Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“He’s in the mirror,” Nigel warned.
Oscar had turned off his head light to keep it from reflecting back into his eyes. He searched the mirror’s depths—was that something moving, or just a shadow?
He looked back at his own reflection and had to choke off a cry.
Another face was now superimposed over his features: black hair slicked back from a haughty brow, the harsh line of a jaw, small eyes narrowed in rage.
Then the face began to change. The teeth grew larger and larger, mouth splitting open to accommodate them, and the small eyes burned a sickly yellow.
The temperature plunged, as though the season had changed from high summer to the depths of winter. A low growl sounded from the direction of the mirror, and waves of fury pounded at Oscar, seeking a way in.
Oscar focused on keeping his breath steady. These feelings weren’t his; he let them lap around him, like water around a stone. “He’s very angry,” he said. “As usual.”
What a terrible way to spend an afterlife. Filled with rage, clinging possessively to The Cottage even as it crumbled around him. Unable to let go and suffering because of it.
Perhaps he could convince Ullman to move on without using the Devil’s Toy Box.
He envisioned a glowing portal beside the mirror, one that would take the angry ghost to the other side, presumably beyond the cares that had trapped him here.
“It’s time to move on,” he told the twisted face in the mirror.
“Your suffering is at an end. Release your anger and—”
A chair skidded across the floor and struck him in the back.
“Oscar!” Nigel shouted, but he held up his hand. His spine hurt from the blow, but it hadn’t been that hard. In the mirror, Ullman’s fang-lined mouth gaped open in a silent laugh. A terrible sort of pleasure infused the rage—Ullman enjoyed inflicting pain.
Oscar was truly starting to dislike the man. Being angry because there were strangers in your home was one thing; liking to hurt people was quite another. What had he gotten up to in life? Was this why Gloria hated him so?
“You aren’t going to get rid of us,” Oscar told him. “This isn’t your home anymore. Leave this place!”
“He’s coming out of the mirror!” Nigel yelled.
With the eyes of a medium, Oscar didn’t need the SLS to see it. Ullman reached out preternaturally long hands, every finger tipped with a claw, and gripped the edges of the mirror’s frame from the inside. A long, long leg followed—then he heaved himself out and stood before Oscar.
The ghost was far taller than any living human, head almost brushing the high ceiling. His mouth worked again, but Oscar could only make out a low vibration. “You can’t…do anything…whom do you think…to the bottom?”
Oscar’s limbs felt locked into place as Ullman loomed over him, taller and taller now, spine scraping the ceiling. One long hand reached out, claws ready to rend and tear—
Salt caught the light of Chris’s camera as it flew in an arc toward Ullman. The crystals ripped holes in his etheric body, and he screamed as if he’d been shot.
“Good going, doc!” Chris yelled. “Oscar, get the hell out of there!”
“No!” Not yet, not until the job was done. Oscar scooped up his own canister of salt, poured out a handful, and added it to the bombardment.
Ullman shrunk back, snarling. “Make us leave,” Oscar challenged. “You can’t do it—you aren’t strong enough.”
With a hiss, Ullman dove for the batteries in the box.
His figure warped, thinned, and streamed into the Devil’s Toy Box. His emotions washed over Oscar: he was going to feed on the batteries, then he would show these interlopers, these prying oafs who thought they could judge him—
Oscar slammed the box shut.