Four Ghosts

by James Ward Fiction

  Because he called their house last Thursday. At the time, he believed it was solely Samira’s cell phone number but – and his brow furrows with the realization – it must have been their landline. What if that fuckwit wasn’t home? What then? Maybe since he’s mute he has some kind of alert on his cell phone. Whatever. Before their conversation he had seen Samira about three months ago at a pagan summer festival in Springfield. It seemed that the ever-sadistic fates enjoyed torturing him with her presence once or twice a season, usually just when the grip of . . . .infatuation was beginning to loosen.

  Okay, so maybe he tended to frequent the places he knew she liked. There was The Butcher’s Shop, a warehouse-sized music store that specialized in extreme metal, Goth, darkwave, gabber, and all kinds of other subgenres that Asher was entirely unfamiliar with, but he knew she loved. There were a number of independent bookshops throughout town that more than once he’d ran into her there. He’d feel his eyes suddenly pulled in an initially meaningless direction by a bizarre magnetism, then realize why. The first few times, he felt compelled to say something, so they’d chat until her creep husband would show up and ruin everything. The last time he had seen her at a Half-Price Books, he first glanced around to make sure no one was watching him, and he then proceeded to watch her. No, not watch, nothing so passive, so flaccid, so tame. The memory of it alone was enough to send a flush of warmth to his cheeks and a rush of blood to his groin.

  If it were possible to fuck someone just by looking at them, Asher Corsino had done just that. Summer temperatures were still clinging despite the insistent press of autumn, and she looked like she’d just stepped out of a scene from a John William Waterhouse painting. She wore a slip-dress; something he thought had gone out of fashion and, because of it, made her all the more interesting to his scopophilic psyche. The dress was pearlescent, the fabric somehow managing to catch the flat fluorescent light of the bookstore and throw it back to him in shimmering swirls of moonstone and shadow. The radiance didn’t end there. Her skin was glowing. At the time, he thought it just another trick of the light and fabric, but in retrospect he wondered if maybe she and that half-tongued freak show had just finis—

  ~*~

  “—just growl?”

  Asher blinks. “What?”

  McBride is across the hall, frowning. “You’re grumblin’ over there, son. Something wrong?”

  His partner still holds his phone in his hands. The screen blinks an oscilloscopic frenzy of color. Watching the blinking spectrum against the loose, whiskery flesh of McBride’s neck fills Asher with nausea. He exhales heavily. “No. I’m fine.” He looks at his watch again. “Fuck.”

  “What?”

  “It’s only been twelve minutes.”

  McBride shrugs. “So?”

  Asher shakes his head angrily and starts down the hall. He can’t trust McBride to pay attention the way he needs to, but he can’t be in the guy’s presence any longer. He sits on the top stair and looks at the stained beige carpeting. The centers of each step are grimy with tracked dirt and filth. That’s what all that cleaning gets you: a bunch of cops and vultures to drag dirt into your once pristine house in the process of ineptly conducting an investigation for a crime no one can understand.

  He momentarily places his face in his hands, sweeps back his short, spiked hair. The Kirkland’s house is unnaturally quiet. The roar of his blood and the thundering, rhythmic pound of his heart fills him with anxiety. The house’s power must be off because he can’t even hear the susurrus of a refrigerator or furnace. With his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped as if in prayer, Asher leans his forehead against his folded fingers.

  ~*~

  What bothered him most about his . . . infatuation was that she was (or seemed) completely oblivious to his longing.

  He had perfected the art of ‘playing it cool’ so well that during their most recent phone conversation, he had to distantly congratulate himself for the logical, pragmatic tone he used. Quite the feat, considering the frenetic pound of his heart, the clamminess of his palms, and (this he did truly feel ashamed of) his growing hardness.

