by Anthony Ergo
"This is a planchette," he explains. "The ghost will use it to spell out messages. Place the tips of your middle and index fingers on the top of the planchette and rest the palm of your other hand on the edge of the board."
Aaron's voice drops a few decibels as we follow his instructions.
"Clear your mind and take long, steady breaths."
That's easier said than done when you're asthmatic, but I try my best. I notice a sudden change in temperature and the white air of our breaths becomes visible.
"Is the Hangman Ghost present?" asks Aaron.
Despite the seriousness of the situation, I'm tempted to laugh; it feels like a child's game. That is, until the table starts to vibrate and the small wooden planchette moves. I gasp and flinch.
"Stay focussed!" whispers Aaron from the side of his mouth.
Despite the fact that only the very tips of our fingers rest on the planchette, the small wooden pointer moves itself onto the word "Yes".
"How old are you?" asks Zara.
If she's spooked by any of this she's doing a great job of not showing it. The wooden pointer drifts across the board as though it's being drawn magnetically. It rests on the number "4", then moves down and over to the "0", then down briefly and back to the "0" once more.
"Four hundred," I say, my only contribution being to state the obvious.
"Your turn to ask it something," Aaron says, nudging me.
Talk about being put on the spot. I find it hard enough making conversation with the living, never mind the dead. My mouth dries up, my hands get clammy and I'm aware of the long, growing pause.
"What do you want?" I blurt out eventually.
One by one, the wooden planchette moves and the letters are spelled out.
"A …… H … O … S … T"
As the final letter is reached the planchette violently flies off the board. A loud, screeching noise makes me jump and cover my ears. It's like a fingernail being scraped quickly and viciously down a blackboard. When the noise stops I open my eyes to see that the Ouija Board has cracked in half, like it's been hit by an invisible sledgehammer. A mirror opposite me has cracked, horribly distorting my reflection. Bizarrely, every other glass surface in the room has also cracked: light bulbs, computer monitors, jars and test tubes. It's a curse of the worst kind.
Zara and Aaron exchange worried glances.
"That's never happened before," says Aaron, far too casually. "Now you've got me interested."
"Time to go," says Zara, picking up her mobile.
Aaron wheels his chair back to block our exit.
"You know what you're dealing with here, don't you? It's a Level Three; a Poltergeist. I could feel the energy; it's pure evil. That thing is capable of spiritual attacks."
My eyes remain fixed on the broken Ouija board.
"Spiritual attacks?" I ask.
"Uh huh," replies Aaron. "Possession."
I shudder at the thought.
"Zara, you understand that you're not allowed to deal with Level Three entities without Blake's approval?"
"Yes, of course. I wouldn't want to jeopardise my career here, would I?"
Aaron gives Zara a knowing smile, and it's pretty obvious that this conversation has taken place many times before. Like old chess foes, both sides know all the moves, and the risks.
"Maybe I should tag along," says Aaron. "Just in case you need some muscle."
Zara wheels Aaron's chair to one side, like she's moving a chess piece into checkmate.
"I agreed to take you on an assignment," she replies. "But I didn't say it would be this one."
Aaron falls back into his chair, accepting defeat. Zara rests a hand on the table and closes her eyes; she looks like she's about to faint. I can see her eyeballs darting left then right under their lids in rapid movement.
"What's going on?" I ask, worried that this is some after-effect of the séance.
"She's having a premonition," explains Aaron.
Zara opens her eyes like she's just woken from a very deep sleep. She looks anxiously torward the door, then turns to me.
"Blake is on his way here. Let's go."
"Not that way!" says Aaron. "Use the back door." He moves a coat stand to one side revealing a small doorway. "I'll keep Blake busy, you two get going. Good luck!"
"That will be a first," I mutter under my breath.
He latches on to my hand briefly as I pass by him, following Zara into the secret corridor. I hesitate to meet his gaze and as he lets go of my hand he whispers to me.
"Don't worry, Sasha."
