The Ghost Host: Episode 2 (The Ghost Host Series) Page 4

  No one says a word as we ride the elevator up to the pediatric floor. Echo is trembling by the time we reach the room. I’m taken a little off guard by the police presence hovering near the closed door. When I glance at Dad, his eyes narrow. “I’m not the only one who thinks the foster mom isn’t being completely honest.” He flashes his badge at the officer and continues without being questioned.

  “Timothy is here by himself?” Echo asks. “He’ll be alone all night?”

  “His caseworker is here. She’ll stay with him tonight,” Dad says.

  Echo isn’t reassured. She’s scared, worried about what might happen to the boy tonight, and whoever is with him. Her concern has an odd effect, steeling her against her fears. Her trembling quiets to a slight shiver and she nods to indicate she’s ready. Dad sees it and grips the door handle. That’s as far as he gets before pausing.

  “It’s cold.”

  “How cold?” Echo asks.

  “Unusually,” Dad says in a flat voice.

  A real shiver runs through Echo’s body, unrelated to the temperature. “Okay.” She nods. “I’ll keep it simple and make a fist if the room is empty of anyone who shouldn’t be there, and if not—indicate how many are there with the corresponding number of fingers.” She glances between us. “Will that work?”

  Dad nods and opens the door.

  I don’t like the idea of letting go of Echo, but she knows it’s time to put on her game face and pretend at being strong even if she feels anything but. I’m impressed by how well she switches off her fear. I’m sure Dad’s been teaching her, but spending a lifetime hiding from others does wonders for developing masks. Echo’s expression is appropriately gentle as she looks at Timothy and gives him a small smile. I pay attention to his answering smile secondary to watching her hand close into a fist. Dad is surprised. I’m right there with him. We’re alone, but I can tell something still isn’t right. Echo stays on edge, her posture screaming wariness, as she approaches the boy’s bed.

  “Hi, Timothy,” Echo says. She glances over at a woman in the corner who I assume to be the boy’s caseworker. Dad’s already moving in her direction, so I stay focused on Echo.

  Timothy doesn’t answer. His gaze locks onto Echo, shifting slightly with every step she takes. He’s not immediately frightened of her, which is odd. Instead of shrinking away as many abused children would, he stays very still and assesses her from behind eyes too old for his ruddy cheeks, which are still plump with baby fat.

  “My name’s Echo. I came to talk to you about the monsters in your dreams.”

  His expression narrows. No one else has trusted him. Why would Echo? The mistrust swirling around inside him makes his little fingers twist into the sheets of his hospital bed. The motion draws both mine and Echo’s attention to his arms. I barely manage to hold back a gasp. Echo freezes, a small chocking sound escaping her lips. Timothy sticks his arms beneath the blanket, hiding the purple-red finger marks covering nearly every inch of skin.

  I didn’t get a particularly good look at the marks before he shoved them under the blanket, but Echo apparently did. “Their fingers are too long to escape, right? Even when you try to hide. They seem to stretch after you no matter how far you go. And when they catch you, it’s impossible to escape.”

  Timothy’s eyes widen. Frantically, his head bobs. The case worker in the corner begins to object, but a whispered word from Dad cuts her off. Timothy pays her no attention. Everything he has is one hundred percent focused on Echo. “I can feel them.” A shiver convulses his body.

  “Can you see them?” Echo asks.

  His eyes widen, but he shakes his head. “Not when I’m awake.”

  “But you can see them in your dreams?”

  Timothy nods, his eyes darting around the room as if merely talking about his supernatural abusers will call them. Echo moves closer and sits on the very edge of his bed. She forces her posture to appear relaxed, but the muscles in her neck are straining with the effort and her breathing is slow and measured. “Do you know what the monsters want?”

  Cowering against his pillow, Timothy shakes his head furiously. He’s too overcome by terror to notice Echo moving closer. She’s within arm’s reach before he realizes, but even when he does he has no route of escape and stays huddled against the pillow. Echo reaches out and offers him her hand. It takes several long seconds before he risks placing his hand in hers. As soon as her fingers close around his, he relaxes. Echo tenses at something she senses, something she doesn’t understand, but she doesn’t comment on it.

