“The exploding wizard I mentioned?” said the Shakarath, raising a wispy grey eyebrow. “Your parents were standing next to him at the time.”
For the first time since he’d woken up in the tomb, Denzel was grateful to be strapped to the rack, otherwise he’d have fallen down.
Life with his dads had been pretty much perfect, but he’d occasionally wondered about his real parents, and what had happened to them. Being blown to bits by an evil ghost cult had not been a possibility he had considered.
“Those children – your Spectre Collectors – thought you were special. Thought you had power of your own. Little did they realise that the biggest, most powerful ghost in history was lurking within you,” said the Shakarath. “Without the Ghostfather, you would be nothing, boy.”
Denzel would’ve quite liked to have been nothing, if it meant not having his parents blown up and not being strapped in an X-shape about to be sacrificed by a mad cult, but he was too shaken to say any of it.
Instead, he asked the most pressing question he had. It came out as a low, frightened croak.
“What happens now?”
The Shakarath stepped aside, revealing that the four cultists had assembled their device on the altar. It stood beside the two red gemstones their leader had tossed there earlier, and Denzel found himself worrying about the fates of Smithy and Tabatha as much as his own.
“Now?” said the Shakarath, excitement building on his withered face. “Now, we begin.”
He thrust both hands into the air and the low, murmured chanting rose until it became a series of rhythmic grunts and shouts. Every single robed figure in the room, the Shakarath included, began an elaborate series of hand gestures and turns, moving in perfect harmony.
It reminded him of the time his dads had taken him line-dancing at the community centre, only no one here was wearing a cowboy hat, and it was much less embarrassing in general. Still, he’d have taken line-dancing any day over his current predicament, which was really saying something.
The device the cultists had put together – the Key – glowed a faint green colour. From this angle, Denzel couldn’t tell if the pointy bit at the front was aimed at him or at the huge blade hanging above him. He wasn’t sure what would be worse – being blasted open or sliced in half. Neither one was ideal.
He began to shout and scream, to thrash against his restraints.
“Help!” he shouted. Desperately. Hopelessly. “Someone help!”
His eyes went to the door up the staircase at the far end of the tomb, longing to see Samara and Boyle come charging through. He’d take Rasmus and Knightley if he had to. In fact, at this particular moment, he’d be happy to see any random stranger come strolling through the door, as long they weren’t wearing a big robe or carrying a Samurai sword.
The door remained closed though.
No one was coming.
The chanting rose in both passion and volume, becoming something that wouldn’t have sounded out of place at a football match.
The Key hummed, then glowed so bright Denzel could no longer look at it without it hurting his eyes.
On some secret cue, the chanting stopped. Its echo explored the cavernous tomb for a few seconds, then faded into silence.
The Shakarath whispered a single word in a language Denzel didn’t understand.
And then a beam of magical energy fired from the end of the Key, and all Denzel knew was pain.
He could feel him. Even through the pain and the fear, Denzel could feel the Ghostfather stirring somewhere inside him. It started as a fluttering in his stomach, then a rumbling like an earthquake in his brain.
And then, he knew. He knew the Shakarath wasn’t crazy. Well, he probably was crazy, but he was also right.
The Ghostfather was inside Denzel. And it was time for him to come out.
A feeling of weightlessness washed over Denzel. He experienced the same whooshing sensation he felt whenever Smithy pulled him through a wall, and then he was on his hands and knees on the floor, having phased through the restraints that had been holding him in place.
The whining of the Key stopped. Its glow faded, and the tomb was plunged back into shadowy torchlight.
Denzel’s fingers stretched out and then curved back in like claws. He watched them flex in and out, in and out against the rough stone floor, fully aware that he was not the one making them move.
Gritting his teeth, he forced his hands to behave themselves. They trembled in protest, but the fingers stopped flexing. Denzel could feel the urge building up in them though, like water behind a dam.
