Medium Dead

by Chris Dolley

  The wraith began to pulse against the wall, brightening and fading in time to ... to what? A ghostly heart beat? Had anger, the sudden sight of her former self on the television, imbued her spectral form with some remnant of life?

  The pulsing began to diminish and with it went the anger in her face. Replaced by tears. A low sobbing accompaniment to the news report of her death.

  “Why don’t you take my car?” said Brenda. “They can’t be watching every road out of here.”

  “No. Best to stay here and wait,” said the gunman. “Tomorrow this’ll be old news.”

  Tomorrow? He was staying here – in her house – for twenty-four hours?

  “Don’t look so worried. Do what I say and you’ll both get out of here alive. You never know – you might start to enjoy it.”

  He smiled – a serial-killing rapist’s smile. Are you having a good time? I am.

  A small sad voice sounded from the ghost by the wall. “He never leaves loose ends.”

  Brenda closed her eyes. He never leaves loose ends. She wasn’t going to get out of this alive. He was going to hole up in her house until the roadblocks were lifted then make a run for it in her car. Either he’d take her with him as a hostage, or he’d kill her here. He wouldn’t care. And when he wasn’t killing her, he’d be raping her.

  He never leaves loose ends.

  “I’m sorry,” said Brian. “It’s all my fault. I should never have let him hijack my car. I should have fought back. I could have saved you from this.”

  “Shut up,” said the gunman. He smiled at Brenda and rolled his eyes. “Of all the cars to hijack I had to hijack his. You’d be a better driving buddy, wouldn’t you? I bet you wouldn’t run out of gas. I bet you could go for hours.”

  He sauntered towards her, smiling his serial-killer rapist’s smile. He probably thought himself irresistible. Brenda glanced towards the ghost by the wall. The ghost who’d found enough power earlier to dislodge the mirror. Wasn’t it about time...

  The ghost vanished. No goodbyes, no ‘I’m going for help.’ She just vanished.

  “How much do you want?” asked Brian. “I’m a rich man. I can raise a ransom. Just let us go. You won’t get a penny if we’re dead.”

  He had the killer’s interest. “How rich?”

  “Very. Look, take my wallet. It’s full of platinum cards. I can raise hundreds of thousands. Let me call my wife. She’ll get it for you.”

  The gunman took the wallet and opened it. He pulled out a number of credit cards and pocketed them. Then stopped dead, his eyes narrowing.

  “Where’d you get this?” he shouted at Brian, pulling a photograph from the wallet and thrusting it at him.

  Brian pulled away, flattening himself against the back of the sofa. “It’s Tina, my wife. It was taken–”

  “Is this some kinda joke?” He stood over Brian, gun hand drawn back ready to strike. “This is Tina Murphy!”

  Brian brought his arms up to protect his face. “I know. I’m Brian Murphy.”

  The gunman brought his arm back further, held it there, quivering. Then turned away. “Fuck!”

  Brenda watched, confused. Who was Tina Murphy?

  The gunman paced, shaking his head. The picture had unnerved him. He was already unpredictable. He could snap at any second.

  He charged at Brian, grabbed a fistful of hair with his left hand and shook the man’s head, his gun hand held high, threatening to come smashing down on the side of Brian’s face.

  Brian wailed, both hands coming up to claw at the killer’s left hand. But with no strength or conviction.

  Brenda’s hands flew to her face. He was going to kill him. Beat him to death in front of her. And all for what? A picture of his wife?

  The gun hand continued to hover. The fingers of the killer’s left hand continued to bite. “Were you following me? Is that why you were there when I needed a car? Did you let me hi-jack it?”

  “No! I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t understand. Tina Murphy is fucking dead. I killed her last month!”

  “No! I talked to her this morning. I can phone her if you like. She’s alive.”

  “Can I see her picture?” asked Brenda. The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. Curiosity, the cat killer, had struck again. She flinched in her seat, not sure if she’d just tipped him over the edge, not sure if he was going to come racing over, flailing and shooting.

