Cammie’s ankle was broken, so Madeline stopped in daily to check on her and bring her favorite candy bar and a cup of coffee. She wasn’t sure what her friend was more disappointed about—the broken bone or the fact that all of the film and recording they’d done at the mansion was mysteriously fuzzed out. None of the pictures were good, and the bleeding walls video was just white noise and static. The proof they’d hoped to get was all gone, nothing except their own steadily less reliable memories to even prove any of it ever happened to begin with.
In the case of Madeline, the dreams were almost the worst part. The strange man haunted her dreams—she’d never even asked his name, not that hallucinations usually had names, but still. In the dreams, he’d beg her to forgive him. She’d wake up nearly every morning tangled in her sheets, frustrated and aching for a man who couldn’t possibly exist.
Or could he? More and more, she wanted to go back. To find him.
After almost two weeks of torturing herself by thinking of him all day and dreaming of him each night, she finally decided to go back to the mansion. If nothing else, it would satisfy her imagination. Surely, he wouldn’t appear again and she could lay to rest the temptation of a magical man who knew her and she recognized. Who she couldn’t resist and who claimed she was his soulmate.
Which was dumb, she told herself as she plodded up the steps to the ruined building. Why on earth her imagination even came up with the idea of a monster—a demon—who had a soul mate was beyond her. Upon entering, she realized the house was in even worse disarray than when they’d visited. She chose daytime for her foray, yet the place was no less creepy with light to show each dusty and mildewed crack and crevice. A few walls, which she would’ve sworn were stable the last time she’d visited, were beginning to cave in on themselves.
And the ghosts? She didn’t bother to pull out her phone or a camera since she suspected the evidence would be as failed as it had been on their previous visit. But she could see them, practically a tornado of restless spirits churning in upon themselves as if cut loose from their tethers.
In the upstairs, the room with the bleeding walls practically vibrated with speedy breaths and a virtual flood of crimson dribbled down the now invisible faded wallpaper. “What the hell is going on here?” she asked no one in particular, not expecting any real answer.
But from another room, she could hear a noise that sounded like static. Following it, she found a lump of old rags that seemed to form a makeshift bed. Above it was a small, no bigger than ten inches or so, television with rabbit ears. The small portable device wasn’t plugged into any walls and she could see the cord on the floor next to the set. That didn’t rule out batteries—her skeptic mind attempted—but she’d seen too much at this point to not assume some kind of paranormal interference.
When the fuzz started to speak, she jolted, but she wasn’t afraid, not exactly. Instead, she felt oddly at ease. As if she’d seen more—and worse—and this only confirmed something she thought she knew, or vaguely remembered.
Still, it took her a second to translate the static into understandable words. “You asked what is going on here, yet you’re still standing there while I’m trying to give you answers.” The voice sounded annoyed, as if she were really frustrating it somehow.
“Uh, yeah. So what is going on here? And who, or what, are you?” She was talking to a tv. She’d officially gone looney; it was the only reasonable explanation.
Then again, if she was looking for things to be reasonable, probably she wouldn’t be in a so-called haunted house hoping to find a mysterious spirit she’d made out with… repeatedly.
“Tamerlane is gone, if you’re looking for him. I’m not terribly important. Second rate serial killer in life, bored spirit in death, on holiday from hell after a special dispensation from the Big Bad,” the voice answered before laughing in a crackly static kind of way.
“Big Bad?” she asked, as if this were the most important part of the nonsense the television voice shared with her.
“Big Bad. The devil, honey. Do try to keep up. Demons are so daft sometimes.” Again, the voice sounded annoyed.
“I’m not a demon,” she answered. The devil? Was that who the mystery guy meant when he’d said the same thing?
The voice didn’t answer, but then again, she hadn’t exactly asked a question.
“Who is Tamerlane?” she asked.
“Oh, honey, no wonder you got punished. You’re even slower than the rest of them. The guy you were practically humping the last time you were here. Tamerlane, demon in charge of keeping us lost souls tied to this place. That’s why all the chaos… the souls are free to do whatever they want, but like a bird in a tree, they’re scared to go elsewhere and piss off Big Bad.” The static voice chuckled. “Not that it would be our fault, with Tamerlane running off to hell when he’s supposed to be the one in charge around here.”
“Where did he go?” she asked. “Tamerlane, I mean.”