by K.N. Lee
Her nose ground against the seeds and fruit, and she was getting juice up her nose and in her eyes and in her hair and down her chin and on her dress and she didn’t care, she didn’t care one bit. She knelt in the dirt, the rough ground biting into her knees, insects buzzing lazily around her, and ate her fill of the soft, succulent fruit, gorging herself until her belly ached. Finally, when she’d gnawed down to the rind, she rocked back on her heels and took a deep breath, wiping the back of a grimy hand across her mouth. She let out an unladylike belch.
She felt full and happy and… contented. Yes, she supposed that was the word. Contented.
She was smiling; she could feel it. The smile, so wide it was making her jaw ache, felt strange and unfamiliar; she wasn’t sure she’d ever smiled like this before. She looked down at herself—messy, sticky, covered in grime—and felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
Slowly, she climbed to her feet. She needed to go back to the land of the dead, just briefly, in order to say goodbye to Andras. And it was going to be goodbye—because she belonged here, in the land of the living. It felt like home. And now, finally, she could say in all truthfulness that she wasn’t returning to the land of the living for vain, venal reasons or out of fear of the unknown, an unwillingness to change and grow. Instead, she was returning because this is where she fit.
She hummed to herself as she walked the rest of the way to Zara’s house, stopping to study the strange birdhouses once more. Then she climbed the stairs and rang the bell, giving the rope a hearty shake.
The psychic opened the door with a smile and ushered Irene in. She craned her head, peering outside and then around behind Irene. “Where’s the boy?”
“I’m sorry; I couldn’t get him to come with me. He ran off, in fact.”
Zara’s eyes darkened. “Oh? That’s too bad.” Irene wasn’t positive, but it seemed Zara’s tone was less friendly than before. “Well, no matter.”
“Listen, I need to go back to the land of the dead for a moment and say goodbye to my friend, and then I’m coming right back. Can I use your crystal ball for a second?”
Zara nodded and ushered Irene forward, back through the room with the coffee table, and then back to the tea room where the crystal balls rested on the workbench. Irene was halfway across the room when she hit an invisible barrier that sent a strong electrical spark sizzling through her. “Ow!” she cried, jerking back. She looked down at the floor and saw a circle of ghost-repellent charms, burned into the floor, circling her. She blinked in surprise, pretty sure they hadn’t been there when she’d left Zara’s house.
“Uh… Zara?”
Irene turned to the psychic. All traces of friendliness had vanished from the woman’s face. She sneered at Irene as she said, “Oh, I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”
3
Irene stared at Zara. “What the hell is going on?”
“I tried to do things the easy way. Now I guess we’ll do them the hard way.” Zara held up her hands. In one, she held a crude paper doll cut from plain white paper. Attached to its head was a lock of hair that looked suspiciously like Irene’s own. In the other hand, Zara held a cigarette lighter.
Irene froze in uncertainty. “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to get me that boy,” Zara said, her dark eyes as hard and unyielding as her voice. She held the doll out toward Irene. “And if you don’t, I’m going to hurt you.” She hefted the lighter, flicked it to life, and then moved it closer to the paper doll to emphasize her point.
Irene hesitated. unsure if she’d heard correctly. Was Zara kidding? A voodoo doll? Seriously? Did those things even work?
Irene surged forward not quite sure if she planned to slap the doll out of Zara’s hand or slap the woman across the face. She hit the wall of ghost charms, and it was alike a thousand volts of electricity seared through her. She cried out and stumbled back, stars dancing before her eyes.
“That was the wrong answer,” Zara said. She flicked the lighter to life once more and moved it closer to the doll, setting one arm on fire. The sleeve of Irene’s jacket burst into flames. Irene’s eyes widened. She stared at the flames, not quite comprehending what was happening. Then the acrid smell of burning rayon and the scorching heat biting into her arm hit her. She cried out in surprise and beat at the spreading conflagration with her free hand. “Stop it!” she cried. “What are you doing?”
Everything seemed to go very fast and very slow at the same time. Irene’s frantic slaps did nothing to quell the flames, and the heat radiated through the jacket like a red-hot brand scorching her skin. Irene yelped in pain and tried to rip off her jacket.
“Hey,” Zara called. “Eyes over here.”
She smiled placidly at Irene and then slowly, deliberately, blew out the flames on the doll’s arm. Instantly, the fire consuming Irene’s sleeve extinguished, leaving a charred, smoking hole in the jacket and an angry red burn on the skin below. The smell of burnt polyester and smoke lingered in the air.
The paper doll didn’t appear to be affected at all. It was pristine.
Irene’s heart pounded, and her hands reflexively curled into balls as bafflement and shock assailed her. She looked around the room wildly, not really sure what was happening. Was this some kind of weird test or a mistake or some kind of ritual she didn’t understand?
“Any more questions?” Zara asked.
Irene still didn’t quite know what to do, how to react. Very slowly, the realization that this wasn’t a mistake seemed to be sinking in, though it was like her mind didn’t know what to with the information. She was confused and angry, too—and getting angrier by the moment, cold, feral rage bubbling up through her like a pot about to boil over.
