Topher Nightshade vs. The Camp of The Undead Apocalypse

by Drew Hayes

  The ghast was completely see-through now; he was holding on by the barest of threads. Velt paused for a moment before completing her task.

  “I’d like to tell you that you’ll be thankful I did this, but I honestly have no idea if what comes next for you will be better. So, good luck, I guess.” Velt reared back and struck his chest with a powerful blow. The ghast’s entire shape blew apart, quickly dispersing into nothingness. A few wisps lingered in the air. Then they were gone, and Velt was alone.

  She paused on the way out to muss up a few areas and knock over the toaster. People never quite believed she could do her job without leaving an aftermath, so she’d found it was easier to oblige them. She kicked the trash can onto its side, then walked out the door to collect her fee.

  Chapter 2

  Velt pulled her coat tightly around her. It was bright purple and came down to her calves, made of heavy wool that seemed to get wet even without a drop of moisture in the air. It was impractical in nearly every sense of fashion and function. Naturally, it was the one piece of clothing Velt truly adored. The weather was in a flip-flopping mood, dancing between winter and spring every other week, so Velt had taken to keeping her coat with her whenever she went out on a job. Today, the gamble had paid off, as the cold had snuck up on her city once more, leaving her breath hanging in the air as she plowed through the crowded streets.

  She drew a few looks——a striking girl will do that, let alone one in a garish coat——but the gaze she returned left no doubt in the viewer’s eyes where her foot would end up if they dared to make contact. Velt was not what most would refer to as a “people person.”

  She walked into her apartment’s lobby and gave a curt nod to the doorman. He was quite adept at his job, having learned the names of every resident years ago. He also knew that Mr. Danfry liked cabs from a specific company, the Turvald couple would tip well when asked about their children, and Velt appreciated quiet familiarity over small talk. Thus, he returned the nod with fleeting eye contact and went back to his work.

  Velt quickly unlocked her own door and sauntered in. Most people in the city had several layers of protection on their doors and windows, but Velt preferred an alternative security system to lifeless locks. Her nose was greeted with the smell of sweating onions and simmering tomato. Dylan was making pasta tonight.

  “How’d it go?” called a voice from her kitchen, the barest traces of an Irish accent fluttering through it.

  “Same ol’, same ol’,” Velt replied, shrugging off her coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. The apartment wasn’t all that big—a simple one bedroom with a view of another building—but the design was nice and the maintenance team kept everything looking current. Plus, they were willing to rent to a woman with unorthodox systems of income.

  She headed down the short hallway and entered her kitchen. It was far less modern than the one she had fought in today, but at the moment, it was filled with a flurry of activity. There were three pans on the stove, all simmering at different temperatures. A large pot occupied the fourth burner, struggling vainly to reach the necessary boil for the impending pasta. A cutting board was littered with the scraps from a series of vegetables, and in the center of it all, directing like a maestro of chaos, was her roommate Dylan.

  Dylan was a geist, a ghost who had been around long enough to obtain levels of control and energy that separated him from the generic spirit population. He could interact easily with the physical world, not needing a running start like the ghast today required. Beyond that, he could travel freely and quickly, appear in any form that suited him, and even step into dreams. Mostly, he just enjoyed cooking, though. He’d had quite the flair back when he was alive, so now, he honed his art by cooking for the living he associated with, which, in recent years, consisted only of Velt.

  “So, no trouble?” Dylan asked as he stirred the sauce and shook in some pepper.

  “Just an old asshole who went ghast,” Velt assured him. “He barely had the energy to throw a slap, let alone be a challenge.” Velt reached into the fridge and produced a bottle of red wine. She unscrewed the top and poured herself a glass. Dylan winced involuntarily. He’d explained to her many times that red wine was meant to be kept at room temperature, or at least bought in varieties that didn’t come in jugs. His arguments had fallen on purposely-deaf ears.

  “It sounded like he was pulling out all the stops on tormenting his tenants,” Dylan said. “I didn’t want you to get taken off guard.”

  “Please; that jerk would have dissipated on his own after a few years. No way was he making poltergeist.” Poltergeists were the ghast corollary to geists, spirits of hate that had existed long enough to marshal a new level of power. There were rumors of a spectral level beyond poltergeist; one only reached by the most hatefully determined wandering souls. Velt had never lent much credence to hearsay, though. She’d believe it only when she punched it.

  “Just be careful,” Dylan told her. “There are wolves in this world.”

  “Wolves are easy. Good gun, good aim, good meal. Done.”

  Dylan laughed. “Well, we aren’t having wolf tonight.”

  “That’s okay, I prefer penne, anyway,” Velt said. “How long ’til the food is ready?”

  “Another hour or so,” Dylan said, glancing at the clock. “The key to flavor is the simmer.”

  “Uh huh. I’m going to go grab a shower, then,” Velt said, polishing off her glass and pouring another. She headed toward her bedroom, but her trip was interrupted by a thud from the door. Velt’s whole body tensed. It had been too muffled to be a knock and too loud to be from across the hall. That limited options for its source; the choice at the top of her list was someone leaning against the door as they picked the lock. Dylan had done a good job of leaving any would-be burglars with a pants-shitting level of terror when they entered the apartment, but there was always some dumb son-of-a-bitch in this city ready to learn the same lesson.

