Chapter 53: Liberation
I woke up to find my Saint Medallion humming and vibrating, as I heard horrible loud crunching sounds coming from somewhere above and to the left of my head. I leapt from the bed and hurried to the doorway before stopping and turning to see what was invading my room this time. It turned out to be one of my worst fears realized.
Black slime ran from a large stain on the wall, and I knew, immediately, what it meant. For the moment, I couldn't react. I just stood and watched as a pair of white hands appeared just inside the edges of the black spot and then a face, as the same exact bald, white-skinned ghost from my nightmares slowly made its way through the wall.
I grabbed my gun, and aimed with a shaking hand. I had seen plenty of ghosts and this was one of the weaker ones, but having one in my goddamn bedroom was another thing entirely. Not to mention that it gave me flashbacks of the recurring nightmare. It may not have been a premonition in the literal sense, but that didn't mean that I was immune from suffering a similar fate.
I stopped when the ghost was in up to its armpits as I realized that it wasn't advancing any further—it writhed around and tried to push itself the rest of the way through, its head convulsing, but it was stuck. For whatever reason, it couldn't get through all the way ... yet.
I lowered my gun and realized that a candle would be a better weapon in this case.
I went back to the living room and retrieved a Holy Candle from the chest and the matches from the coffee table. On the way back, I was surprised to see that there was another memo from Joseph. I figured he had told me everything he knew, but apparently there was something left. But it would have to wait until I had disposed of the latest apparition.
Back in the bedroom, I sighed apprehensively. I knew that with the Saint Medallion around my neck, the ghost couldn't hurt me, but the idea of getting so close to it still gave me the creeps.
I slowly approached the thing and placed the candle on the floor directly below it and lit it with a match. Fortunately, the creature was so intent on trying to get in that it didn't appear to notice that I might have been within swatting distance.
It was interesting, and almost amusing, seeing the ghost being pulled back into the wall against its will. It clawed at the wall, trying to find something to hold onto, but to no avail. Once it was back in the wall, the black spot shrank and vanished, leaving no trace that it was ever there.
Chalk another one up for Henry.
As anxious as I was to use my newly acquired pickaxe, I thought it best to read the note first, in case there was more that I'd need to know before using it.
I picked up the red note, and I faltered as I glanced over it and realized that it was a complete list of the victims ... or rather, it would have been complete if it wasn't stained so badly that I couldn't make it all out:
No. 1...Ten heart...
No. 2...Ten...
No. 3...Ten hearts...
No. 4...Ten hearts Steve Garl...
That was Steve Garland, the pet shop owner. Interesting that he was only the fourth victim—I would have expected the earlier murders to have been a bit more tame.
No. 5...Ten...
No. 6...Ten heart...
No. 7...Ten hearts Billy Locane
No. 8...Ten hearts Miriam Locane
The Locane twins—the murders that eventually got him locked up … for all the good it did.
No. 9...Ten hearts...
No. 10...Ten...
No. 11...Assumption Walter Sullivan
He had killed himself so he could be the eleventh victim. Once that was out of the way, he had the power to create his alternate world.
No. 12...Void...
No. 13...Darkness...
No. 14...Gloom...
No. 15...Despair Joseph Schreiber
Joseph ... had he really written this himself and somehow knew about the victims that were coming after number fourteen, including himself? Or maybe he somehow wrote this after the fact.
No. 16...Temptation Cynthia Velasquez
Cynthia. I sighed at this one, realizing that I hadn't known her last name until now. But at least now I did know—it held some importance, as far as I was concerned.
No. 17...Source Jasper Gein
No. 18...Watchfulness Andrew DeSalvo
No. 19...Chaos Richard Braintree
Seeing this reminded me that I hadn't pinned his ghost—as much as the thought troubled me, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd be seeing it again.
No. 20...Mother Eileen Galvin
Not if I could help it.
No. 21...Wisdom Henry Townshend - August 7
I shook my head. Seeing my own name among a list of mostly dead people was beyond disturbing—almost as if I was condemned already. I shivered and tossed the list aside, deciding that there was no point in keeping it around.
