The Fright Train

The Glow Part 12

Detective Laszlo threw open the precinct door and stormed into the lobby. She was on a mission and didn't stop the exchange the usual pleasantries with Carl the Street Vendor, who took the sleight personally. All eyes were on her as she made her way to the reception desk; her dishevelled hair and blood-and-sweat-soaked uniform did not help to deter attention.

Before Laszlo could open her mouth to speak, Francis the dispatcher preempted. "Detective, someone is waiting for you." Having served several decades as the front line of communication for the force, Francis had seen it all, and she was eager to resume the romance novel that sat to one side of her keyboard. She nodded toward a bank of seats along the far wall. 

Laszlo had passed him on the way in, but had paid him no mind. Looking at him now, she wondered how she'd missed him. He was a squat character, and he sat twiddling his thumbs. In spite of the head – and the impending dusk – he was dressed in a flannel shirt with suspenders, and a pair of thick black shades adorned his corrugated face. As soon as he noticed her noticing him, he stood from his seat and made his way over on a foot that had apparently fallen asleep. He stuck his hands into his pockets, where they remained as he spoke. "Detective Laszlo," he greeted without pomp, "I think you need to come with me."

***

Silas Carmen introduced himself in greater detail as they sped across town in Detective Laszlo's battered squad car. He explained that he was an antique dealer by trade, and that he had made an unusual delivery a little over two weeks ago.

"A boatload of trundles, the old lady ordered," Silas exclaimed, taking a moment to push the dark glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"Trundles?"

"Antique trunks on wheels. Five of them – turn left here – and that's when all of this started, by my estimate. My question is, what is an old lady doing with five people-sized trunks at a nearly abandoned building?"  

She needs... Laszlo shrugged. Her mind strained to process the information it had taken in. She had witnessed more inexplicable events over the course of the last forty-eight hours than she had in her entire career. A migraine brewed behind her eyes. 

"Here we are," Silas announced.

They pulled into a parking lot whose lines had long ago faded from exposure to the elements. Glass and who knew what else crunched under the car's tires, but a flat would be the least of their current concerns. Laszlo felt dizzied by the surrealism of her current surroundings. How had she ended up in this lot on the far side of town with a geriatric antiquarian? Was that really his day job? Why didn't he remove those chunky glasses?

Most importantly, what would they find inside the decaying apartment building that loomed before them? Its cracked windows staring down disapprovingly, as if squinting against the light of a single street lamp.

Silas took the lead as they stepped out and into the still, humid night. He was surprisingly agile for a man of his size, and his thick-soled boots kicked up a cloud of dusty that Laszlo sidestepped to avoid. They stepped to the front door, and Silas gripped the knob.

"Someone lives here?" Laszlo asked.

It was Silas's turn to shrug. He pushed the door open, and they stepped inside. What must have been a decade of dust filled their nasal passages, causing them each to stifle lung-wracking coughs. Laszlo's hand groped the wall to her left and to her right, but found no switch. She slipped her phone from a front pocket and clicked on the flashlight. A shadow swirled to their left, causing them both to jump back. A cat with dappled fur bristled in a corner. Its fangs were bared in a hiss, and its eyes...

...I need...   

...glowed an incandescent blue, the same icy blue that was sure to haunt Laszlo's dreams for years to come.

The pair breathed a shared sigh of relief as the cat scurried up at wide flight of stairs, and Laszlo's grip loosened from the weapon attached to her belt. This time, Laszlo led the way. Following their feline guide, they made their way as surreptitiously as possibly up the stairs, careful to mitigate gaps and splinters along the way. The creak and groan of the slats was sure to betray their presence. They made it to one landing, and then the next, drawn by some otherworldly force to Floor Three.

Somehow, they knew that the answer to all of their questions – to the deadly mystery that had rocked their relatively quiet town – lay beyond the door at the end of the hall. An eerie haze clung to the air, and time seemed to slow as they inched closer and closer.

Laszlo held her breath and opened the door quickly, as if ripping off a bandage from an oozing would. It was best to leverage the element of surprise if at all possible. 

Each corner of the pentagonal room was anchored by one of the worn leather trunks Silas had delivered less than a month ago. On each trunk sat an old woman with tufts of cotton hair and haggard, drooping features – an identical clone of the crone Laszlo had faced in Ally's house hours earlier. Each of the old hags sat erect; laser-blue light emanated from each of their cataract-clouded eyes. Each one of them stood to face the nosy pair of intruders.

Suddenly, Laszlo understood at least one piece of the puzzle.

Who would suspect an innocent old lady...?