Five Down

by Stacia Kane

  “Holiday?”

  Mrs. Hudson shot her an are-you-fucking-crazy sort of look, which was rich coming from her, but whatever. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  2.

  OH. WELL, OH SHIT. CHRISTMAS.

  “It’s Vincent’s favorite holiday,” Mrs. Hudson went on, drifting further down the hall and turning into a doorway. “It’s his birthday, too, you see. That’s why we got married on this day. He’ll be back tonight. Oh, how I miss him when he’s not here.”

  Chess almost didn’t hear that last part, and not just because backup vocals were aah-aah-aah-aah-aaaah-ing from the speakers across the room. She was too busy returning Terrible’s confused look, and wondering what the fuck to do.

  There was a ritual space in the house after all. But not a magical ritual space, at least, not the kind Chess was familiar with. This was a very different sort of ritual, one illegal since 1997 when the Church of Real Truth defeated the dead and in exchange was given control of the world. It was a ritual celebrated by families and friends, and while Chess guessed it was magical in its way, it wasn’t a magic she’d ever felt or experienced—at least, she’d never felt or experienced that kind of magic until Terrible came along.

  He leaned down so his lips were close to her ear. “Ain’t legal, aye?”

  “No.”

  She waited for him to ask if she was going to report the Hudsons, but he didn’t. He probably knew she wasn’t sure what to do; he usually did. “Maybe oughta just get us outta here.”

  “Yeah, I think so.” But despite her unease, Chess couldn’t help being honestly fascinated. She’d never seen anything like the room in front of her, not for real anyway; the Church’s museum housed a few items related to the day, and she’d seen pictures in books, but this was an actual room in an actual house, decorated by people who were actually celebrating.

  It was beautiful. Even more so than the exhibit in the Church’s museum, because this was real; this was a personal home decorated for an important holiday, with personal items and touches. And it was spotless. The scent of pine filled the air from the tree in the corner which rose almost to the ceiling. Strings of colored lights wound through the dark green branches heavy with bright ornaments. Beneath that tree were piles of presents, bright shiny wrapping paper faded and covered in dust—that didn’t seem to make sense, but hey, maybe Mrs. Hudson didn’t have any clean paper. Wouldn’t be a surprise, in that house.

  Paper cut-outs of grinning snowmen and angels—wow, shit—covered the walls, along with a big banner that said “MERRY CHRISTMAS” in red and green letters strung together. A wreath hung over the roaring fireplace; Chess had a moment of panic before she saw the wreath wasn’t mistletoe, and so couldn’t open a doorway to the City of Eternity.

  The clock on the wall had stopped at twelve-fifteen.

  “Nobody celebrates anymore,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I guess they just don’t care. They’ve forgotten. Instead they have those fires at Halloween, all week they have them. Fires and drums…I don’t understand it.”

  Chess certainly did. And yeah, from her position there on the bay, Mrs. Hudson would have quite a view of the Haunted Week rituals, the bonfires and parades.

  But how the hell could she not know what they were? She’d lived through Haunted Week back in 1997. She’d been there as the world changed. She’d been an adult who could watch it happen, instead of a parentless infant like Chess had been.

  How was it possible to live in a city, surrounded by people, and have no idea what was going on?

  But then, reality seemed to have deserted Mrs. Hudson some time ago.

  “People don’t really celebrate Christmas anymore,” Chess said, more as a test than anything else.

  Mrs. Hudson sighed. “It’s a sad, sad world, that doesn’t celebrate the holidays.”

  She was right about it being a sad world, but Chess didn’t think it had much to do with holidays. It had a lot more to do with the fact that the world was made of people, and they were in general pretty miserable.

  “Vincent loves Christmas,” Mrs. Hudson said, in a softer voice than she’d used before. Her eyes shone oddly; she seemed to be staring at Chess’s neck, at her chest still exposed from Terrible’s hands earlier. Creeeepy. “He can’t wait to open his presents. I don’t care about what happened with the ghosts. He’s getting his presents and his Christmas.”

  Terrible cleared his throat and started digging in his wallet. Yeah, she was ready to leave, too.

