Island of the Forbidden (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Eddie gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling out of his chair when the house rattled.

He looked over to Jessica, who had managed to stay on her feet. “You okay?” he said.

“It sounded like something exploded,” she said.

Eddie felt the weight of the EBs' power as it pressed on his chest, squatted on his shoulders, and made moving his limbs feel as if he were wading through a tar pit. “It was the children. They're reacting to something, but I can't tell what it is.”

Jessica held up her open book, pointing at one of the pages. “It happened right when I saw Alexander Ormsby's name and this picture. He was the last of the line, the one that killed himself downstairs at the same time his children were murdered. Do you think this is him?” She held the picture up. Eddie took it, brining it up to the tip of his nose.

His eyes scrunched shut, and he said, “Yes, that's Alexander. The EBs confirmed it. You know who he looks like?”

“Tobe, right?”

“There's a definite resemblance. When you study the face, you can see the difference between the two, but at first glance, it's easy to confuse one for the other. If this is Alexander, he looks like he was a very serious man. I wouldn't want to cross him.” He patted the picture down on the table.

Eddie turned back to his oversized ledger, flipping through the pages, looking for any mention of an Ormsby. The leather of his book was older than Jessica's, the paper swollen and off-white. The moment he saw the name, he tried to shut his mind, close the barn doors so the EBs couldn't see, desperately trying to avoid another tremor.

“This one, I think, was written by Nathaniel Ormsby,” he said.

She reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Spreading the paper out before her, she ran her finger down the page.

“Nathaniel would be Alexander's father. I wonder if that other book is George Ormsby's. He was Nathaniel's father and son to Maxwell, the man who started it all. That's as far back as the list goes, but that's all I asked Swedey for. I would kill for an internet connection right now. A guy like him is what we need for historical research.”

The words stung, even though Eddie knew she hadn't meant them to. There was a time when history was readily available to him. All he had to do was reach out to the nether world of the dead and ask. It had been a while since he'd tried, having given up the ghost, so to speak, for the past couple of years. But he was feeling better now, more in control. He'd even managed to shut the EBs out just now so he and Jessica could explore without their violent reactions.

The spark of an idea lit up his mind.

Jessica suddenly said, “Eddie, I don't feel so good.”

He sprang from his chair just as her legs went out from under her. Diving, he managed to prevent her head from bashing the floor. She didn't lose consciousness, but her flesh went pale as milk and cold to the touch, bathed in a sheen of sweat.

“I should get you downstairs. It's too hot up here.”

She shook her head. “No, I'm fine. I like the heat. It just feels like I lost every ounce of my strength for a second.” He helped her to her feet. “Whatever it was is gone now. Probably just hungry.”

“You sure?”

She shooed him away. “Yes. Come on, we're getting close. I need to find names and help these kids find peace before the ghost squad down there makes things worse.”

The tea towel filled with ice felt soothing against Tobe's jaw. He'd never been punched before, not even when he was a young, anxious boy. Paul stood across the room from him, avoiding his gaze.

Daphne called down to ask what had happened. Tobe lied, telling her they had upturned the massive dining room table to move it away. She remained upstairs with Jason and Alice, which was just what he wanted. Having them underfoot would only add to the disaster.

Turning to Nina, he said, “Seeing as Paul is out, will you be able to continue?”

She adjusted her scarves, prepping herself. “That won't be a problem. I can feel them all around us, watching, waiting. I don't think it will take much to get undeniable proof of life after death for the cameras.”

“Don't we already have enough?” Paul asked, his shoulders slumped, voice defeated.

Nina said, “You don't understand, Paul. We're right in the middle of the most important paranormal experience of all time. We can not only show the world that the paranormal exists, but that it may, in fact, be the
normal
.”

“And make a lot of money to boot,” Rusty said sarcastically.

Mitch sat at the head of the table, glowering at his fellow cameraman. Rusty looked up and caught his angry stare. “Look, Mitch, I said I'm sorry. I got carried away. We're all on edge here.”

“Which is why we should stop,” Paul said.

“Which is why we need to press on,” Mitch grumbled. Tobe nodded in agreement. “Tobe, I need you to hit the lights. Nina, do whatever it is that you do to get these things to react. Rusty, you can do whatever the hell you want at this point. I'm through with being your boss.”