  Velt set her wine down on her tiny dining table and pulled a metal baseball bat from behind the chair. She kept weapons of the like stashed all over the apartment, ensuring she had a home field advantage if an altercation should ever occur.

  She jerked open the door with bat at the ready, poised to deliver an aluminum lobotomy to the dumbass trying to break in to her home. What greeted her instead, was a billow of scarves and a flowing dress, the body within frantically pacing around the hallway and seemingly oblivious to her.

  “Adrienne?” Velt said uncertainly.

  The whirlwind of fabric settled and revealed a pleasant-looking woman a few years—and kids—past her slenderest years.

  “Velt!” Adrienne declared happily. “Thank goodness; I was trying to figure out how to knock on your door, and I thought I had it for a moment, but then my hand went right through, and, well, I know I could have walked in, but it seemed terribly rude, so I was debating whether to keep trying or step through, but here you are! So, problem solved.”

  Velt set her jaw. Adrienne was a caring, lovely woman, but she had a tendency to blather when upset: a tendency that led Velt to avoid her in such circumstances. All things considered, Velt could hardly blame her for being a bit on edge at the moment.

  “When did you die?”

  “Oh, this?” Adrienne gestured to her form, which was noticeably cloudy and traced with the occasional swirl of blue energy. “Happened about half an hour ago. Traffic accident uptown. I always said those cabs would be the death of me.”

  “I’m . . . sorry,” Velt said. She wasn’t entirely sure how to react to Adrienne’s blasé explanation. “You’re taking this pretty well.”

  “Pish posh; those of us who dabble in the spirit world have no need to fret about such things as our mortality. After all, we’re some of the few privy to the certainty that something lies beyond the final sunset.”

  “Right,” Velt said. Another apartment two doors down opened its door, revealing a large man in a puffy raincoat heading into the world. It was only now tha
t Velt realized she was, as far as anyone else could see, having a conversation with an empty hallway. She hurriedly motioned Adrienne in and shut the door behind her.

  “Right,” Velt repeated. “Then, not to be crass, but why are you a ghost at all? Why didn’t you just move on?”

  “I fully intend to, dear, I just had a few minor matters to attend to first. I’ll need to visit my oldest to give her our bank account information and tell her where the will is; she’s got the gift, so that will be nice and easy. I’ll also want to go visit a few friends in the business and say goodbye. But, as to the reason I am here, I need your help. You see, I was on my way to do a séance when my accident occurred. It’s a family home, recently lost a grandmother, sure they feel her presence and wanting to make certain she is at peace.”

  “Ohhhh no,” Velt said, understanding beginning to dawn. “No can do, Adrienne. I don’t handle the fuzzy warm cases. That’s what you guys are great at. What about Carol, or Molly, or Shel?”

  “All booked; it is a Saturday night, after all. Aside from which, we were all so close, I daresay learning of my passing will render them unfit for work, at least for a couple of days,” Adrienne explained.

  “You didn’t think maybe I’d be too upset to be productive?”

  “To be honest: no. You’re a lovely girl, but you tend to be more . . . pragmatic with your emotions. You always put the job first. That’s why I knew I could ask you for help.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Velt said.

  “Please, dear; in all my years as a medium, I never broke an appointment. I’d very much like to keep that record, especially if it has come down to my final job,” Adrienne pleaded. “Think of it as a friend’s dying wish.”

  Velt sighed. “Damnit.” She walked back over to her table and tossed down the bat. She scooped up the wine, downed it in one gulp, and then headed back to the entrance. She snatched her coat and began buttoning its cumbersome front.

  “Keep dinner warm,” she called to Dylan. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “Take your time,” Dylan yelled back. “The longer it simmers, the better it tastes.”

  Velt tried to take some comfort in that as she allowed herself to be guilted out the door.

  Chapter 3

  Velt was not insensitive by nature. She was, of course, sad to see the spirit of her friend, or someone who was close enough to one, bustling outside her door. As she rode the cab through town, watching the skyscrapers diminish while more suburban houses appeared, Velt reflected on the fact that Adrienne was really gone. No more frantic calls about a ghast who had upset her, no more relentless monologues about her children, no more awkward lunches where she produced her own seasonings and powdered creamer from her oversized purse, no more boxes of homemade cookies at Christmas, or friendly calls to check in on her. Velt wasn’t particularly good with the living, which was a common trait among those who saw the dead. She was different than the other mediums, too, and Adrienne was one of the few who had actively tried to include her in the community. So, it was with determination that Velt slipped the cabbie some crumpled bills and adjusted her coat in front of the two-story, colonial home: determination to do this séance and to preserve her coworker’s reputation.

  The house was quite a beauty; while it might not have been huge, everything about it was high-quality and well-tended. The lawn was clipped, the window boxes were groomed, and the paint was fresh. These were people with regard for image. Velt watched her breath hang in the air for a moment as she tried to figure out how she was going to make these people believe she really had the goods. That she actually could see spirits wasn’t nearly as important as making them believe she could. People wanted a little showmanship with their dead-relative interactions; they wanted to feel their spines shiver and their hair stand up. It was why, despite the fact that Velt was a stronger medium, Adrienne and the others were better regarded. Still, Velt had faked it a few times before, in her early years. She was confident she could at least throw something together.

