Forces From Beyond

by Simon Green

Genres: Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

Meet the operatives of the Carnacki Institute - JC Chance: the team leader, brave, charming, and almost unbearably arrogant; Melody Chambers: the science geek who keeps the antisupernatural equipment running; and Happy Jack Palmer: the terminally gloomy telepath. Their mission: do something about ghosts. Lay them to rest, send them packing, or just kick their nasty, ectoplasmic arses.... A threat to humanity rests on the bottom of the North Sea: the interdimensional entity known as the Flesh Undying. It is a monstrous being of unimaginable power, way out of the Ghost Finders' league, so the team has no choice but to accept an alliance with their evil counterpart, Project Crowley. Only the creature has already turned its eye upon the Ghost Finders - and dispatched an assassin with a deadly vendetta against them....

Release date: July 7, 2016

Publisher: Recorded Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

It isn’t ghosts that make places bad; it’s the bad places that make ghosts. And, sometimes, other things.

*

Ghosts hang around hotels like moths drawn to a light. All those empty rooms aren’t nearly as empty as people like to think. Managers understandably don’t like to mention the unfortunate fact that not every guest who checks in will check out alive. People die in lonely, characterless rooms all the time, so when entering a hotel room, the question shouldn’t be: Has anybody died in that bed? Try instead: How many? Bodies are carried out on stretchers and smuggled down the back stairs in the early hours of the morning, out of sight of paying customers, more often than you’d think. Death from causes natural and unnatural . . . heart attack, erotic misadventure, suicide, and murder . . . Hotels have seen it all. Ghosts linger on in some rooms like a bad smell or a stain that won’t wash out. And then it’s time to call in the professionals.

*

The Ghost Finders came to the Acropolis Majoris Hotel in the early hours of the evening, in the dying days of autumn. The lowering sky had a bruised, sullen look, the gusting wind muttered bad things under its breath, and the air had a bitter chill. Not a good time to be out and about, even in the bright and cheerful seaside city of Brighton. The Acropolis Hotel was nowhere near the beach, or the famous pier, or any of the things tourists like to see. Instead, it was tucked away in a labyrinth of shadowy back streets, well off the main drag. A spillover hotel, where people reluctantly ended up when there were no rooms left in bigger, better establishments.

The Ghost Finders took their time, standing on the opposite side of the street to study the hotel’s grubby facade and less-than-inviting ambience. Not a big building, but more than old enough to be steeped in bad incidents and sad memories. Something had happened here, something was waiting . . . like a troll under a bridge or a land mine under a welcome mat. Ghosts mostly prefer to lie in wait and make the living come to them. After all, they have all the time in the world.

JC Chance stood proud and poised in his exquisitely cut white suit, his head held high and his shoulders squared, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Tall and lean, and perhaps just a little more handsome than was good for him, JC had pale, striking features and a rock star’s mane of long jetblack hair. He also had the smile of a man who knew things, and not particularly nice things, at that. As head of this particular field team, he could always be relied on to rush in where angels feared to show their faces, looking eagerly around for some trouble to get into. He wore extremely dark sunglasses at all times, for a very good reason.

Melody Chambers stood slouched at his side, scowling and tapping her foot impatiently. Wherever she was, she always gave the impression she didn’t want to be there. Conventionally good-looking in a stern sort of way, Melody wore her auburn hair scraped back in a tight bun and glowered at the world through heavy glasses with very sober frames. Gamine thin, she burned with fierce, nervous energy and wore her bad temper openly as a badge of pride. She tended to look like she was only moments away from attacking people at random, just on general principle. She dressed for comfort rather than style—jacket and jersey, jeans and work boots. Melody had heard of fashion and wanted nothing to do with it. Her scientific equipment lay piled up on a motorised trolley that hummed busily at her side like an eager dog.

Happy Jack Palmer, who’d embraced self-medication as a marginally preferable alternative to self-harming, stood a little to one side. Short and stocky and prematurely balding, he wore scuffed jeans and shoes, a grubby T-shirt, and a battered, black leather jacket held together by heavy staples and patches of duct tape. Normally, he would have been the first to say something cutting and inappropriate about their current location; but not this time. He stood quietly, looking at the world with eyes that had seen too much, for far too long.

“I can’t believe the Boss sent us here,” JC said finally. “We’re only supposed to get the most important and significant cases.”

“You mean the most dangerous,” said Melody.

“Same thing,” JC said easily. “Give me action and excitement, death and glory, every time!”

“I’ll settle for the glory,” said Melody.

JC ignored her with the ease of long practice. “I mean, look at this place! It’s a dump. In fact, it would need a serious upgrade and a major face-lift before it could properly qualify as a dump! You couldn’t expect any self-respecting ghost to show up here.” He paused, to look down his nose at the various pieces of high tech on Melody’s trolley. “Odds are you won’t need half of that.”

“Hush, babies,” Melody said fondly to her equipment. “Nasty man doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

JC sniffed loudly. “Given the general ambience, you could fend off any ghosts you found here with a balloon on a stick and some harsh language. Oh well: onwards! Wait a minute, hold everything. Where’s Happy?”

They both looked around quickly as they realised the telepath wasn’t with them any longer.

“Oh bugger, he’s wandered off again,” said Melody.

She spotted him half-way down the street, ambling aimlessly through pools of street-light and deep, dark shadows with equal disinterest. Melody hurried off after him, took a firm hold on his arm, and hustled him back to the Acropolis Hotel. He didn’t seem to care where he was. JC studied him expressionlessly.

“Happy, are you with us?” he said finally. “Ready to go to work and kick some ectoplasmic arse?”

Happy didn’t answer. There was nothing in his face to indicate he’d even heard the question. JC looked at Melody.

“I saw him last week, and he wasn’t this bad. When did he stop talking?”

“He’s been saying less and less for some time now,” Melody said reluctantly. “Withdrawing inside himself, away from the pressures of the world. It’s not easy being a Class Eleven telepath.”

“I thought the pills helped with that,” said JC.

“He’s been taking them too long,” said Melody. “Built up too much of a tolerance. The doses he has to take now would kill anyone else.”

“What use is he like this?”

“He knows who he is and who I am,” said Melody. “He can still function, still do his job when he has to.”

“Dear God . . .” said JC.

“It’s not going to be a problem!” Melody said fiercely. “He’s still in there!”

“I suppose I shouldn’t complain,” said JC. “His not speaking might actually be an improvement when it comes to dealing with members of the general public.”

He was trying for a lightness of touch but couldn’t quite bring it off.

“Where’s Kim?” said Melody, just a bit pointedly.

“Around,” said JC. “She’ll turn up, when she’s needed. Come on, let’s go talk to the hotel manager and get this show on the road. Shouldn’t take us long to deal with whatever’s bothering them here; and then we can go for a play on the Pier! I love the Pier.”

“Of course you do,” said Melody. “It’s cheap and tacky, just like you.”

JC strode determinedly through the front door. Melody fired up her trolley, and it putt-putted importantly along at her side as she followed JC in, still gripping Happy firmly by the arm. The lobby of the Acropolis turned out to be surprisingly large and airy, and only a bit shabby. JC had no trouble identifying the manager, pacing impatiently up and down with a face so full of troubles there wasn’t room for anything else. Stocky and middle-aged, with neatly arranged hair, he wore a suit that had once been too good for him but now looked distinctly hard-worn. The only other staff was a faded, middle-aged woman, at Reception. She took one look at the Ghost Finders and busied herself with some vital paper-work.

The manager rushed forward to grab JC’s outstretched hand with both of his, smiling weakly, fixing JC with desperate eyes. The manager looked like he was carrying all the cares of the world and getting really tired of it. He went to shake Melody’s hand, then quickly gave that up as a bad idea once he took in her expression. Melody did have people skills; she just mostly couldn’t be bothered. The manager looked doubtfully at Happy and turned quickly back to JC.

“You are them? The Ghost Finders?”

“That’s us!” said JC. “If it moves and it shouldn’t, we have the answer.”

“I’m Stefan Garth, owner and manager of the Acropolis. Thank you so much for coming! I’m at my wits’ end, trying to cope . . . Excuse me for asking; but is this all of you? I was expecting a more substantial response . . .”

