No Humans Involved
Page 51
I turned Jeremy. "I think we'd better find our own way out. Fast."
"Agreed but"
He looked around. I followed his gaze. A single room, with no adjoining doors or halls.
I turned to the ghost. "There's a way out, isn't there?"
He smiled.
"There is," I said to Jeremy. "Probably hidden behind these boxes and crates."
"You're not going to find it," the ghost said in a singsong voice. "It's very well hidden. And locked. Better just give up now."
Jeremy strode to the wall and waved me over. "You go that way. Stay along the wall. If you need any boxes moved, just whisper."
I nodded and we went in opposite directions.
Boxes and crates of various sizes were all around the perimeter, some stacked to the ceiling. I strapped my shoes together and draped them over my arm, then started moving along the wall, searching for any kind of door.
"Nice ass," the ghost said as he followed behind me. "Not too big, not too firm. You like to use it, don't you? Put that extra wiggle in your walk, teasing all the boys."
I reached the first stack of boxes. The gap behind it was big enough to slide through, so I did.
"You know what that says to me?" the ghost continued. "It says 'I'm just dying for you to throw me over a table, hike up my skirt and-'"
He kept talking. I stopped listening.
I reached a four-foot crate pushed against the wall. I grabbed the sides. It wouldn't budge.
"Jeremy?"
He was at my side before I could whisper again. One heft and the box was moved.
"Is that how you like them, hon?" the ghost said as we looked behind the box. "Strong men? Dominant men? Alpha males?"
I sputtered a laugh at the last. The ghost glared, this obviously not being the desired response. Jeremy glanced over and arched a brow.
"Just the ghost," I said as I moved along the wall.
"Is he bothering you?"
"Nah, just some old pervert waiting for the sex show."
The ghost's lips curled. "If I was alive, I'd teach you some manners. First I'd-"
"I'm sure there are lots of things you'd do to me if you were alive, but seeing as how you're not, I guess you're stuck with an eternity of watching and" I made a jerk-off gesture.
Jeremy chuckled. The ghost started spitting threats and insults. I tuned him out and kept feeling along the wall.
"I've got it," I said as Jeremy pulled out a light stack of boxes for me. "You go on back."
Jeremy's head shot up, his gaze flying to the ladder. A laugh rang down it. He grabbed my arm and looked around.
"Now you're in for it, bitch," the ghost chortled. "A real prisoner. They'll like that."
I swungthe flashlight beam around and stopped on a mountain of crates to our left.
HANGMAN
THE CRATES HERE STACKED three or four layers deep. Jeremy moved the front one just enough to squeeze through the gap, and waved for me to follow. He kept going, shifting stacks and sidestepping through. At the final row, he stopped and motioned for me to turn off the flashlight. I did just as he lifted a top box and stacked it on another.
Darkness fell. Feet clanked down the ladder. The swoosh of another moving box. A hand slid around my waist and guided me in farther.
The lights went on, and I saw that he'd cleared all but one box from a stack against the wall. A cubby seat. The crate was too small for us to sit side by side, so he gestured for me to turn and back onto his lap.
"You think that's going to save you?" the ghost sneered, his head sticking out from a crate. "They can still see you."
I was about to pull back farther, then took a better look. The path Jeremy had carved for us was zigzagged, meaning we couldn't see the main room from here and no one in the main room could see us.
"Liar," I mouthed.
The ghost stalked off, probably hoping to alert the cult. Good luck with that.
The group filed in, chatting about their kids' baseball tourna-ments, layoffs at work, trouble with a broken dishwasher. I counted at least six distinct voices.
Scrapes and thuds followed, as if they were setting up something, probably an altar. They kept talking, the man with the appliance problem now soliciting advice on whether it was more cost-effective to hire a repairman or just replace the unit.
I wriggled back onto Jeremy's lap. He readjusted his hold on me, arms going around my stomach, as if reassuring me I was safe.
"They can't see us," he whispered.
His breath tickled the back of my ear and I shivered, thoughts of discovery vanishing as I became very aware of his body against my back. I shifted again, squirming in his lap, and felt him harden beneath me. I went still and concentrated on what was happening on the other side of the room instead. Wasn't easy, but after a moment, I made out the slap and hiss of matches being struck.
A faint smell of smoke, then the pungent scent of musky incense. The clink of thin metal. The glug of liquid. I pictured hammered chalices being filled with blood-red wine. In the background, one woman told the horror story of a recent appliance repair encounter-paying more to fix a ten-year-old stove than she'd have spent on a new one.
The low rumble of authority. Botnick. The voices faded, shuffles and clinks taking over as they arranged themselves, probably in some ritual circle.
Botnick intoned something in a foreign language-presumably an invocation to Asmodai. I'd spent enough time in spiritualism to know how these pseudo rituals worked, and Botnick seemed to have it down.