I don't know whether this is a thoughtful gesture, or whether he's reading my emotions. It pleases me and confuses me at the same time. Before I have time to respond, Zara grabs me by the other hand and pulls me into the darkness.
+ + +
We make fast progress along the underground corridor and up into a stairwell. Zara walks so quickly that I am forced to half-run to keep up. I pat my pocket to make sure my inhaler is still there, just in case. I feel the eyes of hidden CCTV cameras following us at every turn. We emerge through a side door into a deserted space, with the exception of a beaten-up Landrover. The light of a tall lamp post reflects back off its dented roof.
"Don't look so disappointed," says Zara. "Rover won't let me down."
It's an appropriate name for a car that reminds me of an old dog on its last legs. As she opens the passenger door for me, a man's voice from behind makes me jump like I've been scalded.
"Where do you think you two are going?"
It's the sickly posh voice of Menzies Blake.
"Hart, you idiot!" says Zara with a whisper-shout.
Thankfully, it's only Aaron doing a very convincing impersonation of Menzies Blake. I flex my fingers in a fist and resist the urge to throttle him for that scare. Zara shakes her head as she ushers me into the car, while Aaron jogs the distance between us casually. The shadows emphasise his muscular physique; his body is built like a machine and he makes every move look effortless. Wait. . . what in the world am I thinking? I'm not attracted to him. Lying to myself comes so easy at times.
"Hey, wait up," he says. "So where are you two going? Isn't it a bit late to catch a girly movie?"
Zara climbs into the driver's seat.
"None of your business, Hart."
"Right. Okay. And it's got nothing to do with that Poltergeist or Menzies Blake running around the place like a man possessed? Erm, no pun intended." He winks at me before looking back to Zara. "When he came to the lab after you left I told him you were in the library. You can thank me later."
Zara's response is to turn the ignition key; nothing ignites, and I wonder whether Rover is a dead dog of a car.
"You know, taking on a Poltergeist on your own is stupid," continues Aaron. "Going against Blake is even more stupid. Doing both combined is. . . a whole different level of stupidity."
Aaron's rant seems to do little to sway Zara's conviction. She twists the key again, this time with more venom. The old car chugs and splutters, failing miserably to fire up.
"Try pumping the gas," suggests Aaron, who is standing right in front of the Landrover.
"I know!" says Zara angrily. "What is it with men always trying to give me advice?"
I get the feeling Zara would happily mow him down just to shut him up. I've dealt with arrogant boys like Aaron and I get the feeling Zara has too. She floors the accelerator pedal and the engine roars like an angry lion. Aaron must have read something in her eyes as he suddenly drops his antics.
"Are you in trouble, Zara?"
"Never try to hide your feelings from an Empath," she mutters to me.
The sound of another car makes me jump, its tyres shrieking in protest. Headlights appear from around the back of the mansion. Aaron agilely darts around the car and jumps onto the back seat. Zara turns on him with a furious glare, like a mother to a mischievous child.
"What the hell are you doing, Hart?"
"Going on a field trip like you
promised. There's no time to argue. Are you gonna wait for that car to block you off, or are you gonna get us out of here?"
Aaron throws down the challenge and Zara wastes no time in accepting it. She takes out her anger on Rover's accelerator. As her foot hits the floor the old car lurches forward with a screech and I'm pinned against my seat. Aaron is tossed around in the back, much to his own amusement, as Zara spins around the corner torward the forest path. I arch my neck to catch a glimpse of our pursuer. It's the same car I travelled to The Agency in, driven by Blake's bodyguard, Ludvig.
Zara drops into second gear and Rover howls in response, wheel-spinning in the mud and spraying water from a pool that has gathered in the tyre tracks. I've seen so many action films with crazy car chases: now I'm in one. Zara's hands criss-cross on the steering wheel as she navigates the snaking road away from the mansion. Aaron whoops as we hit a bump in the road, like he's having the time of his life. We pass a sign which reads "20 mph Max. Speed". We must be doing more than sixty.
