Opening Acts

by SFnovelists

  Medium Dead

  by Chris Dolley

  There's only one thing worse than being able to see the dead and that's having to listen to them. They're so whiney. Why me? I'm too young to die! Why didn't I go to the doctor earlier?

  When Brenda saw her first ghost she thought she was going crazy. The final destination in a year-long descent into hell that had seen her marriage, her career, her home of six years - all disappear in the messiest of messy divorces.

  Other wives got alimony, Brenda got dead people. And to make matters worse, her lying, cheating ex-husband hadn't been one of them.

  Now, four years on, she did her best to ignore them, busying herself with whatever task she could find while waiting for them to leave. That was one good thing about the dead - they never stayed for long. They drifted in, complained, then faded.

  Except this one. She'd been in Brenda's kitchen since before breakfast. Just standing there by the fridge door, a translucent mouse of a woman - mid-fifties, pinched features, short brown hair and wearing what looked like an ankle-length dressing gown. She'd watched in silence as Brenda ate her solitary breakfast and watched a recording of her favorite daytime soap - the so-bad-it-was-addictive, The Rich, The Spoiled, and the Surgically Enhanced.

  And all through that the ghost hadn't said a word. Even when Celeste, who last week had become a lesbian, discovered that Geraldine, her new partner, was actually her father - who'd had to have a sex change ten years earlier when he'd been forced into the witness protection program following his wife's murder by the albino Mafia. Or was that the Albanian Mafia? It was difficult to tell in the excitement. Celeste was screaming so loud, and Brenda's coffee had gone down the wrong way.

  But the ghost hadn't reacted at all. Not to Celeste, or the choking Brenda. She'd just hung there, impassive and staring.

  And exuding an odor that Brenda euphemistically named, 'freshly dug.' That was another thing about ghosts - the slightly musty, slightly sweet smell they sometimes brought with them. Brenda had to keep a can of air freshener handy at all times.

  "Well?" snapped Brenda, gathering up her cup and bowl from the table. "Are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there all day?"

  The ghost said nothing. She didn't even flicker. Her empty black eyes followed Brenda from the table to the sink.

  Then, as Brenda was stacking the washing up, the woman spoke.

  "He's coming for you next."

  Brenda swung round in surprise. "Who…."

  But the woman had gone. No wisp of fading ectoplasm, no shimmering patch of air. Nothing.

  Until Brenda turned to face the sink again and almost jumped across the room.

  The ghost was in her sink. Well, half in her sink. The woman was standing there as though the sink didn't exist - her feet presumably on the floor while her torso rose out of Brenda's washing up.

  "He's going to kill you like he killed me." Gone were the ghost's empty eyes and impassive face. She spat the words out. "He's been watching you for weeks."

  "Who?"

  The ghost turned her head to one side. "I can hear him coming." The corners of her mouth curled up in a hint of a smile. A far from pleasant one. Her face swung back to challenge Brenda.

  "Run! Get out while you can."

  There was no warmth in the warning. Just hostility.

  Brenda folded her arms. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell-"

  "You're not listening!" The ghost stabbed an ethereal hand at the back door. "This is your last chance. Open that door and run!"

  Brenda stayed where she was, arms folded and determined not to say another word. She'd experienced enough ghostly histrionics over the past four years. Some spirits were angry and confused. Others were just plain angry. And the more you responded, the crazier they became.

  A look of contempt settled over the woman's face. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

  And with that, she vanished.

  Brenda let out a deep breath and rolled her eyes. What was it with ghosts? Had all the friendly, well-adjusted ones found the bright white light and passed over?

  She looked down at her crockery in the sink. Was that ectoplasm on her breakfast bowl? Calcium deposits were bad enough, but ectoplasm…

  That's when the front doorbell rang.

  Brenda froze. She glanced towards the living room, then back at the sink. Coincidence? She wasn't expecting anyone. No one called on a Saturday. No one called most days.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Okay, thought Brenda, I'm thirty-one and far too old to be spooked by a spook. It'll probably be Jehovah's Witnesses.

  She stepped into her living room, cast a quick glance around to make sure it was presentable and walked towards the door. Then hesitated.