  He stopped shaking Brian. And stared at Brenda. Then back at Brian. “Are you in this together? Did you bring me here on purpose?”

  “No! We’ve never met. I ran out of gas. You can check.”

  The gunman let go of Brian, let him slump back in the sofa and moved towards Brenda. “Why do you want to see the picture?”

  He stood in front of her, daring her to say something he didn’t like.

  And what could she say? That she thought the face might belong to one of the many ghosts who floated through her home. Maybe the one who’d warned her earlier?

  “Sorry. I thought I might recognize her from the TV. I was only trying to help.”

  She pitched her voice calm and businesslike. I’m not a threat. I’m not trying to provoke you. I’m trying to help.

  He handed her the picture. “Well?”

  It wasn’t the woman from breakfast. Or anyone she recognized. Not that she’d been following the Hillsdale case closely. She tried to avoid that kind of news.

  “She’s not dead!” shouted Brian. “Let me call her. I can prove it! Give me my phone back!”

  Brian was getting up. He’d leaned forward, planted both hands on the rim of the sofa ready to push off.

  The gunman erupted. In two strides he was across the floor, gun arm pulled back and swinging towards the side of Brian’s unprotected head.

  And then Brenda’s life changed forever.

  Chapter Two

  There was a sickening crack. The worst sound she’d ever heard. Followed by the worst sight she’d ever seen. Brian’s head came off. It actually came off! Like a cartoon head in a cartoon world. It couldn’t be real, but ... there it was – arcing through the air, bouncing, rolling across the floor towards the bookshelf in the corner behind the TV. And that wasn’t the worst of it. His body was still moving – twitching, jerking, spasming – blood welling from the red, ragged mess of a neck.

  The killer recoiled. “Jesus motherfucker!”

  Brenda froze, too shocked to move, too stunned to look away. Until the body jerked to its feet.

  She had to look away. Bile rose in her throat. She’d heard stories about headless chickens taking ages to die, but this... It was still moving. She could see it out of the corner of her eye. Arms waving in a demented jerky fashion, legs attempting to walk. One step, two. It was closing on its killer, its hands reaching out.

  The gunman jumped back, fell over the arm of Brenda’s chair, hit the ground, propelled himself backward on hands and heels towards the door. Brian lurched after him – a headless, arm-waving zombie. Brenda pulled her feet up onto the chair, tried to bury herself into the foam back as the ‘thing’ stuttered by.

  Two shots rang out, the noise deafening, echoing around the room. Brian staggered backwards with each shot. Then crumpled to the floor.

  A stunned silence swept in, punctuated by ragged breaths. Then a scream. Not from Brenda. Or the gunman. But from the head lying on its side against the bookcase in the corner.

  Brenda joined in. She couldn’t help it. Brian’s eyes were moving. She could see them! He was still alive! His mouth full open.

  “Shut up!” screamed the killer. He was back on his feet, over by the front door, frightened, confused and waving his gun.

  Brian’s screams faded.

  “Is he dead yet?” barked the killer, peering towards the bookcase, but not getting any closer. He couldn’t see the head from where he was. The television and the cabinet it sat on blocked his view. But Brenda could. It had stopped screaming at last. And the eyes were...


  Brenda jumped. It blinked! Brian blinked. How could he still be alive?

  Brian spoke. “What happened? I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel anything! Am I ... am I paralyzed?”

  The gunman turned away. “Fuck!” He screamed at the carpet, bending forward, both hands ripping through the air as though he was tearing out his hair.

  Brenda was in a daze. Brian was looking at her, worried, imploring. Could he really be still alive? Could he not know what had happened? The television cabinet blocked his view of ... the rest of him.

  “I can’t move my neck! I really think I’m paralyzed.”

  She had to answer. “I think you’re a little bit more than paralyzed.”

  “Is something broken?”

  “You could fucking say that,” shouted the gunman. He’d started to prowl the small area between the front door and the kitchen, his eyes downcast, not looking once at Brian.

  “Wait,” said Brian. “I think I can feel something. I’ll try and wiggle my toes.”

