by Mike Mignola
Bentley’s stomach gurgled as the smells on the tray wafted about the room, invading the air beneath the sheets. “You’re fired,” he said from under his shroud.
“So be it,” Pym replied, setting the tray down atop a small desk across from Bentley’s bed. “But before I begin my life of unemployment and seek out the nearest soup line, I’ve taken it upon myself to cook you some breakfast, although it is closer to dinnertime.”
The gurgling of Bentley’s stomach was followed by a gnawing pain, as if something asleep in his belly had come awake and was attempting to eat its way out.
How long, exactly, have I been asleep? he wondered as he drew the bedclothes down to watch Pym setting the place where he would eat.
“Is there toast?” Bentley asked Pym’s back.
“I’m truly not obliged to answer, seeing as I am no longer in your employ,” the butler responded sarcastically.
“You’re hired again,” Bentley said, emerging from his cocoon of sheets and blankets. “But you’re on probation.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a grunt and placed his feet on the floor.
“Then I will strive to be on my best behavior, sir,” Pym said, turning from the makeshift place setting upon the desk.
“You need to let me rest, Pym,” Bentley said, sitting slumped over on the side of the bed. “I need to heal.”
Bentley lifted the sleeve of his silk pajamas to examine his most recent wounds, and found the cuts and gashes already puckered and healed over. “Amazing,” he said aloud, lifting up his pajama top to find that the extraordinary healing process had occurred with even the more severe of his wounds. “It appears that my prolonged slumber has actually done me well,” Bentley said, experiencing a sudden jolt of reinvigorating energy as he stood up from his bed.
“What’s to eat?” he asked, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “I’m famished.”
Pym stepped aside, allowing Bentley access. “I imagine you would be, sir. It’s been three days since you’ve had anything to eat.”
Bentley’s hand froze with a slice of toast midway to his mouth. “Three days?”
“Three days, yes,” Pym reaffirmed, continuing to stare straight ahead. “I was beginning to think you might have died.”
The image of a little girl, arms wide, appeared inside Bentley’s head, the vision of innocence transforming into a ghastly, shrieking visage.
“No,” he said, raising the toast to his mouth and taking a bite. “Not yet.” He suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired again, the weight of the future and the things expected of him as an agent of Death draining him of his newfound strength.
“I think I’d like to rest some more, Pym,” he told his friend and manservant, finishing the last bite of his single piece of toast. He wiped the crumbs from his hands and started toward the windows to pull the curtains closed.
The apparition of a woman appeared before him, and he gasped aloud.
“Sir?” Pym questioned. “Are you all right?”
Bentley sighed, knowing that there would be no more rest for him, at least not in the immediate future.
“I’m fine, Pym,” he said, staring into the haunted eyes of the ghostly beauty. “I guess I won’t be going back to bed after all …
“There’s something I need to do.”
Chapter Four
BEFORE:
Professor Romulus had the most fascinating theory on death.
He was giving a standing-room-only lecture in the meeting hall rented once a month by the spiritualist group the Blessed Brothers and Sisters of the Afterlife, and held the crowd in rapt attention with the details of his thrilling research.
Using an invention of his own design, Romulus projected photographs he had taken over the last ten years, depicting individuals as they neared the end of their lives. Some had been taken in hospitals around the country, others in homes where sickness had taken root. Besides the individuals close to death, all the pictures depicted something else. Something that the professor said could only be seen using a special camera—also of his own creation—that was able to record a specific kind of energy present at the time of a person’s demise.
An energy given off only by beings he referred to as Death Avatars.
Professor Romulus was convinced that every living person had a Death Avatar, and that this representation of death was responsible for escorting the life-force from the body when it ceased to live.
Each series of pictures showed a strangely shaped shadow near the dying individual, its shape growing more and more defined as the person drew closer to the end of life—then gone as soon as the individual expired.
The spiritualists who had gathered for his presentation appeared riveted by his words, but none more so than Abraham and Edwina Hawthorne. They sat side by side, holding hands, their grip upon each other becoming more and more intense the longer the professor spoke of his theory.
This concept … this theory … if true, gave a kind of identity to the force that threatened to take their child.
A face to their foe.
The tall and powerfully built professor finished his talk, then took a bow as the crowd rose to its feet in a standing ovation.
Abraham and Edwina waited, silently and patiently, at the back of the auditorium, watching as individual members of the audience took turns shaking the professor’s hand and thanking him for his time—thanks that he graciously accepted. They continued to stand there, even after all the others had gone and the professor had begun to disassemble the screen and strange whirring machine that continued to project the last image he had shown.
“Is this true?” Abraham finally asked, releasing his grip upon his wife’s hand and striding toward Professor Romulus.
The professor turned, startled by the power behind the question.
“So sorry,” he apologized. “I thought everyone had left.”