  "Who is it?" she asked, standing a good two yards back from the door.

  "Brian Murphy. I'm sorry to disturb you, but my car's broken down outside your house."

  Brian Murphy? The name didn't ring any bells, but he didn't sound threatening. He sounded middle-aged, educated - not the kind of person who'd pull a knife and come crashing through the door the moment she slipped the chain.

  But that warning…

  "Hello? Are you still there?" asked the man outside.

  Brenda bit her lip. This was stupid. It was nine o'clock in the morning. Broad daylight in a crime-free suburban neighborhood. She wasn't in any danger. This was the Midwest, not New York or London. Her neighbors were probably out in their driveways washing their cars, or playing with their kids. No one would try anything in front of so many witnesses.

  She stepped forward and opened the door a crack, letting the chain pull taut across the gap. A middle-aged man peered in, business suit, clean shaven, slightly built. And nervous. It wasn't hot outside, but three beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  "My car's there," he said, standing back to point at a black BMW parked across the entrance to Brenda's drive. "Can I … would it be all right to use your phone?"

  He smiled - a quick nervous smile - then looked away.

  Brenda's internal threat status rose from guarded to elevated. He wants to get inside your home. Why doesn't he use his cell?

  She swallowed, her mouth suddenly feeling dry. "I'll call the local garage for you. I've got them on speed dial."

  "No!"

  He couldn't disguise the panic in his voice. Though he tried.

  "It's not a garage I need to call. It's uh my office. I'm late for an important meeting. My job depends on it."

  Brenda looked at him hard. She wanted him to be telling the truth. She didn't want a fuss. She wanted a nice, simple, conflict-free life. And he might be telling the truth. Important meeting, career on the line, car breaks down on the way. Who wouldn't panic?

  But…

  "Don't you have a cell phone?"

  He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. "You must think I'm a total idiot. I'm usually so organized but … it's this meeting. It's really knocked me sideways. I forgot to charge the battery last night. The thing's dead. Along with my career and my marriage if I don't sort something out."

  He looked at her pleadingly. Brenda wavered. He didn't look creepy. He looked frightened and nervous - which could be explained if this meeting was as important as he said it was.

  But…

  He could be spinning her a line. You heard about it all the time. Serial killers and their ploys. My car's broken down. I've lost my dog. My child's hurt. Please, can you help?

  And once you slipped the chain or got in their car, that was it. No way back. They'd whack you from behind or drug you. And the next thing you knew you were face down on some cold floor being raped or murdered.

  She was not slipping that chain.

  "You can borrow my cell," said Brenda, keeping her voice bright and confident. "I'll fetch it."

  She'd barely turned away from the door when she heard the click of a gun.

  "One more step and I'll blow his head off."

  A second man's voice
. Young, threatening, and hitting all Brenda's alarm buttons. She swung round. The older man's face had been pushed down and squashed against the doorjamb. A gun pressed against his ear. The second man - tall, early twenties, black greasy hair - glared at her through wild eyes.

  "Open the door, or I'll spread his brains all over your carpet."

  Brenda couldn't move. Her gut told her to run. Let him inside and he'd do whatever he wanted. Her only chance was to run and duck and hope she could make it out the back before he smashed his way in. But his eyes told her he'd shoot her in the back before she made it to the kitchen.

  Time stretched. The only sound the slow tick of the wall clock. Nothing from outside. No shouts, no voices, no children playing. Where were her neighbors when she needed them?

  "I'm counting to three," he said. "One…."

  Brenda still couldn't move, still listening for that one sound - a slowing car, a shout, a passing savior.

  "Two."

  She rushed to the door, hands trembling, fingers turning to thumbs as she struggled to slip the chain off the latch. The door swung open, knocking her backwards. Two men bundled through. The older man was shoved towards the center of the room, off balance and falling. He hit the floor and rolled, banging into the edge of the sofa.

  The younger man closed the door and locked it. "Anyone else in the house?"

  She wanted to say 'not yet.' She wanted to say her husband was on his way home. With his brothers. All Navy SEALS.

  But he ran at her and the words vanished. There was so much anger in his face. She shrank back against the wall - trapped. His left hand thudded into her sternum, pinning her there.