I glance back warily, past Aaron's grinning face, to see Ludvig in hot pursuit. I can see the outline of his shaven head leaning left, then right behind the wheel. This old car is no match for Ludvig's black Mercedes. I clutch the seat and try not to think about what I ate earlier.
"I hate to ruin all of your fun," says Aaron, "but have you given any thought to how you'll get through the security gate? It's virtually tank proof!"
Zara remains completely focused on the road ahead.
"Belt up, will you."
Aaron huffs and pulls on his seatbelt, although I get the feeling that Zara was referring to his loose tongue. A sharp right turn sends the car's back end off the forest path, spraying small stones into the air.
"Tut, tut, women drivers!"
Zara snarls at Aaron's comment as she straightens the car and stomps on the accelerator once more. A ping of metal on metal makes me glance back to see Ludvig holding a gun out of the passenger window.
"He's firing at us!" I yell.
"Keep your head down!" shouts Zara, building up speed as we near the main entrance gate to The Agency.
"Seriously? That gate is made of reinforced steel!"
Aaron has lost the taunting edge to his voice. I glance across at Zara and I'm sure she has the hint of a smile on her lips.
"Then you'd better hold on. . ."
Her arms are braced on either side of the wheel and her smile is wide with perfect white teeth. She is the picture of composure as she barrels down the path toward the gate without hesitation. I grip the dashboard with outstretched arms, then change my mind and quickly adjust to the brace position used on airplanes.
At the last moment the car swings to the left and bursts through the wire mesh fencing next to the main gate. We swerve back onto the road on the other side. The sound of screeching brakes makes me spin in my seat in time to see Ludvig's black Mercedes crash side-on into the steel gate. Zara glances up at her rear-view mirror, a satisfied expression on her face.
"You can open your eyes now, Hart," she smirks.
Aaron blows his cheeks out loudly.
"But… I mean, how…?"
"The delivery hatch in the fence next to the main gate is the weak point," says Zara, talking over his stammering. "I used the same approach as I do with unwanted male attention: always have a plan for making a hasty escape. So what was it you were saying about women drivers?"
Aaron slumps back into his seat, looking a lot like a chastised child. Zara simply smiles and gives me a wink through her designer glasses.
"I think it's time we paid your dad a visit at the hospital."
"Thanks," I say feebly, almost guilty that I haven't shown more gratitude to someone who is risking life and limb for me and my dad.
"That's okay," replies Zara. "You're doing fine. It's a long drive. Why don't you close your eyes for a bit?"
I haven't slept properly since the night I followed Dad and first saw the Hangman Ghost. The yellowed paper I found in Dad's attic is still folded safely inside my jeans. I slip my fingers into my pocket to reassure myself that it's still there, together with the old knife.
After the initial exhilaration of our escape, I have mixed feelings about our situation. We've given Menzies Blake and Ludvig the slip for now, but how long will it be before the Hangman Ghost reappears? I appreciate the help of Zara and Aaron, but they are only young Agents. As for my dad, he's still in the hospital. Then there's me — the walking bad omen. We're not much of a team to take on a Necromancer and a Poltergeist. But it's my team, and it's nice to be a part of it. I find comfort in that last thought, resting my head back and closing my eyes. I'm convinced there's too much churning round my mind to sleep. Within seconds I'm out.
Chapter 15
Wednesday 18 September 00:00am
Menzies Blake
It's The Witching Hour; my favourite time of the day, when the spirits are at their most active. The Agency mansion has many rooms, but my personal favourite is the crypt. I have the only key; access to this area is entirely at my discretion and is rarely given. The thick walls and subterranean setting make this a perfect place of refuge. It also happens to be an excellent location to summon spirits. I will relax and enjoy this moment and not allow the disappointment of tonight's mutiny affect my mood.
Ludvig has prepared the crypt as requested. He is loyal, strong and keeps his mouth shut; the three best qualities I could ask for in an assistant. The cage of rats rattles with activity. The other items I need for the summoning are laid out across the stone table. I run my hands slowly across each of them in turn: the sack-cloth hood, the dark cloak, the noose and the Book of The Sentenced.
