- Home
- Diandra Archer
Onyx Webb: Book Three Page 14
Onyx Webb: Book Three Read online
Page 14
And he wasn’t going to be rushed.
George’s problem at the moment was focusing the camera correctly, due to the dancing flames from the fire and his unfamiliarity with the new camera.
George knew he couldn’t wait any longer. “Okay, places everyone.” George placed his eye to the viewfinder and turned the focus knob.
“What the—?”
George lifted his head and looked out over the gravestones into the distance. Huh? Whatever it was he thought he’d seen was no longer visible.
It must have been an animal.
“Okay, places,” George said again, lowering his head and pressing his eye against the viewfinder and adjusting the focus until it was perfect. “And, action!”
The girl turned to the kid next to her and opened her mouth to deliver her line, but before she could, George spotted the figure again. Whatever it was, it was standing fifty yards away among the pine trees.
And it wasn’t an animal.
Then again, like before, it was gone.
George wasn’t sure what the camera had captured, but he knew what he’d just seen with his own two eyes.
It looked like a woman.
A woman he recognized.
The figure looked like the woman who used to live in the lighthouse out on the cove—the one who’d killed her husband in the fire and then went missing.
What was her name? That’s right, it was Onyx.
Onyx Webb.
Sixteen months in the woods had taught Onyx a great deal about the realities of being a ghost. The first was her acute sense of hearing, able to detect even the slightest noises up to a half-mile away. The same was true of her eyesight. She was able to make out minute details of something as small as a pine cone a mile away—even in total darkness—though everything she saw was in black and white. The only color she could make out was red.
Onyx’s ability to smell was another matter altogether. The only aromas she could detect were vanilla, burnt coffee, and smoke—once again, from distances as far as several miles away. She had virtually no sense of taste, although one time she convinced herself that she’d detected the taste of a freshly squeezed lemon, which was probably only her memory playing tricks on her.
But she had no need for a sense of taste since ghosts do not eat or drink—something she learned the hard way. During her first few days, she ate some wild berries and drank water from a stream—causing her to become as violently ill as she’d been when Ulrich was poisoning her.
And there were other things Onyx discovered after she died. She was completely unable to feel heat or cold, nor did she experience any kind of physical pain. This turned out to be a good thing since, when she’d left the hospital, she’d done so in her bare feet. Fortunately, she’d been wearing her hospital gown, providing at least some form of coverage.
The biggest shock came when she looked in the still water of a pond and saw her reflection. The burns on her face and arm were completely healed, without a trace of scarring or discoloration—leading Onyx to conclude that as long as she was able to acquire the energy she needed, she would remain perfect forever.
Except for the fact that she was dead.
Onyx also had no need for sleep. She never got sick. Her hair and fingernails did not grow. She could not form tears. She never blinked. She no longer had a pulse since she no longer possessed a beating heart.
But, despite all of that, Onyx looked like a normal, fully formed human.
If she had enough energy.
Onyx had a never-ending need for energy. Her survival depended on it. But the more she moved, the more energy she expended—placing her in an endless cycle of expending energy to find energy, only to expend more energy in the process.
One of the ways Onyx was able to determine her energy level was determining the degree to which she could see her own shadow, suggesting she had become more solid and less transparent.
Onyx had looked at her hands earlier that morning, in the sunlight, and could see right through them. She was in need of energy—which is how it came to pass that the dancing flames of the bonfire and the sound of the teenager’s voices drew her to the graveyard.
But then she heard the whirring of the film running through the small home camera.
Onyx had no idea whether her image would show up on film, but decided not to take the chance and immediately left the cemetery, vowing to avoid cemeteries in the future. Not only were cemeteries a place where people tended to look for ghosts, but searching for energy there was also useless. Other than squirrels and the occasional crow, there was no energy to be found there—everything in the cemetery was deader than she was.
And she was not about to kill the teenagers.
Over the past year, Onyx had developed a code—a code she vowed to never break, even if her survival depended on it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Desoto, Missouri
July 20, 2010
The electrical lighting technician on the set—known as the ELT for short—changed up the lighting so that the interior of the Open Arms Orphanage had the look and feel of a creepy piano lounge.
Nathaniel looked into the camera and waited for the green light to come on. “Welcome back, friends. It’s time to conduct the evocation of the spirits in an attempt to communicate with any remaining entities who may have passed in this sad place.”
Olympia leaned into the shot next to Nathaniel, even though she had no lines on the teleprompter. “As we said earlier, don’t try this at home, kids. Instead, do it in a creepy-ass place like this.”
Nathaniel reached out with his left hand and pushed Olympia aside, walking toward the camera. “The command we’ll be using to evoke the spirits tonight is ‘Oh, spirits who have passed, hear our plea. We call on you to present yourselves. Show yourselves. Make yourself known!’ Are you ready to summon the dead, Olympia?”
“I’ll say the words with you, Nathaniel, if that’s what you want,” Olympia said with a shrug. “But if tonight’s like most of our shows, we ain’t gonna be connecting with—”
Knock. Knock-knock-knock.