  Before meeting socially, he had unknowingly heard about Samira from an Academy classmate in his Basic Detective I class. Brian Chalmers originally hailed from Pittsfield and during a group discussion on “non-traditional investigation techniques” he brought up a rumor about some young psychic detective who’d helped the police locate Theodore Roselee. In 1997 Teddy Roselee had been arrested and convicted for the kidnapping and sexual battery of three little boys, ages eight to twelve. Sentenced to thirteen years and having served seven, Roselee moved from Yonkers to Pittsfield. He got a job as a PC repairman and for all intents and purposes, was the perfect example of a reformed pedophile.

  Until two young boys in the neighborhood went missing and his neighbors discovered the truth of Roselee’s past. People went vigilante and busted his car all to hell, threw Molotov cocktails into his apartment window, and then a few football players from the local high school caught him walking home from work one night (why he didn’t just ride the bus remained a mystery) and curb-stomped him so badly he had to have his jaw wired back together and was doomed to eat pulverized food through a tube for the rest of his life.

  While hospitalized, the abductions and rapes stopped, which was enough evidence in the court of public opinion to have him arrested the moment he was discharged from County General. However, there was nothing physical that tied Teddy to any of the kids and soon, defense lawyers and felon’s rights advocates swooped in to press charges against the city for harassment, unlawful arrest, slander, and (get this) conspiracy. Detectives and even a few feds were scrambling to find something to link Teddy to the crimes but without the bodies of the children, there was nothing he could be charged with. And then, according to Chalmers, Samira contacted the station and told the lead detective that Roselee was lying and she could prove it. Who knows how many hoops had to be jumped before she was allowed into his apartment, but somehow she managed. This was the part of the story that when Chalmers told it, a fishhook snagged through Asher’s guts. He was mesmerized, captivated. He’d always sensed that there was something lurking behind the realness of things and wondered if psychic phenomena were some kind of proof of that.

  Reluctantly, somebody in charge allowed her to look around Roselee’s apartment and after “a few minutes” (Chalmers had never specified how many and the ambiguity had always annoyed Asher) she came barreling out of his apartment, drenched in sweat, shaking, her skin bloodless. Asher has never seen Samira in such a state and the resulting visual made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Once they were able to calm her down, she only said three words:

  “Pinewood State Park.”

  Hesitant to look like fools, the department only sent one state trooper (trooper first class, to be exact) out with Samira to find whatever there was in the 1000 acre tangle of dense forest and parkland. The trooper, Hannah Grayson (who ended up marrying Chalmers’ older sister, which is how he knew the story) was almost too skeptical to even follow, but when the empath took off into the woods as soon as she parked her vehicle, Grayson figured it would probably look bad if the woman got lost.

  Samira had headed into a rocky, extremely craggy section of the park. Split trunks of trees hung at dangerous angles over cliffs that loomed over thin foot paths made by courageous hikers. The sky was barely visible through the heavy canopy of trees. The ground squelched beneath Grayson’s boots as there had been a torrential downpour less than a week ago. It was a chilly spring evening and dusk was falling fast. Chalmers always made a point to include those details (Asher had heard him tell the story multiple times to various people during their training) because it made the next part so much worse. Grayson had no problem following the empath through the brush and deepening shadow, because the officer could hear her sobs echo through the woods. If Chalmers were particularly drunk he would dwell on this scene, adding little details about Grayson’s thoughts, S
amira’s mental state, and other shit he was just making up.

  At first, Grayson wasn’t sure what she was seeing. They were at the edge of an irregular clearing. The ground was swampy and marred by large, jagged ruts and gashes. The empath was on her knees, limp in front of what looked like some kind of strange, wooden throne. The state trooper approached Samira slowly, and with each step another inch of horror was revealed.

  The throne was the massive, upended root structure of a felled sycamore. It towered some fifteen or sixteen feet above the ground, each tendril snaking out from the ancient trunk’s center in dendritic frenzy. Around the structure, rain water had weakened the soil and created a natural sinkhole, so that only part of the tree’s base was actually visible. Inside that sinkhole, carelessly stuffed into the tight spaces between the sycamore’s roots, were two little boys. They looked hardly human; their skin was bloated black with decay, insects and rodents had gnawed clear through bone in places. They were folded, crushed into impossible positions to ensure their concealment.