"Agreed but"
He looked around. I followed his gaze. A single room, with no adjoining doors or halls.
I turned to the ghost. "There's a way out, isn't there?"
He smiled.
"There is," I said to Jeremy. "Probably hidden behind these boxes and crates."
"You're not going to find it," the ghost said in a singsong voice. "It's very well hidden. And locked. Better just give up now."
Jeremy strode to the wall and waved me over. "You go that way. Stay along the wall. If you need any boxes moved, just whisper."
I nodded and we went in opposite directions.
Boxes and crates of various sizes were all around the perimeter, some stacked to the ceiling. I strapped my shoes together and draped them over my arm, then started moving along the wall, searching for any kind of door.
"Nice ass," the ghost said as he followed behind me. "Not too big, not too firm. You like to use it, don't you? Put that extra wiggle in your walk, teasing all the boys."
I reached the first stack of boxes. The gap behind it was big enough to slide through, so I did.
"You know what that says to me?" the ghost continued. "It says 'I'm just dying for you to throw me over a table, hike up my skirt and-'"
He kept talking. I stopped listening.
I reached a four-foot crate pushed against the wall. I grabbed the sides. It wouldn't budge.
"Jeremy?"
He was at my side before I could whisper again. One heft and the box was moved.
"Is that how you like them, hon?" the ghost said as we looked behind the box. "Strong men? Dominant men? Alpha males?"
I sputtered a laugh at the last. The ghost glared, this obviously not being the desired response. Jeremy glanced over and arched a brow.
"Just the ghost," I said as I moved along the wall.
"Is he bothering you?"
"Nah, just some old pervert waiting for the sex show."
The ghost's lips curled. "If I was alive, I'd teach you some manners. First I'd-"
"I'm sure there are lots of things you'd do to me if you were alive, but seeing as how you're not, I guess you're stuck with an eternity of watching and" I made a jerk-off gesture.
Jeremy chuckled. The ghost started spitting threats and insults. I tuned him out and kept feeling along the wall.
"I've got it," I said as Jeremy pulled out a light stack of boxes for me. "You go on back."
Jeremy's head shot up, his gaze flying to the ladder. A laugh rang down it. He grabbed my arm and looked around.
"Now you're in for it, bitch," the ghost chortled. "A real prisoner. They'll like that."
I swungthe flashlight beam around and stopped on a mountain of crates to our left.
HANGMAN
THE CRATES HERE STACKED three or four layers deep. Jeremy moved the front one just enough to squeeze through the gap, and waved for me to follow. He kept going, shifting stacks and sidestepping through. At the final row, he stopped and motioned for me to turn off the flashlight. I did just as he lifted a top box and stacked it on another.
Darkness fell. Feet clanked down the ladder. The swoosh of another moving box. A hand slid around my waist and guided me in farther.
The lights went on, and I saw that he'd cleared all but one box from a stack against the wall. A cubby seat. The crate was too small for us to sit side by side, so he gestured for me to turn and back onto his lap.
"You think that's going to save you?" the ghost sneered, his head sticking out from a crate. "They can still see you."
I was about to pull back farther, then took a better look. The path Jeremy had carved for us was zigzagged, meaning we couldn't see the main room from here and no one in the main room could see us.
"Liar," I mouthed.
The ghost stalked off, probably hoping to alert the cult. Good luck with that.
The group filed in, chatting about their kids' baseball tourna-ments, layoffs at work, trouble with a broken dishwasher. I counted at least six distinct voices.
Scrapes and thuds followed, as if they were setting up something, probably an altar. They kept talking, the man with the appliance problem now soliciting advice on whether it was more cost-effective to hire a repairman or just replace the unit.
I wriggled back onto Jeremy's lap. He readjusted his hold on me, arms going around my stomach, as if reassuring me I was safe.
"They can't see us," he whispered.
His breath tickled the back of my ear and I shivered, thoughts of discovery vanishing as I became very aware of his body against my back. I shifted again, squirming in his lap, and felt him harden beneath me. I went still and concentrated on what was happening on the other side of the room instead. Wasn't easy, but after a moment, I made out the slap and hiss of matches being struck.
A faint smell of smoke, then the pungent scent of musky incense. The clink of thin metal. The glug of liquid. I pictured hammered chalices being filled with blood-red wine. In the background, one woman told the horror story of a recent appliance repair encounter-paying more to fix a ten-year-old stove than she'd have spent on a new one.
The low rumble of authority. Botnick. The voices faded, shuffles and clinks taking over as they arranged themselves, probably in some ritual circle.
Botnick intoned something in a foreign language-presumably an invocation to Asmodai. I'd spent enough time in spiritualism to know how these pseudo rituals worked, and Botnick seemed to have it down.