  "I said, is anyone else here!"

  His breath stank. She could barely think. "No!" she gasped. "No one."

  "You live alone?"

  "Yes."

  He pushed himself off her, smiling as he did so. Every part of her body was shaking. Why hadn't she listened to the dead woman? She'd been warned!

  The gunman hurried to the windows and drew all the curtains. He switched on the room lights and ripped the phone out of the wall.

  "Give me your cells. Now! Both of you!"

  Brian fumbled in his pockets. The gunman stood over him, beckoning impatiently with his fingers, before snatching the cell from Brian's trembling hand.

  "Mine's in the kitchen," said Brenda.

  He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her from the wall. "Show me. And you," he turned and pointed the gun at Brian. "Don't move an inch. I only need one hostage."

  Brian didn't say a word. Or move. He just sat there, on the floor, looking like a helpless animal caught in a spotlight.

  Brenda was pushed towards the kitchen. She tried to walk calmly. She tried not to look at the rack of knives by the draining board. She tried to focus everything on collecting her phone and handing it over with the minimum of eye contact. But her brain was in a spin, screaming at her to do something, screaming at her - no! She had to wait. There's no time to wait! He'll tie you up in a minute and you'll be helpless. But fight back and he'll kill you! Do as he says and you'll get through this. Make him realize you're a person, do all those things that hostages are supposed to do. Wait him out!

  She grabbed the cell with shaking fingers and handed it to him, keeping her eyes down and fixed on the phone. She didn't dare look at him. One misread look and anything could happen.

  He reached forward to take the phone, his left hand enclosing both the phone and the tips of her fingers. And there it stayed. His hand in contact with hers. Gently squeezing.

  "That's a good girl. We're going to get along fine. I can tell."

  Brenda swallowed hard, her imagination on fire. She had to get out of this room. She was trapped in a corner. He was between her and both doors.

  "Shouldn't you be locking the back door and closing the blinds?" she said.

  "You like it in the dark, do you?"

  Shit! Shit! Shit! She closed her eyes, squeezed them shut. She could feel him inching closer, his stinking breath warm against the top of her head. His other hand brushed against her shoulder, sliding down and across…

  Crash! The sound came from the living room. Breaking glass. The gunman turned, already moving towards the sound. He yanked Brenda along behind him, his fingers digging into her arm.

  "It wasn't me," said Brian, rising from the spot where they'd left him. "It just fell down. I haven't moved."

  Brenda believed him. There was a dead woman standing by the far wall, a few yards from an empty space where a mirror had been. A different dead woman - not the one from earlier - and were those bruises on her face? And her clothes - they were ripped and … was that blood?

  She looked so sad and tearful, rippling against the far wall - opaque, transparent, half here, half there. Had she managed to dislodge the mirror from the wall? All the ghosts Brenda had seen passed straight through matter.

  The gunman let go of Brenda's arm and turned on Brian.

  "I told you not to fucking move!" He pointed the gun straight at Brian's head. "Where do you want it? In the head? The chest? The leg?"

  The gun zigzagged in his hands, pointing at Brian's head, his chest, his thighs.

  "You can die quick or slow. It's up to you."

  "He didn't do anything!" shouted Brenda. "The screw holding the mirror's been loose for ages. I meant to get someone in to repair it!"

  He ignored her, the gun dancing in his hands. He was enjoying himself, smiling, tormenting, his eyes locked on Brian's terrified face.

  "What would he be doing over there?" shouted Brenda. "If he wanted to escape he'd have gone for the door!"

  A second passed. Then another. Brian just stood there, eyes tight closed and face screwed up in silent acceptance. The ghost by the wall started to cry.

  "No!" she wailed.

  The gunman relaxed. It was like a switch had been thrown. One second he was about to kill, the next he lowered his gun, turned to Brenda and smiled.

  "Not your lucky day is it? First me, then the mirror."

  His smile tightened, then vanished. He started to move towards her. "Do you know the difference between me and a mirror?"

  She shook her head, backing away at the same time. One wrong word, one mistaken glance and she could set him off.

  "You get seven years bad luck for a mirror. But with me … you get time off for good behavior. If you know what I mean."

