Chapter 9

John Gage sprinted up the staircase, left hand planted firmly on the rough wall and his right hand clutching the trauma box. He found himself purposely scraping his palm against the unfinished surface of the blocks just to make sure everything was real. Even as he conquered the stairs at that rapid pace, however, Mr. LeRue was only a half-step behind him. He reluctantly lifted his hand away from the momentary reality check of the concrete and shook the abused limb before slapping it down on the metal bar of the door. It swung obediently outward, instantly enveloping him in a wave of warm, fragranced air.

He held the door open for the owner and felt a wave of unwarranted and very unprofessional irritation wash over him. He was panting slightly from the rapid flight upwards, yet the creepy old guy hadn't even broken out into a sweat. In fact, he was breathing quite normally, thank you very much. He was still hovering over his shoulder; apparently the man didn't know the meaning of personal space. At least he had removed his talon like fingers from his shoulder, although he swore he could still feel them. Resisting a very strong urge to plant a palm on Mr. LeRue's chest and shove him backwards, Gage instead moved forward at a pace he considered reasonable. He ignored the faint whisper of sound that told him he was still being followed, stalked, or whatever it was the funeral home owner seemed to be so good at.

Johnny headed straight for the doors, hoping those grim faced statues that were flanking them hadn't chained the doors closed or blocked them with their gigantic wings. He was only a few feet into his attempt at escaping, however, when a thunking sound from the room that housed the lovely coffins on display caused him to pause. He reluctantly swung his head and his attention in that direction. A flash of uniform blue in the far corner told him that at least one of their guys was in there and he entered. He slowed his long legged stride as he took in the scene, feeling a flash of absurd giddiness as Mr. LeRue finally demagnetized himself from his back and circled around the room in the opposite direction.

There were six coffins in the spacious room, each resting on a silk covered platform. All of them had their lids propped open except for the last one in the meticulously spaced rows. Behind that one was where John got a glimpse of Chet's curly head bending down as he cut down the wide aisle between two of the lavishly appointed boxes; he wondered curiously if they even made the things out of wood anymore. His mind wandered briefly to the western the men had viewed last week at the station; a row of the oddly shaped, hastily constructed boxes lined up and waiting for their occupants as the gun battle had ensued on the main street of the town.

He rounded around the corner of the last coffin and let out a yelp of surprise as he stumbled over Marco, who was crouching on the cushy carpet and peering up at the edge of the burnished tones of the deep burgundy coffin. Both men went down in a sprawling heap of legs and arms; the trauma box flew from Johnny's hand and settled crookedly on its lid several feet away. Chet somehow got caught up in the melee and ended up on the floor alongside of them, his head out of sight under the yards of fussy, velvety fabric that shrouded the stands.

"For Pete's sake, Gage!" Kelly exclaimed, worming his way feet first out of the claustrophobic space. "Watch your big feet!"

"Right…like mine are bigger than yours," Johnny muttered, rising to his elbows and trying to draw out his legs out from underneath Lopez.

Marco grinned sheepishly and clambered awkwardly to his feet, reaching out automatically to steady himself on a solid surface; his fingers touched the coffin and he snatched his hand back.

"Whoops," he said softly. He glanced towards Mr. LeRue, who was regarding all of them with arched eyebrows over his oval shaped eyes, his mouth stretched in a facsimile of a smile. Marco couldn't help the faint shiver of his whole body as his eyes kept straying back to the man's face; his fingers involuntarily went up to the tiny cross around his neck and touched it. The owner's face reminded him of the masks he and his cousins had made for the Day of the Dead holiday several years ago, pale almost translucent skin stretched tight over prominent cheekbones and jaw, huge black eyes that seemed to be staring right through him, and those thin, greyish lips…..

A furious draft of frigid air whistled past him and the senior lineman pivoted, the man and masks forgotten, as he clutched at the chain that seemed to be tightening around his neck. He felt the fragile links break under his frantic pull as the swirling draft seemed to pause in its single minded journey and eddy darkly about him. For the briefest moment, Lopez felt the tantalizing lure of something evil, touching, caressing, stroking his skin with promising fingers….before it swooped away. He jerked his head to follow the billowing whirlwind, which to his amazement appeared to be growing visible – a mass of impossibly gathering air growing blacker by the moment and sucking the molecules from the room.

