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As boring as my afternoon had been, I still took my time closing up. The extra weight of the mini-recorder in my purse was a reminder that I had an unpleasant task ahead of me.
But as much as I dallied, I was still back up in my apartment by ten minutes after five. Just as I was letting myself in, lightning flared, followed by a crack of thunder a few seconds later.
I hoped that wasn’t an omen.
Archie was nowhere to be found. Or rather, I didn’t bother to go in search of him, but figured he must be sleeping in the office, or maybe in the hallway on the thick wool runner he sometimes preferred to his bed, or even the rug in front of the washer/dryer unit in my tiny laundry room. His internal clock was impeccable, though, and so I knew he’d be out around six to start asking about his dinner.
I took my purse over to the dining room table and sat down, then plucked out the voice recorder and paused there for a moment, staring at it. My powers of psychometry — getting psychic impressions from objects — weren’t as strong as my powers of divination, but sometimes I could get flashes from things, and I figured I might as well give it a try.
Nothing pinged my inner eye. The recorder just felt like a block of metal and plastic.
Of course it couldn’t be that easy.
I blew out a breath. Just turn it on, I told myself. You can’t sit here all evening like an idiot.
Maybe not…but there was also no law about getting myself a glass of pinot grigio to fortify myself for the coming ordeal.
Glad of the chance to delay for a couple of minutes, I got up from my chair and went into the kitchen to get the bottle of wine out of the refrigerator. I’d opened it a few days earlier, so I figured it was probably a good thing to have another glass now before the wine got too oxidized.
Having rationalized my actions, I returned to the dining room table, glass of pinot grigio in hand. I took a sip and then another, and figured I was now duly strengthened for the task ahead.
I pressed the Play button. To my surprise, Brant’s voice came out of the tiny speaker…along with a cacophony of screeches and low, guttural moans. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, but I forced myself to listen intently, to focus on Brant’s words and not the tumult in the background.
He was speaking in a low murmur, probably so he could avoid disturbing my mother and Tom, who I knew had gone back to bed at that point. Because of that, it was hard to hear everything he was saying, although I jacked up the sound on the recorder a few notches.
“The phenomena partially follow the classic pattern, occurring between midnight and 3 a.m.,” he said. “However, there was also an incident around noon today, lasting for approximately ten minutes, and another around six. Not sure what to make of that. The manifestations appear to be mainly auditory, as you can hear in the background. If it’s confirmed that this is truly a demonic infestation, then I might need to call Neil to handle it. But I want to gather more data before I make that determination, especially since the phenomena — so far, at least — appear to be purely auditory.”
He sounded crisp and matter-of-fact, and not at all put off by the fact that it sounded as if a whole hellish chorus of demons had decided to descend on the stairwell and wail away.
And who was Neil? Did Brant know an exorcist, someone he kept on speed dial in case a particular situation got a little too out of hand?
I filed that question away to ask Sasha later if necessary.
“What on earth is that noise?”
Archie, standing at the edge of the apartment’s small dining area, his nose scrunched in disgust and his tail flicking wildly.
“Sorry,” I said as I hit the button to stop the playback. “It’s a recording from the night that researcher died investigating the demons at my parents’ house.”
“It’s dreadful,” Archie declared.
I couldn’t really argue with him on that one. Actually, it had been a relief to shut the darn thing off. “Well, demons aren’t exactly known for their melodious voices.”
The cat came closer to the dining table, then jumped up on one of the chairs. In the past, I’d told him to stay away from the furniture in there, since no one appreciates cat hair as a garnish to their meals, but right then, I was glad of the company. Listening to that recording had creeped me out even more than I’d thought it would.
“Why are you listening to it?” Archie asked, sounding genuinely curious.
I reached for my glass of pinot grigio and took a sip. Overhead, thunder crackled again, and in the next moment, rain began to pour down outside.
Looking at the deluge, I hoped my mother and Tom were safely back at the house by now. I didn’t want to think about them driving around in that. Then again, I wasn’t sure the word “safe” could be applied to a house infested with beings that could make the kind of noises I’d heard on the recording a moment earlier.
“I’m hoping there might be something on here that will tell me what really happened to Brant Thoreau,” I told Archie.
He cocked his furry gray head. “I thought you said he fell down the stairs.”
“He did. But was it an accident, or was he pushed?”
The cat didn’t seem to have an answer to that question, so he lifted a paw and began licking it vigorously. I sipped some more pinot grigio and then started playing the recording again.