“I asked you a question,” Zara said coldly. “I suggest you answer me.”
“No,” Irene said sullenly, clenching her hands harder until her nails dug into her palms. “You’ve made yourself very clear.”
“Good. Then I want you to go back to the market and get me that boy.”
“Why? What are you going to do with him?”
Zara held the doll and the lighter up. She flicked open the lighter, then slowly brought the it closer to the doll.
“Okay, hang on,” said Irene raising her hands and backing away. “Let’s talk about this.”
Zara just smirked and touched the lighter to the doll.
“Hold on!” Irene cried, but the hem of her dress had already burst into flames, scalding her knees and thighs.
Irene beat at the inferno, crying out in pain as the heat scorched her, raising blisters on her skin. The flames climbed higher, chewing their way up the fabric of her dress to her torso. She reflexively tried to dance away from the heat and pain and acrid stench of burning flesh, but there was nowhere to go. She bumped into the forcefield holding her prisoner and a sharp electrical jolt sizzled through her. The pain of the barrier made her see stars, and she grew light-headed as the excruciating pain of the electrocution momentarily over-rode the agonizing pain of the flames lapping at her skin.
As quickly as they had come, the flames disappeared. Irene’s legs gave out, and she dropped to her hands and knees. She doubled over, forehead to the floor as spasms of pain and fear-induced nausea wracked her. Dimly, as if she was outside of herself, she heard herself whimpering amidst gulping sobs. The anger was gone, replaced by the image of her dress engulfed in flames playing on an endless loop.
“Hey, don’t pass out on me,” Zara said. “I need you awake.”
Irene rocked back and forth, trying to stop the uncontrollable shaking.
“Hey,” Zara said, then again, “HEY! You look at me.”
Irene squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to curl in a ball, to block out everything and retreat from the pain. Another part of her, the part that stood outside herself, curled a lip in disgust at the spectacle she was making of herself.
GET UP, that part told her.
Jonah came to mind then—the look of admiration and amazement on
his face when she’d told off the dead librarian in the Boston Public Library so long ago.
You never give up, do you? he’d said to her once.
What would be the point of that? she’d replied.
If she died here, she’d never get back to Jonah—and he needed her.
Blearily, with fear and defiance mixed in equal measure, she raised her head and regarded her captor.
“So, let’s try that again,” Zara said. “I want you to get me that boy.”
Irene lifted her chin. “And I think I’ve made myself very clear. No.”
“Oh ho, so you think you’re tough shit do you?”
Zara’s face twisted with anger. She moved closer to Irene, stopping a foot from the charms etched in the floor. She looked down at Irene for a moment, as if examining a bug under a microscope, and then drew back and spat in Irene’s face. “Fucking ghosts.”
Irene wiped the spittle from her cheek with her hand, hate burning out from her like red hot lasers.
“When I get out of here, I’m going to kill you,” Irene said.
Zara laughed. She pointedly looked down at the ghost charms inscribed on the floor, holding Irene prisoner. “Good luck with that.” She studied Irene a moment longer, then said, “Let’s see how you feel about things tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” echoed Irene, climbing to her feet with effort, careful not to touch the “walls” of her prison. “Wait... I can’t stay here… I have someone waiting for me…”
Zara turned on heel and headed for the door on Irene’s left.
“Hey, get back here! You can’t leave me here—”
Too late—she was gone, leaving Irene alone.
Irene stared at the closed door, not believing Zara would just leave her. She waited.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Twenty minutes.
Zara wasn’t coming back.
Irene reached a hand up to her head—how had Zara gotten her hair? Zara had put a hand on Irene’s shoulder when she got up to get the second pot of tea… that must have been it. Zara must have snipped her hair then and made the doll when she’d gone to make the tea.
Zara had planned this from the beginning.
The pit of Irene’s stomach dropped.
Even the slightest movement elicited a symphony of agony from the burns covering her body, but she forced herself to turn in the narrow cage, looking for a gap in the runes etched on the floor, but the prison was perfect.
Next, she examined the room, trying to find something, anything, she could use to escape, to call for help. But who could she call? Andras had no way of reaching her; he had no ghost body—he’d be completely incorporeal and unable to affect physical objects in this plane. Her only hope was to get to the crystal ball. Except she didn’t know how to operate it—or if she could even travel through it back to the land of the dead. Maybe it only worked one way. She had assumed she could travel back, but Zara had never confirmed that.
There was nothing within reach she could use to escape, anyway. Zara had been very thorough, constructing the cell in the middle of the room, far away from the furniture and other objects.
The sun was going down. The sunlight streaming in the solitary window was fading, and the light that was left cast twisted, wavering shadows on the walls. It didn’t make sense that she would be afraid of the dark—she was dead, after all; she was the thing in the dark that people feared, but that didn’t make her feel any better. Her stomach dropped as the light faded; a few moments later, the glow of the laptop computer’s screen was the only light in the room.
