Forces from Beyond, Page 2

  He was trying for a lightness of touch but couldn’t quite bring it off.

  “Where’s Kim?” said Melody, just a bit pointedly.

  “Around,” said JC. “She’ll turn up, when she’s needed. Come on, let’s go talk to the hotel manager and get this show on the road. Shouldn’t take us long to deal with whatever’s bothering them here; and then we can go for a play on the Pier! I love the Pier.”

  “Of course you do,” said Melody. “It’s cheap and tacky, just like you.”

  JC strode determinedly through the front door. Melody fired up her trolley, and it putt-putted importantly along at her side as she followed JC in, still gripping Happy firmly by the arm. The lobby of the Acropolis turned out to be surprisingly large and airy, and only a bit shabby. JC had no trouble identifying the manager, pacing impatiently up and down with a face so full of troubles there wasn’t room for anything else. Stocky and middle-aged, with neatly arranged hair, he wore a suit that had once been too good for him but now looked distinctly hard-worn. The only other staff was a faded, middle-aged woman, at Reception. She took one look at the Ghost Finders and busied herself with some vital paper-work.

  The manager rushed forward to grab JC’s outstretched hand with both of his, smiling weakly, fixing JC with desperate eyes. The manager looked like he was carrying all the cares of the world and getting really tired of it. He went to shake Melody’s hand, then quickly gave that up as a bad idea once he took in her expression. Melody did have people skills; she just mostly couldn’t be bothered. The manager looked doubtfully at Happy and turned quickly back to JC.

  “You are them? The Ghost Finders?”

  “That’s us!” said JC. “If it moves and it shouldn’t, we have the answer.”

  “I’m Stefan Garth, owner and manager of the Acropolis. Thank you so much for coming! I’m at my wits’ end, trying to cope . . . Excuse me for asking; but is this all of you? I was expecting a more substantial response . . .”

  “Trust me,” said JC. “We’re all you need.”

  Garth took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh of qualified relief. Some of the weight seemed to come off his shoulders. “I’ve been trying to get help for ages,” he said tiredly. “No-one would listen when I tried to tell them about the Bad Room. No-one would believe me when I told them one of my rooms was killing people. The authorities didn’t want to know; friends and family were sympathetic but unhelpful; and when I went to the media, they just made fun of me. Luckily, only the local news ran the story, or it could have been very bad for business. But, finally, I told someone who knew someone at the Carnacki Institute. I was so happy, so relieved, when they assured me they’d send their very best people to deal with the situation . . . You’re sure you can help?”

  “Of course!” JC said cheerfully. “We are the Pros from Dover; the A team, only with less guns. We know what we’re doing, and when we don’t, we fake it.”

  The manager didn’t seem particularly reassured. He looked doubtfully at Melody, who scowled right back at him, and dubiously at Happy, who was smiling serenely at nothing in particular. The manager turned back to JC.

  “Don’t you need a priest? For an exorcism?”

  “That’s a more specialised procedure,” said JC. “Unless you’ve got hot and cold blood running down your walls, voices speaking in tongues on your internal phones, and a whole bunch of levitating beds . . . it’s unlikely to be a demonic presence. We are more your general practitioners. We make the bad things go away.”

  “I’ll show you the room,” said Garth. “While it’s still light.”

  “Let me guess,” said JC. “No-one goes there after dark.”

  “I keep the door locked at all times,” said the manager. “So whatever’s in there can’t get out.”

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  He led the way to the single elevator, on the far side of the lobby. Melody sulked at having to leave her precious equipment behind, but it clearly wasn’t going to fit in the elevator with them. Garth promised no-one would touch anything and even elicited a quick nod of agreement from the silent presence at Reception. So Melody just stuffed a few useful items into her pockets, said Stay! to the trolley, and hauled an unresisting Happy over to the elevator with her. Everyone waited for a while, then waited some more. The manager smiled weakly.

