Carlos

By the third day, I'm beginning to think John is taking the 'space' thing too seriously. He hasn't texted or called (I remind myself I basically told him not to), and communicates via Latoya and Nguyen, like a fourth grader with a crush, asking friends to suss out the crush's feelings in his place.

Kyle, meanwhile, is becoming a real pain in the ass. He seems to have taken up permanent residence in the garage, and continually bangs things and knocks things off the walls. He's turning into a genuine poltergeist, making me wonder if it would be better for both of us if I exorcised him and sent him on his way.

Aunt Toni always said it was best to leave spirits alone unless they became truly malevolent. Kyle might be a hazard (he did make me break my arm) but I've never gotten the impression he actually wants to hurt me. Rather, it seems like he's trying to tell me something, but in true ghost fashion he can't just come out and say it, and instead has to resort to making a mess of my tools.

Meanwhile, I'm not willing to risk another seance. The demonic presence I glimpsed on the other side haunts my dreams, and I'm afraid if I dare to open myself up again, it will be there, waiting in the dark.

Still, I'm getting a little tired of waking up to a mess, or having loud bangs and clangs shatter my already frayed nerves.

Finally, after he knocks my tray of neatly organized wingnuts off the work table, I lose my temper and yell at him, and he quiets down.

At least, until I'm changing the oil on a classic Chevy Impala and he decides to tip over the oil tray.

As the black oil spreads across the floor of the garage, I scramble from beneath the vehicle, knock my forehead on the bumper, and let loose with a torrent of profanity. When I run out of air, I kick the overturned pan myself, for good measure, and stomp over to the wall cabinets to look for the box of cat litter I keep on hand for just this eventuality.

Retrieving it, I return to the spill and swear again. The viscous black liquid is following a very strange path across the concrete, like a tiny meandering river, and is seeping into the crack in the floor.

"Motherfucking son of a bitch," I hiss as I splash cat litter over what little of the spill remains.

A host of random fears cross my mind. What if it gets in the water table? Could they trace it back to me? Spring Lakes is a pretty environmentally conscious town, and there are all kinds of regulations about things like this. Could I lose my business license if someone finds out?

"Fucking hell, Kyle. I swear to God if you weren't already dead I'd kill you myself."

Ian was right about this damn crack. I should have had it patched months ago, but it was barely noticeable then, and I hadn't wanted to bother Lucille about it. It's widened and spread since — in fact it seems to have widened since yesterday, and now it's spreading.

Frowning, I trace a hairline fracture that branches off from the main crack before curving back to rejoin it. Experimentally, I push on it, and sure enough it moves. The crack goes all the way through the slab. Fuck.

Sighing, I get up and grab a crowbar from a rack on the wall. At least I can get the oil out of there before it sinks into the soil.

I work the tip of the bar into the crack and gradually lift the block. To my surprise, the slab is only six-inches thick — perfectly fine for most domestic garages, but for a working one like this, I'd expect at least nine. No wonder it cracked. Sweating and swearing, I roll the twenty-pound, shoe-box sized block aside and check what lies beneath. I'm hoping for hard-packed earth that will make scraping up the oil an easy job.

What I see instead has me falling back on my ass in surprise. Suddenly, Kyle's haunting makes a lot more sense.

Scrambling to my feet, I stumble across the garage and grab my phone, heedless of the oil smeared on my hands, and call John.

He answers immediately, as if he'd been staring at his phone, waiting to see my name.

"Carlos. Everything okay?"

"Not really," I say, a little breathlessly. "You need to get over here."

"Where you at?" Calm and even, despite its urgency, his tone soothes my nerves.

"Home. The garage."

"Are you safe?"

"Yeah. I just... I found something."

"What?"

"Bones. Under the floor. I don't know for sure, but... I'm willing to bet they belong to Kyle's parents."

~ ★ ~

My garage is a crime scene, and once again I'm packing a bag, though this time not to stay with John. The department will put me up in a hotel.

Meanwhile, crime scene tape stretches across the garage door, and someone has brought in a jackhammer to break up the rest of the floor. Forensics is standing by with evidence bags designed for human remains, one of which contains the skull I'd discovered.

I watch as John works, giving orders and observing his team. When he finishes, he walks over to where I wait beside his vehicle.

