Seaforth Prison (The Haunted Book 3) Read online

  “You gonna tell me what really happened in the basement, Rob? With Dr. Mansfield?” Shelly asked softly. “If you want to keep this—”

  She hesitated, then swatted at his arm, forcing him out of his own head.

  “Hey, you listening to me?”

  Robert looked over at her, and was surprised that there was sadness on her round face.

  “If you want to keep this”—she gestured to their naked bodies—“going, you are gonna have to tell me what really happened to you. Cal’s right, I don’t do well with secrets, Rob.”

  Robert took a good long look at Shelly. It wasn’t just the sex, although that was undeniably great; it was something else, too. There was just something about her, something about this foul-mouthed blonde with an attitude that he couldn’t get enough of.

  He liked her, he realized, maybe even loved.

  Strangely, this time the characteristic pang of guilt that he usually felt never came. Robert sighed, and then started to talk.

  “It happened in the basement, Shelly. And it happened again in the Seventh Ward…”

  ***

  When he was done, Robert lowered his eyes again, content with staring at the floor by his bare feet. The story, all of the story up to what Sean had said about Leland being his father, came out in a rush. He had played this moment, the moment he shared what he knew with someone, over in his head dozens of times, and all of these times he thought it would be difficult to speak about how he felt, about his guilt, about the strangeness of the Marrow. But the reality was that it wasn’t hard at all.

  It helped that Shelly just listened wide-eyed the entire time.

  For a full minute, neither of them said anything. They just sat there on the corner of the bed, naked, breathing deeply. Then Shelly brought a hand up and laid it gently on his shoulder. He turned to her, staring at her large eyes.

  Even though it had been easier than expected to share his story, he would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried about how she would take it.

  “Well, that’s pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”

  Shelly smirked when she said this, and Robert laughed—a tense, high-pitched sound.

  “Yep, pretty fucked up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell—”

  She put her finger to his lips, shushing him.

  “I get it,” she said quietly. There was another pause, and she looked off to one side. “You ever wonder what it all means, Robert? And do you think it’s an accident that you—we—got involved?”

  Robert mulled this over for a second.

  “I don’t know. Part of me wants to think that it was all an accident—and it was, really. After all, it started with—” His breath hitched, but he forced through it. “—Wendy and Amy dying in the car accident. But Sean came to see me…he gave me the letter. That was no accident.”

  Shelly nodded.

  “So what are we going to do? Keep on keeping on? Doing the same thing, each and every day?”

  The question confused Robert, and he turned to face her.

  “What do you mean?”

  Shelly reached over and picked up the camera.

  “Look, what happened here in the estate and in the Seventh Ward was fucked up—no one gets that as much as I do. But I’ve been doing more research, and the dweeb Allan Knox? I think he might be onto something. There is more chatter on the net, about seeing more quiddity than ever before.” She paused and chewed her lip. “I don’t know if it fucking means anything, but something…I dunno, something tells me that there is something important going on here. Something that we are a part of whether we want to be or not.”

  Robert suddenly lay down on the bed and brought his arms up and put the backs of his hands on his forehead.

  He took a deep breath.

  “What if I don’t want to be involved? What if all I want to do is live a normal life? What if I want to forget all about these quiddity and the Marrow and all this other bullshit?”

  He closed his eyes, but then opened them again when Shelly flopped down beside him.

  “You know what, Robert? I didn’t choose to have blonde hair, big tits, or an even bigger ass. I just got ‘em. I didn’t ask to be a fucking dynamo in bed. I just am.”

  Robert chuckled.

  “Sometimes we should just roll with the punches, play poker with the cards we’re dealt. We don’t always get a chance to reshuffle the deck.”

  Shelly propped herself onto an elbow and stared at him.

  “And you, Robert, most definitely have been chosen for something bigger, something greater. The sooner you can come to terms with that, the sooner we can do something fucking good—something really good.”

  Robert shivered at the word chosen, recalling that Sean had used the exact same word when they had first met.

  He leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. Despite her crassness, her words had imbued him with a strange confidence.

  Sean Sommers’ influence or not, he had purged James Harlop and Andrew Shaw. He had done that…with the help of his friends, of course.

  “What now?”

  Shelly’s answer was immediate.

  “Now we go find that retard Cal and his nerdy boyfriend and see what kind of trouble we can get into. What do you think?”

  Robert nodded.

  “I think you’re right.”

  Shelly smiled.

  “Fuckin’ A, I’m right. Best you remember that.”

  Chapter 10

  “What the fuck?” Ben said as he slurped what was left of his egg off his fork. He turned to Smitts. “You see that?”

  The big man nodded.

  “And you heard me say to Pete that I wanted no more blackouts, right?”

  Again, the man nodded. He wasn’t much on words, which was all the same to the warden. Like him, John Smitts was of a different generation, a generation that didn’t think everything had to be commented on, that the world wasn’t made up of verbal hashtags.

  But John Smitts was the strong, silent type—with a heavy emphasis on the strong.

