by Anthology
Syd shook away the image of electric chairs and gas chambers and sprinted after the uptown bus. He beat an old lady to the last seat and ignored her beadyeyed glare as he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to tell his boss.
****
Anthony Russo took his time to speak. Leaning his bulk back in his chair, he pulled a match from the pocket of his tailored suit and lit a fat Cuban cigar. He drew deeply on the Julieta, then gazed lovingly at its lit tip. On the other side of Russo's massive desk, Syd squirmed.
Russo puffed aromatic smoke rings across his desk. "This presents quite a problem, Mr. Denton."
Sid smeared back his greasy hair, then wiped his trembling hand on his back pocket. "I dumped the gun."
Russo shrugged. He hefted the fat envelope on his desk. "You understand why I'm withholding payment for now."
Syd gazed longingly at the white envelope. "Sure, Mr. Russo."
Russo tucked the money into a drawer. "If you can... tidy things up, I'll reconsider. In the meantime, Mr. Denton..."
Syd's stomach squiggled into knots. "Yeah, Mr. Russo?"
He eyed Syd through the blue haze of the cigar smoke. "My associates and I would be very dismayed to have our names brought into this."
Syd ran his hand over and over the oily stain on his back pocket. "Never, Mr. Russo, never would I mention your name."
"Of course you won't," the big man said with quiet menace.
"C-c-course not, Mr. Russo," Syd stuttered as he backed away from Russo's desk. Syd banged his backside into the door, his hand sliding off the door knob three times before he could turn it. Too antsy to wait for the elevator, he took the eighteen flights of stairs down.
As he stumbled out of Anthony Russo's building and onto the street, Syd gasped deep breaths of dirty city air. He was one well-done turkey, that was for sure. If only Joey Fratantonio would just quietly fade away, like dead people were supposed to. Fat chance of that.
Syd didn't even have the pocket change for the bus, so he hiked up the sidewalk, counting the blocks as he went. At the nineteenth corner, as he stared into the gutters for lost money, a heavy hand clamped on his shoulder. Syd screeched and stumbled off the curb.
"Syd!"
Syd relaxed at the sight of his foster brother Brett's friendly grin. Brett tucked a cardboard box under his arm, then pumped Syd's hand.
Syd held on a second longer than he should have, soaking up his foster brother's warm affection. After an endless cycle of foster homes, meeting five-yearold Brett had been the only scrap of joy in Syd's miserable life.
Now Brett was twenty, tall and strong and clean in a pressed dress shirt and tie. Brett's freshness always made Syd feel soiled and old at twenty-eight, but damned if he wasn't glad Brett kept his life straight.
"Good thing I came across you, Syd," Brett said. "One of the paralegals quit and Mr. Taylor needs a new messenger. I talked you up to him."
Anyone but Brett offering him a legit job, Syd would've split a gut. For Brett he kept a straight face. "Thanks for thinkin' of me, but I'm still doin' that contractin' work."
"I wish you'd at least talk to Mr. Taylor. He's loaded down with all his returner work."
Returners. Joey Fratantonio. The bubble of pleasure at seeing Brett burst. "I gotta go, kid." Syd pushed off down the street.
"When you gonna have me over to your place?" Brett asked, shadowing Syd. "I deliver to the South Side all the time."
"Soon, kid, soon. Just gotta do a little more fixing up first."
Brett kept pace a few more steps, then leaned down as if to pull Syd into a hug. Syd did a little dance to sidestep him, then leaped off the curb out of reach.
"See ya, kid!" he called out, dodging cars as he crossed the street.
From the safety of the opposite side, Syd watched Brett walk away. He'd die before he'd admit how much he loved his foster brother.
But for three more blocks, he cherished the tiny clean spot in his heart where Brett had touched it. Then the meanness of his soul squelched it out.
****
Joey's ghost was waiting in Syd's armpit of an apartment when Syd got home. Joey drifted from one light socket to the next, poking his misty fingers in. He giggled each time the electricity sparkled up his wavering arm.
Syd ignored him. He pulled a beer from the refrigerator and plopped down at the chipped Formica dinette table. Joey drifted into Syd's kitchen and shoved his head into the fridge.
He pulled his head back out. "The light's not on."