“That.” Abraham Hawthorne pointed to the dark shape hovering over the bed of what appeared to be a young woman ravaged by some horrible illness. “That shape … that avatar, as you called it…”
“Yes,” Professor Romulus answered, his tone urging Abraham to continue.
“Is it real?” he asked. “I’ve seen much in my many years as a student in the ways of spirit. Some things were fascinating, while others were clearly devised to create false hope, meant only to separate the desperate from their money.”
He strode closer to the professor, his mere presence usually quite intimidating, but Romulus stood his ground. “Do you believe these death entities to be a reality?”
“I do,” the professor stated unequivocally.
Abraham’s eyes drifted back to the screen, to the frozen moment of a stranger’s death projected there. He stared at the grayish-black shape looming above the dying woman, waiting like a vulture to take her.
Familiarizing himself with the image of his enemy.
Before a declaration of war.
* * *
Professor Romulus daintily sipped his coffee from the fine china cup, then gently set it down upon its saucer.
“I must say I was a bit surprised to receive your invitation,” he said, smiling at his hosts, “and then to find out who you are.”
Abraham and his wife sat across from the man, sipping from their own cups of coffee.
“I had no idea that the man who appeared so passionate about my life’s work was, in fact, the illustrious Abraham Hawthorne,” Romulus continued. “Needless to say, I’m thrilled to have made your acquaintance, as well as to have been invited to your beautiful home.” He gazed around the room.
Pym entered carrying a platter of cookies, which he immediately held out to the professor. “Cookie?” he asked.
Romulus considered the variety before selecting one. “Thank you.”
Pym bowed slightly and approached his employers.
“No, thank you, Pym,” Edwina said.
The butler nodded and set the platter down atop the coffee serving cart before leaving the room.
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“We were quite excited that you accepted our invitation to coffee,” Edwina began, as she raised her cup and delicately sipped.
“Quite,” Abraham agreed, leaning forward to place his cup and saucer down upon the table in front of the sofa. “We were hoping to be able to further discuss your research.”
Professor Romulus beamed, cookie crumbs falling into his gunmetal-gray beard. “Excellent,” he said, grabbing for his cloth napkin and brushing crumbs from his chest and lap. “What would you like to know?”
Edwina glanced quickly at her husband before setting her own cup and saucer down. He met her eyes, a silent message passing between them before Abraham returned his attention to their guest.
“The Death Avatars,” Abraham stated.
Professor Romulus sat back in the chair, anticipating the question to follow.
“You’re saying that these beings are present at the time of death … that these creatures are there to transport the soul of the departed to the next adventure in the afterlife.”
Professor Romulus smiled, slowly nodding. “This is what my research has shown, yes.”
“These avatars,” Abraham continued, growing even more intense, “have you ever had any interaction with them … or they with you?”
Romulus stood and approached the coffee cart, then lifted the silver decanter to pour himself another cup.
“I can say I have been tempted,” the professor said, “but I fear the repercussions of interfering with the cosmic scheme of things, of interfering with the very forces of life and death.”
“But could you?” Abraham asked, sitting at the very edge of the sofa, waiting with great anticipation for the professor’s response.
Romulus reached for another cookie as he considered the question.
“Perhaps,” he finally replied, returning to his chair with his cookie and fresh cup of coffee. “But why would…?”
A pale young man stepped into the study.
“Pym said that we had company,” the boy said, walking over to stand beside the couch where the Hawthornes were seated. “Hello,” he acknowledged the professor.
“Bentley,” Edwina said, getting up to wrap her arms lovingly around the boy. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“This is our son, Bentley,” Abraham said. “Bentley, this is Professor Romulus.”
“Hello there, Professor Romulus,” the boy said, going over to shake the professor’s hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Bentley,” the professor said.
The young man looked as if he were going to continue the pleasantries, but suddenly began to cough, as if choking on his words.
“Are you all right?” Romulus asked.
“He’s fine,” Abraham answered sternly.
Edwina went to her child, putting her arms around him again and rubbing his back.
“Take him back to his room,” Abraham commanded. “He needs his rest.”
Edwina hesitated for a moment, but saw the look in her husband’s eyes. Hugging her child close, she escorted the choking youth away.
“Nice meeting you, Bentley,” Professor Romulus called after them.
“He isn’t well,” Abraham stated flatly.
“Is it something that he can be treated for or—”
“We’ve taken him to every specialist,” the boy’s father interrupted, “the best that money can buy, but his prognosis remains the same.” He paused, as if needing to adjust to the painful knowledge.
“My son will die in the not too distant future,” Abraham finished.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Professor Romulus said.
“Unless,” Abraham said quietly, turning his dark, intense gaze fully on the professor.
“Yes?” Romulus asked, his curiosity whetted.
“Unless his death spirit … my son’s avatar,” Abraham began.
The professor’s stare widened as the man spoke.
“Unless it was captured at the instant before my son’s death…”
Romulus raised a hand to his beard and stroked it thoughtfully. “In theory,” he said, “he would not die.”
