Forest (The Afterlife Investigations Book 2) Read online

  Forest

  The Afterlife Investigations #2

  Ambrose Ibsen

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Thank you for reading!

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Ambrose Ibsen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  1

  I slipped a finger between the blinds and had a look outside. It was dark. Empty sidewalks, empty streets. A stray cat brushed against a lamppost, its black tail sticking straight up like an antenna. My phone told me it was 6 AM. The sun should have been on its way up, I thought. It was probably just paranoia, but I almost felt like the sun was messing with me, staying hidden to prolong the night.

  Jake stood against the wall of my living room, arms crossed. His brown eyes were heavy, and dark circles had taken up residence beneath them. Poor guy had probably gotten dragged out of bed. By the looks of it he hadn't even had a chance to look in the mirror and smooth out the cowlicks in his hair.

  Sitting crosslegged in my recliner, her tangerine hair pulled into a messy ponytail, was Elizabeth. She cradled the tape recorder in her hands, staring down at it as though it were some holy relic.

  “That ain't the Shroud of Turin, you know. You can hit the buttons, if you want. Start it up.” I stepped away from the window and buried my hands in the pockets of my robe. Pacing past Jake, I entered the kitchenette and set about getting caffeinated. “I'm going to put on some coffee,” I announced, throwing open the cupboard. “But I've only got two mugs. You two will have to share.”

  I'd been doing some research that night. Having tracked down a cabin in the Hiawatha National Forest region that might have belonged to Dr. W. R. Corvine, I'd given Elizabeth a ring and told her what I'd found. The tape in her hands contained a lengthy dictation by the doctor.

  The doctor who'd performed illicit experiments on a certain patient at Chaythe Asylum.

  My hand trembled a bit as I dumped ground coffee into my french press. Memories of the asylum were still so fresh that if I closed my eyes, a part of me still thought I was trapped inside. Ever since getting back to my apartment from there the night before and putting on all of the lights in a terrified frenzy, I hadn't turned off a single one. Elizabeth and Jake had remarked on the brightness upon entering, but neither had really complained about it. I imagined their dorm rooms had been similarly lit up.

  The three of us had spent upwards of six hours wandering the shuttered madhouse on the evening of March 28th, only to encounter something horrific inside.

  Something that had followed us all the way out the door.

  Now, I wanted to determine just what it was, and to make certain it was truly gone.

  Still hesitant, Elizabeth looked down at the tape recorder and shrugged. “Should I just hit play?”

  The kettle on the stove began to whistle, and I lifted it off of the burner, nodding. “That's usually how these things work, yes.” Dumping the boiling water into the french press, I set the lid on top and let the coffee steep. “I listened to some of it. He mentions something—the 'Occupant'—which I'm guessing is the thing we ran into last night.”

  “The Occupant?” Jake tried the word on like an ESL student trying out a new swear word. “What does that mean? Why would he call it that?”

  He was asking questions I didn't have answers to. “I'm not entirely sure. He mentioned 'the occupant of the chamber' in that dictation, and he also name-dropped 'Hiawatha'. Remember this?” I took a crumpled piece of paper from my TV stand—the very same that Jake had pulled from Corvine's Remington typewriter back at the asylum. There were a series of geographical coordinates across the top of the page. “These coordinates just so happen to point to a cabin near the Hiawatha National Forest in Michigan. Do you think that's a coincidence?”

  Jake glanced down at the paper and fidgeted uncomfortably. “I guess not...” Looking to Elizabeth, he continued. “But, what about it? Haven't we poked around this thing enough? Haven't we gotten into enough trouble? I know that this is super interesting to you, but I think we should stop now. Digging deeper is only going to get us into another mess like at the asylum.”

  Elizabeth was clearly conflicted. Staring down at the tape, her thumb came to rest upon the PLAY button, but she couldn't bring herself to hit it. “I want to know,” she said quietly, “what it was we saw last night. Something like that shouldn't exist in the world, but...” She rubbed at her arms as though she were suddenly cold. “But it does exist, and I want to know why.”

  I stirred the grounds and then poured the coffee into two glass mugs, one of which I handed to Elizabeth. Taking a small sip, I stationed myself beside the television and nodded to the tape player. “Whenever you're ready. Let's see what the good doctor had to say, eh?”

  That last bit was firmly tongue in cheek.

  As far as I could tell, there was nothing good about Dr. William Reynholm Corvine, the physician who had prescribed an experimental drug to patient Enid Lancaster and who was responsible for the mental break that had sent her on a killing spree. If not for his meddling, the so-called Third Ward Incident would never have taken place. After the murders, Corvine had lost his medical license and had supposedly gone into hiding. To me, that detail was particularly damning; if he'd been innocent, then why'd he gone into hiding? His notes and research had also vanished with him.

  Well, except for this cassette tape, it seemed.