“Andras?” she called softly, not wanting to make enough noise to alert Zara. “Andras? I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can, I’m in trouble. You were right—she’s a witch, and I’m trapped, and…” She didn’t want to say “I’m hurt” or “She’s hurting me” because that sounded pathetic, and also, saying it made it real and then she really would go to pieces, and she needed to keep her shit together. And then she realized that anyone who came to her rescue was going to end up in danger, too, and she was sorry she’d said anything. Even worse, she knew that when she didn’t show up, Andras would worry and try to come after her, and that was the last thing she wanted. “I just… I’m stuck for a bit but don’t worry. I’m going to get out and get back to you. So, just… hang out for a bit, okay? And just… don’t do anything stupid. Don’t try to come through, okay?”
Silence.
She hadn’t really expected a response. She had no idea if he’d even heard her; she was speaking in a low voice, and she was a good distance from the crystal ball. She shivered again and rubbed her arms, carefully avoiding looking at or touching the burnt patch on her arm. She turned around again and realized the cage was too narrow for her to sit. She had no choice but to remain standing or crouching—all night.
A tremble ran through her, and she crossed her arms, hugging herself tight.
She wasn’t sure which was worse—standing here, alone, in the dark all night or the moment when Zara returned in the morning.
4
Irene had learnt during the night that Zara didn’t need to be present to use the lighter on her—at random intervals, her dress or jacket—and once her shoes—burst into flames, burning just long enough to char the fabric and send her into a panic before extinguishing. Irene grew angrier and angrier, picturing Zara comfortably lying in bed, casually flicking open the lighter and setting the doll alight out of boredom, smugly smirking all the while.
Since she couldn’t sit or lie down, Irene spent the night alternating between standing and crouching. By the time the thin rays of dawn crept in the window at the end of the room, she ached all over and her legs felt like cooked noodles. Her body was covered in blisters and burns; her clothes were charred tatters. Her hands and arms buzzed angrily with the after effects of a million jolts of electricity—the reward for hours spent looking for chinks in her cage that she might be able to slip through. Unfortunately, her efforts had been fruitless. The ghost-repellent charms etched on the floor formed a seamless and solid wall around her; she couldn’t find the slightest gap between them to slip through.
At the moment, she crouched, her arms wrapped around her knees, trying to get her brain to work. It had been some time since the last bout of flames, and she thought maybe the witch—because, really, Andras had been right and there was no other word for her—had finally fallen asleep, which would give her some hours of respite. What to do with that time, though, was the question.
How the hell was she going to get out of here?
The sun was rising higher, the light streaming in the window growing brighter and illuminating the room once more. Outside, the twittering sound of birds awakening had started shortly before dawn and grown steadily louder, and now, the raucous screeching made it impossible to think.
Irene could see the crystal ball, glowing softly with opaque white light, on the work table—too far for her to see into or reach. “Andras?” she called, softly. To him, it must have appeared that she had disappeared. Would he know where she had gone? That knowledge might make the difference between him hanging around the puddle and him leaving to search for her elsewhere.
Andras wasn’t dumb—he’d figure it out.
Surely, he’d figure it.
“Andras?” she called again.
No answer.
She didn’t want him to come through, and she didn’t want to cause him worry but telling him how dire her situation was, but she sure could use a friendly voice right now. She would give anything just to be able to talk to him.
She strained her ears, listening for any sound emanating from the crystal ball. She pictured a Nephilim or a Hungry Ghost passing by on the other side of the crystal ball hearing her whispered voice and reaching in to pull her through, back the land of the dead, just so it could attack and kill her. A burble of hysterical laughter rose to the surface at the thought. Out of the fire, into the frying pan.
She swallowed
hard, pushing the threatening panic and despair back down. She rubbed at the burnt patch on her left arm, the rough, warty feel of charred flesh making her stomach heave. She arranged her tattered jacket sleeve as best she could to cover the spot so she didn’t have to look at it and then rose to her feet.
She was slowly going mad here with nothing to do but stew. And surely, that was the point. Zara was doing this on purpose, trying to make her break down and agree to whatever she asked. Well Zara could go fuck herself.
But she needed something to do, something to keep her mind occupied. She looked around, searching for a distraction. She’d already counted the strips of wood in the floor, the cracks on the walls, the nails holding the workbench together. She’d even stared at the teapot on the table and listed every flavor of tea she knew—not a long list, to be sure, but it had killed five minutes and kept her from screaming. So, what now? What was left?
She looked down at herself and contemplated the dried blood on her legs and the shredded and charred skirt of her dress. She couldn’t control what the witch doing to her, and she couldn’t get out of here. However, in theory, she could control the way she looked. If she could counteract Zara’s effect on her appearance, then she’d at least show she wasn’t going to be cowed quite that easily.
Irene frowned in concentration, sifting through her assorted feelings and ghost senses, trying to figure out how it was done. The lore said that ghosts project how they think they appear. The problem was that, at the moment, she looked how she felt—beaten, terrorized, defeated.