He gasped when the truth dawned on him. The Ghostfather wasn’t going to come bursting out of him. The Ghostfather was becoming him. He was taking over Denzel’s body to use for his own.
Denzel managed to raise his head to look at the Shakarath and all the other cultists. They watched him in breathless silence, and Denzel could actually feel the excitement rising from them in waves.
Even the Samurai-ghosts had turned to look at him now. Their hands no longer gripped the hilts of their swords. Presumably, there was no longer any danger of anyone messing up the ceremony. The damage was already done.
But Denzel could still do some damage of his own.
His legs refused to obey him at first, so he let his fingers go back to flexing and focused all his willpower on his feet.
The right one moved first, kicking him up into a clumsy, lumbering stagger down the stone staircase. The left leg wasn’t as keen to get involved and he fell the final few steps, rolled clumsily at the bottom and hit his head on the floor with a crack.
The impact seemed to stun the Ghostfather more than it did him, and Denzel’s muscles were suddenly back under his control. The cultists and Samurai-ghosts backed away from him as he lurched over to the sacrificial altar.
“The Key! Give me the Key!” Denzel cried. As he did, the pitch of his voice rose and fell, fluctuating between a scratchy yelp and a deep drone.
He thudded against the front of the altar. Directly across the other side of it, the Shakarath’s puckered mouth twisted into a smirk.
“The Key won’t help you now. Nothing will help you now.”
“Didn’t really want the Key anyway,” Denzel wheezed. He grabbed for the gemstones containing Smithy and Tabatha, but the old man was much faster than he looked.
The Shakarath’s zombie-like hands snatched the gems up before Denzel could get to them.
“Now now,” the cult leader said. “Let’s not do anything silly.”
“Give them to me,” Denzel pleaded.
“It’s too late, boy.”
“Give them to me!”
“Your friends are gone. And soon, you shall be too.”
“GIVE THEM TO ME!”
The third time Denzel said the words, he didn’t think it was really him saying them at all. The voice seemed to erupt from inside him, a deep, booming bass drum of rage.
As it did, the Shakarath moved backwards. It took Denzel a moment to realise that he was not retreating of his own free will, and had instead been propelled backwards at quite a high speed.
In the spot where he had been standing, both gemstones floated in mid-air. Denzel felt a near-overwhelming urge to eat them both, to absorb their ghostly contents into himself and boost his growing power.
Fortunately, he was able to resist. With some effort, he forced his hands to pluck the gemstones from the air.
Meanwhile, several dozen metres across the room, the Shakarath crunched against the stone steps. He lay there groaning as Denzel convinced his shaking fingers to unwind the lengths of willow from around each gem.
Two of the Samurai-ghosts came up behind him, swords drawn. Denzel wasn’t sure how he knew this, exactly, because he hadn’t turned around. It was like he could see them in his head, every detail crisp and clear in his mind’s eye.
He vaporised them with a thought.
No, not him. It wasn’t him, he told himself. It was the Ghostfather. The Ghostfather
had destroyed them. The Ghostfather would destroy them all.
“You i-idiots,” he said, struggling to make his lips form the words. “You h-have n-n-no idea what you’ve d-done.”
The power inside him was growing, and as it did, he got a better sense of who the Ghostfather was. He had no loyalty to this cult. He had no loyalty to anyone. If he took control, he would kill them all in a heartbeat. And then the world would be next.
Denzel had planned to throw the gems to the floor, but there was no need for that now. He was strong enough to just clench his fists around them and crush them both into powder.
As the gemstones shattered, Smithy and Tabatha came tumbling out. Tabatha landed in a crouch, already twirling her cane. Smithy hit the floor with an “Oof!” then pulled himself upright, made a series of karate-chopping gestures at the world in general, and whooped with excitement when he saw his best friend.
“Denzel! You’re alive! Nice robe. Very few people can successfully wear bright yellow, but on you it works.”
His face fell.
“Wow, you look terrible,” he said. “You’re all sweaty. Why are you so sweaty? You look like a pig in a sauna.”
Denzel nodded shakily.
“And your face is all…” Smithy contorted his face into an angry snarl. “Like that. And a bit…” He puffed out his cheeks. “A bit that.”
Denzel managed another nod.
“And why are you doing that with your fingers? And why’s your hair standing on end? And why are you floating?”
Denzel looked down. Sure enough, he was levitating a few centimetres off the ground. That was new, and yet he wasn’t actually all that surprised.
“I’m th-the Ghostfather,” Denzel managed to say.
Tabatha spun on the spot, her eyebrows arching in surprise.
“Are you?” said Smithy. “Wow. That’s crazy. You look just like my mate Denzel.” He glanced around. “Have you seen him?”
“That is Denzel,” Tabatha said.
Smithy shook his head. “That’s what I thought, but he reckons he’s the Ghostfather. I mean, it’s an easy mistake to make, the resemblance is uncanny.”
“He’s Denzel and he’s the Ghostfather,” Tabatha clarified.
Smithy looked Denzel up and down. “Oh. Right.” He frowned. “How does that work?”
“N-not very w-well,” Denzel slurred. “H-help me.”
“I should have seen this,” Tabatha said, staring deep into Denzel’s eyes. “Of course he’s inside you. It’s the perfect hiding place.”
Four of the Samurai-ghosts moved to attack. Tabatha blasted one with her cane, while Denzel obliterated the others with a wave of his hand.
The Ghostfather’s power and rage were both building, but he could still direct them, at least. He could still keep his friends safe.
Even, he realised, if he couldn’t save himself.
“You h-have to go,” he said. “G-get out.”
“We’re not leaving you,” said Smithy, turning serious.
“You have to,” Denzel hissed. He suddenly found himself disliking Smithy. He disliked his stupid face. He hated his inane chatter. He despised everything about him.
“No!” Denzel roared, driving the thoughts away. His voice became a series of breathless sobs. “C-can’t control it m-much longer. P-please, Smithy. Go. Just go.”
The air around Denzel crackled and hummed. Little electrical charges flickered across his skin. Pain tore up his insides and he gasped, blowing out two of the torches on the other side of the tomb.
The cultists, who had all seemed right behind the whole bring back the Ghostfather thing until now, started shifting uneasily on their feet. A couple of them looked over to where the Shakarath lay groaning on the steps, then past him to the door beyond, sizing up their chances of escape.
Denzel noticed none of this. He was too preoccupied by the icy-cold fingers that came creeping into his brain. At first he wanted to scream, but then his head was filled with seductive thoughts of power.
“So … strong,” he whispered, his eyes turning glassy and dark. “So powerful. He can do anything. I can do anything. The world will be ours. His. Mine. All shall crumble before us. All shall fall.”
“OK, that doesn’t sound good,” said Tabatha. “Denzel? Denzel, can you hear me?”
Denzel blinked. Sweat poured down his forehead, but his arms ignored his instructions to wipe his face on his sleeve.
“Go,” he whispered. “P-please, just go.”
“I have an idea,” said Tabatha. “But it’s insane.”
“I’m in,” said Smithy.
“Like really insane.”
“I’m even more in,” Smithy replied. “What do we do?”
Tabatha caught Smithy by the hand. He stared at it for a moment, blushed, but said nothing.
“Have you ever possessed anyone before?” she asked him.
“Um, once or twice,” Smithy admitted. He crinkled his nose. “It didn’t end well.”
“Third time’s the charm,” said Tabatha. She drew herself up to her full height. “Ready?”
Denzel felt his anger boiling up inside him. What were these two insignificant insects babbling about? He should consume them. Devour them whole.
“Ready,” said Smithy. He also drew himself up to his full height, but his full height wasn’t all that much, so it wasn’t very impressive.
“Wh-what are you d-doing?” Denzel demanded.