  Brenda wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. He was dying. He had to be, but ... the way he spoke – so calm, so innocent.

  A clunk sounded to her left.

  “Fuck!” The gunman jumped back against the wall as Brian’s right foot jerked, banging the heel of its shoe against the floor. Not just once, but twice.

  “I do not fucking believe this!”

  Brenda didn’t either. She stared at the foot. Then at Brian. How?

  “Can you see it?” he asked. “Is it moving?”

  Brenda opened her mouth, hoping something cogent might come out. It didn’t.

  Clunk. Brian’s foot rose again, higher this time. And again. The entire right leg lifted off the floor, bending at the knee now, slapping the sole of his foot against the carpet. The left leg joined in.

  “Is that me?” said Brian. “I can hear it, but ... I think there must be something wrong with my ears.”

  The gunman jerked away from the wall, leveled his gun at Brian’s body and held it there, both hands clamped to the gun, both hands shaking. “You ... are ... dead!”

  He was losing it, going to shoot, maybe spray the entire room with bullets. Brenda had to do something.

  “Is that someone outside?” she asked.

  “What?”

  She had his attention. “Someone must have heard the shots. It’s Saturday morning. All the neighbors are home.”

  “Shit!” He ran to the window and peeled back the near curtain. “I can’t see anyone.”

  Brian’s feet tapped twice on the floor. “This is really strange,” he said. “I can hear where both your voices are coming from perfectly, but my feet seem miles away.”

  Brenda shook her head. What could she say?

  The gunman had no such qualms. He strode from the window, swept past Brenda and stopped a few yards from Brian’s head.

  “You’re dead, don’t you get it! You’re a fucking head. The rest of you is lying over there!” He pointed behind him, sweeping his left arm around and jabbing it towards the body.

  “Show me,” asked Brian.

  The gunman backed away, waving ‘no’ with both hands. “No way am I picking you up. You’re dead. You’re gone.”

  Behind the gunman, the body on the floor rolled over.

  “Please,” said Brian. “I need to see.”

  Brenda watched. The gunman was distracted, too busy arguing with Brian the head to hear what was happening behind him. Brian’s body had pulled itself up onto its knees. His hands were feeling towards his neck.

  “You are sick!” shouted the gunman, pointing his gun once more at Brian’s head, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You are fucking sick.”

  Brian’s body moved silently to its feet. Was he going to creep up behind the gunman and make a grab for the weapon? Brenda shifted in her chair, grounding both feet. She had to be ready to help. It might be their one chance. She had to be prepared to do anything – gouge, shoot, kill.

  “I need help that’s all,” said Brian, looking directly at Brenda. She nodded. She was ready.

  Brian’s body began to walk – hesitatingly, sliding each foot a few millimeters off the ground like a blind ice skater, feeling his way, hands outstretched. Brenda steeled herself, reached up and grabbed his right hand, gave it a squeeze, guided it around her chair. Then took his index finger and pointed it at the gunman’s back.

  He was a few feet away, closing...

  Then Brian screamed.

  Brenda couldn’t believe it. Why? Why had he screamed?

  “What’s that behind you!” cried Brian.

  The gunman swiveled round, took one look at headless Brian and lost it. He half jumped, half fell over backwards, arms flailing and eyes bulging. He fired once, then again. One bullet hit the ceiling. One must have hit Brian – his body lurched backwards, toppling towards Brenda. Who couldn’t move, her eyes transfixed – those windmilling arms trying to regain balance, that raw stump of a neck leaning ever closer towards her.

  It slumped on top of her. A dead, dying, putrefying, ‘wouldn’t stay dead’ lump sprawling in her lap. And it was still moving. Squirming, shifting its weight, gurgles and guttural noises coming from its chest. Get it off! Get it off!

  She pushed and pummeled at his back.

  “Ow!” said Brian. “That hurts.”

  “I do not fucking believe this!” said the gunman, hunched over now, both hands on his thighs, breathing hard. “You’ve lost your fucking head, you moron. Of course it hurts!”

