Mia smiled. “Thank you for the offer. I hope I don’t have to take you up on it. I’ve got to go. If the Others are on their way, I better get a head start.”
“Goodbye, Mia,” Wyatt said.
“Goodbye for now, Altair,” Mia responded and hung up the phone.
Wyatt listened after she hung up, and he heard the mechanisms of the Others. Had he signed Mia’s death warrant with his call, or had he given her the key to succeeding when all seemed lost? Only time would tell.
~
Burt woke to a rain-darkened day. He excitedly held the handle of the empty thermos outside the window, with the funnel he had quickly made, to draw in as much of the rain as was possible. His arm would hurt later from the constant exertion, but it would be worth it. An achy arm was a slight payment for the water that, hopefully, would extend his life. He brought in the thermos and poured the contents into one of the empty water bottles and put the thermos outside once more to collect more rain.
He thought about how long he had been missing from his home and knew that his parents must have notified the authorities. He had parked his car in plain sight. Why hadn’t they searched for him? Surely, someone would have remembered the old asylum? He had to keep up hope that he would be rescued. If he died here, how would that affect the future? Close to home, he supposed his parents would mourn his loss. He would never meet Mike or Ted.
“Damn, Mia,” Burt thought. “Who’s going to be there for you, bebe?”
She had told him many times that he was responsible for bringing her in touch with the good side of her talents. Also, PEEPs was a good fit for her. She wasn’t shy about expressing how much joy she got from working with the other investigators. He had seen her blossom from an introverted social misfit to an outgoing mother of three. Yes, she married his tech - a bitter pill he swallowed every day - but Mia was happy with her choice, and Ted seemed to be becoming more comfortable and less insecure with their relationship. Now there would be no meeting, at least none he was part of.
Would the hollow take over the town of Big Bear Lake?
“Damn, I didn’t think of the consequences of stopping here instead of going on to see Mike,” he said aloud. Why did this happen? If it was fate, was he bait? He pondered these questions as he collected the rainwater. “I feel like bait. I’ve behaved like bait. Just wallowing in my can. Today, I start working on trying to crawl out of my bucket like every other respectable nightcrawler.”
Burt had had a lot of time to study the trap he had fallen into. Was it a trap originally? He saw the markings of crude tools on the ceiling. To him it looked like whomever had his cell before him had tried to find a way out through the ceiling. He or she had gotten as far as the tile underlayment and quit. Time had weakened the remaining boards and supports. It just took his weight to bring it all down.
He thought the ghost had led him into the trap, and it may have happened that way, but now he was seeing that, perhaps, he just assumed there was a sinister plot. Maybe everything that happened was innocent. “I’m a victim of circumstance,” he announced to the debris-ridden cell.
“You’re dead meat,” a voice called down to him.
“And who am I speaking with?” Burt asked.
A swirl of what could only be described as oily fog drifted down into the cell. It made no attempt to cross the salt line. Instead, it manifested into a man, or what was left of a man after years of incarceration in a mental asylum. He leaned heavily on a cane. He wore soiled bedclothes, and he had a week’s growth of beard. His finger- and toenails were long and yellow, and when the creature smiled, Burt could see the man had never had any dental work performed. His body spoke of age, but there were no liver spots to corroborate Burt’s theory. If ghosts had an odor, his would be of piss and rot.
“Who am I speaking with?” Burt asked again. “I’m Burt Hicks.”
“Does it really matter?” the ghost asked, drawing out each word as if he were getting paid by the syllable.
“Yes, I would like to know whom I’m speaking with so that when I get out of here, I can let your people know of your circumstances.”
“I have no people.”
“I’m sure you didn’t just arrive on this earth full grown. There were people. There are always people,” Burt assured the ghost.
The man’s head fell to an angle congruent to the twist of his hips. “Weldon Folkert.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Folkert,” Burt said. “Please excuse my state of dress, but I’ve been ill.”
“So I’ve heard. I’ve been listening to you from up there. Heard you talk into that machine with your little sweetheart.”
“She’s a colleague,” Burt protested.
“Sweetheart,” Weldon insisted. “As I said, I listened to you. I never catered to women sexually. Men either. I just couldn’t see the point of exposing yourself, elbows and knees, squeaky springs, and all that fluid. Disgusting.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” Burt said.
“I kept myself contained and pursued other interests. Botany, fungi to be more specific. I experimented with introducing spores to the human body. It’s really amazing what kind of species you can grow out of a rotting corpse.”
Burt kept a poker face. Inside he was screaming. On the outside, he brushed a stray lock out of his eyes.