“Ready, steady…” Tabatha said.
Both ghosts jumped at the same time, throwing themselves towards Denzel.
“Possess!” Smithy yelped, then Denzel staggered as he felt them both phase into him.
For several seconds Denzel felt like his brain was being smashed by hammers and kicked around the floor, as he and three other people all tried to exist in the same body at the same time.
And then he heard a voice. Or maybe felt it; he wasn’t sure. Whichever, the effect was the same.
He laughed. Despite every terrible thing currently going on, he laughed.
“Dark in here, innit?” said Smithy.
“Budge up,” said Tabatha.
“I shall flay your flesh from your very bones!” said the Ghostfather, which sort of killed the mood a bit.
Denzel could still feel the Ghostfather raging inside him, but it was easier to resist him now that he had back-up. His power was still growing though, and Denzel knew it was only a matter of time before he became too strong for even the three of them to contain.
“OK, here’s what we’re going to do,” said Tabatha. “This is the insane bit I mentioned.”
“Wait, this wasn’t the crazy part?” Denzel said. He was the only one actually speaking out loud, much to the confusion of the cultists. Many of them had started edging their way to the door now, no doubt reconsidering some of their recent life choices.
“No. This was actually pretty sensible compared to what happens next,” said Tabatha.
“Do we make Denzel pick his nose and eat it?” asked Smithy.
“What? Ew. No,” said Tabatha.
“I will destroy you! I will destroy all!” raged the Ghostfather.
Everyone ignored him.
“There’s only one way we’re getting rid of this guy,” said Tabatha. “We have to open a portal to the Spectral Realm.”
Denzel let out a little yelp of terror. He had some experience of portals into the Spectral Realm, and he didn’t really want to get involved with another one.
“What? No! We can’t do that! We’ve seen one of those and they’re not good! It’ll gobble up everything in the room. It’ll destroy everything!”
That was the straw that broke the cultists’ backs. They turned as one, hitched up their robes and began legging it up the stairs, completely ignoring the semi-conscious Shakarath who lay spread-eagled on the staircase beside them.
“It’s the only way,” Tabatha told Denzel. “We use the Ghostfather’s power to open a portal and we trap him inside.”
> “Quick question,” said Smithy. “Won’t that mean we’re trapped inside too? Like, all of us?”
Tabatha shook her head. Denzel wasn’t sure how he knew this, exactly, but he did.
“No, we can jump out at the last minute.”
“That’s it? That’s your escape plan?” Denzel asked. “Jump out at the last minute?”
“Denzel can’t jump out!” Smithy pointed out. “He’ll get pulled in along with the Ghostfather.”
“It’s … it’s fine,” Denzel said, quickly coming to the conclusion that they didn’t have many other options open to them. “She’s right. It’s the only way to stop him. I can feel it. He’s too powerful. He’ll destroy everything.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll do it. I’ll sacrifice myself.”
“Actually, you don’t have to,” said Tabatha.
Denzel let out a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.”
“You see, we haven’t actually possessed you, Denzel.”
“You haven’t?”
“We haven’t?” echoed Smithy.
“We’ve possessed the Ghostfather,” Tabatha explained.
They all felt the Ghostfather writhe angrily at this suggestion, as if he were taking offence.
“So? What’s the difference?” Denzel asked.
“The difference is that we can do this.”
She made a sound like someone straining to lift something heavy. Denzel felt a sudden sensation of movement, like a hand had pushed him in the middle of the chest. He stumbled and fell to the floor, and found himself staring up at a figure carved from darkness itself.
The air around it warped and buckled, as if the figure’s very existence was bending reality.
“Foolish children.”
The words were the Ghostfather’s, Denzel knew, but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where they’d come from.
“You cannot hope to stop me. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last. I am the destructor of all things. I am the Ghost—”
There was a parp as the Ghostfather loudly broke wind.
Rise of the Ghostfather Page 13