  Brenda stopped pummeling, but not pushing. She wasn’t letting that oozing stump of a neck get any closer. She arched her back in the chair and pushed, holding him away.

  But why had Brian screamed? He could have locked both arms around the gunman. He could have wrestled him to the ground. He’d had a chance. Maybe the only chance they’d ever get.

  The body in her lap stirred, leaning forward and shifting its weight onto its feet. It was still alive – no surprise there – and getting up.

  “Is that me?” asked Brian, calming down.

  “I need a drink,” said the gunman, turning away.

  Brenda brushed at her clothes – not sure what Brian might have left in her lap now that he’d regained his feet. Severed fingers? Pieces of flesh? Goo? She looked down at her T-shirt and jeans – not even a bloodstain.

  Which was strange. He’d been shot several times and his head had come off. There should be blood everywhere. But there wasn’t. Not on his clothes nor on the carpet. And the blood welling in that stump of a neck was doing just that – welling – not overflowing, not pumping, not even dripping.

  He continued his stuttering zombie walk until he was standing over his head, then he bent down, reached out, patted along the floor and picked it up.

  “Do you think it’ll stick back on?” he asked Brenda.

  Brenda shrugged. After what she’d seen in the last ten minutes nothing would surprise her.

  In the kitchen, cupboard doors clicked and banged as the killer searched for something to drink. Rat poison, hopefully. And in the living room, Brian’s head, clasped tightly between two hands, was hoisted back onto his shoulders.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s usually better facing front,” said Brenda. “Unless you’re auditioning for The Exorcist.”

  “Fuck!” The gunman had chosen that moment to return from the kitchen. “I mean – fuck! – what are you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Brian, smiling as he turned his body around to match his head. “It’s got to be a miracle, hasn’t it?”

  He stood facing Brenda, his head still clasped between both hands, making slight adjustments to the left and right. “Is it centered?”

  The gunman took a swig from a bottle of tequila. “You think that’s going to grow back? You’re a crazy man. You’re a dead fucking crazy man.”

  “Do you think I’m immortal?” Brian asked Brenda, his eyes sparkling. “Like one of those supe
rheroes on TV?”

  It made about as much sense as anything else. “I think you need to move your head a little to the right.”

  “Or maybe I’m a zombie,” said Brian. He sniffed the air twice, then looked at the gunman. “Can I smell brains?”

  The gunman blanched. He was standing motionless in the doorway, a gun in one hand and a bottle in the other.

  “I’m not sure if I could eat brains,” continued Brian, now turning to Brenda. “Do you think its compulsory? I mean, wouldn’t you catch CJD eating all those brains? Of course that would explain why zombies are so slow. Their brains would have turned to mush.”

  He turned back to face the gunman. “I think I’d avoid brains. I could eat liver though. Maybe a leg.”

  For a second Brenda thought the gunman was going to lose it again.

  “Shut up!” he screamed, jabbing the gun at Brian. “You’re not a fucking zombie. You’re a freak! A fucking freak!”

  He was breathing fast, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as he spat out the words.

  “Stop looking at me!” He jabbed the gun at Brian again. “Go back to the sofa and sit down. Now! I don’t want to see you, okay?”

  Brian obeyed and the gunman stomped to the table in the dining area behind the sofa. He pulled out a chair facing Brenda and slammed the bottle down on the table. Followed by the gun, slapping it down hard on the highly polished wood. Brenda winced. The table was an antique. The gun might have gouged the wood – they had sharp pointy edges, didn’t they? The last time it had been damaged she’d had to call out a French polisher. And why couldn’t he use a coaster for that bottle...

  Well isn’t that just great, thought Brenda. You’re trapped in a room with a serial-killing rapist and a headless zombie and all you can think of is French polishing.

  “Do you think I’ll have a scar?” asked Brian.

  Brenda burst out laughing. Uncontrollable, nervous laughter at the absurdity – the innocence – of the remark. He looked so serious, so hopeful. Sitting there, one hand holding his head in place. A ragged seeping collar of a wound below.