The Sick House: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 1) Page 8

  Something, though he couldn't say what, made Ulrich want to avoid what was easy in this instance, despite his fears. The more he paced, ruminated, the less he wanted to throw in the towel. He wanted to prove himself, to boost his credibility. The only way to do that would be to stay the course. Back in Toledo, when he'd first familiarized himself with the details of the case, he'd been excited and motivated. He'd been thrilled at having a case worthy of his skills as a private investigator. Throwing in the towel now, at the first sign of resistance, would be to prove all of the naysayers in his life correct. At day's end, Ulrich didn't really care what Edgar Hudson thought of him. But he did care about maintaining some semblance of self-esteem. Giving up would only bruise his ego and serve as proof that he was, in fact, out of his league. “If you give up now, you may as well start cleaning toilets for a living.”

  Ulrich returned to the bed and picked up his notebook, searching through his writings for the name of the local historian he'd hoped to contact. It was clear to him that he needed to learn more about the Sick House before he dared set foot there again, and there was probably no one else in town with more knowledge on that subject than historian Martin Tillinghast. The Vinton County Historical Society where his office was located, could be found on Devonshire Road. After breakfast in the morning he would set out there and arrange an interview with the man. Then, perhaps, he could get some answers about the place and separate fact from dreadful fiction.

  Pleased with this plan of action and feeling more secure now in the direction of his work, Ulrich readied himself for bed. He brushed his teeth at the sputtering sink and tugged the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his hand, effectively blocking the handprint on his forearm from view. Wonder if Tillinghast has ever seen anything like this before? he thought as he spit into the sink.

  Switching off the lights, Ulrich meandered carefully towards the bed, bumping his knees against the side of the mattress. He lowered himself down and felt out the pillow, giving it a hard smack in the hopes that it might be softened. He didn't bother to pull down the covers, and instead slept on top of the bed as it was. He'd dressed more warmly to make up for the lack of covers, and wasn't in any hurry to sleep beneath bedclothes of dubious cleanliness.

  After some grumbling and adjustment, the investigator closed his eyes and fought to clear his mind. The events of the day were avoided, as were the suspicions that, from somewhere in the room, he'd heard the stirrings of insect legs against the walls.

  Chapter 9

  Ulrich awoke at some point in the night. He glanced up at the dark ceiling blankly, blinking for a time. Something had made him stir, but in his grogginess he couldn't recall precisely what'd drawn him out of his deep sleep. He licked at his lips, finding his mouth dry as sand, and slowly eased himself up on his elbows. He couldn't have been asleep more than a few hours, but already a wicked soreness plagued his neck and shoulders. “Goddamn pillow,” he muttered, manhandling the thing and folding it over into a more supportive shape. He laid back and stared once more at the ceiling.

  The ceiling was a dim canvas lit up by slivers of moonlight. And in those slivers were showcased fragments of what he could only describe as trees. Long branches swayed in the breeze, their gnarled lengths casting ominous shadows into the room. He wished he could block out the small gaps in the blinds and cut off the spectacle in its entirety. For some reason, the presence of those swaying shapes above his head was distracting, worrisome. The more he watched them shift hither and thither, the less sure he became that they were branches. Possibly, he thought, they were something more odious and less impotent than that.

  The breeze came in hard, making the window creak awfully and sending the blinds into a stir. The plastic things could be heard to tap the glass, and they parted somewhat, admitting yet more of the frightful shadow-play. Maybe that'd been the sound that'd awoken him, the blinds rattling. Ulrich gulped, shut his eyes, and did his best to ignore it.

  It was too late, however. His thoughts were running away from him.

  Already his mind was returning to the Sick House. In fact, as he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for sleep to return, he wondered if he was still in his room at the Acardi at all. His eyes shot open in search of reassurance, but the shadow-play had intensified in the interim and the doubtful shapes cast onto his ceiling now had only increased in their substance. Something, perhaps a full-fledged trunk, could be seen above, and its image swayed very slightly as the blinds were sent rocking in the draft.