He started violently when something else brushed against his foot; he forced himself to look downwards and knew a moment of relief when he saw that it was Gage bending over, picking up the paramedic tools that had apparently fallen out of the pouch on his belt. Johnny stood up, flashing Marco a rueful grin, and raised a hand partway as if to say something. He froze; the astonished look flicking across his face was replaced by horror as he was propelled backwards by the ominous grey black whoosh and slammed into the incongruous, soothing color of the wall.

The next few seconds felt like time was suspended; all that remained in the display room were the two men and the menacing shadow of darkness. All sound had been leached from the space and the air was thick, distorted, and barely breathable, as if they had been transported underwater. Lopez watched, unable to move, as Gage remained flattened against the wall and the dark cloud hovered ominously in front of the wide eyed paramedic. The boiling, seething mass had no discernible shape, but seemed to be sinuously coiling itself into something recognizable. The mass swelled in size, taking on the vague shape of a human and reaching out two thick, rolling lengths that resembled arms…Johnny flung up his own arms and uttered an inhuman cry.

The piercing noise shattered the wrathful, vile bubble they were trapped in. The lineman blinked twice, drew in a choking breath, and swallowed hard to relieve the pressure building in his ears. He jumped when a hand came down on his arm and stared incredulously at John, who was regarding him quizzically and appeared perfectly fine. Marco quickly shrugged off the hand with a quiver of revulsion and chanced a fast glance around him. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary; in fact Mr. LeRue was extending a hand towards Chet to help him off the floor as if the last horrifying fifteen seconds had not occurred. Surely he hadn't imagined that vile spirit, that ghost, that blob of black, horrifying air?

He turned his head back towards Gage, who was still next to him. The younger man had crossed his arms and was blatantly staring at him, his eyes slitted to a mere line and his whole pose suggesting annoyance and impatience. He jerked his head towards the row of coffins, breaking the unnerving, piercing glare of accusation.

"What's going on here?" Johnny demanded, his voice oddly pitched and sarcasm curled up in it like a cat on a cushion.

Marco raised his eyebrows questioningly but lowered his eyes from Gage when the gesture was ignored. Apprehension swam in his stomach to the point where he thought he was going to be physically sick; something was definitely wrong here and it felt like the tendrils of evil were either emanating from the uncharacteristically rude and unprofessional paramedic, or were slithering towards him from the owner of the mortuary. As if the hallucination he had experienced only moments before had poured itself into…

Shuddering, Lopez forced his bounding emotions down and gazed at his hand; he had completely forgotten what he still had clutched there in a white knuckled grip. He opened his fist and gazed unflinchingly at the broken chain and cross draped across his palm. A tiny sound escaped him as he realized he had not conjured up the scene that had just played out; maybe nobody else had been witness to the evil that had threatened and stalked them, but he was absolutely sure of it.

Dismissing his silent crewmate for a moment, Marco remembered his thoughts as he had viewed Mr. LeRue up close for the first time. He turned with a jerk and reluctantly peered towards the other two men in the room. He missed the sly smile and the green eyed lance of amusement directed towards his sweat soaked back by John Gage.

Chet Kelly and Mr. LeRue looked back at him. Chet seemed to be out of character himself, for the usually talkative man was mute. Marco waved an apologetic hand as he stepped forward and pointed at the coffin, realizing he was going to have to explain what had brought the two linemen into this room.

"Ummm, I'm really sorry about that, Sir. We heard a thumping sound coming from over here; it sounds like someone is stuck in this, uh, coffin, but we can't get it opened..."

"Gantry," Mr. LeRue snarled, his lips drawing farther and revealing his yellowed teeth.

He leapt forward with one hand outstretched and the other raised high in the air. Marco hastily jumped back, eyes widening at the sudden and threatening movement. Even while his body was responding with a surge of adrenaline, his brain, which was now ploughing through the fields of death and mayhem, made an absurd leap; he felt like a stalk of wheat waiting for the reaper to mow him under. Only this was the Grim Reaper in skeleton form and wearing a black suit, scythe in hand….

Marco's audible gulp of relief was covered up by the sound of Mr. LeRue slapping the lifted hand upon the polished surface of the coffin. He pushed firmly down and used his other hand to fumble for and release a hidden latch. He drew back his hands and stepped backwards, raising his arms as dramatically as a magician levitating a body from a table. Three pairs of unblinking eyes followed the lid in morbid fascination as it began an incredibly, horrifying slow rise….

~TBC~