Chapter 14 #2
I’ve never felt so terrified during an investigation before.
Fucking hell, if I ever did, I’d never let River do this shit again.
Trigger devices and Ovilus communication and voices caught on EVP are one thing.
Shadow figures are something else entirely, if that’s what this is.
I’ve read about them online. They feed on pure terror.
Something grazes my shoulder and nausea rolls in my stomach, threatening to bring up the sandwich I scarfed down for lunch before we came here. My drumming pulse is in my throat as I clench my teeth and grind out, “You are not allowed to touch me.”
My light flickers again as the energy next to me oscillates, the feeling of something corporeal shifting near me.
It closes in, the air around me bloating as dread creeps up my spine.
Maybe if I calm myself it’ll leave me alone.
I suck in a deep breath, counting up to ten, but only make it to three before my hands start to shake.
I try to bolt, but I can’t move. It’s been years since I’ve stepped foot in a church, but I lift a hand to make the sign of the cross.
I make it as far as tapping my forehead, then what feels like a hand closes around my throat.
I lurch back in the cell, a scream splitting from my chest. I twist and contort, curling over in the corner as I white knuckle the camera, pawing at the phantom pressure at my neck with my free hand.
It’s gone. The feeling’s gone. I’m okay.
“Winona?” Charlie cries, slamming footsteps growing louder.
“I’m all right,” I cry back, hoarse. He appears in the doorway to the cell.
“Fuck. What happened? I heard you scream.” He draws in ragged breaths and crowds my space, prying the camera from my hands. He sets it down on the metal cot attached to the wall. All the nasty, heavy feelings that were invading the room only moments ago dissipate in his presence.
“My light went out and then I—I saw a shadow. I’ve never been so scared on a job.
I can’t explain it, the thing just felt dark.
It wasn’t any old ghost. And then it . .
. that fucker breathed on me—touched me.
It felt like something grabbed my throat, and I—” I shake my head, turning away from him, willing my eyes not to leak. “You probably think I’m insane.”
He cups my face with both hands, brows peaking as he searches my face. “I do not think you’re insane,” he says gently, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“God, yeah.” I swipe the rest of the dampness away with the back of my hand. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened.”
“Maybe let’s stick together from now on. Yeah?” He tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ear, thumb absentmindedly stroking my cheekbone.
I nod, brows pulling together as I regain my composure.
Something—I wouldn’t dare call it yearning—sinks in my chest when he drops his hand from my face.
Charlie swipes the camera and exits the cell.
Framed in the center of its barred entrance, he pauses and looks over his shoulder, free arm twitching like he almost extended a hand to me.
Peeling my clammy back off the wall, I step forward, and tingles spider-crawl over my scalp instantly.
A fresh scent envelops me—warm and spicy, like clove with a spritz of lemon.
I inhale deeply. It’s cozy. Nostalgic. A stark contrast to what just happened to me in here.
Charlie? No. Charlie smells like bright resinous pine, smoke curling through dense leaves, freshly tanned leather drying in the sun.
Yet there’s something familiar about this scent.
Men’s cologne. But not young, modern men like Charlie.
No, this one smells like the principal at my old middle school, a man pushing his seventies.
My eyes widen as my jaw goes slack and The Knowing curls up behind my ribs like a comfortable cat.
“What is it?” Charlie asks.
“I don’t know . . . do you smell that?”
He sniffs. “Dust? Mold? Asbestos? Lead paint? No. I’m living in delusion.”
“This cell,” I mutter, looking around it. “There’s something about this cell . . .” As if in response, a chill passes over me. But this one isn’t heavy and foreboding, like whatever screwed with me.
Charlie inches closer, adjusting his glasses with one hand as the other lowers the camera and he sighs. “What do—” His gaze falls and he stops, brow furrowing.
“What? What is it?”
“I . . .” He frowns and squats, attention still pinned on the same spot.
I follow his train of sight to a loose stone in the wall beneath the cot.
Reaching forward gingerly, he wiggles the brick and it gives easily.
“I don’t know why I . . .” He trails off, grumbling, as he inches it forward.
It springs free, chips crumbling as it loosens.
“Intuition,” I mumble, squatting next to him.
He unclips the light from the camera and lowers it to peer inside the hollow left by the stone.
Something flat, the same dark color of blood, reflects back to us.
Wordlessly, I take the light so he can reach for whatever it is.
Charlie extracts an old journal, pages yellowing, corners curling, the maroon leather binding worn and aged from who knows how many years it’s been down here.
He hands me the camera, freeing both hands to peel apart the pages.
My heart gallops as he hums and I focus the lens on the artifact.
His throat bobs with a swallow as he glances at me sideways.
“Your guy . . . what was his name again?” Charlie asks.
“James.” I clear my throat, inching closer to him, our arms brushing, as I squint through the harsh light. “James Dewhurst.”
“I think we just found his journal.”