  Brenda nearly threw up. The way he said it, the way he smiled, so smug, so … eugh!

  "Now move! Both of you! Over there where I can see you."

  He herded them into the lounge area of the open plan living room, the section in the far corner by the television. "Sit down!"

  Brenda took the near armchair so she could keep an eye on the dead woman who still hadn't moved from her place by the wall. Brian perched on the far edge of the L-shaped sofa. The gunman stood in front of the television. He turned it on and flicked through the channels until he found a local news station.

  It was a live broadcast from nearby Hillsdale. A gaggle of reporters surrounded a police spokesman.

  "Is it the Hillsdale rapist?" a journalist called out.

  "It's too soon to say," said the spokesman. "But we do have a lead. A man was seen running away from the vicinity."

  He held up a photofit of the man's face. The cameras zoomed in on the image. Brenda leaned forward, already knowing whose face she was going to see. It was the gunman. Not an exact likeness, but close enough. The Hillsdale rapist. Five women beaten, raped and murdered in a matter of months. And now here he was - in her home! - holding her hostage.

  "Fuck!" said the gunman, starting to pace. "Fuck!"

  He turned on Brian. "This is all your fault. How the fuck can you run out of gas?"

  Brian melted into the back of the sofa. "I uh I … I…." He looked too terrified to speak.

  "I-I-I what?" said the gunman. "I shit myself? I too fucking stupid to see the warning light?"

  "You put a gun in my face! I couldn't thi
nk straight."

  "You couldn't think straight? You only had enough gas to drive eight miles! You should have seen the warning light before I flagged you down."

  The police spokesman flashed back on screen talking about how there'd been a chase, but the killer had given them the slip.

  "He won't get away. We've set up roadblocks around Hillsdale and Richwood. There's no way he's getting out."

  The gunman turned and swore at the television before starting pacing again, prowling the area in front of the TV.

  Another picture flashed on screen. The victim - twenty-four year-old nurse, Gabriella Czerna - pictured from happier times when she could still smile. When her face wasn't bruised, her dress torn and blood-spattered, and her ghost wasn't a see-through wraith hovering above the broken shards of Brenda's mirror.

  The wraith began to pulse against the wall, brightening and fading in time to … to what? A ghostly heart beat? Had anger, the sudden sight of her former self on the television, imbued her spectral form with some remnant of life?

  The pulsing began to diminish and with it went the anger in her face. Replaced by tears. A low sobbing accompaniment to the news report of her death.

  "Why don't you take my car?" said Brenda. "They can't be watching every road out of here."

  "No. Best to stay here and wait," said the gunman. "Tomorrow this'll be old news."

  Tomorrow? He was staying here - in her house - for twenty-four hours?

  "Don't look so worried. Do what I say and you'll both get out of here alive. You never know - you might start to enjoy it."

  He smiled - a serial-killing rapist's smile. Are you having a good time? I am.

  A small sad voice sounded from the ghost by the wall. "He never leaves loose ends."

  Brenda closed her eyes. He never leaves loose ends. She wasn't going to get out of this alive. He was going to hole up in her house until the roadblocks were lifted then make a run for it in her car. Either he'd take her with him as a hostage, or he'd kill her here. He wouldn't care. And when he wasn't killing her, he'd be raping her.

  He never leaves loose ends.

  "I'm sorry," said Brian. "It's all my fault. I should never have let him hijack my car. I should have fought back. I could have saved you from this."

  "Shut up," said the gunman. He smiled at Brenda and rolled his eyes. "Of all the cars to hijack I had to hijack his. You'd be a better driving buddy, wouldn't you? I bet you wouldn't run out of gas. I bet you could go for hours."

  He sauntered towards her, smiling his serial-killer rapist's smile. He probably thought himself irresistible. Brenda glanced towards the ghost by the wall. The ghost who'd found enough power earlier to dislodge the mirror. Wasn't it about time…

  The ghost vanished. No goodbyes, no 'I'm going for help.' She just vanished.

  "How much do you want?" asked Brian. "I'm a rich man. I can raise a ransom. Just let us go. You won't get a penny if we're dead."