Syd guzzled half his beer. "What you want, Joey?"
"I got myself one of those lawyers. That guy from TV. Mr. Horace Taylor, 1-800-55G-HOST."
"Yeah, yeah, so what?"
"You shouldn't of done me, Syd. Now I gotta get you back."
Syd swallowed the last of his beer. "You ain't got me yet."
"You're gonna fry, Syd. You're gonna cook 'til your eyeballs pop."
The bubbles in the beer burned his throat and his voice quivered. "To hell with you, Joey."
"They're gonna pop!" Joey oozed toward him, passing through the scarred kitchen counter. "Pop, pop, pop!" Suddenly he flickered, fading in and out. "Damn," he said, then was gone.
Syd wished it was for good but he knew better. He set down the beer can with a shaky hand, then wandered into the living room and slapped on the TV. Leaning back on his sagging sofa, he watched as a Bonanza rerun gave way to an onslaught of commercials.
The smug face of one of those TV attorneys flashed on the screen. "Returner justice is a complex issue. Mattson Associates have handled dozens of returner cases, many involving only simple fines and no incarceration. Just listen to this."
The lawyer's face cut to that of a fidgety-eyed client. Syd recognized the hollow-cheeked loser as one of Anthony Russo's bottom-of-the-food-chain flunkies.
"When one of them returners fingered me, I thought I was done for. Mr. Matt Mattson took care of things and I didn't have to do no jail time, either."
Matt Mattson's toothy grin reappeared. "Do yourself a favor. Call today."
Syd scrambled off the sofa and grabbed a pen as the number scrolled across the screen. Damn, no paper. He wrote the number on the palm of his hand.
"I got a feeling about this," he said to the empty apartment. "Things is gonna be okay."
****
Matt Mattson's secretary wrinkled her nose as she led Syd to Mattson's office door. Syd took a sniff of his underarms just to be sure. He didn't smell that bad.
Mattson shook Syd's hand like a pansy, then pulled a hanky from his trouser pocket and wiped his palm. Syd swiped his hand on the back of his jeans, then across the front of his shirt for good measure.
"No calls, Miss Smith," Mattson said into his intercom. Then he turned to Syd. "Tell me everything."
Syd laid it all out, from the moment he'd done the deed until now. Mattson kept nodding and scribbling notes on a yellow pad. "Your ghost has a lawyer?"
"Yeah, that 1-800-55G-HOST guy."
Mattson's hand stilled and his blue-eyed gaze narrowed on Syd. "He's hired Taylor?"
"Yeah, the guy from TV," Syd told him. "So, have I got a chance?"
Mattson tapped his pen in rapid staccato. "You're not to reveal to anyone what I tell you here. Not your mother, not your best friend, particularly not your returner. Understood?"
Syd bobbed his head. Tossing his pen aside, Mattson reached behind him and shut the blinds, closing out his sky high view of the city. Then he unlocked his bottom desk drawer and carefully pulled something from it.
He flicked a glance at Syd, then placed what looked like a four-slice toaster on his desk.
Syd nearly laughed. "I got a returner on my back and you wanna make toast?"
Mattson glared at him, then flicked a switch on the bottom of the device. The side panel of the toaster dropped and Syd could see a jumble of circuitry inside.
"The man who developed this is dead," Mattson said. "It's his prototype no others exist."
Syd bent down
to peer into the electronic innards. "But what is it?"
"Call it a... dissolver. A dematerializer."
"A dema-what?"
Mattson snapped the case shut again. "A ghost killer." The lawyer whisked the toaster from his desk and back into the drawer. "This device will make your returner... go away. For good."
"This thing works? You tried it?"
"Several times. It's fail-safe." Mattson leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers across his middle. "My fee is substantial, of course."
The amount he named sucked the air from Syd's lungs. "N-no problem, Mr. Mattson." Maybe he could get Russo to cough it up.
"We'll also need a live body."
Syd gaped. Mattson pulled a gold watch from a vest pocket and swung it from its chain. "The device is not electrically powered. Through a process I do not totally understand, it draws energy from a living spirit. Energy sufficient to blast a returner into oblivion."
"So who we gonna get?"
Mattson's lips stretched into a smile. "Mr. Taylor will do nicely as our live body."