  Mrs. Hudson ignored both the sound and the gesture. “It’s so hard to be away from my husband. There’s no point to being alive, when my husband isn’t with me. When it’s just me, alone… Half of me is missing.”

  Unwilling, unwanted sympathy pricked Chess’s heart. She knew that feeling. It was the worst feeling in the world.

  Mrs. Hudson’s fingers trailed over the pictures lining the top of some kind of cabinet. The pictures, like everything in the room except the presents but unlike every single other thing in the house, were spotless, and they were clearly of her and Vincent: a large wedding photo in the center—was that the same dress? Yes, it was—a few portraits, a few snapshots, Mr. and Mrs. Hudson standing beneath a sign for Hudson Veterinary Clinic. Something about those pictures bothered Chess, but just as she was about to put her figurative finger on it, Mrs. Hudson said, “We never had children. We tried for years, but we couldn’t. So it’s just us here. For so long, just the two of us…”

  That feeling of identification grew worse. Just the two of them, and no children, and no possibility of children. Just like Chess and Terrible; well, he had a daughter, but he couldn’t have more and she couldn’t have any.

  Not that she really wanted to, or thought it would be a good idea. Even without her addiction, Terrible’s job—and to some extent her own—didn’t exactly lend itself to good parenting. Hell, her personality didn’t exactly lend itself to good parenting. That was a responsibility she’d never particularly wanted. A responsibility she’d invariably fuck up if she did have.

  Still. Hearing those words caused a tiny, lonely pain to twist in her chest, sappy as it was. Suddenly the entire scene didn’t seem creepy and disturbing—well, no, it was still really fucking creepy and disturbing, but it was tragic as well. This woman spent her days like this, while her husband was away? Listening to a shitty song over and over and thinking about how she had nothing to live for when her husband wasn’t home? And all the happy photos of the past didn’t—

  Wait. That was it. That was the problem with the pictures.

  They were all old. The oldest Mrs. Hudson appeared in them was maybe forty-five; her hair was still mostly black, her face a lot less lined. Chess had never been a big picture-taker—she had maybe three pictures of herself with Terrible, and one of them had been taken before they were together and another was from Elder Griffin’s wedding, taken by one of her co-workers without her knowing it—but the Hudsons appeared to have documented almost every second of their marriage on film. The Hudsons at a restaurant. Mr. Hudson in a white coat with a stethoscope, smiling next to a sleeping tiger. The Hudsons at an amusement park. The Hudsons holding champagne flutes at a racetrack, with horses in the background.

  So where were the recent pictures?

  “You’ve been married fifty years, Mrs. Hudson?”

  “Eliza. Yes…fifty years tonight.”

  Chess edged closer to the pictures. Sure, it was possible the newer photos were in albums or something, but it was still odd, wasn’t it? And given Eliza’s talk about Vincent not missing this Christmas, and about his opening presents that looked like they’d spent a few decades in a dustbin, and especially the low-level sense of magic and wrongness in the air… Either Vincent was dead or Vincent had left Eliza years ago, and given the happy-smiley-lovey-love in those pictures, Chess figured “dead” was the safer bet.

  She caught Terrible’s eye, jerked her head toward the door as unobtrusively as possible. He raised his eyebrows; she nodded. Yes, something really not
-good was happening, and they needed to get out of there so she could call the Church. This wasn’t something she wanted to handle on her own, and even if she did it was outside her jurisdiction, so to speak. The only crime over which Debunkers like her had real legal authority was faked hauntings, technically known as “Conspiracy to Commit Spectral Fraud,” and usually done to get a nice cash settlement out of the Church. And even then she had to call in the Squad sometimes to make the final arrests—she didn’t carry handcuffs or a weapon, at least not a legal weapon. Technically she wasn’t supposed to carry her knife. She definitely needed the Squad for this one, and she needed them soon.

  Terrible held out a crumpled bill. “Said twenty, aye? Oughta get us gone, let you get back to…back to you day.”