  “Sorry . . . We’ve only the four floors here at the Acropolis, so there’s only the one elevator. It’s getting old and just a bit unreliable. But perfectly safe! Oh yes! Perfectly . . .”

  “Speaking of safe,” JC said quietly, “Did you arm the defences on your trolley, Mel?”

  “Of course! No-one touches my stuff.”

  “Tell me you set them to non-lethal.”

  “More or less.”

  The manager appeared even more unhappy. Especially when he looked at Happy.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Sometimes,” said Melody.

  “He’s a specialist,” JC said solemnly. “Best not to distract him while he’s thinking. About things.”

  Perhaps fortunately, the elevator doors opened at that moment, and they all filed inside. The ascent to the fourth floor was quiet and uneventful, and the doors finally opened onto a perfectly-ordinary-looking corridor. Garth led the way, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder to reassure himself the others were still with him. All the doors on both sides of the corridor remained firmly closed. There was no-one about, not a sound to be heard. Even their footsteps on the faded carpet sounded flat and dull, oddly muffled.

  “Are all the other rooms on this floor occupied?” said JC.

  “Of course,” said Garth. “We do good business on the whole. Brighton is always very popular with the tourists, even at the end of the Season. It’s only the one room that’s gone bad.”

  “Have any of your guests reported seeing or hearing anything unusual?” said JC.

  “No,” said the manager, firmly. “Everything that’s happened has been limited to just this one room. No matter how bad it gets inside the room, whatever it is stays inside.”

  “How bad does it get?” said Melody.

  The manager shuddered, briefly. For a moment, it seemed like he might actually turn around and go back; but he squared his weary shoulders and kept going. He had the look of a man on his way to the dentist, or possibly the hangman. JC looked thoughtfully around him. There was no dread atmosphere in the corridor, no sense of unease, nothing in the least menacing. The carpet was a bit threadbare in places, and the whole place could have used a lick of paint and a touch-up; but that was it. Nothing to indicate a dangerous setting, nothing to warn about bad things waiting in the room ahead.

  The manager finally stopped before Room 418. JC noticed immediately that the numbers added up to thirteen but decided it probably wasn’t a good time to point that out.

  They all stood together, looking at the blank, coffee-coloured door. It stared right back at them, giving nothing away. JC listened carefully but couldn’t hear anything. Melody produced a hand-held scanner and ran it quickly over the door. A few lights flickered on the device, but that was all. Melody scowled and put the scanner away. Happy didn’t react to any of it. JC looked at Garth. The manager’s face was wet with sweat, and his hand actually shook as he produced a magcard and unlocked the door.

  “The room is empty, right now?” said JC.

  “Of course,” said Garth. He pulled his hand back from the handle, as though glad of an excuse to put off actually opening the door.

  “How long since anyone’s been in it?” said JC.

  “I haven’t dared let this room for almost seven months now,” said Garth. “None of the staff will go anywhere near it. I have to do the turn-down and clean myself. When I can work up the nerve. I don’t like to just leave it . . . that would feel like giving up. Giving in. But I always make sure my wife comes with me, to hold the
door open. So it can’t close on its own. So I won’t get . . . trapped. In there.”

  “What happened, seven months ago?” said Melody. “What brought this to a head?”

  “There were screams,” Garth said, reluctantly. “Out here, in the corridor. When guests came running out of their rooms to investigate, they found Mr. Harding staggering out of Room 418. He’d torn his eyes out. When they finally got him to stop screaming, he said the room showed him things.”

  “Any idea what?” said Melody.

  “That was all he had to say,” said Garth. “He was still saying it when they strapped him into the strait jacket and took him away.” He looked suddenly at JC. “Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?”

  “Style,” said JC.

  The manager clearly wanted to say a great many things but didn’t. He braced himself and opened the door to Room 418. And then he turned and ran, bolting down the corridor as the last of his courage evaporated. He didn’t look back once, and he didn’t wait for the elevator. He was in such a hurry to get away, he plunged straight through the door marked Stairs. JC and Melody looked at each other, then at the door standing open before them. JC reached carefully inside, felt around till he found the light-switch, and turned it on. Dull, flat light revealed an empty, quiet, and completely unremarkable hotel room.