Rusty's chair scraped against the hardwood floor. “Have fun.”

He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and left the house, slamming the front door.

Tobe reached across the table, enfolding Nina's hands in his. “We need you to put everything you have into this. If you feel you've gone too far, go one step further. Let's show the world that ghosts do exist.”

A flat smile played upon her face as she awkwardly pulled her hands away. She draped a black lace scarf around her neck. “Just be prepared.”

The more Jessica read from Alexander Ormsby's journal, if that's what she could call it, the tighter the knot became in her stomach. So much of it was gobbledy-gook, either written in a sort of homemade code, some in short hand, with medical terminology thrown about for good measure. Alexander was hiding something. People only hid things that were bad, unless they were Christmas presents. There were no presents hiding within the pages of this book.

“What the hell were you up to?” she said aloud.

“What?” Eddie asked.

She walked across the attic and looked over his shoulder. “Yours is no better.”

“I think we're going to need a code forensics specialist to decipher this stuff. The Ormsby men were busy at something they didn't want the world to know about.”

He turned a page. Jessica jabbed her finger in the center of the scrawls.

“Hold on. Look at this list.”

Sub 0507 > F > hrng imp

Sub 1112 > F > bld

Sub 0802 > M > men fac

Sub 1001 > F > NA

“Those have to be people,” she said. “Male and female, right?”

“I'm assuming you're right at this point.”

“Let me get the last one,” she said, striding to the hidden bookcase (again, more secrets being hidden away). The last volume was thicker than the others and markedly older. Her fingers became entwined with thick cobwebs that had been sewn around the tome.

As she gently opened the cover, the old leather sounded as if it was about to break. The first page told her more than the hundred she'd perused in Alexander's book.

Practices and Philosphy : Maxwell Ormsby (1886—1900)

Further Explorations and Evaluations : George Ormsby (1901—1925)

“Eddie, come over here,” she said, pin-wheeling her arm.

“Any luck?”

“Yep. And look at this, actual English!”

He angled the book to read. She flicked his hand away when he tried to turn the page. “Finders keepers,” she said. The pages were the color of coffee stains, but the ink was still legible. She assumed the author of the early parts of the book was Maxwell Ormsby, the wealthy man who'd bought the island and erected the mansion. It started with what seemed a simple journal entry.

“My initial invitation to the esteemed Sir Francis Galton for a weekend of intellectual conversation and the finest dining to be found in the entire state turned into the most enlightening and fascinating two weeks of a very long life. As his cousin, Charles, has ripped the curtain from our eyes on mankind's past, so has Sir Francis cured this blind man of the potentialities of the future. What a mind! Days and nights passed us by as if they were only mere minutes. So engrossed was I that I noticed neither the passage of the sun or moon—my only insight into the time of day being the composition of the meals as they were served to us. He has an engagement in New York that will keep him occupied for the next several months, but he has agreed to return to the island before heading abroad. There are many things we need to discuss.”

The name Sir Francis Galton set off fireworks and clanging bells. Jessica's hand flew to her mouth. If she had any doubt, the next entry settled it.

She read on, cool beads of sweat trickling down the back of her neck, hardly daring to breathe as the black heart of Ormsby Island came closer and closer into focus.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Something compelled Tobe to check in on Daphne and the children. He wondered why he hadn't thought to do so earlier, but it was a distant niggling question whose voice was barely heard over the blaring noise of discovery and the promise of a new dawn for their fortunes. The moment he saw Daphne, chin cupped in her hand, looking down on Alice, he regretted following that voice.

She'd made it clear she wanted no part of what they were trying to accomplish. That was fine, he and Paul could handle things from here.

So why was he so angry with her? The dull throb of his jaw told him that maybe he was mad at her for what her brother did to him.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him. “Is it over?” she asked, her voice low so as to not wake up Jason and Alice.

Her voice, the weak-willed hope that he would call a stop to the project, made him want to lash out, to make her feel as small as she appeared in his eyes.

“Why would it be over?” he said. “I just wanted to see that the children were all right.”

When her hand pulled away from her face, he could see the crimson imprint of one of his fingers on her cheek. She'd obviously tried to hide it, but not well enough.

Daphne opened her mouth to speak, but he turned his back to her. He shut the bedroom door, went down to the library, took the key from the bookshelf and went back upstairs to lock the door. He heard her run to the door when the lock tumbled into place. “Tobe, what are you doing?”