To perform a summoning involves a high level of risk. It's times like this when I think about the only thing left in the world that means anything to me. I take out my mobile phone and call my son. He moved abroad not long after turning seventeen. I don't know what time it is at his end, I just know that I need to speak to him.
"Hello?"
His voice is deeper than the last time we spoke. He sounds like a man.
"Hello Son, it's your father."
"I don't want to speak to you─"
"Wait!" I interrupt him before he can hang up. "I just needed to talk to you for a few minutes."
"I have nothing to say."
His voice is cold. I know he resents me for failing him as a father, just as I failed at being a husband. I practically forced him to move abroad even though it was for his own good.
"Well?" he asks, impatiently.
"Son, I just want to know if you are happier where you are now."
I hear him draw breath.
"I'm happier than when I was with you," he replies. "Don't call me again, or I'll change my number."
With that clipped remark, he hangs up.
I'm not sure what I expected. It would have been nice to hear him call me "Dad". I cough to clear the lump in my throat and remind myself of who I am. At least now I can start the summoning without fear. It's so much easier to risk your life when there's not much left to live for.
As my trance-like state descends, I allow my sadness to be overcome by stronger emotions. Anger seems like a good place to start. Zara and Aaron were wrong to defy me, although their alliance with the Hunter girl was to be expected. Agent Hunter has worked closely with both of them and they clearly feel some kind of misguided loyalty to him. Idiots. They have needlessly placed themselves in grave danger. Hunter had been meddling in things he shouldn't have and was getting too close to discovering my pact with The Hangman. He needed to be subdued, just like his wife did on the Day of Dystopia.
As for Hunter's daughter, she presents a difficult problem. If I knew for sure that Sasha had no knowledge of her power, I could let her live. But now, the risk is too great. The powers we possess can only be passed down genetically. I'm all too aware that Sasha may have inherited something and this makes her a danger to me. This is the closest I've been to achieving my goal since the Dystopia Day three
years ago. I'm not about to let some stupid teenage girl get in my way.
I place The Hangman's dark cloak around my shoulders. In life, he was a large, muscular man, and his cloak sags from my shoulders. The wearing of the deceased's clothing is an essential part of the ritual. My kind has never had it easy; Necromancy was once punishable by death many centuries ago. It is one of the oldest art forms, dating back to ancient Greece. Classical Necromancers addressed the dead in a mixture of high-pitch squeaking and low droning. The times have progressed, and that's not my style. In its most simple form, Necromancy is manipulation of the dead. And this is precisely the reason that I do not need to worry about tonight's little revolt against my leadership. The ability to summon and manipulate the most deadly of Poltergeists gives you that kind of self-confidence.
The ritual always starts with a sacrifice. I pick one of the white rats from the cage, the biggest. It wriggles desperately like it knows what is about to happen. I stroke it reassuringly; at least it will be quick. I sink my teeth into its neck and it squeals for a few seconds before going limp. Dark red blood spills from my chin onto the stone table. I feel a surge of energy from having taken its life force, then toss the carcass behind me. The first time I did this it repulsed me; now I barely flinch. I wipe the blood from my chin with the back of my hand.
Next, I place the sack-cloth hood over my head. It was once the mask worn by The Hangman. Its purpose was to protect his identity, just as I must protect his identity from Hunter and the others. In reality, it became more than a mask; it would send fear deep into the souls of his victims-to-be. In my left hand I hold the noose. How many necks have had the life drained from the loop of this old rope? I'm already starting to feel the energy of The Hangman inside the crypt with me.
Finally, I open the Book of The Sentenced. Within its leather bound covers are the names of every victim, the date of sentencing and the date of their hanging. I begin to read them out, one after the other. It is a long process; The Hangman had many victims. With each name the energy within the room becomes stronger. I trace my finger down the last page and read aloud the final name on the record: