Chapter 25
The eyes are the only gateway through which an entity can establish a direct neural connection. An entity must hold a person’s gaze long enough to force entry, which is more difficult when a person can’t see what they’re looking at.
Type One individuals are the exception. Where normal people have one entry point, Type One seers have many, and learning how to build mental barriers is necessary for them to protect themselves.
—Methods of Modern Ghost Hunting: A Tactical Guide to Containing and Vanquishing the Dead by Donald Dellman
The apartment complex is a three-story brick building with fire escapes zigzagging down the facade. Half the windows have AC units precariously balanced on their sills, and the other half are covered with cheap blinds or bedsheets.
“Apartment 3C,” Griffin says, checking the paper as we enter the building. The lobby smells like cabbage and cigarettes.
The elevator is out of service, so we take the stairs. As we step onto floor three and walk down the hallway, something sour makes my nose curl.
“You smell that?” I whisper.
Griffin nods. “Could be nothing.”
“Could also be pee.”
Except it can’t be pee. Even a crappy building would crack down on people urinating in the hallway.
3C is at the end of the hall. I slide the earplugs in, readjusting to the way they make me feel like I’m playing a video game instead of actively participating in the real world. Griffin readjusts the duffel bag over his shoulder, then knocks.
Nobody answers. Griffin tries again, but it’s a long time before the door opens.
Edward Mathis is rail-thin with sunken cheeks and dark circles under his watery blue eyes. He has mid-length black hair that’s thin and greasy, and he’s wearing shabby pajama pants and a white V-neck stained with tomato sauce.
“Yes?” His voice is a dry rasp and barely audible through the earplugs.
Griffin flashes a badge just long enough for Mathis to see the seal, but not long enough to get a good look. “Department of Public Health. We’re following up on reports of black mold in this building. Can we come in and take a look?”
“I didn’t call about mold.”
“It’s a building-wide inspection,” Griffin says, shrugging as though he’s annoyed at having to do this, too. “We received complaints from multiple units.”
Mathis tightens his grip on the door frame. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Afraid it is. Refusing a health inspection could result in a citation for both you and your landlord.” Griffin steps forward. “I promise, we’ll be quick.”
Mathis’s eyes flare in annoyance. Then he steps aside and leaves the door open.
The living room isn’t what I’d call tidy, but it looks like the usual clutter of someone living alone with very little motivation to clean.
Clothes drape over chair backs. Two pizza boxes sit stacked on the coffee table with a half-empty two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew keeping them company.
The TV’s loud enough to recognize Judge Judy’s distinctive bark, but not loud enough for me to understand what she’s saying through the earplugs.
Griffin unclips the scanner from his belt, thumbing it on as he tells Mathis it’s a mold detection device. He runs the tip of the scanner along the wall. His body language is relaxed, but I notice how he positions himself so he can always keep one eye on Mathis.
“Have you been experiencing any respiratory issues lately?” I ask, trying to keep Mathis’s attention on me like I practiced with the other men.
His fingers pick at a loose thread on his pajama pants. “No.”
“What about headaches? Or any unexplained mood changes?”
He scratches at his forearm under his hoodie. “No.”
I nod, studying him. The other men looked unhappy we were there, but they talked more, complaining about our intrusion or even making small talk. This guy’s… twitchy.
Twitchy doesn’t mean possessed. He could be anxious. On drugs. Or maybe—and here’s a crazy thought—he just hates strangers showing up at his door unannounced and barging into his home.
I have no clue how someone would act if an entity were possessing them. The only possessed person I’ve ever seen was actively strangling me, and we didn’t get much face time.
I glance at the kitchen, and my heart squeezes a little because it’s a disaster.
Dishes are piled so high in the sink that they’re toppling onto the counter.
Spilled food has crusted over on the countertop, and the refrigerator hums, working overtime in the stuffy apartment.
A gallon of milk sits on the table, swollen and black with rot, probably growing enough bacteria to qualify as a biological weapon.
Poor guy. I know depression can do this, make even the simplest tasks feel impossible. I’ve been there. Not to this extent, but I get it. When everything feels like too much, sometimes you stop trying to do… anything.
Griffin scans behind the refrigerator. Mathis takes a step toward him, craning his neck to see what Griffin is doing.
“How have you been sleeping?” I ask, and Mathis reels back around to me. “Have you been experiencing any disturbances?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with mold,” Mathis says, his eyes narrowing.
“Mold can seriously mess with your sleep.” I learned this the hard way when I was fourteen, and I lived in a foster home where I got super sick because the well-meaning couple didn’t know there was black mold growing in the walls.
I spent three weeks convinced I had the flu, because I was tired no matter how much sleep I got, and couldn’t stop coughing.
“The spores get into your lungs and can cause insomnia and a whole lot of other bad crap.”
I cringe internally. Other bad crap? That’s the most professional thing I could come up with?
Mathis gives me an empty stare that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Maybe I do have some.”
Griffin straightens from behind the refrigerator, and I catch his frown as he bangs the scanner against his hand. Mathis flinches.
“Sorry about that,” Griffin says, pushing a button on the side of the scanner, then shaking it. “These things are finicky.”
He waves me over with a tilt of his head. I cross to him, shoving my hands in my pockets to look casual.
Griffin leans in. I can smell the burrito he just ate, and his voice drops to a whisper that I can barely hear over the earplugs. “Scanner crapped out on me.”
“What?” I glance at Mathis. He’s watching us, but from this distance, he shouldn’t be able to hear. “It’s out of battery?”