  Theodore Roselee was given two consecutive life sentences to be carried out at MCI Cedar Junction. Of course, there was no mention of Samira’s involvement. It had been the precision and accuracy of the forensic teams, the footwork of the detectives, and the dedication and bravery of the state troopers (Hannah Grayson was promoted to lieutenant a few months after the trial) that helped give the families of the abducted children some small sense of closure.

  Chalmers had never said the empath’s name and when asked, didn’t tell. But Asher had other friends who worked at Pittsfield PD with access to old case files, replete with detectives’ notes and tape recordings of interviews. The information wasn’t free of course, Kate McTaggert had lusted after Asher since their Academy days, but it was an altogether pleasant price to pay for such valuable knowledge.

  ~*~

  “Christ, how long is this gonna take?”

  Asher shoots up from his crouched position and suddenly his body is careening forward. Center of gravity tilting, he quickly grabs the wooden railing and steadies himself. Turning from the stairs, he keeps his eyes locked on the door so as not to meet McBride’s assured grin of satisfaction at his almost tumble.

  “What time is it?”

  McBride glances at his phone. “8:56. Why?”

  “What? Why didn’t you say something? It’s been seventeen minutes!”

  He feels dizzy, sick; a greasy film of sweat suddenly erupts on the surface of his skin.

  “Samira? Are you alright?”

  Asher pounds on the door with a trembling fist.

  McBride snickers. “Of course she’s alright. She’s locked herself inside of an empty room. Hell, we’re in more danger out here than she is.”

  “Shut up, McBride!” Asher wants to drive his fist through something. The door. His partner. Her husband. “Just be fucking quiet for a minute!”

  Stepping back, McBride raises his hands in the air, one still clutching his empty paper cup, and raises his eyebrows in clear indifference.

  “Samira! Samira if you can hear me please say something! If you don’t say something in one minute I’m opening the door!”

  “I thought you were supposed to call her hu--”

  The look Asher gives is enough to stop McBride mid-sentence. He doesn’t know what might or could happen when he opens the door. Maybe nothing. Maybe she’ll just be in there alone, tranced out in lotus position or something. Hell, he’s never seen an empath work before.

  He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Here goes . . .”

  In one motion, he grabs the handle starts to push it down and rams his shoulder into the door. It’s not until he’s recoiling from the impact does he notice the searing pain chewing into his palm and shoulder.

  “Ow, fuck!”

  Asher leaps from the door and turns up his left hand. Across the palm is a bright red blister about half an inch wide, the edge outlined in tiny blackened curls of skin. He squeezes his eyes shut, pulls his roasted hand close to his stomach in some primal protective gesture that he realizes makes no sense but can’t help but doing.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Asher sucks his teeth as the pain intensifies with each beat of his heart.

  “I just got burnt man, what the fuck does it look like?”

  McBride strides over and Asher shows him his hand. The scent of roasted flesh dances through the air. McBride’s stomach turns.

  “Go.” He gulps away a tickle building in the back of his throat. “Go to the bathroom and run some cool water on it until it stops stinging. You might wanna see if there are any painkillers in that medicine cabinet too. In a few hours that burn is gonna hurt something fierce.”

  Still gripping his wrist and gritting his teeth, Asher swears once more and runs down the hall to the bathroom, praying the water is still on.

  McBride squeezes his hands into fists, closes his eyes. He counts backwards from fifty, and reminds himself that there is no fire here. Whatever happened to Corsino will have to be explained later, but for now, there’s no crackle and roar to be heard anywhere. There is no fire here. His heartbeat steadying, McBride turns toward the door. Corsino’s burn would indicate temperatures in excess of 100° Fahrenheit, but there is no smoke, no telltale flush of heat.

  He inhales sharply, rears back and drives his right foot into the space just beside the door handle. The door shudders in its casement, and a long crack snakes from beneath his melting sole to almost two feet above the handle.

