Page 25 of Rattling Bone (OutFoxing the Paranormal #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Snow roared up around them in a whirlwind. Oscar lunged, grabbed his dad’s arm, trying to haul him away from the ghost.

Why hadn’t he seen it? Agnes had offered to spare him so long as he removed all Corbetts from her land. Oscar knew she’d considered Mamaw a Corbett, knew it, but he’d assumed she’d be satisfied with the ghosts.

But of course she hadn’t been, not when there was still someone other than Oscar who had Corbett blood in his veins, standing right there in front of her.

Then Tina was there, salt canister in one hand. She poured a constant stream out, throwing palmful after palmful in Agnes’s direction.

It worked. Salt caught the ghost straight in the face, tearing a thousand tiny holes in the shimmering ectoplasm that had begun to form a body. Her scream seemed to pierce straight into Oscar’s brain—then fell silent. The snow began to drift back down to the ground.

“You did it!” Chris exclaimed, and flung an arm around Tina, pulling her into a hug.

“I was watching over the cameras.” She hugged them back, then turned to Oscar. “I’m glad you guys were close enough for me to help.”

“Me too,” Oscar said fervently. “Thanks, Tina, you saved our bacon.”

“Is the ghost gone?” Dad asked shakily.

“No.” He could sense her watching, waiting. “Let’s get into the tent, pour a salt circle around ourselves, and wait out the rest of the night. Hopefully tomorrow it’ll be safe to try and walk out.”

“It’s past midnight,” Nigel said shakily. “She’s operating outside of her twenty-five year time frame.”

“I know.” Oscar ran a hand over his face. They’d been so close, damn it.

Unless she’d never really intended to let him leave. Maybe she’d lied, or had some other trick planned; they’d never know now.

“Chris and I will look for her bones as soon as it’s light,” Nigel said, starting toward the tent. “You and Scott will stay safely in the salt circle, along with Tina.”

“That’s what you were looking for when I found you, right?” Dad asked. “Up on the hill near that big old tree?”

“The cloven oak,” Oscar confirmed. “Ivan named the distillery after it…” He trailed off, a horrible thought suddenly occurring to him. “That’s where he put her body.”

Nigel’s lips parted in surprise, and he slowly swung around to face the hillside. “If there’s a hollow formed where the trunk originally split, you could put a body down in it and no one would ever know.”

“Yes,” said the spirit box, causing them all to jump. Then: “Too late for you.”

The lights in the tent began to dim.

Tina’s head snapped around, eyes going wide behind the lenses of her glasses. “Is the generator dying?”

The light dimmed, then brightened—then went out, leaving them with only the glow of the flashlights and the intermittent moon. But the generator was still running, still sounded normal.

“Oh no.” Nigel took a step back. “She’s feeding off the electricity!”

The wind began to swirl around them, and Oscar’s ears popped as the barometric pressure dropped. The cold intensified, until it hurt to breathe in the icy air. The tent flapped wildly, the snow on top of it whipping off in streams in the breeze.

Swirling. Forming a figure.

“The spring!” Nigel shouted. “The water will give some protection! I’ll get her bones!”

“It’s too dangerous—” Oscar began, but Nigel was already running for the bridge over the creek.

“You’re the ones she’s after!” he yelled back over his shoulder. “Stay alive until I get back. I love you!”

Then the gale rising around them swallowed him up, and he was gone.

* * *

Nigel’s chest ached, from a combination of the frosty air and unaccustomed exertion, by the time he reached the little bridge. The snow dragged at his feet, slowing him to a stumbling walk, and he swore at it.

The sound of heavy breathing came from behind him, and he spun, heart hammering somehow even harder. Chris flung up their hand as Nigel’s flashlight beam caught them in the eyes, and Nigel hastily lowered it. “What are you doing?”

“I thought…you might…need help,” Chris panted. “Fuck this…snow.”

“We can’t rest,” Nigel said, though he wanted nothing more than to sit down and catch his breath. Oscar’s life—and Scott’s of course—hung on his ability to get to the tree, find the bones, and get back before the ghost slaughtered them. Possibly Tina’s, too; Agnes had never shown any hostility toward those not of the Corbett blood before, but he had the feeling all bets were off now.

“I know,” Chris said. “Let’s go.”

The clouds had closed back up, and a light snow began to fall again. Breath puffing into steam, Nigel swung his flashlight back and forth, searching the dark slope for the great oak.

There: it stood apart from the lesser, younger trees, a sprawling monster black against the snow. Tortured limbs sagged beneath their burden of snow, and the size of it inspired awe even in these circumstances. How long had it stood here, how many centuries had passed since some accident—a lightning strike, perhaps—had split the trunk into three?

A human lifetime was just a blink to it, utterly insignificant, and even the century and a half since Agnes’s bones had come to rest in it was only a chapter of its existence.

Nigel struggled up the slope to the tree. Boulders jutted out, the bones of the mountain breaking through dirt skin, and he gripped them as his feet threatened to slide out from under him in the snow.

