John Manning - The Killing Room

“I could never leave the East Village,” Diana said. “This is home. I don’t need a lot of space, as you know.” She winked.

Carolyn smiled. “I’ve just come back from Maine. So much space up there.”

“I’ve been up there a few times. You know, being in the country makes me nervous. All those crickets and birds.” She shuddered. “I can’t fall asleep without the sounds of the city outside my window.”

Carolyn nodded. “I admit it’s been quite a comfort being back.”

“It was that bad, huh?” Diana narrowed her round blue eyes. She was a blonde, and rather pretty. Her face looked far younger than her fifty-plus years. “You indicated on the phone that this was one real doozie of a case.”

“You know, every other case I’ve investigated, there has always been that little possibility that a rational explanation could be found, that maybe the supernatural wasn’t really involved. Not this time.”

Diana grimaced. “Why do you speak as if rational and supernatural are opposites? I would have thought the experience with George Grant would have convinced you that the supernatural is a real, provable, palpable phenomenon.”

“Well, Diana, you know, some people say George Grant was just taking drugs, or that maybe his wife had given him drugs, and that’s why he appeared that way…”

“He was a zombie!” Diana maneuvered herself up with the stubs that served as her shoulders, moving her face forward at Carolyn as she made her point. Her small breasts heaved against the Superman insignia. “Come on! You saw him! I was with you that day on the pier. We both saw him!”

It was true. The image of George Grant’s face emerging from the shadows had never left Carolyn. At the time, it had been the most terrifying moment of her career. She thought it was possible that Diana saved her life that night. Hidden in a baby carriage, Diana had peered out to see Grant moving toward Carolyn. He walked with the gait of the undead, his eyes blind yet somehow seeing. It was only as he passed Diana’s carriage that he slowed down-stopped in his tracks by the words she said and the blood she spit at him. She had held the small balloon in her mouth, waiting for the moment to propel it at him with her tongue. The blood of a chicken. As the balloon popped and the blood stained the front of Grant’s shirt, Diana had uttered whatever mumbo jumbo she had been taught. Carolyn had watched in awe as the man staggered, then fell to his feet. When he awoke, hours later, he was once again himself.

“Good thing you had me with you,” Diana reminded her now. “You thought I was just there to observe. But I knew I had to be ready.”

“If George Grant really was a zombie, then you saved my life,” Carolyn said, smiling.

“What do you mean if?” Diana sighed.

Carolyn just went on smiling. “Did you ever want to be anything other than a witch doctor?”

“Yeah,” Diana cracked. “A ballerina.” She hooted a laugh. “Weren’t too many options open to me. But when I saw that I had a certain knack-” She hesitated, as if something had just occurred to her. “Okay, what’s his name? No, wait, don’t tell me.”

It was Carolyn’s turn to sigh. “There you go, reading my mind again.”

“It used to drive Mama crazy, my ‘knack,’” Diana said. “I’d know everything she was going to say to me two and half minutes before she actually got it out of her mouth.”

“You told me you don’t pry,” Carolyn chided gently.

Diana frowned. “Sometimes it just pops into my head without me trying. Oh, I know his name. It’s Douglas.”

Carolyn nodded.

Diana’s face turned sympathetic. “And he’s one of the ones in danger, isn’t he?”

Carolyn nodded again.

“From what you told me on the phone, this is something I don’t have a lot of experience with.” Diana rested her head back against the pillow of the chaise. “I mean, when Mama learned of my abilities she brought in lots of teachers for me. Haitian witch doctors and psychics and Wiccan shamans, all sorts of people. I learned all the arcane arts about zombies and voodoo and witchcraft, but I don’t know all that much about your run-of-the-mill ghosts.”

“Oh, these aren’t run-of-the-mill, let me assure you,” Carolyn said dryly.

“What I mean is, if this Beatrice person had been a gypsy or something, and had cast a gypsy curse on the family, I might know how to reverse it. There are books on that. Spells you can memorize. Incantations and charms.” She closed her eyes, as if thinking. “But Beatrice was just a girl, right?”

“As far as I know.”

“Then I’m not sure what I can do. Ghosts are just people, you know. They’re people freed from their physical bodies. That means they can act out by levitating things or appearing and disappearing or traveling far distances in a nanosecond.” She seemed to consider this, and a wry smile crossed her face. “Gee, can’t wait until I’m a ghost.”

“Diana, you have to help me,” Carolyn said. “Or point me to someone who can.”

“Sweetie, I know this is personal for you. Believe me, your thoughts are coming through loud and clear on that.” She rested her head back against the chaise and closed her eyes. “The trick is to make contact with the spirit who’s causing all this destruction. She’s pissed off, and there’s no spell to counteract that. You’ve got to convince her to stop, to end the cycle of death.”

“But Kip tried that,” Carolyn argued. “He actually was able to walk Beatrice out of the room. It was as if they set her free.”

“And then she came back?” Diana smirked. “That’s one pissed-off, determined ghost.”

“That’s just it,” Carolyn said. “In every contact with Beatrice, she hasn’t manifested as angry. She’s sad. She has never been a threatening presence. The word she kept repeating when Kip was able to record her was ‘love.’”

“All you need is love, bum da da da dum,” Diana sang, a snippet of an old Beatles tune. “Then I don’t get how she could be killing people.”

“Douglas thinks it’s the other spirit who’s doing the killing.”

“The guy with the pitchfork.”

Carolyn nodded. “Clem. And there’s definitely a case to be made for that. Douglas’s cousin Ryan was nearly killed by the ghost of Clem a week or so ago.”

Diana made a face of confusion. “But that would go against all precedent, wouldn’t it? The killings only happen in the room. If they take place elsewhere, it’s because procedures weren’t followed in regard to the room. In this case, it’s not even time yet to send anyone in there. Why would Clem attempt to kill someone so soon?”

“I don’t think Ryan was actually in any danger. I think it was a scare tactic. According to the notes kept by other investigators, it’s not uncommon in the weeks before the lottery for family members to have terrifying brushes with the spirits. I think it’s just a way to keep the family on its toes, and to make sure they go through with the lottery.”

“Well, then it’s simple. We contact Clem. Get him to back off.”

Carolyn nodded. “I agree we need to try to reach him. And Beatrice, too. At least to gain more information, if possible.”

“But you don’t think Clem is the one doing the killings?”

“Oh, he may well be. It would seem his energy is far more aggressive and destructive than Beatrice’s. He certainly seems capable of doing it. But Ryan said a curious thing.” Carolyn paused, wanting to get the words right. “He felt as if Clem was being led. In life, Clem was a slow, rather stupid man. I think his brute energy is being manipulated, used for someone else’s advantage. Someone else’s revenge. Ryan said that as Clem came after him, another voice was heard, urging him on. ‘Kill him,’ the voice said.”