Griffin shakes his head. “Dead dead.”
“Do you have another?”
“I only brought the one. I’ve never had one crap out on me before, and I just changed the batteries.”
I feel like an extra scanner would be an important thing to bring, but now’s not the time to point out the obvious gaps in our preparation. I swallow the criticism and focus on what we can actually do. “So, what happens now?”
“Mark it as inconclusive.” He hooks the dead scanner onto his belt, his movements brisk and professional. “Tell Nico or Donny, and they’ll swing by on their way home.”
My entire body rebels against that idea.
I don’t understand why, but I know we can’t just leave.
Not when we’re already here, and Mathis is right there.
Something feels wrong in a way I can’t explain, but that I know in my bones is real.
If Morrow is possessing Mathis and he thinks we’re onto him, he could bolt before Nico or Donny even gets here.
My fingers find the earplugs and pull them out.
Griffin’s hand lands on my back. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see if I can feel anything,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Nico will kill me if anything happens.”
“Just let me try,” I whisper. “Please. I can put them back in quickly if I need to.”
He studies my face for another couple of seconds before giving me a tight nod and dropping his hand from my back.
I immediately miss the warmth of it, which is annoying because now’s not the time to get distracted by how good it felt to have someone touch me like they actually cared whether I was okay.
I close my eyes and try to remember what I did at the crime scene. Except I have no idea what I did at the crime scene. I just heard it. Like my brain knew what to listen for even if I didn’t.
I try to quiet my thoughts, focusing on the apartment around me. On Judge Judy’s muffled voice from the TV… the hum of the refrigerator… the musty odor hanging in the air that means Mathis probably does have real mold in here… old garbage… is that pizza?
I walk slowly around the kitchen, keeping my movements casual. My fingers trail along the side of the refrigerator, then across the wall near the window.
“What’s she doing?” Mathis asks.
“Checking for moisture damage,” I hear Griffin say.
My palms are sweating inside the latex gloves as I turn my back to Mathis, pretending to examine the door frame when really I’m just trying to calm the hammering in my chest. I let my shoulders drop, releasing tension I didn’t know I was carrying. The TV becomes a distant hum.
Then I hear it.
Scratching. As quiet as the whispering I heard at the crime scene, only smaller, like tiny fingernails scraping against glass or insects crawling inside the walls.
My eyes open and I turn slowly, following the sound all the way to the sink. I stand directly over it. The sound gets louder, the scratching building until it feels like it’s vibrating inside my skull.
I run my eyes over the plates crusted with food. Bowls with fuzzy mold growing inside them. On a plate near the bottom of the pile, something glistens.
A glob of clear substance the size of a golf ball sits on the dirty plate, catching the light from the window in oily rainbow streaks. I lean closer. The sound gets louder.
When I turn around, Mathis is still standing there, but his entire posture has changed. His shoulders are squared now instead of hunched. His chin is lifted, and he’s grinning at me with a smile that makes my skin crawl because it’s too wide and there’s nothing human behind his eyes.
Mathis bolts into the living room.
I run after him, Griffin right behind me, but by the time we round the corner, Mathis has reached the end of the narrow entry hallway and has his back pressed against the front door.
“Well,” he says. “What do we have here?”
I slip my hand into my pocket, trying to be casual about it, like I’m just nervous and fidgeting instead of actively reaching for my phone. I grip it.
Mathis stalks toward us, each step controlled and deliberate. Nothing like the twitchy man from a few seconds ago.
“To what do I owe this visit?”
Griffin’s eyes dart around the hallway. I can see him calculating distances—to me, to his duffel bag halfway down the hall, to Mathis and the front door behind him.
“Health inspectors,” Mathis says, rolling the words around like he’s tasting wine. “I must admit, your acting needs work.”
Mathis takes another step toward us, and Griffin’s hand shoots out, catching my shoulder and pulling me behind him.
“How sweet,” Mathis purrs. “The hero protecting his damsel. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve saved me? Usually, I have to hunt for my couples. But you served yourselves up.”
My blood turns cold.
“We’re not together,” I say, stepping out from behind Griffin. “We’re not dating—or anything to each other. He’s just my coworker.”
Mathis tilts his head, and a light sparks behind his glazed eyes. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
My fingers tighten around the phone in my pocket. I take a small step backward, like I’m trying to hide behind Griffin. Let Mathis think I’m scared. I am scared, but I can also multitask. I inch my phone out of my pocket and angle the screen toward me, straining to enter my password.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mathis says, and my hand pauses on the phone. “Unless you want to watch me redecorate these walls with your boyfriend’s insides.”
“I’m not her boyfriend,” Griffin snaps, his body coiled tight like he’s ready to spring.
“Really?” Mathis takes another step closer, and I swear the air itself recoils from him. If he takes another step, we’ll have to fight past him to reach the duffel bag sitting against the wall. He addresses me, “Then why does he keep putting himself between us?”
Because that’s what decent people do, you absolute psychopath. They don’t let other people get hurt when they can help it. But I keep my mouth shut because antagonizing the serial killer seems like a spectacularly bad idea.
Griffin’s eyes dart to mine for just a second, and I can see the plea in them. He’s going to make a move. I have to be ready to run.
I’d say Griffin could take Mathis—he’s easily twice his size, but if Mathis has unnatural strength…
“Here’s how this is going to go.” Mathis gestures to the stained couch behind us. “You’re both going to sit down nicely with your hands above your heads, and we’re going to have a conversation about love.”