  The lights flickered again, and Ben swore and shook his head. Lightning flashed outside, sending splinters of blue light into the mess room. Even though the activities of the inmates had been restricted and they were confined to their cells, Ben still had the freedom to roam. So after sending Callahan on his way, trying to mull over the things that he had said, he had taken Smitts to the mess hall where he had fried them both up some eggs, toasted some bread, and sat in silence.

  Thinking.

  Thinking about Quinn yelling at him to go, to hurry, all the while covering his face with his hands.

  Thinking about the weird shit Father Callahan had said, about how he was so desperate to speak to Seaforth Prison’s most dangerous inmate.

  But before he had come to terms with any of this, the lights had dimmed, and now they flickered.

  The warden quickly scarfed the last of his toast, cracked his swollen knuckles, then stood.

  “I’m gonna have a chat with Peter.”

  Smitts nodded and said nothing. But the way that he quickly finished his own eggs, chasing it with a slice of bacon, indicated that he wanted to come along. Ben was happy for the company, as silent as it was.

  And, besides, he was still a little freaked out at the prospect of being alone.

  Of seeing Quinn again.

  It wasn’t real.

  He took the man’s plate and stacked it on his before quickly walking over to the kitchen and dropping it in one of the metal basins.

  “I’ll get it later,” Smitts said, but Ben waved his comment away.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ben replied as they made their way side by side to the front of the mess hall.

  The mess hall was a giant square, plain in every respect, with plastic picnic-style tables arranged in rows. It was the most dangerous part of the prison; more deaths and assaults had happened here over the last seven years than everywhere else in Seaforth combined. And that
included in the workout yard.

  There was just something about food and confinement that served up a toxic combination. Ben could never figure out why.

  Ben’s eyes drifted upward to the balcony above. Accessible only from the guards’ lounge, the upper level was lined with bars, and it was typically patrolled by two officers during inmate feeding times. But now it was empty.

  It was strange being on the floor with no one patrolling above. It made him uncomfortable, and he hurried to the door, where he scanned his keycard. It beeped and opened, leading to a narrow hallway. Ben went first, and Smitts followed. They passed through a metal detector, and it beeped loudly, picking up the Taser and pistol on their belts.

  Ben pushed his fingers into his eyes and sighed. Fatigue was beginning to take over; he hadn’t slept a wink since Quinn had been murdered.

  Fucking Quinn…why did you have to go in there? What the fuck is this all about?

  He thought of Father Callahan’s words.

  The Goat…he’s saying the Goat.

  Ben tried to keep his tears at bay.

  Fuck, Quinn.

  Ben took his hand away from his face, and turned to the camera in the upper left-hand corner of the door. He waved a hand, then stepped forward to swipe his card again.

  Nothing happened.

  “Fuck, Peter,” he muttered.

  He leaned back, staring directly up at the camera, and waved dramatically. The metal detector going off triggered the lock, but it should have also sent an alarm to Pete in the control room.

  What the fuck is he doing? Sleeping?

  The man crushed Red Bulls and God only knew what else, so Ben found it hard to believe that he ever slept, let alone at a time like this.

  Ben pulled the walkie from his belt and turned the dial.

  “Peter, open the door—metal detector went off. It’s me and Smitts.”

  There was a pause, then a crackling voice replied.

  “Chief? That you?”

  Ben shook his head.

  Chief.

  “Yes, it’s me. Open the door to the Main Block.”

  The pause was longer this time.

  “Wave your hand, I’m having a hard time seeing you in the camera.”

  Ben did as he was instructed.

  “Naw, still not getting it. Blurry, seems to be a weak signal or some shit.”

  “Fuck, just open it up, we’re coming to see you anyway. The lights are flickering and—”

  The door suddenly beeped and Ben heard the lock disengage. Smitts stepped forward and quickly opened it.

  “Hang tight, Peter. We’ll be there in five.”

  Then they stepped through the door and into the hallway lined with cells, where the regular population inmates were held.

  Typically, opening this door was immediately met with catcalls and whoops from the gen pop. Today, however, was different. Maybe it was the news of Quinn’s death, who was moderately well-liked among the inmates, or maybe it was the storm that rumbled outside.

  Or maybe it was something else entirely.

  All Warden Ben Tristen knew as he walked down that hallway with John Smitts at his side, glancing at the inmates in near pin-drop silence with their heads hung low, was that he didn’t like it.

  He didn’t like it one bit.

  Silence in a prison was never good.

  Chapter 11

  It was dark, but not so dark that Robert was completely blind. He seemed to be in some sort of room, but he couldn’t seem to locate the walls…everything just receded into blackness at the periphery of vision. He tried to look down, but his head and eyes moved slowly. When he finally managed to focus, he realized that he was floating; either that or the ground was so dark and black that he couldn’t see it.

  A gasp escaped him, the sound impossibly loud in this otherwise vacuum of space.

  What is this place?

  He closed his eyes, and somehow managed to lower his heartrate. Then he concentrated, trying to will everything all away.

  Only he couldn’t manage. A voice suddenly flashed in his mind, and his eyes popped open.

  You were chosen, Robert. Leland Black is your father.

  It was Sean Sommers’ voice.

  Robert closed his eyes again.

