He turned on the spirit box, wincing at the burst of static. Nothing happened for a few seconds—then the EMF rope lit up near the door, its sensors adding their beeping to the dull roar of the box.
“Thank you, Gloria,” he said. “Is there anything you’d like to tell us? Just talk into the device in my hand like you did before.”
The air grew steadily colder, from the balmy warmth of a summer night to the crisp chill of late fall. “That tickles!” yelled the PolterPal, followed by “Will you be my friend?”
Gloria was close enough to set off the EMF reader in the PolterPal, then. “Your father is gone,” Oscar said, as gently as he could. He pictured a portal to the next world beside the PolterPal. “Your time here is done. Pass through the portal, and be at peace.”
“But you haven’t found the treasure,” said the spirit box. “I can tell you where to look.”
Damn it—not this again. “People have already looked. There is no treasure.”
“You have to look!”
A flicker caught his eye—the impression of a girl with blonde curls and a frilly dress, red ribbons in her hair. She stamped her foot, a child refusing to accept what she’s been told.
She might be a ghost, but she was still a kid. Maybe if he had some parenting experience, he’d know what to do. “Go through the portal, Gloria,” he said, putting as much firmness into the command as he could. As though he were sending her to her room.
The spirit box fell abruptly silent, the light on it winking out as its batteries were instantly drained. “No,” the PolterPal growled in a deep voice utterly unlike its normal recording. “You’re a bad man. You’re all bad!”
The doll’s eyes, which should have been affixed in its head, swiveled to look straight at him.
Chris yelped. Salt arced through the air as Nigel flung it, pelting the PolterPal and its surroundings.
That should have been the end of it. Instead, the PolterPal let out a deep, horrible laugh.
“THAT WON’T WORK ON ME.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
Nigel barely had time to register that the salt wasn’t working, before all hell broke loose.
The rotting comforter flew off the bed, wrapping itself around him in an unwelcome hug. Heavy scraping noises sounded around him, furniture being violently shoved across the room. Chris cried out in pain.
He struggled to free himself from the down comforter, but it seemed to come alive, trapping his arms against his sides, constricting his legs, and pressing against his face. He struggled to breathe, suffocated by the scent of mold and dust, until the air was cut off altogether.
Panic seized him, and he thrashed madly. He fell against something, but the pain barely registered. He rolled across the floor, trying to unwrap himself, but the comforter clung like a living thing.
His senses swam. Someone shouted his name, but they sounded as though they were underwater. He’d shut his eyes automatically when the comforter hit his face, and bright spots of light bloomed behind his eyes, before dimming. His lungs screamed for air, but there was none to be had, and he was going to die here, like this?—
Something sliced his cheek—then the cloth parted and he gasped for air. A blizzard of antique feathers came along with the air, and now his body was caught between expelling them from his throat, and simultaneously trying to suck in more oxygen.
Cloth ripped, then ripped again, and he could move his arms and legs. He tried to roll over onto his front to cough, but strong arms pulled him up off the floor. A shoulder dug into his stomach, and he found himself hanging over Oscar’s back in a fireman’s carry.
Oscar ran for the door, then down the hall to the stairs. His feet thudded on the risers, and they emerged into the downstairs hallway.
“Out of the house!” Oscar yelled. “Tina, get out!”
Another fit of coughing wracked Nigel, so all-consuming he could take in nothing else until Oscar lowered him to the sand. “Nigel? Nigel!”
“He’s making noise, so he must be able to breathe,” Chris said from somewhere nearby.
Nigel closed his eyes and concentrated on his lungs. Someone pressed a water bottle into his hand, and he upended it, washing away the feathers stuck to the inside of his throat. After what seemed forever, the coughs subsided, and he spat out the last feather.
His eyes and nose were streaming—he must look a mess. He tried to wipe away the snot and tears with his hand, but Oscar pushed it away. “You’ll get sand in your eyes,” he said, before pulling off his t-shirt and gently using it to clean off Nigel’s face.
Nigel let him. “What—what happened? The salt didn’t work—how is that possible?”