  She walked up the driveway, noting the decorated paving stones beneath her feet. Image mattered a lot to these people; she had a feeling that the girl in the purple coat and jeans wasn’t going to sell well off the bat. There was nothing for it, though, so Velt reared back and slammed a series of solid knocks to the thick, oaken door before her.

  It opened immediately, a tall man with dark hair and a form-fitting suit appearing before her.

  “You are the practitioner?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Velt said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “Well, sort of.”

  The man merely raised an eyebrow in response.

  “I’m here to do the séance, but I’m not Adrienne Willows,” Velt explained. “She was . . . in a car wreck, and asked me to come in her stead.” Velt didn’t want to explain what happened to her any more than Adrienne had liked using her real last name for this work, hence the idiotic pseudonym.

  “I see,” the man said without inflection. “I’ll have to inform my employer of the change; he likes to be kept abreast of such things. You may wait in the prepared room while I find out his decision on how to proceed.” The man stepped aside and allowed Velt to enter the house.

  She took in the sights as she walked through the door, noticing the polished marble under her sneakers and the various tapestries along the walls. The inside of this place matched the outside in both grandeur and elegance. Someone had purposely decorated this home to give its visitors the impression of money, without overtly displaying it.

  “So, what’s the deal, Jeeves? Are you the butler?”

  “I’m the executive assistant to my employer,” the man Velt had come to think of as Jeeves replied. “I help with all manner of matters.”

  “Gotcha,” Velt said. “Just trying to get a sense of things.”

  “Of course,” Jeeves said. “I’ll show you to the room where you will be working, should my employer approve of the alteration in plans.”

  “Fine by me,” Velt agreed. Hopefully the spirit was paying enough attention to the situation to be there already, that way Velt could get some background info before things kicked off. It was hard for people to accuse you of cold-reading when you came right out of the gate with things you couldn’t possibly know. It didn’t work as well for building up showmanship, but Velt was pretty much winging it any way she could by this point.

  Jeeves led her past the stairs and down a winding hallway. The house was deceptive from the outside; Velt had been positive it didn’t go back this far. The journey continued until they reached an open door showing a modest bedroom through its frame. The décor was more old-fashioned in here, and candles burned on the dresser and night table. Their flickering shadows fell across a variety of pictures, most of which featured the same woman at various stages of her life. Mediums had a knack for spotting key facial characteristics, since spirits occasionally shifted their appearance to different ages without warning. Some did it unconsciously; some did it out of vanity, but either way, if you wanted to keep identities straight when dealing with multiple ghosts, you learned to spot a particular chin or eyebrow ridge consistently.

  “I will return shortly,” Jeeves said, shutting the door lightly behind him. There were no orders given, nor was there any soft turn of a lock; however, the message was conveyed all the same: Velt was to stay put until she heard otherwise. Normally, she would have never stood for this shit, and in fact, it took her several deep breaths to keep her cool. This wasn’t about her; this was about Adrienne. She was standing in for a friend, and how Velt acted would reflect back on Adrienne. Even as a dying wish, Velt might not have been able to coerce herself into putting in this much effort, but there was more to it than that. Adrienne had a daughter with the gift, Abby, and she’d been getting groomed to take over the family business. With Adrienne gone, Abby was going to have to step up to the plate, and some rich asshole trashing her mom’s reputation because Velt couldn’t sit still for a few minutes was
the last thing she’d need.

  So Velt waited, first walking around to inspect the room, then sitting on the bed, and then pacing about. The spirit of the old woman in the pictures was nowhere to be seen, which was a shame because after half an hour, even the normally anti-social puncher of spirits was feeling hard up enough for distraction that a little small talk might have been nice. By the time her wait hit the forty-five minute mark, Velt was well past annoyed and charging headlong into pissed off. She adjusted her coat in frustration, trying to keep warm.

  That action finally penetrated her frustrated haze. Why the hell was she cold? This house was ridiculously decadent; there was no way they couldn’t afford a good heating system. She looked at the candles that had burned down over halfway since she’d arrived. It didn’t take this long to tell anyone anything. It certainly didn’t take this long to walk to and from a room to convey a message. Something was wrong, and Velt was done waiting around to find out what.

  She grabbed the glass door-handle, half expecting it to be locked. It turned smoothly under her fingers, though, the door gliding open almost effortlessly. It was a small relief that only served to sharply contrast the shock of what greeted her on the door’s other side.

  Chapter 4

  To say the house had been wrecked was an understatement so gratuitous, it bordered on negligence. The walls were black with mold and peeled paper, the wooden floors were rotting before her eyes, and the windows were all boarded up, shards of broken glass winking beneath them. Father time and a lot of pests had come at this place like it owed them money. It was the kind of house people petitioned their city to condemn, the kind that children milled around the front gate of, eyes brimming with fear and excitement as they whispered in hushed tones, telling . . . ghost stories.