Suddenly, I was startled out of my thoughts by a series of loud banging noises, as if something had fallen off of a shelf somewhere and tumbled on its way down. It came from the laundry room, so I went to check it out.
On the floor was a cardboard box that I was pretty sure I'd never seen before. It had been filled with papers, but most of them had landed in the pool of blood that had spewed from the dryer earlier and were now soaked to the point of being illegible.
But one was readable. Unlike the other notes from Joseph, this one was written in red letters on white paper:
He used this place as the locus for the creation of his world. I'm certain he must have performed the "Ritual of the Holy Assumption" near here. But I'm not strong enough to stop him anymore. He locked me up in this room and played with me just like a toy.
I could certainly relate to that. It never felt like he was trying to kill me purely out of some sense of duty—sure, he wasn't just a thrill killer, there was a reason why he did what he did. But there was no doubt about the fact that the bastard enjoyed messing with my head and wearing me down slowly.
My eyes are starting to go blind … The pain … I can feel my body starting to die … But … things are taken care of. Whoever lives here after me, You'll be the 21st, the last of the sacrifices … I leave it up to you.
When the bell tolls, the ritual begins.
Eileen (equals) mother's body, blood.
Part of the mother's flesh (equals) super's room.
This is all I've been able to figure out. I hope this letter gets to you in time. - Joseph Schreiber
Joseph's words weighed heavily on me. But, somehow, I knew this would be the last communication from him, so I lowered my head and gave him a moment of silence—it just seemed appropriate, somehow.
"Thanks for all the guidance, Joseph," I muttered. "I will put a stop to all this, somehow. I can't change any of what he did, but maybe I can … fix it. When all this is over, and his plans are destroyed … maybe he'll lose his hold over all of you and you will be able to finally rest in peace."
With that, I went back to the bedroom to retrieve the pickaxe (as I had left it on the bed) then I stood in the hall, facing the wall between the bedroom and bathroom. I procrastinated a bit, wondering what could be beyond that wall. I was glad to have gotten the pickaxe, at first, but now I worried about what I might find back there.
I'm certain he must have performed the "Ritual of the Holy Assumption" near here.
I held the pickaxe. Even at arm's length, it was pretty heavy, especially with how much of a beating my left arm had taken over the course of this nightmare. I lifted it over my right shoulder, pulled it back, the way I normally did with the axe whenever I used it as a weapon, then I grunted with effort and pain as I moved forward, swinging it in an upward arc until it connected with the wall and smashed a hole in it that was a little lower than my head. It had broken a lot easier than I'd expected. I looked through the hole, but I couldn't see much, aside from the opposite wall and some shelves to the left.
The hole wasn't big enough for me to fit through, so I repeated the motion, directly below the first hole, and it chipped away enough of the wall that the hole was roughly oblong-shaped, and went nearly to the floor.
It wasn't as big as it could have been, but I could fit through it if I ducked and stepped over the bit of wall at the bottom, so it was good enough. I lay the pickaxe against the corner, kicked the chunks of drywall out of the way, and waited a moment for the dust to settle.
Once I felt I was as ready as I'd ever be, I stepped through the hole. As I did, my nose was immediately assaulted by the worst stench I'd ever experienced—a combination of very old dust, mold, and … something rotten. It was so strong that it made my eyes water and nearly gave me a headache. "Oh … oh, Jesus!" I muttered as I covered my nose and mouth.
I instinctively backed away, and as I did, I held onto the flimsy metal shelving that was next to the hole I'd made in the wall. As I did, a big empty plastic bottle fell to the floor and separated from its cap as it landed. I watched the cap roll across the floor, past what looked like a perfectly round depression in the old wooden floor that was filled with black liquid.
My line of vision moved upwards, and what I saw gave me such a blow, I nearly could have passed out from the site of it—all the other horrible sights I'd seen were supernatural, put there to scare me and mess with my head. But this … this was real.
Standing in the puddle was a massive cross. On the arms of the cross, large feathers and other decorative objects were attached.
At the middle of the cross was the physical body of Walter Sullivan.
