<strong>Malcolm Wade -- Rake at the Gates of Hell</strong><br/><br/>Mal felt a little rotten about apparently hurting Miss Morgan's feelings, but she seemed to bounce back out of it rather quickly, so he didn't see much point in apologizing. It looked like she was having more fun sniping back at McDermott anyway, who afterward focused his attention on attempting to terrify Miss Tate out of her new outfit. And then, because Mal figured the man didn't want to stop at abusing just the women, McDermott unleashed a scathing condemnation on their would-be employer that alternately had Malcolm cringing at its cruelty and cramping with repressed laughter.<br/><br/>The pseudo-cleric rose in a huff and made for the bar. As he took his leave, Mr. Hatcher seemed to almost deflate in his seat. Mal sat back and watched the pain that had obviously been eating away at the man for some time now break free at last -- or part of it, at any rate.<br/><br/>"Well, I guess that settles that, then," Mal said. He raised his glass to Hatcher and offered what he hoped was a professional, reassuring smile. "To resolutions." With that, he turned up his glass and drained the last of his alcohol, then slammed it back down on the table. He had no idea if he'd really be able to make a difference in Harrowgate, but he knew for certain that now he had to try.<br/><br/>With thoughts of his no-doubt impending demise brought on by an insatiable hero complex brewing in his head, Mal almost didn't notice the last arrival. He only realized the newest member of their little troupe had joined them when Hatcher called her name and waved her over, and only just rose from his seat before she reached them.<br/><br/>Hatcher started passing out several folders to those present, gave them all the morning's schedule and retreated to his room. Mal caught the words 'room service' and decided he'd rather dine in solitude than downstairs, just in case his luck began to repeat itself on a wider scale. He grabbed his copy of Hatcher's files and left the table, but not before wishing the others a good night.<br/><br/>**<br/><br/><em>'Damn, this thing's more like a palace on wheels. It's nicer than the apartment,'</em>Mal thought as he sat in one of the middle seats. His fingers played over the smooth, cool velvet, absently tracing patterns in the plush as he looked out the driver's side window. He still wore the heavy trench, but the vehicle was so perfectly air conditioned he felt completely comfortable. Johnny Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters spilled faintly from his mp3 player, pleasantly nullifying Cathy, who hovered in a shapeless mist at his feet but still had no problem talking.<br/><br/>He used to wonder about the physics of ghosts, back when he first started. The longer he worked with Cathy, though, the more he realized such things were pointless. Ghosts did what ghosts did, and the laws of nature could go fuck themselves. As he listened to his music he started tapping his feet, and Cathy floated up to swirl around behind his head.<br/><br/>Within a couple hours, they reached the city limits of the little town of Cypress Falls. There was nothing ominous about the place that Malcolm could sense, and Cathy didn't set off any warning bells; it was just a sleepy little burg in a sleepy little county. The streets seemed clean, most of the houses and businesses seemed to be wearing reasonably new paint jobs, and while the cars on the streets weren't showroom new by any stretch, neither were they a bunch of grimy beaters.<br/><br/>The bus poked and weaved through light traffic until it turned down a side road and rolled up to a wide, ornate iron gate. The brown brick columns on either side were scratched and pock-marked, victims of seven decades of neglect and abuse by the elements. Hatcher stepped onto the cobbled driveway and unlatched the gate, and Mal heard a sudden rip of thunder. The sky, blue and sunny the whole morning, had turned as dark and foreboding as any August storm.<br/><br/>Malcolm looked ahead through the windshield and stared hard at the house in front of them. The long, curved drive snaked and turned up the hill and came to rest at the foot of the manor. Tall, once-white columns stood majestic and dilapidated around the entrance, and yard after yard of kudzu and creeper vines coiled over the steps and spacious porch.<em>'Holy shit. If I were a demon, I'd say this place was the damn Ritz!'</em><br/><br/>He heard Hatcher rustling in the back and saw him drag up a heavy-looking crate from one of the back seats. He started handing out supplies and offered them all one last chance to back down, and for a few silent moments Mal considered accepting. The money was great, sure, and success would almost certainly mean no more lost lives. But what would failure bring? The thought of his little girl, Coraline, shone in his mind and hardened his resolve. Failure might let this thing go on slaughtering forever. Failure might let it find a way to leave the house and walk the earth, free. Failure might mean Coraline's life.<br/><br/>Fuck that. Whatever was in that house, Mal would<em>evict</em>its sorry ass. Permanently.<br/><br/>He and the others climbed off the bus and stood at the bottom step, the storm clouds threatening to unleash their torrential fury any second. He looked around at the others who stood with him, looked into their faces met their eyes. Then he faced forward and put one foot on the first vine-wrapped marble step.<br/><br/>"Alright, people. Let's go have us a house-warming."