  Ulrich was transported back to that house, fancied he could smell the dampness, the accumulated dust and grime of centuries as he laid there. He constantly thrust out his hands to ensure that he wasn't laying on the filthy, crowded floors of the infirmary. His heart began to quake, the thick muscle knocking against his sternum and fighting its way up his throat.

  And then he heard it. The sound that had awoken him. It wasn't the rustling of the blinds like he'd initially fancied, but something else, something far more unnerving. He was sure. The final vestige of sleepiness was cleared out of his mind by a jolt of sheer fright.

  It was the sound of the door to his room being furtively tried.

  ***

  Ulrich should have stood up, should have assumed some sort of offensive posture, but he was anchored to his bed as though the blood had been drained from him and replaced with cement. He gripped at the starchy comforter beneath him and turned in the direction of the door. The door was highlighted subtly in the shades of night, its outline barely visible from behind his narrowed eyes. It wasn't a sturdy thing; he recalled the way the door frame had wobbled, necessitating his placement of the nightstand in front of it. But would that small piece of furniture be enough to keep out an intruder?

  The knob rattled as some alien hand closed around it. He could hear the deadbolt quiver in its socket, some yet unseen entity pressing against the outside of the door and attempting to enter. Whatever was trying to gain access to the room never once seemed to him a human being. It was a cheap motel, no stranger to petty crime, he knew, but the commonest explanation, one of a human thief attempting to steal some valuables, was the least likely scenario to his mind. Perhaps it was the slight tingling he felt in his forearm, where the handprint marred his flesh, that made him suspect something other than a human being dwelt outside. The present trying of the door and the sensation that now accosted his flesh were related phenomena, their simultaneousness bespeaking a horrific kinship.

  Whatever had reached out to him in the Sick House was here, and it wanted in. There was absolutely no question in his mind.

  Ulrich fought against what felt like increased gravity, sitting up in bed. The air was profoundly cold, colder than he'd remembered it just moments ago. He needed to find some way to defend himself, or to leave the room without being discovered by the thing. But how? He had no weapons and couldn't be sure that the entity would be harmed by acts of physical violence. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. Maybe, it wasn't even a physical presence, but rather a phantom, immune to his attacks. Moreover, the room only offered one route of escape, and that was the door. He could break the window and escape through it, but it was positioned right next to the door and would see him land directly in the intruder's path.

  He had precious few options.

  Racing out of bed, Ulrich stumbled across the dark room and took a firm hold of the brassy doorknob. He planted his feet and summoned what he could of his voice in a shout. “Leave! Leave me alone!”

  From the other side of the door came a voice in reply. “Whoa, there. Calm down, baby. Just me.” It was the voice of the obnoxious motel clerk. The man chuckled, sensing through the door that he'd put quite a scare into Ulrich, and added, “Got somethin' for ya.”

  Ulrich exhaled, placing a hand against his chest and feeling the trembling of his heart. After a few moments, he stammered, “Don't you ever knock?” He caught his breath. “All right, just a minute.” Carefully he shoved the nightstand out of the way and opened the door-- only a bit
at first-- spotting the outline of the portly clerk in the moonlight.

  The man looked up at him, grinning. He had an envelope in hand, and gave a little bob of his head. “Yeah, sorry to bother you and all that. I just remembered I had this sitting in the office. Someone, a lady, dropped it off earlier today and wanted me to give it to ya. You're, uh, Harlan Ulrich, right? She thought you might be stayin' here tonight.”

  Ulrich frowned. “That's right.”

  The clerk handed over the envelope. “That's for you, baby.” He nodded again, taking a few steps back. “Sorry for the disturbance.” He grinned, looking anything but sorry for scaring the hell out of him. “Sleep well.”