  He had the killer's interest. "How rich?"

  "Very. Look, take my wallet. It's full of platinum cards. I can raise hundreds of thousands. Let me call my wife. She'll get it for you."

  The gunman took the wallet and opened it. He pulled out a number of credit cards and pocketed them. Then stopped dead, his eyes narrowing.

  "Where'd you get this?" he shouted at Brian, pulling a photograph from the wallet and thrusting it at him.

  Brian pulled away, flattening himself against the back of the sofa. "It's Tina, my wife. It was taken-"

  "Is this some kinda joke?" He stood over Brian, gun hand drawn back ready to strike. "This is Tina Murphy!"

  Brian brought his arms up to protect his face. "I know. I'm Brian Murphy."

  The gunman brought his arm back further, held it there, quivering. Then turned away. "Fuck!"

  Brenda watched, confused. Who was Tina Murphy?

  The gunman paced, shaking his head. The picture had unnerved him. He was already unpredictable. He could snap at any second.

  He charged at Brian, grabbed a fistful of hair with his left hand and shook the man's head, his gun hand held high, threatening to come smashing down on the side of Brian's face.

  Brian wailed, both hands coming up to claw at the killer's left hand. But with no strength or conviction.

  Brenda's hands flew to her face. He was going to kill him. Beat him to death in front of her. And all for what? A picture of his wife?

  The gun hand continued to hover. The fingers of the killer's left hand continued to bite. "Were you following me? Is that why you were there when I needed a car? Did you let me hi-jack it?"

  "No! I don't understand."

  "You don't understand. Tina Murphy is fucking dead. I killed her last month!"

  "No! I talked to her this morning. I can phone her if you like. She's alive."

  "Can I see her picture?" asked Brenda. The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. Curiosity, the cat killer, had struck again. She flinched in her seat, not sure if she'd just tipped him over the edge, not sure if he was going to come racing over, flailing and shooting.

  He stopped shaking Brian. And stared at Brenda. Then back at Brian. "Are you in this together? Did you bring me here on purpose?"

  "No! We've never met. I ran out of gas. You can check."

  The gunman let go of Brian, let him slump back in the sofa and moved towards Brenda. "Why do you want to see the picture?"

  He stood in front of her, daring her to say something he didn't like.

  And what could she say? That she thought the face might belong to one of the many ghosts who floated through her home. Maybe the one who'd warned her earlier?

  "Sorry. I thought I might recognize her from the TV. I was only trying to help."

  She pitched her voice calm and businesslike. I'm not a threat. I'm not trying to provoke you. I'm trying to help.

  He handed her the picture. "Well?"

  It wasn't the woman from breakfast. Or anyone she recognized. Not that she'd been following the Hillsdale case closely. She tried to avoid that kind of news.

  "She's not dead!" shouted Brian. "Let me call her. I can prove it! Give me my phone back!"

  Brian was getting up. He'd leaned forward, planted both hands on the rim of the sofa ready to push off.

  The gunman erupted. In two strides he was across the floor, gun arm pulled back and swinging towards the side of Brian's unprotected head.

  And then Brenda's life changed forever.

  MEDIUM DEAD is now available at:

  Amazon USA

  Amazon UK

  Barnes & Noble

  iBooks/iTunes

  About the Author

  Chris Dolley is an author, a pioneer computer game designer and a teenage freedom fighter. That was in 1974 when Chris was tasked with publicising Plymouth Rag Week. Some people might have arranged an interview with the local newspaper. Chris created the Free Cornish Army, invaded the country next door, and persuaded the UK media that Cornwall had risen up and declared independence. As he told journalists at the time, ‘It was only a small country, and I did give it back.’

  In 1981, he created Randomberry Games and wrote Necromancer, one of the first 3D first person perspective D&D computer games.

  Now he lives in rural France with his wife and a frightening number of animals. They grow their own food and solve their own crimes. The latter out of necessity when Chris’s identity was stolen along with their life savings. Abandoned by the police forces of four countries who all insisted the crime originated in someone else's jurisdiction, he had to solve the crime himself. Which he did, and got a book out of it the UK bestseller, French Fried

  Visit him online at www.chrisdolley.com