“Trust me,” said JC. “We’re all you need.”

Garth took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh of qualified relief. Some of the weight seemed to come off his shoulders. “I’ve been trying to get help for ages,” he said tiredly. “No-one would listen when I tried to tell them about the Bad Room. No-one would believe me when I told them one of my rooms was killing people. The authorities didn’t want to know; friends and family were sympathetic but unhelpful; and when I went to the media, they just made fun of me. Luckily, only the local news ran the story, or it could have been very bad for business. But, finally, I told someone who knew someone at the Carnacki Institute. I was so happy, so relieved, when they assured me they’d send their very best people to deal with the situation . . . You’re sure you can help?”

“Of course!” JC said cheerfully. “We are the Pros from Dover; the A team, only with less guns. We know what we’re doing, and when we don’t, we fake it.”

The manager didn’t seem particularly reassured. He looked doubtfully at Melody, who scowled right back at him, and dubiously at Happy, who was smiling serenely at nothing in particular. The manager turned back to JC.

“Don’t you need a priest? For an exorcism?”

“That’s a more specialised procedure,” said JC. “Unless you’ve got hot and cold blood running down your walls, voices speaking in tongues on your internal phones, and a whole bunch of levitating beds . . . it’s unlikely to be a demonic presence. We are more your general practitioners. We make the bad things go away.”

“I’ll show you the room,” said Garth. “While it’s still light.”

“Let me guess,” said JC. “No-one goes there after dark.”

“I keep the door locked at all times,” said the manager. “So whatever’s in there can’t get out.”

*

He led the way to the single elevator, on the far side of the lobby. Melody sulked at having to leave her precious equipment behind, but it clearly wasn’t going to fit in the elevator with them. Garth promised no-one would touch anything and even elicited a quick nod of agreement from the silent presence at Reception. So Melody just stuffed a few useful items into her pockets, said Stay! to the trolley, and hauled an unresisting Happy over to the elevator with her. Everyone waited for a while, then waited some more. The manager smiled weakly.

“Sorry . . . We’ve only the four floors here at the Acropolis, so there’s only the one elevator. It’s getting old and just a bit unreliable. But perfectly safe! Oh yes! Perfectly . . .”

“Speaking of safe,” JC said quietly, “Did you arm the defences on your trolley, Mel?”

“Of course! No-one touches my stuff.”

“Tell me you set them to non-lethal.”

“More or less.”

The manager appeared even more unhappy. Especially when he looked at Happy.

“Is he all right?”

“Sometimes,” said Melody.

“He’s a specialist,” JC said solemnly. “Best not to distract him while he’s thinking. About things.”

Perhaps fortunately, the elevator doors opened at that moment, and they all filed inside. The ascent to the fourth floor was quiet and uneventful, and the doors finally opened onto a perfectly-ordinary-looking corridor. Garth led the way, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder to reassure himself the others were still with him. All the doors on both sides of the corridor remained firmly closed. There was no-one about, not a sound to be heard. Even their footsteps on the faded carpet sounded flat and dull, oddly muffled.

“Are all the other rooms on this floor occupied?” said JC.

“Of course,” said Garth. “We do good business on the whole. Brighton is always very popular with the tourists, even at the end of the Season. It’s only the one room that’s gone bad.”

“Have any of your guests reported seeing or hearing anything unusual?” said JC.

“No,” said the manager, firmly. “Everything that’s happened has been limited to just this one room. No matter how bad it gets inside the room, whatever it is stays inside.”

“How bad does it get?” said Melody.

The manager shuddered, briefly. For a moment, it seemed like he might actually turn around and go back; but he squared his weary shoulders and kept going. He had the look of a man on his way to the dentist, or possibly the hangman. JC looked thoughtfully around him. There was no dread atmosphere in the corridor, no sense of unease, nothing in the least menacing. The carpet was a bit threadbare in places, and the whole place could have used a lick of paint and a touch-up; but that was it. Nothing to indicate a dangerous setting, nothing to warn about bad things waiting in the room ahead.

The manager finally stopped before Room 418. JC noticed immediately that the numbers added up to thirteen but decided it probably wasn’t a good time to point that out.

They all stood together, looking at the blank, coffee-coloured door. It stared right back at them, giving nothing away. JC listened carefully but couldn’t hear anything. Melody produced a hand-held scanner and ran it quickly over the door. A few lights flickered on the device, but that was all. Melody scowled and put the scanner away. Happy didn’t react to any of it. JC looked at Garth. The manager’s face was wet with sweat, and his hand actually shook as he produced a magcard and unlocked the door.

“The room is empty, right now?” said JC.

“Of course,” said Garth. He pulled his hand back from the handle, as though glad of an excuse to put off actually opening the door.

“How long since anyone’s been in it?” said JC.

“I haven’t dared let this room for almost seven months now,” said Garth. “None of the staff will go anywhere near it. I have to do the turn-down and clean myself. When I can work up the nerve. I don’t like to just leave it . . . that would feel like giving up. Giving in. But I always make sure my wife comes with me, to hold the door open. So it can’t close on its own. So I won’t get . . . trapped. In there.”

“What happened, seven months ago?” said Melody. “What brought this to a head?”

“There were screams,” Garth said, reluctantly. “Out here, in the corridor. When guests came running out of their rooms to investigate, they found Mr. Harding staggering out of Room 418. He’d torn his eyes out. When they finally got him to stop screaming, he said the room showed him things.”

“Any idea what?” said Melody.

“That was all he had to say,” said Garth. “He was still saying it when they strapped him into the strait jacket and took him away.” He looked suddenly at JC. “Why are you wearing sunglasses indoors?”

“Style,” said JC.

The manager clearly wanted to say a great many things but didn’t. He braced himself and opened the door to Room 418. And then he turned and ran, bolting down the corridor as the last of his courage evaporated. He didn’t look back once, and he didn’t wait for the elevator. He was in such a hurry to get away, he plunged straight through the door marked Stairs. JC and Melody looked at each other, then at the door standing open before them. JC reached carefully inside, felt around till he found the light-switch, and turned it on. Dull, flat light revealed an empty, quiet, and completely unremarkable hotel room.

“I hate the sneaky ones,” said Melody. “Where they try to pretend nothing’s wrong . . .”

“Let us run through the briefing before we venture in,” said JC.

“You actually read the briefing file, for once?” said Melody. “I am seriously impressed. What brought that on?”

“A long train journey down,” said JC. “And I’d already read this month’s FHM. I’ll hit the high lights, and you can chime in on anything you feel is significant.”

“Because you don’t want to go into that room just yet,” said Melody.

“Got it in one,” said JC. “Something in there is sharpening its teeth. I can feel it. Anyway, what we have here . . . is a room where bad things happen. And the bad things are getting worse. No ghosts as such. No poltergeists, no dark shapes walking through walls, no menacing figure standing at the foot of the bed smiling at the occupant . . . Not even a door opening on its own in the middle of the night, or a strange face looking back out of the mirror. None of the usual give-aways. Just a room that really messes up the people who stay in it. Not merely suicides though 418 has racked up far more than its fair share. We’re talking really nasty cases of self-harming, screams in the night, and people who had such bad dreams, they wouldn’t even wait till morning to check out. And a hell of a lot of heart attacks, strokes, and other less-easily-identifiable medical problems.”

“Eighty-seven natural deaths in the past three years,” said Melody. “And over a hundred people who needed hospital treatment, for physical or mental distress.” She frowned. “That is so off the chart, I can’t believe no-one alerted us until now.”

“The manager hushed it up for as long as he could,” said JC. “Happy, are you with us? Are you sensing anything?”

The telepath gave him a vague, child-like smile. His gaze was far away.

“He’s only half-awake, most of the time,” said Melody. “Though he has moments of lucidity. He’s only fully himself, and properly operational, when he’s taking his pills.”

“And you keep on dosing him,” said JC. “Even though you know those things are killing him.”

“Yes,” said Melody.

JC shoved the door to Room 418 all the way open, slamming it back against the inside wall. The sudden sound was deafeningly loud, but it didn’t carry, and it didn’t echo. It was as though there was something wrong with sound itself inside Room 418. Happy’s head came up slowly, and he looked into the room.