  Tonguing at his molars and choking back a string of curses, Ulrich crunched the envelope in his fist and shut the door, throwing the bolt and replacing the nightstand in front of it. He felt out the light switch, putting on the lights and groaning as the room was bathed in a yellow glow. The brightness stabbed at his eyes. Carefully, he paced to the edge of the bed and sat down, blowing into his palm and trying to reinvigorate it with a little warmth. The room had grown much colder. Suddenly, the starchy, questionable bedclothes held some appeal.

  He gazed at the envelope in his hand quizzically. Who could have dropped off a letter for him? So far as he knew, no one but Jerome was aware of his coming into town. The clerk had said that a woman had dropped it off earlier in the day. Whoever it'd been, she'd known that he'd planned to stay at the Acardi that night. This, perhaps more than anything the envelope might contain, sent shivers down his spine. Was he being followed? Was someone on his trail, monitoring his movements? Who, and why?

  He licked his lips and opened the envelope, finding a folded slip of paper inside. He took to unfolding it, blinking harshly till his eyes grew accustomed to the light and he could read.

  Ulrich found there was little to read on the paper, however.

  Scrawled hastily, in an uneven hand, was a brief message. He read it under his breath, loosing a shudder as the syllables hung in the air like a mist. It was a warning.

  “Stay out of godless Moonville. Go home, while you still can.”

  He stared at it a long while. “While I... still can?” Someone, evidently, knew that he was in town, and that he'd been poking around in Moonville. Despite being alone in his room, with the blinds shut, he felt suddenly like he was surrounded. So far, save for the motel clerk, he hadn't met anyone else in McArthur. Except for his encounter in the infirmary, he hadn't had contact with anyone in Moonville, either. What, precisely, was he being warned about? Had someone seen him poking around the Sick House? Were they warning him off because they knew about that terrible thing that lurked there-- the one that'd marked up his arm?

  The person who'd left the note had known his name.

  This could only mean one thing.

  “Jerome,” he muttered. Jerome had probably told someone in town that he'd hired a PI to look into his uncle's disappearance. He'd wished to keep a low profile, to arrive in town quietly and conduct his work under the radar. Odds were good, though, that everyone in McArthur knew exactly who he was now, and what he was doing there. His own client, most likely, had blown his cover.

  He ruminated on the note for some time, sticking it between the pages of his notebook and choosing to sit awake. Somehow, it didn't feel safe to close his eyes and sleep.

  Ulrich sat up for most of the night, only drifting off when the first signs of daylight began to come in through the blinds.

  Chapter 10

  Wakefulness stole through him with a jerk. Ulrich sat up in bed, wiping the trail of drool from his chin, and looked to the window, which was outlined in sunlight. The air was stale, so thick and sour that he could practically taste it. He shambled to the bathroom and stood in front of the sink, gargling with a bit of cold water from the tap and splashing his face.

  His phone told him it was just before noon.

  Sleepily, Ulrich changed out of his pajamas and into a dress shirt and slacks. He could only hope that these clothes, the last of the dressy stuff he'd packed, wouldn't end up like his last outfit. A white button down and khakis went well with his leather boots, once he'd managed to knock most of the dried mud off of them on the patio outside. It was a cool afternoon, perhaps a little warmer than the day before, but still chilly. His jacket was in terrible shape from the previous day's escapades, out of commission. He'd have to do without it.

  When fully dressed, he collected his things from the room and stuffed his notebook into his bag, carrying it out to the SUV. In the daylight, with its exterior caked in mud, it looked much sorrier than he remembered. He opened the driver's side door, marveling at the mess within, and took a few minutes to brush dried mud off of the seat. There was nothing for it; he was going to get dirty no matter how long he tried to clean things up. An expensive detailing job, maybe, would get the mess up, though the nooks and crannies impacted with crusty deposits of mud would be impossible to fully clear even for a professional. With a sigh of resignation he hopped into the driver's seat and put the key in the ignition. Car's a mess, but that's what Jerome gets for telling the locals I was coming. He blew my cover. Serves him right. I hope his boss takes this out of his pay.