Syd's eyes gogged. "You gonna off one of your own?"
Mattson tucked away his pocket watch. "Let's just say I'm eliminating the competition."
"Gotta hand it to you, Mr. Mattson."
"I'll call Taylor, tell him I want to set up a deal. We all meet at your apartment. We get your returner, Taylor and the device in the same place at the same time. Poof! Problem solved."
Syd rocked from toes to heels in anticipation. "Sounds great, Mr. Mattson."
"I'll need your fee first. All of it, up front." Mattson pinned Syd with his sharp blue eyes. "We have to do this fast, Mr. Denton. If Taylor were to find out you've come to me... well, let's just say things might not go your way."
"I'll get you the dough, Mr. Mattson. Right away." Syd thrust his hand out to shake, but Mattson shoved his into his pockets.
The wrinkle-nosed secretary saw him out. As Syd pounded the pavement to Russo's office, he wondered for the second time that day what he would tell his boss.
****
It was a close thing, but Syd managed to pry the bucks out of Russo. He felt pretty good jogging home with that fat envelope tucked inside his shirt. Even when he found Joey waiting for him.
The ghost melted through him as Syd reached for his ringing phone. Syd shivered from the chill as he cradled the receiver to his ear.
"Yo," Syd said.
It was Mattson. "All set on this end. You have my fee?"
The light on his answering machine was blinking. Syd reached over to rewind the message. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. What time?"
"Tonight. Six o'clock."
Syd hung up, then pressed the button to play the message. Joey drifted around the room, passing through walls. Brett's voice burst from the answering machine, full of enthusiasm.
"Syd, Mr. Taylor says he'll talk to you. I'm coming out your way, if you'll just give me your address -"
The message cut off with a fizz of static as Joey sliced a hand through the answering machine. The machine sparked and sizzled, then a curl of acrid smoke rose from its black plastic case.
Syd jerked the cord from the wall and scowled at Joey. "Pop!" Joey said, "pop, pop, pop!" His voice ended on a squeak as he glided off. The ghost was really getting on Syd's nerves.
Syd patted his shirt to check the envelope. Joey found a new game - dangling from the ceiling. Pretending not to notice, Syd flipped on the TV. Scrunching back in the lumpy sofa cushions, he watched a talk show host interview "Women Who Kill their Husbands - and the Ghosts Who Love Them." The droning conversation lulled him to sleep.
A sharp rap on the door jarred Syd awake. Scrambling from the sofa, he opened the door a crack to make sure it was Mattson. He let the lawyer in, then scanned the room. Where the hell was Joey?
"Pop!" the ghost squeaked from the living room ceiling and Syd cringed. "Your eyeballs are gonna pop!"
Mattson set a cardboard box onto the sofa and flicked a glance at Joey. "Taylor should be here any minute. Where's my fee?"
Syd handed Mattson the envelope. The lawyer tucked it away, then slid the toaster from the box. When he placed it on a rickety end table, Joey glided down to take a look. Syd jerked back, sick of having the ghost ooze through his body. Joey passed his wavery hand through the toaster, but when no electricity tickled him, he lost interest and slithered into the kitchen.
Mattson opened the panel and fiddled with the insides. Shutting the case again, he positioned the toaster to face the door.
"The danger zone is from here to here," he said softly, his arm moving in a semicircle around the device. "We'll be fine back here. When our live one arrives, we'll call in your returner. Anywhere in this room, the device will get him."
Syd stood with Mattson behind the sofa, picking at stuffing that bulged from a hole. Every time he heard footsteps on the stairs, his heart thudded. After three false alarms, he finally heard footsteps reach his landing.
A fist pounded on the door.
"Come in!" Syd called out, then yelled for Joey. The ghost floated into the room.
Mattson slapped a button on the device and they crouched behind the sofa. A sickly green glow shimmered from the toaster. Syd peeked over the sofa back as the door opened.
Brett stood in the doorway with a cardboard box in his hands. As he scanned the room, he reached inside the box and pulled out a steam iron.
"Where is he, Joey?" Brett asked the ghost. "Where's the guy that did you?"
Stunned, Syd bounded up from behind the sofa. Brett stepped into the room. "Syd?"