  “I hate the sneaky ones,” said Melody. “Where they try to pretend nothing’s wrong . . .”

  “Let us run through the briefing before we venture in,” said JC.

  “You actually read the briefing file, for once?” said Melody. “I am seriously impressed. What brought that on?”

  “A long train journey down,” said JC. “And I’d already read this month’s FHM. I’ll hit the high lights, and you can chime in on anything you feel is significant.”

  “Because you don’t want to go into that room just yet,” said Melody.

  “Got it in one,” said JC. “Something in there is sharpening its teeth. I can feel it. Anyway, what we have here . . . is a room where bad things happen. And the bad things are getting worse. No ghosts as such. No poltergeists, no dark shapes walking through walls, no menacing figure standing at the foot of the bed smiling at the occupant . . . Not even a door opening on its own in the middle of the night, or a strange face looking back out of the mirror. None of the usual give-aways. Just a room that really messes up the people who stay in it. Not merely suicides though 418 has racked up far more than its fair share. We’re talking really nasty cases of self-harming, screams in the night, and people who had such bad dreams, they wouldn’t even wait till morning to check out. And a hell of a lot of heart attacks, strokes, and other less-easily-identifiable medical problems.”

  “Eighty-seven natural deaths in the past three years,” said Melody. “And over a hundred people who needed hospital treatment, for physical or mental distress.” She frowned. “That is so off the chart, I can’t believe no-one alerted us until now.”

  “The manager hushed it up for as long as he could,” said JC. “Happy, are you with us? Are you sensing anything?”

  The telepath gave him a vague, child-like smile. His gaze was far away.

  “He’s only half-awake, most of the time,” said Melody. “Though he has moments of lucidity. He’s only fully himself, and properly operational, when he’s taking his pills.”

  “And you keep on dosing him,” said JC. “Even though you know those things are killing him.”

  “Yes,” said Melody.

  JC shoved the door to Room 418 all the way open, slamming it back against the inside wall. The sudden sound was deafeningly loud, but it didn’t carry, and it didn’t echo. It was as though there was something wrong with sound itself inside Room 418. Happy’s head came up slowly, and he looked into the room.

  “Bad place,” he said in a perfectly normal voice. “Genius loci. There’s someone in there.”

  “I can’t see anyone,” said JC. “And I am looking really hard.”

  “It can see us,” said Happy.

  “What is it?” said Melody.

  But Happy’s moment had passed.

  “I have to look after him,” Melody said bitterly. “Like a carer, for someone with Alzheimer’s. He’s only thirty-two!”

  Even as she said that, she tugged absently at Happy’s clothes, smartening him up like a mother with a child. Happy didn’t seem to notice.

  “Be straight with me,” said JC. “How bad is he really? I need the truth, Mel.”

  “Only the pills make him the man I remember,” said Melody. “Pump enough chemicals into him, and he can still do his job.”

  “For how long?” said JC. “You must know that the Boss is pressing me to stand Happy down, replace him with another telepath. For the good of the team.”

  “Is that what you want?” Melody said sharply.

  “Of course it’s not what I want!” said JC. “But he’s damaged, now. Broken.”

  “Whose fault is that?” said Melody. “You were always pushing him to take the damned pills, to make him a better telepath.”

  “So he could do the job,” said JC.

  “You must have known what they were doing to him!”

  “Yes, I knew. So did Happy. He could have walked away from the team anytime. And maybe he should have. The way he looks now, it might be kinder if we did stand him down.”

  “No,” said Melody. “It wouldn’t. At least this way, he still has some purpose in his life. Something to keep him going.”

  “Is that the real reason?” said JC. “Or do you just want him to take his pills, so he can be the man you remember? The man you love?”

  “You bastard . . .”