  When he opened them a second later, he was shocked to discover that he was no longer in the infinite black box, but in some sort of cell.

  Only he wasn’t really there; it was as if he were just observing.

  There was a nude man in the center of the room, seated like a yogi, eyes closed. He had a strong jawline and a nose that was slightly off-center, and although Robert was positive he had never seen him before, he seemed oddly familiar to him.

  There was a sort of aura coming off of him, seemingly secreted by his every pore. Something that told Robert that this wasn’t a good man.

  On the contrary, this was something completely different.

  Evil, maybe.

  Is this a quiddity? Some lost, dead soul?

  But before he could contemplate this further, the man’s lips started to move and Robert strained to hear what he was saying.

  At first, Robert couldn’t make it out; it just seemed to be a mindless stream of syllables repeated over and over again, but when he concentrated even further, it started to make sense to him.

  It wasn’t a word, but a name. A name that sent a shiver up his spine.

  “Leland Leland Leland Leland…”

  Robert swallowed hard, his mind struggling to grasp what was going on.

  But what came next was even more shocking.

  A response.

  “The man of the cloth is coming, Carson. You can use him to open the rift—bind him between the living and the dead, just like the book says.”

  Robert’s breathing was coming in shallow bursts now.

  Unlike the man sitting cross-legged in the center of the cell, this was the voice of a man he recognized.

  It was Leland Black’s voice, the Goat’s voice.

  His father’s voice, if Sean was to be believed.

  Robert tried to lean in even closer, but the man named Carson’s eyes snapped open, and Robert screamed.

  ***

  “Wake up! Robert, wake the fuck up!”

  Robert cried out and opened his eyes.

  Shelly was crouched over him, her face nearly as pale as when she had put makeup on and pretended that Ruth Harlop was still alive.

  “Wha—what happened?” He blinked several times, trying to clear his vision. He went to sit up, but lost his balance and fell back down on the bed again.

  Shelly breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Fucking hell! What happened to you?”

  Robert squinted at her.

  “That’s what I asked you…the last thing I remember is that we were talking, and then—” He let his sentence trail off, remembering the words that he had heard Leland Black mutter.

  The man of the cloth is coming, Carson.

  He swallowed and brought a hand to his forehead. His skin was damp and clammy.

  Who the fuck is Carson?

  “Yes?” Shelly demanded. “We were fucking talking and then you just kinda collapsed onto the bed. Swooned like a teenage girl at a Bieber concert. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Robert licked his dry lips, but made no effort to sit up again.

  “How long was I out?”

  Shelly leaned away, and began to put on her underwear, which were in a heap at the end of the bed.

  “I dunno. Thirty seconds, maybe?”

  Now Robert did sit up.

  “What? Thirty seconds? That’s it?”

  Shelly stood and pulled up her underwear. Robert barely noticed that they were a lacy black G-string. She shrugged, and then moved to her shirt next.

  “Yeah, maybe more. A minute, tops.”

  Robert’s eyes narrowed. It felt like he had been in the black room for an hour, and with the man, with Carson, for at least that long—everything moved
so slowly.

  “What, you have a dream or something? Pass out?” A wry smile passed over her red lips. “Sex too fucking good for you, Robbie?” Then her face got serious. “Fucking scared me. Don’t do that again.”

  Robert shook his head.

  “I had—” he started, his heart skipping a beat as he recalled Carson’s pale blue eyes.

  Shelly finished putting on her shirt and then sat beside him.

  “What? What was it?”

  Robert shook his head.

  “I think…I don’t think it was a dream. It was more like I was peeking in on someone—someone…bad.”

  He looked up and stared at Shelly for a moment before continuing.

  “I think we should find Cal, ASAP. I think we might—”

  But a knock at the front door, a heavy, resounding pounding, cut him off.

  Shelly grinned and she patted him on the back.

  “Speak of the devil.” She stood and made her way to the bedroom door, bending down to pick up his jeans on the way. She turned and tossed them at him. “Get dressed. No need for Cal to see you this way. It’s bad enough I have to.”

  The jeans hit Robert in the chest, but he made no effort to catch them.

  “Cal has his own keys, Shel. It’s not him.”

  Chapter 12

  “So? What’s going on with the lights?”

  The three men were standing in the control room, an isolated area in a tower that was only accessible by a guarded staircase. Circular in nature, the room had a wall of computer screens, monitors of all kinds, lining nearly half of the interior surface. There was a myriad of other computer equipment in the room, blinking lights that were all German to Ben. His eyes darted from screen to screen, narrowing as the monitors slowly grew riddled with snow, before becoming crystal clear again.

  “And the monitors? What’s up with them?”

  Peter Granger swung around in his high-backed leather chair, which looked as new as the computer equipment, a pen clenched between his teeth. He was a thin man, with closely cropped brown hair, a pointy nose, and large brown eyes. When Ben had first hired him—or, more specifically, when the board had ‘recommended’ Peter to Ben—he had been a polite, sociable man, which had flown in the face of expectation. Since that time roughly three years ago, Peter had regressed somewhat, becoming more introverted, but Ben chalked this up to natural consequence of being trapped up here, alone, for nearly 24 hours a day.