Joey swung around to point his wispy finger at Syd. Then they all watched as a rank yellow vapor began to ooze from the iron's steam vents toward Syd.
Syd yelped as the vapor caught him, burning across his flesh. He scrabbled for breath as the stinking smoke tweaked his soul, pulling out searing bits like cotton candy. Beside him the toaster flared white-hot, and Joey Fratantonio danced and wiggled, trying to free himself from the green glow.
Then Joey bullied his way inside Syd as the yellow vapor weakened Syd's hold on his body. Joey battled Syd for possession, his spirit pushing Syd's aside. But before Joey could fill the empty space, the green glow loosened his grip and he had to let go. Caught in the green maelstrom, Joey disappeared into oblivion in a gust of wind.
Syd crumpled as the green light faded and the yellow vapor dispersed. He dimly heard the sound of stumbling feet as Mattson scrambled out the door, then another set of footsteps.
"Syd!"
Brett vaulted over the sofa, crying out as he found Syd, nearly gone. Brett cradled his foster brother in his arms.
"Oh, my God, Syd." He squeezed Syd tighter. "Oh, my God."
"What did you... how..." Syd managed.
"Mr. Taylor," Brett said, swiping away tears. "He said it was only fair to give the returner back his life. But if I'd known it was you..."
Syd focused on Brett, yearning toward redemption. He scrunched his forehead, searching for words to save his soul.
But the words wouldn't come. In another breath, the last of his life sifted from him. Beyond salvation, Syd "the Kid" Denton followed Joey Fratantonio into oblivion.
THE FLIBBERTIGIBBET
Shaun Jeffrey was born in 1965 and lives in Cheshire, England. He grew up in a house in a cemetery, his playground the graveyard where his early reading experience would have come from headstones-perfect grounding for writing dark fiction. A member of the HWA and The British Fantasy Society, his first published novel, EVILUTION has received favourable reviews in many publications. He has also had around thirty short stories published in magazines and anthologies, most recently in: MONSTERS INK, SURREAL MAGAZINE and SHADOWED REALMS. For more information, visit: www.shaunjeffrey.com.
* * *
"What's that noise?" Ethan Silverman asked, cocking his head in an attempt to trace the sound.
"That be the Flibbertigibbet, laddie," the old man said, puffing on his pipe, his deep blue eyes narrowed in
consternation as he wrestled to land the small fishing boat at the quayside.
"The what?" Ethan frowned and surveyed the rugged mountains surrounding the remote Scottish village of Nocktully on the island of Inchcullen. The next moment he leaned his head back over the side of the boat, fighting the urge to be sick.
"The Flibbertigibbet." The old man shook his head. "Ave ye ne'er heard the sayin', 'Come ben the hoose and lock yer door, when ye hear the Flibbertigibbet on the moor.'" He winked and laughed.
Ethan shook his head. He was sure the old man was only trying to scare him.
"It sounds a bit like bagpipes," Ethan said.
"Aye, it's pipes, but not bagpipes yer can hear."
Realising that he wasn't going to get a straight answer out of the old man, Ethan closed his eyes. He was feeling queasy and he was sure his face must look as green as the sea. The captain on the other hand relished the choppy seas. With white hair and beard, he resembled Captain Birdseye, his craggy face testament to the harsh climate.
The water frothed and foamed around the bow like a rabid beast. Seagulls hovered overhead, a choir of noisy angels. Along the coast of the island, the waves battered the rocks into submission and Ethan was grateful when a figure hidden underneath a sou'wester and a thick, black oilskin jacket appeared on the small dock
and helped moor the boat, dragging the ropes over the mooring posts with a vicious looking hooked pole.
Shouldering his bag, Ethan staggered off the boat. It took him a while to get his land legs back and he took a couple of deep breaths. He could smell the sea and the purple heather that clung precariously to the mountainsides. But there was another smell, something unwholesome that the other aromas failed to mask.
He noticed the figure that had helped moor the boat disappearing into one of the small crofters cottages that sat huddled beneath the grey sky, their roofs slick with rain. The sound of the mournful pipes he had heard from the boat suddenly stopped, and Ethan thought he saw a figure on one of the mountains. Narrowing his eyes, he realised that it was just a stag, its antlers like bolts of black lightning against the dramatic backdrop.