Inflictions by John McIlveen

Author:John McIlveen [McIlveen, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Nina

The tenement was by far the oldest of the abandoned buildings they had considered for renovation. Andrea’s boss, Fred Bastian, had made a fortune buying these old dinosaurs around the Boston area for pennies on the dollar, refurbishing them at moderate expense, and then renting the units out for substantial profit, not quite accurately labeled as luxury properties. A good friend once told Andrea, you can’t shine a turd. Good old Fred had done well at proving her friend wrong.

In nearly eight years as an interior designer, Andrea had become very good at recognizing the potential in properties. She could envision the grand foyer hidden in an old decrepit entryway, or the beauty in converting a dilapidated old attic into an open concept loft. Fred Bastian recognized the profitability of Andrea’s talent, and capitalized manifold on it.

Andrea climbed the stairway to the fifth floor, stepping over a riser that had a little too much give, and stood on the top landing, sweeping her flashlight back and forth over the deteriorated carpet. If they did purchase this, an elevator would be indispensable. The building, like most, had potential, but would the renovation costs exceed Fred’s spending boundary? She hoped not. The building had a lot of little effects that were appealing, like carved woodwork and moldings, glass doorknobs, and the nifty built-in cabinets that were so common in the Twenties and Thirties. The glass doorknobs surprised Andrea, not in that the building had them, but in that they were still present. Glass and bronze doorknobs were usually one of the first things stolen from abandoned properties, collectible as they were.

The hallway stretched nearly two hundred feet in front of her, but the slowly fading flashlight only lit the first forty or so in the boarded-up darkness of the building. Treks like this intimidated Andrea when she first started evaluating older properties, but she found there was never anything her pepper spray couldn’t handle. If the pepper spray didn’t work, she could always revert to the 9mm Beretta she had tucked in the small of her back. Fortunately, it had never come to that.

She moved down the dusty hallway, stepping lightly, testing for weak spots. A rot- through could mean a fast, ten-foot descent.

The smell of urine, booze, and rotting food that had assaulted her upon entering the building faded considerably after the third floor. The fifth floor only offered the lonely smell of desertion.

Counting doorways—as was her habit, a reference act not unlike Hansel & Gretel’s breadcrumb trail—she continued down the corridor, but stopped in front of unit 518. The door was closed, which wasn’t unusual, but Andrea could swear she heard singing coming from inside.

She had heard plenty of mournful renditions in other abandoned buildings, but they were usually the drunken lamentations of the homeless, inebriated, or any mixture thereof. This was feminine, eerie, and beautiful, unmistakably a child’s voice. She moved closer, almost resting her ear on the door while her flashlight played across the floor. The voice was much clearer now, unaccompanied by music and very distinctly live, not a recording or a radio.

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