Finally, he was at the base of the tree. The wind picked up, scattering snow, and the eerie groan of laden branches rubbing together filled the air. Somewhere farther up the mountain, a limb broke under its burden, the crack like a gunshot in the silence.

The cleft in the oak was too high for Nigel to reach. He tried jumping, then turned to Chris. “Can you reach inside?”

Chris was taller, but even a jump wasn’t enough for them to reach either. They shook their head. “I’m going to have to boost you up. Or you can climb on my back—that might be better.”

Nigel wasn’t certain…but they didn’t have time for a better plan. “Okay.”

Chris went to their hands and knees, like a stepping stool, the top of their head pressed against the bark. “Put your feet on my shoulders.”

Nigel knocked his boot against the trunk, shaking off as much snow as possible, then gingerly stepped onto Chris’s shoulder. They grunted, but said, “I’m good; keep going.”

Nigel stepped fully onto Chris’s shoulders; neither of them were steady, but he could put his hand against the trunk to help. The cavity was in reach now; he stretched as high as he could and thrust his hand between the split of the three trunks.

His fingers met snow; pushing it aside, he encountered last fall’s dead leaves. “I’m going to need to get up into the tree,” he called down.

“Hold on.” Chris became even more wobbly beneath him; then their hands closed on his ankles. With a grunt, they got their knees up under them, shoving Nigel higher.

There was no hope of looping an arm around one of the enormous trunks emerging from the split, but he managed to get enough purchase to haul himself onto the nearest one. Scattering snow everywhere, he threw a leg awkwardly across, then maneuvered into a half-sitting position.

The cleft in the tree had been filled in with year after year of fallen leaves, pollen, and dust. He dug into it with both hands, quickly uncovering a layer of rich, damp earth created by the decay. Gritting his teeth, he kept digging through the loose soil, tossing it aside so it lay black against the white snow. She had to be here; he couldn’t be on the wrong track, Oscar’s life might depend on it…

His fingers encountered something hard. He dug more frantically, hooking his fingers in and trying to drag it free.

A moment later, it came loose. Tannins from the rotting oak leaves had stained it a rich brown, but what leered up at him was unmistakably a human skull.

* * *

Snow stung Oscar’s face, and he grabbed onto his dad’s arm, dragging him along as he ran.

All around them, the old buildings creaked and groaned as the wind of Agnes’s fury rose. “Go to the powerhouse,” he called to Tina. “The place is solid, and it’s us she wants!”

Tina didn’t argue, peeling off and racing in the direction of the powerhouse. Oscar risked a glance over his shoulder. In the midst of the howling wind and swirling snow, he glimpsed the figure of a woman, her burning eyes fixed on him with a look of deepest hatred.

“How far?” Dad gasped, already out of breath.

“Not far,” Oscar lied. “Just run!”

As they passed the most deteriorated of the buildings, the buffeting wind caught the ancient, rotting timbers. The nearest structure let out a tortured howl, nails tearing free of wood—and began to come down.

Oscar jerked his dad hard to one side; vicious nails protruding from a board came within inches of impaling him. Snow billowed around them, and a roof tile hit Oscar hard on the shoulder.

“This is crazy!” Dad yelled.

Oscar didn’t have the breath to agree. He put his head down and plowed ahead, imagining white light pouring down on them both. He didn’t know if Dad carried any of the gift, or if it had skipped a generation, and there was no time to find out now.

The huge metal grain silo groaned threateningly, but stood against the storm. Branches broke from the lashing trees, pelting against their backs. Snow lifted from the ground, forming a huge whirlwind, until Oscar was no longer sure he was running in the right direction.

Finally the spring house loomed out of the darkness in front of them. Relief swamped Oscar as he stumbled to the door and wrenched it open. Dad ran through, and Oscar followed, slamming the door behind them.

With the sound of the wind blocked out, the calming silence of the springhouse enveloped them. Dad leaned against the wall, staring at the pool of water. “Are we safe now?”

“Not yet.” Oscar dropped his backpack and dug out the salt. “I’m going to put a line of salt across the door, then—”

An unseen force slammed into the door. On instinct, Oscar dropped the salt and braced his shoulder against the wood to keep it shut.

He realized his mistake a second later, when the door smashed inward, the old planks coming apart before Agnes’s rage. He staggered back, foot connecting with the salt canister and sending it flying into the shadows.

Agnes stood before him, the cold fire of the dead burning in the sockets where her eyes had once been. After feasting on the generator’s electricity, she was more solid than he’d ever seen her—and more terrifying. Slick skin clung to her bones, and her hair hung in wet strings. Her simple homespun dress was ragged and soaked through, dripping water onto the concrete floor.

“Wait!” he cried, holding up his hands. “You can find peace! You don’t have to—”

A blast of force slammed into him, hurling him away from her. His back connected with the metal railing around the spring, and for a moment he thought it would hold.

But a combination of the blow and his weight proved too much for the rusting iron and crumbling concrete. There came a loud snap —then he was falling backward, and the icy water of the spring closed over his head.