  She looked down at her coffee, a slight frown plaguing her lips. “Uh... do you have any cream or sugar I can add to this?”

  I clicked my tongue. “Now, now, I promised you coffee, didn't I? Drink it the right way, will you?”

  She brought the mug to her lips, brows knit, and took a sip of the black brew. “Ugh,” she muttered, hitting the PLAY button on the recorder. “How do you drink this?”

  2

  DICTATION BY DR. W. R. CORVINE, M.D.

  MARCH 26TH, 1989

  2200 HOURS

  “Routine vitals were taken prior to treatment, all within normal ranges, and again five minutes after the administration of five micrograms of Scotophobin—SPN-006. Heart rate increased a great deal, though it was measured in the expected range. Patient was restrained and instructed to remain calm.

  “I have had doubts, I admit, as to the subject's suitability for this line of experimentation. Already afflicted with an intense fear of the dark, the Scotophobin—SPN-006 had, in previous, higher, dosages, elicited a purely frightened response. At five micrograms however, real progress has been made. She has begun to hear—and see—things in the chamber with her beyond the range of ordinary experience. The occupant of the chamber has made itself known to her, resulting in a mark
ed agitation on the part of the patient. This is not wholly unexpected; previous tests at Hiawatha with a less refined version of the drug prepared me for the possibility of aggression, and I have seen to it that the patient remains in restraints until the session is complete. We are very near a breakthrough, I suspect.

  “During the session, I was reminded of the latter stages of my work with Subject No. 1. She hadn't responded as well to the treatment, which leads me to believe that this newest formulation of the drug is highly superior. I cannot be sure of the mechanism of action; the chemist himself could not be certain how the compound in its current formulation would mesh with the subject's psyche. That I am pushing the envelope—the very boundaries of science—is clear. Work of this kind has not been done in the past, except perhaps in the Soviet Union.

  “Like a sensitive scientific instrument, the patient's senses have become attuned to the Occupant. The utilization of perfect darkness, coupled with sensory deprivation techniques, have made it possible for her to shut out all worldly sensory input. Meanwhile the drug opens vistas into new realms of existence from whence she can draw sights and sounds; I expect studies in the future will show in her the development of those quadrants of the brain that most lend themselves to the detection of psychical stimulus.

  “The session went as expected. When her aggression waned and she relaxed in her restraints, she began hearing the voices. The surge of noises, which the patient described as 'hundreds' of voices in a crowd, thinned until she could hear only a single call. It frightened her terribly, as before, but she recognized it as the Occupant. No less than three times during the session did she claim to sense movement in the chamber with her. I myself saw nothing from the observation room, but though her eyes were blocked and she was plunged into perfect darkness, she claimed in some way to 'see' something in there with her. The sight of it sent her each time into violence, and I can only surmise that she 'saw' it with more clarity than ever before.

  “I am still trying to make sense of the Occupant's mutterings, as were passed on by the patient. Since first reaching out to it at Hiawatha, it has frequently pleaded for a 'host'—someone through which it may 're-enter' the world, and in the hopes of making such a breakthrough I have labored consistently. Unfortunately, the connection between Occupant and host—in the cases of Subject No. 1 and this patient both—has never been strong enough. But just now I have struck upon what I believe is the core problem with my work.

  “It has been a long road, but I sense these experiments of mine are drawing to a close. And soon, they shall bear fruit.”

  3

  The tape ended.

  “Huh,” I said into my mug. “What do you make of that?”

  Jake and Elizabeth exchanged confused glances and shook their heads.

  “It sounds like he was trying to summon that thing into the world, using Enid. He fed her drugs and 'opened her mind' so that it could 'cross over'. Why would he do something like that?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Not only that,” I added, “but he'd been doing work of this kind before he ever got to Chaythe Asylum. He did experiments in 'Hiawatha'—I bet you dollars to donuts he was tinkering with something in that cabin. Or rather, someone. Talk of this Subject No. 1 has me feeling nervous. He was doing this sort of thing to someone before he ever met Enid. Torturing them in the dark. There could be a trail of bodies if you think about it. How many people did Corvine subject to these experiments before he finally quit?”

  “If he quit.” Jake was chewing on his thumbnail. His eyes were a little wider now, a little less sleepy. “I don't know. And I don't want to know,” he uttered. “It's none of our business.”

  I jabbed at him with my mug, almost spilling my coffee. “It's absolutely our goddamn business. We went in there looking for ghosts and stirred this thing up instead. Corvine's experiments brought something into the world through Enid's head, by the sounds of it. And now it might be out there, walking around, waiting to prey on someone.” I took a slurp. “We're too deep into this to turn our backs now. We have a responsibility to stop whatever's been put in motion here. You remember that thing—the Occupant—don't you?”

  Jake threw his hands up. “Jesus, you don't have to remind me. I never want to see it again. Which is why I want to drop this shit, OK?”