  Eliza drifted forward and took the money. “Sure. You want to get to your own Christmas, I bet. It’s Vincent’s favorite holiday, you know. He won’t miss this Christmas. Tonight he’ll be here. It’s our fiftieth anniversary. We’ll spend it together, just the two of us.”

  Chess forced a smile. Time to get the fuck out of there. “That sounds great. We’ll let you finish getting ready.”

  “Oh, yes, there’s so much to do… So much to do,” Eliza said. “I have to bake cookies and finish decorating and gather everything I’ll need. So much work to do. But I can do it. I have the power of love on my side. And that’s all I need.”

  Ordinarily Chess wouldn’t have thought so. But who the hell knew what was in that house? Personal possessions that could become totems, junk that could have magical value…it wasn’t exactly an energy-free place. They were right on the water, too, and the incoming tide and mist would be full of power later on.

  As for the power of love…well, it wasn’t something they’d taught in her classes at Church, but if anyone knew how transforming that could be, it was Chess.

  Chess the witch. Chess who had the power needed to raise the dead herself. Chess who—shit, Chess whose tattoos Mrs. Hudson had been staring at. Whose tattoos Mrs. Hudson had seen outside right before she invited them into her house. Lured them into her house. Fuck. Did Mrs. Hudson actually know what she was doing, did she know what those tattoos meant? Was she planning to try to steal Chess’s power?

  “We’ll let you finish getting ready,” Chess said again, grabbing Terrible’s hand as she reached him and pulling him—or letting him pull her, since he obviously understood what was going on—back into the hall and toward the front door.

  Eliza Hudson followed. Closely. “Oh, yes, I’ve got a busy evening ahead of me. I can’t wait to see Vincent. He’s going to love his presents. We’re going to be so happy. Nothing will stop that.”

  Terrible opened the door and pushed Chess through. Her skin crawled with the need to move.

  “You watch your step,” Eliza called after them. “The ground’s real uneven.”

  No more uneven than it had been, Chess thought, but even as she thought it she felt Terrible tense up beside her, heard the shot, felt him start moving.

  Another shot. Terrible threw himself at her. Too late. A stab of pain in her neck, hard sharp pain. She hit the frozen ground with a bone-crunching thud she almost didn’t feel. Her vision blurred.

  “Shit,” Terrible said. He lifted himself off her, but too slowly. It sounded like he was talking through water. She reached up and felt her neck, expecting blood and torn skin.

  Instead she found a dart. Like the one poking out of Terrible’s neck. What the fuck? What was—why was that there, what was happening? It felt like she knew, like she should know, but she couldn’t seem to make the connection. Like her brain had been replaced by a sock full of pudding. Terrible’s hand rose to the dart protruding from his skin and yanked at it; his other hand grabbed hers and tugged, trying to lift her from the ground, but another dart appeared an inch or so away from the hole left by the first.

  He fell. Chess watched him fall. Her own body had evaporated. She didn’t have a body, and she was so tired... Some part of her screamed and tried to move, knew that she couldn’t sleep there outside on the ground, but there was nothing else she could do. The sky grew hazy and narrowed to a slit, and in that slit Eliza Hudson’s face appeared, surrounded by a whitish corona.

  “I am not letting you ruin my Christmas,” she snarled, and everything went black.

  3.

  FUCK, HER NECK HURT. WELL, her whole body hurt, but her neck seemed especially sore, like someone had bitten her really, really hard. Harder than even Terrible had ever bitten her neck.

  Terrible. Where was he? Opening her eyes didn’t help, it was too dark in whatever room she was in. Her wrists and ankles were tied, which made it rather difficult to sit up, and her mouth was so dry that when she tried to call his name all she managed to produce was a sort of wheeze.

  Shit. Turning her head made stars dance in front of her eyes and sent waves of fresh pain radiating from her neck. Pain she could take. Panic, though…panic wasn’t as easy to deal with, and she could feel it threatening as her eyes started to adjust to the darkness and she didn’t see him.

  “Terrible?” It still sounded like a wheeze, but at least it was audible. She licked her lips with her too-dry tongue, swallowed, and tried again. “Terrible? Are you in here?”