  “Shit!”

  Hopping backward, a long thin string of melted rubber stretches between the door and McBride’s shoe like black taffy. In a scramble, he tears off the shoe and flings it down the hall as his tailbone cracks against the wall behind him.

  “McBride?” Corsino calls. “McBride, what’s wrong?”

  If not so terrified, he’d find his situation hilarious. The throb ebbing from his lower back and up his spine is little in comparison to the panic coursing through his veins. He knows it impossible, but he slumps onto the floor, tears off his socks and twists his foot awkwardly to look at the sole. A little splash of pink blots his insole but nothing serious. Skin slick with sweat, he lets go of his foot and peels off his jacket. McBride leans back against the wall, closes his eyes. Rivulets of perspiration dribble across his scalp and drip behind his ears. He knows he must look like a madman.

  To be honest, he’s starting to feel like one.

  “Tom? What’s wro--”

  “Call him.” McBride mutters.

  “What happened to you?”

  McBride opens his eyes and looks up at his younger partner. The normally meticulously groomed man appears to have just stepped out of war zone. His right shirt sleeve is gone, nothing but tiny ragged thread remains. White gauze is wrapped messily around his upper arm and hand. In the spaces between the haphazardly arranged dressings peeks bright pink streaks of puckered skin.

  “This ain’t right. This ain’t been right since the start. We’re out of our league. Call her husband. We need help.”

  Chapter Five

  Varju Kirilyich is walking out the front door of his house with their great white beast leashed at his side, when his phone rings. He stops in the middle of the concrete path that leads from their stoop to the sidewalk, fishes his phone from his jacket pocket. His heart skips a beat. The number is unfamiliar and Samira has yet to call him.

  He thumbs the touch-screen and opens a text-to-talk application that lets him respond to callers verbally by texting. The voice is cold, toneless, and robotic, but a useful application for calls from strangers or those who refuse to text. Samira calls the masculine voice a cross between Stephen Hawking’s motorized wheelchair and the robot from Futurama.

  “Hello?” His robot phone says. He taps another application and the call goes on speaker.

  “H-hello? Is this Mr. Kirilyich?”

  Varju frowns. The voice sounds familiar. Mally, impatient to begin their walk tugs at the loop
of leather wrapped around Varju’s wrist. He taps in his reply with his thumbs.

  “Yes. This is Varju. To whom am I speaking?”

  Varju hears mumbling in the background. “Yeah, this is Asher Corsino. Detective Asher Corsino. We’ve met a few times before. Y’know . . . just around.”

  “Okay, is there something I can help you with?” Varju shrugs and frowns in the cold.

  “Yeah. Um, it’s about Samira.”

  “What about her?”

  Mally whines and sits on the concrete with a look that says, “Look, I’m being good can we go now?”

  Varju shushes her. His hands are shaking. He doesn’t know why but he has felt something amiss in his wife this week, a week busier than usual. His freight company (originally owned by his now retired father, Karel Kirilyich) is still in the process of being voluntarily audited by a non-profit group of environmental engineers to determine what could be done to reduce the amount of waste produced by their fleet of Seawaymax vessels, and with Samira preparing and shipping a new line of commissioned pieces of wildly ornate jewelry that looks more like wearable art than an accessory. Because of their hectic schedules, he wants to ask her about it during their normal Sunday morning routine of grocery shopping, dog walking, and lazing around the house together. Instead, she is up before the sun and he only knows she is leaving because she’s woken him with a kiss. Still half asleep, his hands slur an inquiry about her destination.

  “Just meeting with a potential buyer. I know its way early but, this is the only time we could meet. I should be back in a couple hours.”

  A sharp pain slices across his ribcage. She has lied to him. In eight years – the last two as husband and wife – he has never spoken an untruth or attempted to mollify her with deceit. Until this very moment, he has never so much as contemplated the possibility that his honesty is not reciprocated.

  “She’s . . . she’s in some trouble.”