Olympia stopped mid-sentence and froze, as did the rest of the production crew.
“If there is someone who wishes to come through, do so now!” Nathaniel shouted. “Speak! Speak and tell us your name!”
Knock. Knock-knock.
“What the—?” Olympia managed to say before Nathaniel cut her off.
“It’s coming from down the hall,” Nathaniel yelled. “From the rectory, where we were earlier. Come with me!”
Nathaniel turned and headed down a dimly lit hallway, waving for the cameraman to follow him. Olympia trailed behind the two, having no idea exactly where Nathaniel was headed.
Nathaniel paused, listening.
Knock.
Knock-knock.
“If you are a spirit, are you among those who died in this place?” Nathaniel asked. “Do not be afraid. We come in peace and love. There is no reason to be afraid.”
A loud series of knocks started again.
“It’s coming from upstairs!” Nathaniel yelled, turning the corner and racing up the staircase toward the second floor of the building. “We hear you, spirit! We’re coming!”
Where in the hell was he going? Olympia wondered, pushing past the camera operator and up the stairs after Nathaniel. Jesus, there were no plans to shoot in the upstairs areas of the orphanage. Did the camera have enough cord?
The question was answered moments later when Olympia heard a loud crash from behind her. She turned just in time to see the cameraman tumble backward, head over heels in a series of backward somersaults down the stairs that would have made a Hollywood stunt-person jealous.
Olympia stopped and took two steps back down the stairs to see the cameraman lying in a heap of cable. Then she heard Nathaniel scream—a blood-curdling, ear-piercing howl of a scream.
“Nathaniel!” Olympia yelled. She turned and bolted back up the staircase as Nathaniel screamed for a second
time. “I’m coming, sugar!”
Olympia moved as fast as she could in the direction of Nathaniel’s screams, but the hallway was so dark she could barely see. If not for a bit of light sneaking through the windows from the production trucks outside, there would be no light at all.
“I hear you, Nathaniel,” Olympia called out. “I’m coming—”
The next thing Olympia knew, she was flying forward, her hands outstretched in the darkness and hitting the floor with a thud. Had she tripped on something? Or had something tripped her?
She wasn’t sure.
Olympia reached down, pulled off her high heels, and tossed them aside. What in the hell was she thinking, wearing a $1,200 pair of pointy-toed Jimmy Choo’s in a place like this, anyway? Who was she trying to impress, the dead?
Once again, Nathaniel’s screams brought Olympia back to the moment. “Nathaniel! Where are you?” she screamed.
“In here!”
Olympia jumped to her feet and could tell his voice was coming from just up the hallway on her left. She made her way down the hall and turned into what appeared to be an office and stopped dead in her tracks, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Cowering in the corner, his hands in front of his face as if defending himself from an invisible attacker, was Nathaniel.
“No! No more, please,” Nathaniel begged. “Please stop!”
Who was he talking to? There was no one there.
Nathaniel was alone.
Then, in the darkness, Olympia could see the stick, swinging back and forth in mid-air. It was more like a broken tree branch, striking Nathaniel again and again.
“Please stop!” Nathanial said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Olympia darted across the room and reached for the stick. Just as she did, the stick dropped to the floor. It was as if it had been suspended in the air by a string—a string someone had suddenly cut with an invisible pair of scissors.
Olympia kicked the stick out of the way and knelt down next to where Nathaniel had collapsed. “Nathaniel? It’s me, honey, Olympia. See?”
Nathaniel lifted his head and saw Olympia and began to weep uncontrollably. “It’s okay, sugar. It’s okay,” Olympia said.
Olympia wrapped her arm around Nathaniel’s shoulders, but when she did, felt she something wet.
Something warm and sticky.
Nathaniel was covered in blood.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Orlando, Florida
November 18, 1965
To make his land purchases, Declan Mulvaney would need a dummy corporation of his own. Fortunately, Declan didn’t need to secure anywhere near as many acres as Walt Disney, so a single fake identity would do. He chose Orlandoland—a play on the iconic Hollywoodland sign erected by the real estate enterprise that loomed over the Los Angeles basin in the 1920s and ‘30s.
Declan’s research showed that Disney had purchased large swaths of land for as little as eighty dollars per acre. Now, some parcels were going for as high as $500 an acre, depending on who owned the land and how badly they wanted to sell.
Mathematically, Declan figured that if he could secure 500 acres that Disney had to have, he’d be set for life. Eventually he was able to purchase 622 acres of land at an average price of $452 per acre, most of which were in an area just south of Bay Lake. Assuming Kenton Parker hadn’t lied, the acres Declan purchased were right in the middle of the park.
To move things along, Declan sent an anonymous letter to the Orlando Sentinel that fueled speculation that someone was buying big chunks of land in the area. Could it be Ford? Was it Hughes Aircraft? Or McDonnell-Douglas maybe?