  “You feel like them,” Timothy whispers, “but different. Nice instead of scary.”

  Echo’s brows raise, but she doesn’t respond directly. The boy doesn’t notice how much his comment has unsettled her. He’s too fixated on the feeling on safety he’s absorbing from her. Echo uses his distraction to her advantage and returns to her original question. “Timothy, I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth about what the monsters want from you.”

  He freezes, but then his fingers curl around Echo’s instead of pulling away. Fear rolls off his little body, growing to such proportions he can’t contain it and begins shivering. “It’s not me,” he whimpers.

  “What’s not you?” Echo’s voice remains calm, but her façade is cracking more visibly now, her chest pulling noticeably with each labored breath.

  “Not me they want something from.” Tears form in his eyes, brimming so high I’m not sure how they haven’t fallen yet.

  “Who do they want something from?” Echo frowns, her jaw setting as she considers her next words. “Your mother?” Anger boils under her skin that the boy’s mother might be responsible for his torment, even if not directly.

  Timothy shakes his head, frantic and terrified. His lips press so tightly together, they blanch.

  “I need to know, Timothy,” Echo pleads.

  Finally, his tears win the battle and spill down his cheeks in a torrent. “My dad,” he cries. “They want something from my dad, and I think they’ll hurt me again if he doesn’t give it to them.” He collapses, sobbing, into Echo’s arms and she holds him with the practiced patience of a big sister.

  “What do the monsters want from your dad?” she asks quietly as she strokes his messy brown hair to hide the shaking in her hands.

  Timothy sobs even harder. “I don’t know,” he wails. “My dad is in heaven.”

  His tears leave streaks down the front of Echo’s shirt, despite his efforts to wipe them away. She continues to hold him until he calms enough that she’s sure he won’t collapse again. Slowly, he pushes back from her and drags his hands down his wet face to clear the last of his tears. Red-eyed, his expression is pleading when he looks up at Echo. “How can my dad give the monsters anything from heaven?”

  Echo hesitates. “I’m not sure, but I’m going to find out, okay?”

  “Will that make the monsters go away?” Hope fills his eyes, but only halfway. His fear is too strong to really believe.

  “If we can find out what they want and give it to them, I think it will,” Echo says. “For now, how about we at least try to keep the monsters from getting into your dreams?”

  “Can you do that?” he whispers in amazement.

  Echo sets her shoulders, temporarily holding off the barrage of fear and confusion swarming around her. “Yes.”

  Determination burns through her as she turns to face me. “I left my backpack in the car. Would you mind getting it for me?” Her expression falters for a split second. “Quickly?”

  I nod despite my confusion at the request for the bag. The need for me to hurry I understand fully. She turns her attention back to Timothy and I glance over at Dad for permission to leave. I may not appreciate his interference with Echo on a personal level, but I’m under his command when it comes to this case. His quick nod and the handing over of his keys releases me to do as Echo requested, and I don’t waste any time. I can’t imagine verb conjugations being much help in this situation, especially s
ince half of them are probably wrong in Echo’s case, but I rush through the hospital and out to the car.

  I try to tug the backpack out from where it fell and wedged itself beneath front passenger seat, but it’s stuck. I wonder what the hell she has in it. Even if she had all four of her classes on one day and took her textbook to each class, it wouldn’t account for the weight. She’s going to end up with some major back problems if she carries this thing around for four years. Agents are expected to travel light. Maybe I’ll have to give her a lesson in that along with proper pronunciation of French verbs.

  Unzipping the main pocket quickly, I haul out a several textbooks and drop them to the seat. I move to yank the bag out from under the seat, but stop when I see what’s making it so damn heavy. Two full canisters of salt sit at the bottom of the bag, surrounded by jars of herbs, various religious icons and symbols, a box of iron nails, and a host of other random objects I can’t immediately identify a purpose for. Half this stuff will probably constitute weapons if she were ever caught with them on campus. Even if they aren’t, security will demand an explanation for sure. Dad’s letting her walk around with all of this?