  “I need the truth, Mel. Are the pills killing him?”

  “Yes,” said Melody. She suddenly sounded very tired. “He’s taken them for so long, his tolerance is . . . inhuman. Only the most powerful concoctions have any effect at all.”

  “What happens when the pills stop working?” JC asked.

  Melody didn’t have an answer for that. She made a meaningless gesture with one hand. “We were supposed to have a life together. I was so sure I could help him, fix him . . . This wasn’t the life I saw for us. I hate this! But the only way I could have my old life back, have my freedom back, would be to let them put Happy in a hospital, or an institution. So they could look after him, for whatever remains of his life. I can’t do that. Can’t just walk away . . . They wouldn’t understand what he’s done to himself, or why it was necessary. They wouldn’t know what pills to give him when he has one of his crying jags. Or an attack of the horrors from something only he can see. I swore I’d hold him while he was dying. I just didn’t know it would take so long.”

  “First thing you learn in this job,” said JC, “is that you can’t save everyone.”

  “Even when it matters?”

  “Especially then. All we can do is all we can do. Did you bring his pills?”

  “Of course,” said Melody.

  “Then give him some,” said JC. “Give him a whole bunch. Bring him back to us. Because he’s no use to anyone like this.”

  Melody nodded stiffly. She already had the silver pill box in her hand. She flipped open the lid, carefully selected three colour-coded pills, and popped them into Happy’s slack mouth one at time. Like a mother feeding sweets to a small child. Her mouth pursed in a tight moue of pain; but her hand was perfectly steady.

  Happy dry-swallowed with the ease of long practice. Beads of sweat popped out all over his face, he twitched several times like a dreaming dog . . . and then his eyes snapped back into focus with almost vicious force.

  “I feel great!” he said loudly. “Great! Where am I?” He looked at Melody and JC. “Oh yes. I remember. This is the haunted-hotel case, right? Even when I’m not here I’m still listening. Apparently. No, Mel, let it go. I’d rather just get to work.” He peered throug
h the open doorway, into Room 418. “That room is quite definitely inhabited.”

  “What’s in there?” said JC.

  “Not so much a what . . .” said Happy. “It feels more like a mood piece.” He looked around him disdainfully. “If you had to bring me back, did it have to be in such a dump? Next time, choose a really nice restaurant. You’re paying.”

  “Not back five minutes and already complaining,” said JC.

  He strode into the waiting room, rubbing his hands happily together in anticipation.

  Happy slouched in after him, shoulders hunched in anticipation of an ambush. Melody brought up the rear, sticking close to Happy, in case he might need her. JC took up a commanding position in the middle of the room and looked carefully at everything. The bedclothes appeared to have been changed recently; but there was a thin layer of dust over everything else. It would seem there was a limit to how long the manager was prepared to stay in the room. The single window was closed, curtains drawn back to reveal a frankly depressing view. And the light in the room was oddly flat, lifeless.

  The room had no character, no warmth, and nothing in the least threatening about it. Just an empty room where a great many people had stayed and left no trace of themselves behind. There wasn’t even a shadow worth the mentioning. But there was still something about the room . . . as though the Ghost Finders were only seeing, only being allowed to see, the mask on the face of the monster. JC pushed his sunglasses down his nose, and the golden glow in his eyes leapt out into the room, like a breath of fresh air in a killing ground. But he still couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  “So,” said JC, pushing his sunglasses back into place. “Not exactly welcoming; but not actually worrying, either. Hello, ghosts! Come out, come out, whatever you are!”

  Kim appeared out of nowhere, snapping into existence like a jump cut in a film. Tall and shapely, carelessly elegant, with a pretty face and masses of bright red hair, the ghost girl looked like a pre-Raphaelite angel. Because she wasn’t real any more, she could make her ectoplasm look like anything, so for now she wore a charming white pant suit, to complement JC’s outfit. None of the group jumped at her sudden arrival; they were used to Kim. She blew JC a kiss and smiled dazzlingly.