The doorknob turned back and forth, back and forth.

“You can't lock us in here. Unlock the door.”

The wood crackled as she put her weight against it.

His hand hovered by the lock, his knuckles white from squeezing the key.

Daphne continued imploring him to open the door, not daring to make a scene and alarm the children.

Disgusted, Tobe slipped the key back in his pocket. Downstairs, Nina was preparing to take the reins while Mitch checked his gear.

Tobe wasn't sure why he had locked Daphne and the children inside.

To keep them safe from you.

The voice, his own, came unbidden and unwelcome.

He tasted bile as he considered the veracity of his own subconscious. He was not a violent man. He loved his children, even though he had adopted the
seen and not heard
philosophy of his parents and their parents. It was a natural offshoot of not just his own upbringing, but most people who matured in their particular circle of financial and social circumstance. Polite, authoritarian distance did not mean he loved his family any less than a man who insisted on perfunctory hugs and kisses every time he entered a room.

So why had he hit Daphne? And why did just the sight of her make him tremble with rage? And why was a part of him grateful Alice and Jason were not awake to look at him, to ask him questions, to engage him in conversation?

Mitch tapped him on the shoulder. “We're ready to start. Just stay behind me.”

Tobe shivered within his black, insulated trench coat, pushing the unpleasant thoughts as deep into his mind's well as he could.

A thick halo of smoke hung over Rusty as he took another deep drag on his third cigarette. He couldn't remember the last time he'd chain smoked, but he was pretty sure this occasion merited the indulgence. It was appreciably warmer outside, as if the frigid air that had permeated the island was drawing to its core, which was the mansion itself.

“I must have been out of my fucking mind,” he muttered, pulling leaves off a nearby bush. He looked back at the dark house. Mitch had flipped all the lights off so he could film in night vision. One light remained on, in one of the upstairs windows.

There was no way he was going back in that house. Especially not with Nina about to go full bore and rile up the ghosts.

If anything, at least this trip has me believing in ghosts,
he thought. Of that there was no longer any doubt. Ormsby House wasn't a manmade haunted attraction. It was the real deal, and one he wanted nothing to do with. If they finished the project and sold it to a production company, he didn't want a penny. Tainted money was worse than no money at all.

He still couldn't believe he'd hit Mitch. They'd been friends for a long time. He couldn't remember ever having a verbal disagreement before, much less a fistfight.

It's this place. Whatever darkness came to the island, it's here to stay. Stick around long enough and it gets inside your skin, into your cells, like an infection.

Wings fluttered furiously overhead. High-pitched chirps broke the night's silence.

Bats. He wished he'd at least left with his Dodgers cap.

Eyeing the scrub-choked path to the dock, he figured no bats could swoop down on him while he walked to the boat. If he was lucky, it would get warmer the further he went from the house. Maybe he could even sleep on the boat without freezing to death.

He dropped the cigarette, grinding it with his sneaker. Yes, the boat was a far better place to spend his last night. Maybe the waves would rock him to sleep, help him shut down his troubled thoughts.

The path was pitch black. The assistive light on his cell phone was a godsend. At least the phone was good for something out here in the middle of nowhere. He watched his every step, knowing that if he got hurt, help wasn't a simple phone call away.

Head down, he navigated the treacherous path. The harbor's tide lapped the shore in the distance. He thought he could hear the boat clanking against the dock.

“Hope there's room in the inn,” he said, moving faster now that he was closer to the boat.

His foot snagged on a thin root embedded in the soft earth. As he stumbled, he looked up, the light flashing into the treetops.

The pale, ghostly vision of a dozen children, dull, vacant eyes not just looking at him but
into
him, clogged the dark passage.

Rusty's heart rattled in his chest. The only way to the boat was through them. He stepped to the right, contemplating diving into the thorny brush to find a way around them. Twelve heads turned to the right.

He moved to the left, and once again they followed his motion.

Just run through them.
They were ghosts, dammit. They had no form. The only power they had over him was his own fear. Some of them were so small—poor, frail children. He should pity them, not cower in terror.

“I'm really sorry for what happened to you,” he said, holding his hands out in a sort of surrender. “And I apologize for what's gone on back there. If it's any consolation, I quit. I won't bother you any more.”

