Page 56 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes
At the door, she hesitates a moment, hand on the knob, before looking back at me. “I’m going to the chippy round the corner to get some dinner. You want anything?”
I’m not really hungry and had planned on eating with Danny later, but I can’t deny I feel bad for her. “Sure.” I give an easy smile. “That would be lovely.”
“You want fish with your chips?”
“Just chips would be great. With salt and vinegar, please.”
She nods toward the beaded curtain behind the counter. “Come and find me when you’re done. I’ll be in the back.”
“I will,” I promise. She gives me and Dusty one last look, then pulls up her hood and steps out into the rain.
“Guess she’s human after all.” Dusty clucks her tongue and stares at the closed door. “Who’d have thought?”
“She’s lonely,” I murmur, knowing that pain all too well. Before Danny, Dusty, and the others burst into my life, I’d been all alone. Other than Jacob Marley and the odd work’s do or seeing my dad at the home, I’d had no one. I didn’t want to admit it at the time, but I had been painfully lonely. It was why I’d spent so much time immersed in films and TV shows. While I was keeping my mind entertained, I didn’t have time to think about what was missing from my life.
I’m beginning to suspect it’s the same for Viv. Before, she’d probably convinced herself her life was just fine, but going from that to having a building constantly full of company, even if they were dead, probably filled a void she didn’t want to acknowledge had been there. Now she was back where she started and realising for the first time that she probably didn’t want to be alone.
Making a mental note to check in with her more regularly until I figure out how to bring the spirits back, I turn to Dusty, who sighs loudly. “You’re going to make me check up on Viv, aren’t you?”
“Not just you. I will too, but until we figure out what’s going on here, what can it hurt?”
“Oh, trust me, when she’s three-quarters of the way through a bottle of gin and smoked half a bag of skunk, it will hurt very much.”
“Dusty.” I send her a pleading look.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “We’ll keep an eye on the old scam artist before she can start ripping off half of Whitechapel again.”
“Thank you.” I smile at her, and she huffs in amusement.
“You’re too sweet for your own good, boo. Now, let’s go check up on Bruce.”
We turn and head in the direction of the stockroom at the back. “Where do you think the spirits have gone?” I frown as I glance across to Dusty.
“Haven’t a clue.” Dusty shakes her head. “But Evangeline was so attached to this place, I can’t imagine what would have made her leave.”
“Or keep her from coming back,” I add.
“You said that thing on the other side of the doorway is able to influence things on this side, didn’t you?”
“It’s a theory,” I reply. “I can’t say for certain. Why? Do you think that’s the reason the ghosts aren’t here? That it somehow drove them away?”
“Who knows.” Dusty shrugs. “We’re all just guessing right now.”
We enter the stockroom and cross to the bare wall, but this time I don’t need to hold on to Dusty’s hand; it’s almost as if it knows me and allows me entrance. I don’t want to think too deeply about that at the moment because, honestly, I just don’t think I have the brain capacity for it.
There’s a strange trickling-waterfall effect as I step through and emerge into the vast room, but otherwise it’s so silent it sends a shiver of unease skittering down my spine, leaving me feeling cold.
It’s even worse than last time. The shadows seem deeper, the air seems colder and heavier, and as the tiny hairs on my arms rise, the whole atmosphere in the room makes my skin crawl.
“Bruce,” Dusty whispers in shock.
I follow her gaze to the dais where the huge stone archway sits. Beside it is the same big deep armchair and footstool Bruce’s cousin had conjured from god knows where. But Bruce’s cousin and her two little dogs are nowhere to be found. Instead, there is a blanket-covered lump curled into the chair, a tuft of dark curly hair peeking out at the top.
Dusty hurries across the room and climbs up onto the dais, not stopping until she reaches the armchair.
“Bruce?” She kneels down next to the chair and I hover behind her. “Bruce, honey?”
Slowly the blanket lowers and Bruce’s face appears. I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips. He looks sick, like really sick. His usually vibrant golden skin is grey, and there are dark purple shadows beneath his eyes. Lips that tend to be plush and pink are now pale with an almost bluish cast to them, and even though he technically has no lungs to breathe, a fine mist escapes when he opens his mouth to exhale.