"We need to talk to Lucille," he says. "Find out when this floor was installed."

"You think she'll cooperate?"

He shrugs. "I've got an emergency warrant on the way. Latoya's bringing it. Hopefully her husband kept good records and she'll hand them over willingly. We'll search her house, regardless. You wanna come?"

I consider for a moment, squinting against the glare of sunlight as I observe the busy scene in and around my garage. It's like something from a movie — sort of unreal.

"Sure," I say. "I get the feeling Kyle wants me to see this through. If those bones belong to his parents, then either Lucille or her husband killed them. I owe it to him to help put them, and him, to rest, and hopefully get some justice for what happened to them."

He nods and raises his hand as if to rest it on my shoulder or back, but lets it fall without touching me. "You're a good man, Carlos. I think Kyle knows that."

I laugh. "Nah. I'm just a guy who can see ghosts who happens to work in the garage where his parents were buried."

"That's sick though. If Lucille knew — especially if she had anything to do with it — sending him to work for you."

"She must have known," I say. "It makes sense now why she wouldn't let me do any repairs without her permission. She must have been scared I'd find something."

"Yeah. Come on — let's pay her a visit before she gets wind that something's up. Maybe we can take her by surprise."

It's only a half-mile walk to Lucille's house, but I get in the passenger side of John's car and let him drive. At the top of the hill where she lives, he parks in front of her house and takes a moment to inspect our surroundings.

As usual, the neighborhood is quiet. The rows of houses — some older, some new — are neat and tidy, with little patches of green lawn out front and not a speck of faded or cracked paint in sight. Except for Lucille's old Victorian, that is.

"Weird that she wouldn't pay to have someone fix up her place," I remark as we get out and climb the steps to the front porch.

"No weirder than finding skeletons under the garage. Maybe she's got more skeletons to hide, literal or otherwise."

He rings the bell and waits. No one answers. He rings it again, then knocks on the door and calls Mrs. Peters' name. We wait again, and he swears as he checks his watch.

"Fuck. Where is Latoya?"

"What about, like, 'probable cause,' or whatever? Don't you cops use that to bust into people's homes all the time?"

"Not 'all the time,' but yeah. Sometimes." He leans and attempts to peer in through the window beside the door. I do the same but can't see anything past the lacy curtains. "Fuck it. Let's do it."

He tries the handle and finds it locked, but one ram of his shoulder splinters the frame. He pushes it open, one hand on his holstered weapon.

"Mrs. Peters? Lucille? This is Detective Turner, SLPD. We're coming in."

The interior of the house is quiet, cold, and dark. It feels like the heat hasn't been on in a few days.

"I don't think she's here," I whisper.

"Stick close. I'm gonna do a sweep."

Room by room, calling out repeatedly to announce and identify himself as he goes, John makes his way through the lower floor of the house. I trail after him, eyes and ears alert, but detect nothing.

John climbs the stairs. I follow, my heart beating a quick tempo in my chest, and hang back a little as he checks Kyle's room.

"Nothing. What else is up here?"

"A spare bedroom and a bath," I say, pointing down the hall.

John checks the first room, flicking on the light. It's full of boxes, but otherwise empty. Then he tries the bathroom.

"It's stuck," he says. "Some kinda seal on the door. Hang on."

Using his shoulder again, he forces it open. I hear something like tape ripping free from the inside of the frame, and then the smell hits me.

Reeling back a pace, I gag.

John covers his mouth and nose with his sleeve, and bravely pushes the door wide. Even from a few steps back, I have a pretty good view, and no desire for a closer look.

Lucille lies in the bathtub, bathing in a congealed soup of her own blood. Symbols drawn in blood mark the walls, and from the cuts marking her body, I know we just found the victim of the second Feast.

"She's deceased," John says, having confirmed this and re-shutting the bathroom door to help contain the smell. "Looks like she died a few days ago."

"No shit, Sherlock," I whisper.

"It also looks like she did it to herself."

"What?"

"The tape sealing the door. It had to have been done from the inside."

"What about the window?"

"Too small."

"Fuck. What the fuck is going on, John?"

"Fucked if I know," he says, unclipping his radio to call in the second gruesome find of the day. "But there goes our case."