  While letting the car warm up, Ulrich leaned against the steering wheel and thought about how his day might go. As he did so, thoughts of the night prior returned to his mind; thoughts of the warning he'd received in the form of a letter. Looking back on it, it didn't seem real, but a perusal of the notebook he carried and an examination of that selfsame missive was sufficient to convince him of its authenticity.

  There was at least one person in town who knew he was poking around in Moonville. But who, and why had they sent the note? Were they just trying to scare him off? Had it been sent by the person responsible for the disappearance of Dr. Klein, in the hopes that Ulrich might leave before happening upon something incriminating? This seemed likely. Ulrich set the message back into the notebook and then pulled into reverse, backing out of the motel parking lot. Perhaps he'd speak to the clerk at the Acardi later on, see if he couldn't recall more about the woman who'd dropped it off. Navigating onto the main drag, he started for the strip mall he'd glimpsed the previous evening, hoping to find some place to enjoy a late breakfast.

  The rain of the previous day still lingered in shallow puddles along the sides of the road, but the pavement itself was dry and smooth. Sunlight drifted down in abundance in those areas where trees were few, lending the old town something of brightness. Truthfully, as he continued down the road and took in the scenery, spotting the old, rundown buildings that made up downtown McArthur, he felt the sunlight didn't fit in somehow. The dreariness of the previous day would have suited it much better. Dressed up in sunlight, all of its flaws were brought into the open. None of the buildings seemed especially fond of the light, either, for over the years they'd become spent, wizened things like furtive animals accustomed to dwelling in the obscurity proffered by shadow. The scene looked inauthentic. This wasn't how McArthur was supposed to look. The town had put on a happier face in the sunlight for its most recent tourist, but that it was merely faking it was all too clear.

  A mile up the road Ulrich came upon a restaurant called Milo's, a diner. It was as good a place as any, and he pulled into the near-empty lot, parking near the door. Stepping out of the SUV, he was reminded again of the chill and paced towards the entrance with his arms crossed against his chest. It was all he could do to keep warm and ignore the cold he so hated.

  The side of the building was painted with a quaint advertisement of that type commonly found on old-timey brick businesses, and was half-effaced by the elements. What it said he couldn't quite make out. Ulrich approached the door, built of dingy glass and covered in fingerprints. It gave with a loud creak, which doubtless everyone in the restaurant could hear. He found himself standing at the front of a small dining room, filled with a mixture of booths and tables. A tall wooden box where a hostess might stand sentry was unattended, and
a sign positioned next to it urged diners to seat themselves. The air was warm and the smell of grilled meat made his stomach rumble.

  But it was not with these features that his senses were chiefly engaged. From the very first, he was distracted by something else. It was a rather empty place, with only two of its dozen or so tables occupied, and something like three or four staff working in the open kitchen besides. What struck him as odd was the way that, upon his entrance, everyone in the restaurant had stopped to stare at him. One-by-one, every diner and staff member turned, their eyes leveled upon him in a narrow dissection. The effect was decidedly hostile.

  Why did they stare? Perhaps they were staring because he looked an outsider. Perhaps, he thought, the whole town was on a lookout for someone of his description and they were united in some unspoken oath to oust him from McArthur. Ulrich gave a little bob of his head, doing his best to disarm what he very rapidly came to regard as enmity in the gazes of the occupants.

  A waitress in a white apron motioned towards him. “Sit wherever,” she said, her voice gruff and uninviting.

  Ulrich stiffened, almost deciding to leave and seek out another restaurant, but something told him that this was as warm a reception as he could expect at any eatery in town. He meandered to a booth near a window, as far from the other patrons as he could get. He dropped down into his seat, picking one of the paper menus off of the table and appraising it while his stomach growled loudly. The place specialized in generic diner fare, precisely the kinds of foods he most craved, and he started making a mental list of all the things he would order. He hadn't eaten since the previous day, and would need a fair bit to keep him going. When breakfast was through, he planned to pay Professor Tillinghast at the Historical Society a visit.