“Bad place,” he said in a perfectly normal voice. “Genius loci. There’s someone in there.”

“I can’t see anyone,” said JC. “And I am looking really hard.”

“It can see us,” said Happy.

“What is it?” said Melody.

But Happy’s moment had passed.

“I have to look after him,” Melody said bitterly. “Like a carer, for someone with Alzheimer’s. He’s only thirty-two!”

Even as she said that, she tugged absently at Happy’s clothes, smartening him up like a mother with a child. Happy didn’t seem to notice.

“Be straight with me,” said JC. “How bad is he really? I need the truth, Mel.”

“Only the pills make him the man I remember,” said Melody. “Pump enough chemicals into him, and he can still do his job.”

“For how long?” said JC. “You must know that the Boss is pressing me to stand Happy down, replace him with another telepath. For the good of the team.”

“Is that what you want?” Melody said sharply.

“Of course it’s not what I want!” said JC. “But he’s damaged, now. Broken.”

“Whose fault is that?” said Melody. “You were always pushing him to take the damned pills, to make him a better telepath.”

“So he could do the job,” said JC.

“You must have known what they were doing to him!”

“Yes, I knew. So did Happy. He could have walked away from the team anytime. And maybe he should have. The way he looks now, it might be kinder if we did stand him down.”

“No,” said Melody. “It wouldn’t. At least this way, he still has some purpose in his life. Something to keep him going.”

“Is that the real reason?” said JC. “Or do you just want him to take his pills, so he can be the man you remember? The man you love?”

“You bastard . . .”

“I need the truth, Mel. Are the pills killing him?”

“Yes,” said Melody. She suddenly sounded very tired. “He’s taken them for so long, his tolerance is . . . inhuman. Only the most powerful concoctions have any effect at all.”

“What happens when the pills stop working?” JC asked.

Melody didn’t have an answer for that. She made a meaningless gesture with one hand. “We were supposed to have a life together. I was so sure I could help him, fix him . . . This wasn’t the life I saw for us. I hate this! But the only way I could have my old life back, have my freedom back, would be to let them put Happy in a hospital, or an institution. So they could look after him, for whatever remains of his life. I can’t do that. Can’t just walk away . . . They wouldn’t understand what he’s done to himself, or why it was necessary. They wouldn’t know what pills to give him when he has one of his crying jags. Or an attack of the horrors from something only he can see. I swore I’d hold him while he was dying. I just didn’t know it would take so long.”

“First thing you learn in this job,” said JC, “is that you can’t save everyone.”

“Even when it matters?”

“Especially then. All we can do is all we can do. Did you bring his pills?”

“Of course,” said Melody.

“Then give him some,” said JC. “Give him a whole bunch. Bring him back to us. Because he’s no use to anyone like this.”

Melody nodded stiffly. She already had the silver pill box in her hand. She flipped open the lid, carefully selected three colour-coded pills, and popped them into Happy’s slack mouth one at time. Like a mother feeding sweets to a small child. Her mouth pursed in a tight moue of pain; but her hand was perfectly steady.

Happy dry-swallowed with the ease of long practice. Beads of sweat popped out all over his face, he twitched several times like a dreaming dog . . . and then his eyes snapped back into focus with almost vicious force.

“I feel great!” he said loudly. “Great! Where am I?” He looked at Melody and JC. “Oh yes. I remember. This is the haunted-hotel case, right? Even when I’m not here I’m still listening. Apparently. No, Mel, let it go. I’d rather just get to work.” He peered through the open doorway, into Room 418. “That room is quite definitely inhabited.”

“What’s in there?” said JC.

“Not so much a what . . .” said Happy. “It feels more like a mood piece.” He looked around him disdainfully. “If you had to bring me back, did it have to be in such a dump? Next time, choose a really nice restaurant. You’re paying.”

“Not back five minutes and already complaining,” said JC.

He strode into the waiting room, rubbing his hands happily together in anticipation.