Feeling that someone was at his back, he quickly turned around. The path was deserted. When he turned back, the ghost children were closer.

He could see the boat bobbing alongside the dock through their bodies.

“Screw this.”

Gulping a huge breath, he put his head down and ran. He thought,
what will it feel like to pass through them?

Instead, his body slammed into something hard and unyielding. He tumbled onto his back. He tried to scream as they gathered around him but his lungs and throat clamped shut as fast and sure as a sprung bear trap.

Mitch and Tobe, who now were operating smaller, handheld cameras, followed Nina up the stairs. Paul had elected to stay in the kitchen, nursing a scotch and presumably, his pride. Quitters never prosper.

It was Mitch's idea to add motion to the next scene. Nina thought they should finish in Alexander Ormsby's bedroom, the same room where his body had been found decades ago, his secrets dying with him.

As she slowly ascended the stairs, she spoke steadily to the spirits that lived in the house. She could feel them as easily as if a living person were standing beside her. For a moment like this, she wished she could interact with the dead as powerfully and easily as Eddie could.

“Come children, I want you to stay close to me. Follow me. I know you're curious. Don't be afraid.”

The stairs creaked as the trio went up one step at a time. Tobe caught himself from falling backwards when his foot thumped into the landing.

“Which room is it?” she asked.

Tobe pointed behind her. “The master bedroom,” he said.

She wondered if he'd told his wife they were sleeping in the room of a suicide all this time.

The room had a bed, two dressers and a faux Louis XV upholstered chair. She pointed at the chair. “Is this where he was found?”

“Yes. He hadn't been dead for long when the police found him. It was assumed he had committed suicide after the atrocity,” Tobe said off-camera.

“I don't believe it was Alexander who murdered his own children,” she said. “The children know this as well. They want the world to know it was not their father.”

Nina thought she saw a shadow pass over Tobe. It was hard to tell in the dark. The temperature in the room dipped. Growing plumes of frost crept across the windowpanes, filtering the moon's meager light.

“Gather round your father, children. He's here. I can feel him. I can almost hear him. He's trapped on another plane, which is why you can't see him. I'll be your bridge. Come, come say hello to your father.”

She knew damn well she couldn't bridge the spirits to one another, but it would play out quite well on film.

The curtains billowed outward even though there was no breeze.

Perfect,
Nina thought.
A little family reunion is just what we need.

“Yes, we can see you. Don't be afraid. Show yourselves.” Her ears popped as if she were on a descending plane.

They were so close. She could feel something big about to happen.

She said, “Your father loves you.”

Mitch shouted, startled, as the camera was ripped from his hand. It skidded across the floor, smashing to pieces against the wall. “Jesus, something's burning me,” he said, grabbing at his jacket, trying to unzip it with trembling hands.

The chair jerked away from her. It toppled over with a violent crash. Nina jumped back to avoid having her feet crushed.

“Did you get that?” she asked Tobe. He nodded quickly, like a nervous bird. Mitch had his jacket off and was trying to pull his shirt off.

“Nina, you have to see this.” Tobe waved her over, motioning for her to look into the display screen on the camera.

In night vision, the multitude of long, jagged scratches on Mitch's body gleamed a sharp gray. They covered his entire torso. Nina reached out to touch one. Mitch hissed. The scratch gave off a resonant heat.

“What the hell?” he implored, grabbing the camera so he could see for himself. “Tell them to stay away from me!”

The bed leapt forward half a foot, the heavy oak legs stomping the floor. Mitch nearly dropped their remaining camera.

She heard someone running up the stairs. “What's happening up there?” Paul yelled.

Nina fumbled for the lamp beside the bed. Playtime was over. They needed light to see what was coming next. The bulb exploded when she pulled the lamp's chain.

She jumped when the door slammed shut, one of the dressers shifting over and coming to rest before it. Mitch wailed as more scratches arose on his flesh. Tobe dropped the camera and tried to push the dresser aside.

Outside, Paul screamed, followed by Daphne. Frantic footsteps clattered overhead.

Stop. Stop. Stop! It's too much! Please, just stop!

Nina's head swam. She backed into a corner, wishing with every ounce of strength she had for the spirit children to go away. Maybe Alexander
had
killed his children. And maybe, this was a reunion never meant to happen.