  He’d been hit twice, she remembered. That bitch Eliza had plugged two darts into his neck. Animal tranquilizers, she bet; like the ones Mr. Hudson had probably used on the sleeping tiger in the photograph, like the ones any vet would have. Hudson Veterinary Practice, and the Hudsons standing there grinning. Motherfucker.

  At least the fear and anger were helping her wake up. She wriggled along the floor—eew, she pictured sliding across germs and bacteria like a box on a rolling conveyer belt—until she’d moved her head away from the wall so she could see more of the room.

  A dark shape against the wall. A big dark shape, a Terrible-shaped shape. Mrs. Hudson had managed to drag him into the house somehow, then. She hadn’t left him unconscious in the freezing cold. It would have been a relief except she still didn’t know if he was alive. She assumed she would have felt it if he wasn’t, that she would know, but she honestly couldn’t be sure.

  Time to make sure. More maneuvering across the sticky, nasty carpet, until she was close enough to hear Terrible’s breathing. He was breathing. Thank fuck. “Terrible. Terrible, wake up.”

  Nothing. Shit. She probably could have woken him if she’d had access to her bag—some of those herbs were pretty pungent—but her bag hadn’t been at her side when she woke up. Bending her legs told her that her knife wasn’t in her pocket, either. Great. No knife, no—no bag. Not only was she tied up, not only did she not have a weapon or any of her magical supplies, and not only did she suspect a crazy old woman was going to try to use her like a battery, but if she didn’t end up killed by Vincent’s ghost she’d end up withdrawing there in a filthy room in a house that seemed held together only by mold and delusions.

  She took a deep breath, pulled her tied-together ankles back, and kicked Terrible as hard as she could.

  He stirred a little, but didn’t lift his head or otherwise indicate he was awake. Fuck.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, and kicked him again. The force of the movement knocked her onto her back, which hurt her hands, but whatever.

  He shifted position. “Ow.”

  “Terrible, wake up. You need to wake up, okay? We have to get out of here.”

  Pause. “We on the floor?”

  “Yes. And we have to get up. So you need to be awake.”

  “Fuck.” Another pause. “How long we been out?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s dark out and she’s probably getting started soon, and if we don’t get out of here we’re going to be the presents Vincent unwraps. Do you have your phone?”

  His arms moved. His shadowy form shifted. “Naw, guessin she take it. Only…hold on.” More movement; he sat up, leaned forward, half-lifted himself from the floor, leaned back. Checking to see if the smaller folding knife he kept in his
boot was still there, she guessed, which was confirmed when he spoke again. “Took my big knife, dig, but not this one. Here. You sit up?”

  “Yeah.” She pushed herself up and turned her back to him. “Can you see me?”

  “Aye.” Rustles and shifts behind her, and the touch of cold steel on the inside of her wrist. “I holding it steady, aye? You cut the rope.”

  And possibly a couple of veins, she thought, but didn’t say it. Wasn’t like she had a choice, anyway. Especially not when magic pulsed over her skin, a thick nauseating wash of it that made her shiver. “Shit. She’s really going now.”

  “What plan you got?”

  “I don’t know.” Her muscles screamed at her—they weren’t meant to move that way, she didn’t think—but she managed to lift her wrists against the blade and find what she hoped was an angle where she wouldn’t slice herself open. “I want to stop her before she summons him, if we can. I don’t think I have enough salt to put a ring around the whole house to hold them in until the Squad gets here, even if I can find my bag. And I doubt she’s actually made a circle herself, so…”

  “Nothin to hold the ghost in, aye? Can go anywhere he’s wanting.”

  “They can go anywhere, yeah, after he kills her. Which he will.” There! The rope gave; she yanked her wrists apart and grabbed the knife to start cutting him free. So much faster and easier when she could see what she was doing. “If she thinks she’s going to get some happy fucking holiday, she’s in for a real surprise.”

  Terrible started to reply, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by her gasp. She rested her head on his back for a second. “Can you feel that?”

  “Feel something, aye.” He must have felt the rope weakening, too, because he jerked his arms outward. It broke. “She brought him up yet?”