flakes of plaster fluttering down.
There’s an inner voice screaming inside my skull,get out, you don’t belong here,and I find myself propelling my body toward the stairwell, only to realise I haven’t explored the upper floors.
How could I explain to Shooter and Bullet that I couldn’t complete the job because I felt, let’s face it, scared?I couldn’t. I pull myself together. The beam fell because it was its time. The whole damn property should be condemned, and I’m just here to prove it. I make my way around the hallway back to the upper stairway, then, heart beating like it’s going to jump out of my chest, I start to make my way up.
Crash.A rumble of thunder so loud, I’m not sure my eardrums are still intact, accompanied by the roaring of rain hitting the roof.
Then another beam falls, blocking the stairwell.
Now I’m not a suspicious guy, but I’m in an old house at the end of its life, and it’s falling down around me. I’m disabled. Ican’t run. All I can do is limp my way down. I’m not afraid to admit I turn, and as fast as I can, make my way back to the ground floor.
It might be my overactive imagination, but I swear I hear the house groaning, old wood giving way. I don’t miss the way the walls seem to be moving, as if they’re breathing in and out, and hear words on the wind coming through the broken windows.“You’re not welcome here.” “Get out.” “Leave before it’s too late.”
My heart thumping, breathing laboured, my crutches impeding my progress as I descend each step, I hop/swing my way toward the main doorway. I step out into the open, suddenly realising the sky ahead has cleared and there are no clouds in sight, and no signs of any rainstorm. Even the ground is bone dry.
What the fuck?
Without even a glance back, I go to the SUV, get in and start the engine. My tyres spin as I roar away from that house. I don’t stop to close the gate.
CHAPTER FIVE
HOUND
Pressing the pedal to the metal, I don’t ease up my speed until I’m far away from the Sullivan House. It’s not until I near civilisation that I slow, sufficiently sentient to not want to pick up a ticket. My brain is full of the warnings the doctor gave me about my TBI—hallucinations, seeing shit that’s not real, hearing things that aren’t there. I reckon I probably look crazy, my lunacy clear on my face. All I need is an overexuberant cop to pick me up and maybe see something in me that says I shouldn’t be driving at all.
I don’t consider returning to SD Construction to give my report to Bullet and Shooter. Hell, I’m in possession of photographic evidence, but I don’t want to review the pictures, too scared my brain might again be playing tricks. I do know I’m in dire need of a drink, and once I start downing the whisky, I doubt I’m going to stop. Heading straight to the compound, I park the car behind the shop, retrieve my crutches, then manage to make my way up the slope and into the clubhouse.
Razza’s behind the bar and raises a brow at my approach.
“Whisky, double,” I snap, managing to get my ass on the bar stool. While propping my crutches up alongside me, my trembling hands betray me, and one crashes to the floor.
“Hey, Brother, what gives?” Peg advances, his tall form overshadowing me until he bends, retrieves the crutch, and sets it beside its twin. Brimming with health and fitness, he reminds me of the mess I am. He might be in his sixties, but he still works out in the gym every day, and misses looking his age by a mile. And for now, at least, he’s stolen my job.
Glancing at him, hoping soon he’ll give it back, though I’m starting to have doubts whether I’ll ever again be mentally fit for the role, I morosely reply, “Feel so fuckin’ useless, Peg.”
“Not that useless,” another voice barks. “Heard you’ve been doing some work down at SD Construction.” Widening my eyes as I look toward Drummer, he snorts. “Zeke told me.”
Of course, his fucking son told him. Nothing’s a secret in this club.
“Would rather be riding my bike and kicking ass.” I can’t stop the resentment coming out of my mouth. I’ve downed my first drink. I tap on the bar to get Razza’s attention, and request a second double.
“Whoa,” Peg warns me. “Better go easy, Hound. You want your leg to heal, and if you fall on your face, you’ll undo all the surgeon’s good work.”
Drummer’s sharp, discerning eyes obviously see more than I want him to know. “Wanna talk about it?” he asks.
My experience so recent, and the drink having loosened my tongue, the words escape before I can stop them. “What? That Bullet and Shooter sent me to check out a haunted house?”Just let the floor open up and swallow me now.I act fast to cover my misstep. I force a snort as I rush to correct myself. “Well, that’s what it felt like. Old building, unoccupied for years, half falling down. Holes in the floors. The place was a disaster, not to say a death trap.”