  I zip the backpack up and toss it over my shoulder. After locking the car, I head for Timothy’s room again. I understand now why Echo wants the bag, but does she really expect the caseworker and hospital staff to let her spread salt all over the room? What good will a salt circle do if the nurses are stepping all over it throughout the night? Echo has more experience with this brand of paranormal than I do, though, so I decide to reserve judgment and trust her.

  The officer outside Timothy’s room moves to intercept me when he sees me jogging down the hall toward him. I slow and tug the hem of my shirt up so he can see my badge. He seems surprised I have one too, but I get that a lot. Having a dad who’s an agent helped me find paths to gain the necessary work experience while in college that I needed to join the Bureau a year after graduation. It put me three years ahead of everyone else applying that year. Dad’s record and the recommendations of several high level agents I’d been able to work with, combined with my own skills, put me straight through to Quantico as soon as I met the minimum age requirement of twenty-three. Of course, being a special agent at twenty-six and being sent in on difficult cases is the least of what earns me stares and whispers among other agents

  Letting myself back into the hospital room, I slow my pace as I cross the threshold so as not to startle Timothy. I realize I needn’t have worried. Sitting in Echo’s lap, he listens attentively as she reads him a book about a slow puppy named Pokey. His arms are out from beneath the blanket and my gut twists at the sight of the sleeve of bruises on each arm. He must be in terrible pain, but is comfortable in Echo’s arms.

  Echo sees me from the corner of her eye and a look of relief flashes in her eyes, but she continues reading to the last page. Timothy’s disappointment that the book has ended is apparent in his drooping shoulders. Echo offers a smile and asks, “How are you at craft projects?”

  Timothy shrugs. “I’m not so good at gluing things, but I’m good at cutting with scissors.”

  “Perfect.” Echo gently but eagerly lifts him from her lap, moving slower when he winces. When he’s settled, she gestures for me to bring her the bag. I didn’t seen any craft supplies in there, but I hand it over assuming she has some kind of plan. One that hopefully won’t take too long. Her fingers are shaking so much it takes her several tries to get the zipper open.

  I’m surprised when she pulls out what looks to be a thin plastic straw, salt, some sort of plier, scissors, and leather ribbon. The caseworker moves as though she intends to get up, but Dad makes it clear she should stay seated without being too brusque. A quiet clipped conversation springs up between them, but I turn my attention back to Echo and Timothy.

  “Now, I was planning to make myself a spare, but I think you need it more than me.”

  Timothy is confused by the supplies, but eager to help. He picks up the scissors and hold them at the ready. I’m confused as well, until Echo brushes back her long red hair and I notice the leather cord holding her hair back. It doesn’t explain everything. Walking over to the bed, I stop about a foot short and smile at Timothy as I gently rest my hand on Echo’s knee to calm her. “Mind if I watch you two work?”

  Timothy glances up at Echo, who answers his silent request with a question. “Is it okay if Griffin helps us?”

  He considers the request, sneaking a look at me before turning back to Echo and nodding. He scoots over to make room for me and says, “I read a book about a griffin once.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Timothy nods. “But it was a girl griffin, and she was magic.”

  “Magic, huh?”

  “Yeah.” His gaze darts between Echo and me. “Are you guys magic? Is that how you’re going to make the monsters go away?”

  Behind Echo, I can hear the caseworker huff in exasperation. Her accompanying grumble is loud enough to be audible, but Echo carefully pours salt into the straw that’s now crimped on one side. Handling her defensive supplies is keeping her calmer, allowing her to focus on Timothy better. “Things like your monsters don’t make sense to people who can’t see or feel them, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real. It just means you know about a different part of the world that’s hidden to other people, and that can be really scary, especially if people don’t believe you. The trick to dealing with things like monsters is that you have to know how to fight them.”