Abraham Hawthorne nodded slowly in agreement. “Help us, Professor …
“Help us save our son.”
Chapter Five
Bentley returned to his breakfast tray, and the spectral woman followed.
“Should I look at this as a minor victory?” Pym asked proudly, standing by the desk.
“What is that?” Bentley pulled his gaze from the woman who hovered above the floor mere feet from them.
“You’re returning to eating,” Pym explained. “May I categorize this as a win?”
“Of course,” Bentley replied distractedly, looking away from his manservant and back to the woman floating in the air. “Think of it however you like.”
“Is there anything else that I might—”
“No,” Bentley interrupted, sensing the woman’s need. “You can leave me now.”
“Very good, sir.” Pym crossed the room and opened the door to the hallway.
Bentley heard it close as he reached for another piece of dry toast, continuing to stare at the woman as she watched him with dark, haunted eyes.
Beckoning eyes.
He chewed the toast, studying her details, taking in all that defined her appearance. He could see that she had been a pretty woman, with long, dark hair and a small frame. She was wearing a costume, sequined and glittering in a strange light that he assumed was found in the afterlife. At first he believed her to be a dancer of some kind, but then corrected himself.
No, I’ll bet she was an aerialist. A trapeze artist.
The ghost floated closer, moving her dark, flowing hair aside to show him the wounds upon her throat.
Dear God, he thought, leaning forward in his desk chair for a closer look. The marks upon her delicate, ghostly throat were dark, bruised, as if her neck had been squeezed by a pair of powerful hands.
“I see,” he said aloud, and watched as tears of ghostly ectoplasm leaked from her eyes to float about the room.
Bentley knew it was time.
Time for her to show him more.
Sitting up straighter, he brushed the toast crumbs from his fingers and pajama legs, and readied himself.
“Show me,” he said, tightly gripping the arms of the chair. “Show me how you died.”
The ghost responded to his invitation, flowing toward him … onto him … inside him …
Showing him what he needed to know.
Showing him what she had been, and how sad it all was that it had been so quickly and cruelly taken from her.
Her name was Tianna Hoops, and Bentley had been right in his observations: the woman had been aerialist—an acrobat—for a small traveling circus and sideshow called Doctor Nocturne’s Circus of Unearthly Wonderment.
In the blink of an eye, he experienced everything that had made her who she was. She had come from a small village in Germany, moving from tiny circus to tiny circus before ending up in the United States, with the Circus of Unearthly Wonderment. Tianna loved what she did; loved the cheers and gasps of the audience as she performed her death-defying feats high above the circus floor. She imagined herself a kind of angel as she soared through the sky, from one trapeze to the next, the circus life her Heaven.
Bentley shuddered with her excitement, feeling the rushing air upon his—her—face.
But she had another love besides the trapeze, of the earthbound variety.
He—she—watched the handsome man as he worked, shirtless and brawny, swinging a sledgehammer, pounding into place the spikes that would hold up the circus tent. His name was Bill Tuttle, and she loved him almost as much as she loved soaring through the air. And he loved her as well.
But then, why had he killed her?
The moments traveled quickly from romance to death. First they are kissing, then the roustabout’s large hands are wrapped around her throat.
Squeezin
g the life from her.
She tried to fight him but he was too strong, and suddenly she was weightless, flying again above the circus, but without the need of trapeze and wires.
He—she—could see the results of her murder, an emotional Bill being dragged away in handcuffs by the police, found guilty in a court of law and sentenced to death in the electric chair.
Bentley saw the murderer, as he was then, the large man sitting alone in his cell, tears of sadness streaming down his face.
Waiting for the inevitable.
Waiting to be punished—waiting to die.
* * *
The ghost of Tianna Hoops flowed out of Bentley’s body like smoke from a waning fire, leaving him cold and trembling.
He sat for a few minutes, collecting his thoughts and remembering who he was, instead of the spirit that had just shared her life and death with him. Then he slowly stood and poured himself a steaming cup of the revitalizing coffee Pym had left on the desk with the toast. His hand shook as he raised the cup to his mouth and slurped loudly.
Bentley turned and found that the ghost of the murdered trapeze artist was still there, floating above the floor behind him.
He drank more of the coffee, his thoughts returning more to his own. There was something about this visitation that was different than the others he’d experienced, and it confused him.
“I don’t understand,” he said to the drifting apparition. “Sadly, I witnessed your untimely demise.” He slowly approached the ghostly female who continued to watch him intently. “But my purpose, as defined by Death, is to avenge those who are taken before their time, to make their murderers pay the most horrible of prices for cutting a life span short,” Bentley explained to the specter. “Your killer has been caught, tried, and put in prison, where he awaits his final punishment. What is left for me to do?”
The ghost’s tears stretched and flowed freely from her eyes once more, drifting through the air toward him. Bentley attempted to move, to step from their path, but they followed, moving like serpents toward his face.