Immediately after the article appeared, land prices began to climb. But when there was no big announcement by Disney, Declan decided to help move things along even further, sending a second letter suggesting the buyer was Walt Disney.
On October 21, a front-page article by Orlando Sentinel reporter Emily Bavar blew the lid off the story, causing land prices to skyrocket, reaching almost $80,000 an acre. Three weeks after that, Walt Disney held a joint press conference with Florida Governor Haydon Burns to unveil his plans.
When the smoke cleared, Declan had just over $24 million in his account. Not bad for less than two year’s work.
Chicago, Illinois...
A few minutes past midnight, Mary Ann Mungehr—the stripper now known as Vanilla—sat at the mirror in the dressing room putting on her makeup, brushing her hair, and getting dressed, just like she would any normal workday.
But this wasn’t any other workday. Far from it.
No day on the pole ever was.
Mary Ann applied her makeup three times heavier than she would otherwise. She brushed hair that was not her own, but rather a blonde wig she’d bought at a local five and dime.
Unlike most girls, Mary Ann wasn’t getting dressed for work—she was preparing to get undressed.
Mary Ann opened her purse and found a small container of vanilla body cream and opened it. She rubbed the cream on her hands, arms, and elbows, moving down finally to her legs. She thought the cream—something that had been part of her normal routine for years—would make her feel normal.
It didn’t.
Rocky Dredge ducked his head in the dressing room and said, “Vanilla, you’re up. And show some enthusiasm, huh? You’re getting stale. Go out there and pretend you’re making a martini and shake your stuff.”
Rocky left and Mary Ann pulled herself to her feet.
“He’s right,” one of the other dancers said. “First time I danced I felt like a deer in the headlights, kind of like you did when you started. But eventually I got used to it. Everyone does. You have to.”
Three minutes later, Mary Ann pulled the curtain open, the spotlight hitting her in the eyes and bathing her in a blinding glare of shame and self-loathing.
How had the choices of her life brought her to this—standing on a dirty stage in Chicago in front of a room full of leering men? All she’d ever wanted was to be a dancer…
Be careful what you wish for.
Mary Ann grabbed the pole and swung around, putting as much into it as she could, which wasn’t much. Then she swung around a second time, this time allowing herself to slide down the pole, the cold metal rubbing against her cream-colored lace panties.
Mary Ann felt nothing.
She was numb.
Mary Ann danced her way to the front edge of the stage and a guy in an auto mechanics uniform with greasy hands leaned forward and stuffed a wrinkled dollar bill beneath the garter belt every stripper wore specifically for that purpose.
The man sat back down, but not before grabbing a hand full of what everyone had come to see.
Mary Ann turned and began dancing her way back to the pole. But Mary Ann Mungehr—the young girl from Wisconsin with the infectious smile and big dreams—never got there.
All that remained now was Vanilla.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Crimson Cove, Oregon
June 8, 1939
“I’m telling you, Hell, we’ve got ourselves another dead body on our hands, and something’s got to be done about it,” the mayor said.
Sheriff Hell Daniels leaned back, put his boots up on the desk, and let out a sigh. He’d gotten used to the mayor’s monthly visits but still found them irritating.
“What in the hell am I supposed to do?” Hell asked.
“What do you mean, what are you supposed to do?” the mayor snapped. “You do what sheriffs do! You go out there, investigate, find the killer, and bring them to justice.”
“You’re assuming there’s been a murder, when hell—you know as well as I do—all we’ve got is a dead transient who stumbled over the cliff. Oh, and with enough alcohol in his blood system to pickle a fifty-five-gallon drum of cucumbers,” Hell said.
“See, there you go again, minimizing the situation,” the mayor said. “This isn’t about a dead body, Hell—a dead body I can deal with. This is about fourteen
dead bodies over a sixteen-month period. Crimson Cove is starting to look like a war zone.”
In that regard, the mayor had a point. Fourteen somewhat suspicious deaths in less than a year and a half—especially for a town the size of Crimson Cove—was way beyond the limits of coincidence. But in every case the coroner had determined the cause of death to be natural causes. What was he supposed to do? Arrest Mother Nature?
“What the hell, I’ll look into it,” Hell said.
“There’s something else,” the mayor said.
Oh, hell, what now.
“You know that kid who works at the theater? The one who’s always running around with a camera making those home movies of his?”
“You talking about George Dietz?” Hell asked. “Hell, he’s one creepy kid. What about him?”
“Well, seems he was out in the cemetery with some of his friends in the middle of the night a few weeks back, making some kind of horror movie, and…”
“And what?”
“People say George filmed a ghost walking through the cemetery,” the mayor said.
“Hell, this is a joke, right?”
“No, Sheriff,” the mayor said. “People who seen the film say it looks like the real thing. But there’s something else.”
Hell said nothing.
“They say the ghost looks a lot like Onyx Webb,” the mayor said. “So I was thinking maybe—”
Hell Daniels let go with a loud laugh. “Well, hell, don’t this beat all. First you want me to chase killers who don’t exist, and now you want me to start chasing ghosts?”