  “But I can’t see them when I’m awake,” Timothy says worriedly. “How can I fight them if I can’t see them?”

  Crimping the other end of the now-filled straw with her weird pliers, Echo tests to make sure it won’t leak before handing it to Timothy to cut off the excess and reaching for the flat leather cord. She takes the straw back and begins winding the cord around it. “Fighting monsters is tricky,” she tells him. “Most of the time, it’s not about being able to hit them with a sword or magic spell. Monsters are strong, so to win against them, you have to know their weakness. You have to be smart and brave to beat them.” Looking up, she meets Timothy’s gaze. “Are you smart and brave?”

  He frowns as he considers her question. “I guess so.”

  “You guess so?” Echo asks as she ties off the leather cord. She eyes him thoughtfully. “If you’re not sure, it’s nice to have a little help to be brave, right?”

  Pointing at the headband, he is clearly skeptical. “That? It’s just salt in a straw. How can that stop the monsters?”

  Echo leans in close and whispers, “It’s magic salt.”

  His eyes widen. Dropping his gaze from her, he stares at the headband. When Echo gestures to know whether she can put it on him, his head bobs so hard his teeth clack together. Suppressing a smile, and his wiggling, she manages to tie it around his head. His little fingers are reverent as he touches it.

  “Keep that on when you go to sleep, okay?”

  “I’ll never take it off ever,” he promises.

  Behind Echo, Dad motions that it’s time for us to leave. I tip my head in his direction and Echo looks back, nodding in relief when she gets his message. “Timothy, we have to go now, but we’ll be back to check on you, okay?”

  “When?” he demands, suddenly clawing at Echo’s hands to keep her from leaving him.

  Echo struggles to answer him, as well as to hide her mounting exhaustion and fear. “Soon,” she manages.

  Her kind nature and intimate knowledge of what it feels like to be in his situation allows her to hold back just enough of the emotional trauma knocking at her psychological door to let her function. The barricade she’s been throwing all her strength behind is on the verge of shattering. I need to get her out of here before it happens and Timothy sees the cracks in her reassurances. If he doubts her and takes off the headband, he’ll be hurt again.

  Timothy clings to her when I take her hand and try to help her from the high bed. Tears are in his eyes. He wants to beg her to stay. He can�
��t feel her trembling beneath his own fearful shaking, but I know she’s almost at her breaking point. She knows it too, but I’m not sure she can refuse him if he asks. There’s no way she can last the night if she gives in, so before he can make his plea I sweep him into my arms and give him a fierce hug. “I know it’s hard to be brave when it comes to monsters, but you are so strong. You’ve won against them so far, and you didn’t even have the magic salt before. Just think of how strong you’ll be against them now.”

  “But,” he sobs, “I’ll be even stronger with Echo.”

  Cradling him against my chest, I hold him and wish he could have her, have every weapon in the supernatural arsenal there is. “Echo has her own monsters to fight, but you’ll be safe tonight, okay?”

  “Promise?”

  I dart a glance over at a teary Echo, begging for confirmation. When she nods, the reassurance flows out of me in a rush. “Promise.”

  Finally, Timothy allows me to set him back on the bed. Echo tucks him in and the caseworker pulls her chair closer to the little boy’s bed, though the glare she has pinned on Echo makes it more than clear she doesn’t appreciate her feeding what she sees as Timothy’s fantasies.

  Despite Echo’s weariness, her eyes are fiery as she leans down next to the woman. “If you take that away from him or tell him it’s not magic, you’ll be the one the monsters visit next.” Echo spins away before seeing the woman’s shocked expression. I smirk and follow Echo out the door, leaving Dad to deal with the caseworker. I’m barely a few seconds behind Echo, but when I step into the hall, she’s already doubled over, breathing hard and holding up a hand to keep the officer away from her.

  “Breathe, Echo,” I say as I gently lay my hand on her back in an effort to lend her my strength.