When I saw this, my psyche nearly collapsed in on itself. My jaw dropped in horror. I tried to scream, but almost no sound came out, save for a series of gasps and whimpers. I backed up until my back was against the opposite wall. I suddenly felt sick and I crossed my arms over my stomach as if afraid that my intestines would spill onto the floor. The dead body of Walter Sullivan had been in this hidden room—only a single wall separating it from where I slept, for god's sake—the entire time I'd lived there and long before that. It didn't seem possible, and yet I was seeing it with my own eyes.
How it got there, I didn't know, and would never quite figure out—he had killed himself in his prison cell, after all. I doubted he had an accomplice. Had his own ghost moved it, somehow?
Once I recomposed myself, I slowly moved closer to get a better look—I certainly didn't want to, but I knew it was necessary.
The body wasn't exactly crucified, it looked more as if it were tied, or possibly sewn to the cross with some kind of cord, as the cord appeared to be going through at least his coat. The right arm was tied into a bent position, the left hung limp. His eyes were open and appeared to be looking upward. The mouth was slack and part of the upper and lower lip was missing on one side, exposing the teeth. A patch of skin was missing on the forehead, exposing the skull. But other than that, it was pretty well preserved. His hair was much longer, straighter, and more blonde then on the version of Walter I had seen, reaching to about the middle of the torso—I remembered reading somewhere that your hair continues to grow after you die, so I supposed that was the case here, not to mention that it had probably lost its color and strength over time. The shoulder-length hair on the other version probably looking the way it did while he was alive. His legs dangled over the strange black puddle, and on his right foot was carved 11/ while on the left was 21.
Behind and to the right of the body was a smallish refrigerator with an open door, containing bags of blood and things like that. The light from the refrigerator, that somehow didn't burn out in all those years, shone directly on the body, casting stark highlights and ominous shadows, making the scene look even more grisly and disturbing.
Being in the same room with that body made me feel uneasy, as if it was watching me, or could come alive at any moment, but I needed to see what else was in the room, so I searched it, occasionally shooting a glance over my shoulder at the corpse, just to make sure it hadn't moved.
There was a metal table—the sort of table you'd see in an operating room—against the wall, adjacent to the cross, and on it was a large saw-like knife. It appeared to be a tool, as opposed to a weapon, but it still made me feel uneasy, and I didn't dare touch it.
The table on the wall opposite the body and cross was covered with a white tablecloth and contained several stone bowls, a mortar and pestle (with some kind of residue in it, which I also wouldn't touch), a bottle filled with white oil, along with candles and what looked to be the cult's bible.
I looked to the left and saw that on the shelves between the table and the hole I'd made in the wall were many bottles of various medicines.
So many things in the room—he was so damn thorough. I just couldn't believe all of it had been there the entire time without my knowing about it.
I had been standing closer to the body than I thought, and as I turned back around. I brushed against it, giving myself a start. I gasped, covered my mouth and stared at it for a moment as if waiting for it to move. Then I noticed a bulge in the left pocket of his long blue coat—something metallic and shiny.
I took a deep breath, and wondered if I really had the nerve to reach in and find out what it was. And then, suddenly, I had an idea of what it could be.
No way, it can't be.
But there was only one way to find out.
I sighed and slowly reached toward the pocket, my hand shaking. Every once in awhile, my eyes would dart toward the face, once again as if he might come back to life—I even moved slowly as if I might disturb him somehow and wake him up. I grabbed what was in the pocket, and once I brought it out and saw it, I became so fixated on it, I practically forgot about the body. I brought it closer to my face and had to look at it more closely, as if I couldn't believe what it was.
Keys.
Again, I thought, it can't be.
But what else could they be for?
Almost as if in a trance, I took the keys straight out of the room, down the hall and to the door. I had spent five days trying to get those goddamn locks off—the idea that I actually had the means to do it in the simplest way seemed surreal, nearly ridiculous.
I inserted a key into the padlock that it looked like it'd most likely fit in—it slid in easily, and with a turn, the lock popped open. The chain slipped out of it and slid to the floor with a series of soft thumps as it hit the carpet.
I gasped, feeling a sense of triumph, before opening three more padlocks, and whatever chains didn't fall off by themselves, I removed.
I wasted no time grabbing the knob and turning it.