Happy slouched in after him, shoulders hunched in anticipation of an ambush. Melody brought up the rear, sticking close to Happy, in case he might need her. JC took up a commanding position in the middle of the room and looked carefully at everything. The bedclothes appeared to have been changed recently; but there was a thin layer of dust over everything else. It would seem there was a limit to how long the manager was prepared to stay in the room. The single window was closed, curtains drawn back to reveal a frankly depressing view. And the light in the room was oddly flat, lifeless.

The room had no character, no warmth, and nothing in the least threatening about it. Just an empty room where a great many people had stayed and left no trace of themselves behind. There wasn’t even a shadow worth the mentioning. But there was still something about the room . . . as though the Ghost Finders were only seeing, only being allowed to see, the mask on the face of the monster. JC pushed his sunglasses down his nose, and the golden glow in his eyes leapt out into the room, like a breath of fresh air in a killing ground. But he still couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“So,” said JC, pushing his sunglasses back into place. “Not exactly welcoming; but not actually worrying, either. Hello, ghosts! Come out, come out, whatever you are!”

Kim appeared out of nowhere, snapping into existence like a jump cut in a film. Tall and shapely, carelessly elegant, with a pretty face and masses of bright red hair, the ghost girl looked like a pre-Raphaelite angel. Because she wasn’t real any more, she could make her ectoplasm look like anything, so for now she wore a charming white pant suit, to complement JC’s outfit. None of the group jumped at her sudden arrival; they were used to Kim. She blew JC a kiss and smiled dazzlingly.

“Hi, JC! How’s my sweetie? Miss me? I’ve been having a quick look around the other rooms on this floor. You wouldn’t believe what that sweet old couple in 402 are getting up to. But . . . I haven’t seen a ghost anywhere.”

“Odd,” said JC. “You’d expect there to be a few. Just bog-standard local spirits, same as in any hotel.”

“It could be that whatever’s in here is so powerful, it actually suppresses everything else,” said Melody. “I need to go back down and fetch my equipment, so I can run proper scans on the environment.”

“Not just yet,” said JC. “Let’s get a feel for the place first.”

“It feels depressing,” said Happy.

“Yes . . .” Melody nodded slowly. “I’m getting something. Dark, brooding . . .”

“Lonely,” said Kim.

“Are you picking up anything useful yet, Happy?” said JC. He was concerned about how long Happy’s current frame of mind would last but didn’t like to say anything.

“Nothing specific . . .” said Happy. “Just . . . really dark feelings. The whole room is saturated with them.” He looked slowly around him. He seemed calm and centred, but his face was an unhealthy colour, with sweat still running down and dripping off his chin. As though the pills he’d taken had lit a fire inside him, and not in a good way. “I thought at first I was just picking up old emotional echoes . . . but it feels more like whatever happened here is still happening. I’m talking real long, dark night of the soul stuff. Deep angst and melancholy; despair on an industrial scale. Nasty! But, I have to say, not linked to any particular person, living or dead.”

“Given the sheer number of people who died in this room, we should be seeing some ghosts,” said JC. “Even if they’re just intense emotions imprinted on the surroundings.”

“I don’t like it here,” said Kim, wrinkling her nose. “I mean, I’m dead, and this room is still spooking the crap out of me.”

“Could be an extreme case of Sick Building Syndrome,” said Melody.

“No,” Kim said immediately. “It’s more than that.”

“Okay, this is getting seriously weird,” said Happy. “And I know from weird. I’m getting abstract, almost conceptual psychic pressure. A spiritual undertow, dragging us down.”

“Haunted Building Syndrome?” said Melody.

They were all standing close together now, as though they’d been driven into a defensive circle by unseen forces. JC looked quickly back and forth, his skin crawling. It felt like something was sneaking up on him, from every direction at once. As though the walls were closing in, and the ceiling and floor might slam together at any moment. There was a threat in the room, close and real, but he couldn’t seem to pin it down. Part of him wanted to just get the hell out while he still could. Because something was coming straight at him, like a runaway ghost train. To run him down and grind him under its wheels. JC held his head high, and snarled around him. Ghost Finders don’t run; they make everything else run.

Kim glanced at a mirror on the wall beside her and made a sudden noise. JC’s head snapped around.

“Wha. . .