  Elizabeth was staring down at the tape player again. She threaded a few fingers through her ponytail, making it all the messier. “Who did he experiment on first? And how did Dr. Corvine even get involved in this line of research? We know next to nothing about him, despite going to the asylum.”

  She had a point. We'd walked through the doctor's old haunt, but had only come away with this cassette tape. Hell, I didn't even know what the guy looked like. Though he was responsible for all of the terror we'd faced in the last few days, Dr. W. R. Corvine was only a footnote to me—a sinister thread running through a frightening tapestry.

  But we did have one lead.

  “The cabin,” I said, downing the remainder of my coffee. I crossed into the kitchen to pour myself another. “That's our best lead. If we want to know about Corvine, we have to go there and poke around.”

  “And what if that thing is waiting for us there, huh?” demanded Jake. He started pacing around the room. “What then? Will we try and run away again—through miles of forest? I don't think so. If you want to give it a shot, then you go right ahead, professor, but we're sitting this one out.” He looked to Elizabeth first with firmness, and then seemed poised to plead.

  Surprisingly, she didn't protest. Where usually Elizabeth was raring to go and didn't like being ordered around, she didn't seem too interested in this trip and stood up, offering me the tape recorder. “Honestly, I think he's right, professor. Maybe we should call it quits. The whole club, I mean. I don't have much need for the Moorlake Spiritual Society anymore. I've gotten my fill of the supernatural in the past twenty-four hours.”

  I sighed. Their unwillingness to tag along hit me harder than I wanted to admit. “Really?” I followed them to the door and watched them file out. “Well, it's fine. I can figure this stuff out on my own. I'll let you know if I find anything interesting.”

  Elizabeth nodded, but Jake turned around and said, “Please, don't.”

  I shut the door behind them and locked it.

  Finally, the sun was coming out, its rays poking through the blinds.

  Plopping into my recliner, I tried to figure out what I was going to do with my day. “Where to start?” I wondered aloud.

  Looking down at the tape recorder, I decided the best course of action would be to learn a little more about the voice on that tape.

  When the last of the coffee was gone, I splayed out across my bed for a brief, caffeinated power-nap and then threw on a fresh change clothes. I was on my way to the campus library by 8 AM.

  4

  Something about libraries just gets to me. You walk in and the whole place smells like good paper. It's quiet. All but the most uncivilized people are reverential there; it's a temple to the gods of knowledge, such as they are.

  And the campus library, some nine floors high, was a sight to behold.

  As a lover of books, I could figuratively lose myself on the first floor, leafing through the new releases in hardcover, or on the third floor, where they kept all of the pop culture collections. I could lose myself in the place quite literally, too—with nine floors on offer there was a lot of ground to cover, a lot of corners to turn and stairwells to navigate.

  The library was open over the break, albeit with truncated hours. The staff—a mixture of the usual faculty and a handful of student volunteers stuck sorting returns in the hopes of paring down their school loans—all looked rather bored as they milled around. Except for the rare peruser walking through the shelves in search of a good beach book, the place was abandoned.

  The day proved pretty warm, which made me second-guess the jacket I'd worn on the walk. Tucking it under one arm, I gave the librarians at the front desk a nod before traips
ing through the first set of shelves and eyeing all of the books I wouldn't have time to read over the break.

  I had business here.

  The library had two computer labs; one on the first floor, near the bathrooms, and then one on the second floor where books on local history and newspaper archives were kept. Seeing as how I was planning on digging into the past, I preferred the idea of having the library's historical records at hand and trudged up the stairs to the second level.

  Empty. Absolutely empty. The lights had been left dim in the computer lab, and the sole window admitted a ghostly glow into the room whose monitors and touchscreens sat idle. That aesthetic suited me just fine considering the work I was looking to do, and selecting one of the computers in the back row, I dropped onto the cushioned task chair, pounded in my university credentials and got started.

  The library's database was my target. Where I'd searched the web earlier for information related to the infamous Dr. Corvine, I'd dredged up precious little except for mentions of him in relation to the Third Ward Incident. What I sought was older than that; I wanted to know about the man, his education, his day-to-day, and his work history. Possibly, if he'd ever had published work, I'd be able to find it in the library's comprehensive database.

  I typed “W. R. Corvine” into the search bar and held my breath while waiting for the results to populate. I reached into my breast pocket and felt out the rectangular pack of Viceroy's I'd bought on the way, recalling with disappointment that I couldn't smoke here.

  Seconds later, there was a result.

  But only one.

  One result in the database was certainly better than nothing, and yet I felt somewhat swindled at the mostly-blank page that popped up before me. The single hit was related to a listing in the alumni section—a reference number was given, which I hastily scrawled onto my open palm with a pen. Logging out, I left the computer lab and crossed—after a bit of confused wandering—into the nearby “Alumni” section, where the reference number I'd taken down happened to correspond to one of the books. A Moorlake University yearbook for the year 1967.