Medium Dead

by Chris Dolley

  “Shut up!” screamed the gunman.

  Brian began to cough. A congested, chesty cough.

  Brenda stopped laughing. “Are you okay?”

  He looked far from okay. His head was jerking forward with each cough. Even with both hands holding it on, she could see daylight at the back of his neck with every lunge forward. Was this it? A delayed but inevitable death?

  Brian’s eyes began to bulge. He leaned forward, coughed something up onto the floor. And again. Something reddish and ... metallic? There was a faint clink as one struck the other. Were they bullets?

  One more cough and it stopped. Brian leaned forward, one hand holding his head, one hovering over the mess on the floor.

  “It’s a bullet,” he said, rolling the slimy piece of metal between finger and thumb. “I’ve coughed up all three bullets.”

  “I’m not listening,” said the gunman, his ashen face streaked with sweat. “You’re a crazy fucking dead man.”

  Brian wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and smiled. “I really am immortal. I coughed up the bullets. My head’s back on.”

  He took his hands away and tried a slight shake of his head. Brenda went bug eyed. The head teetered on his shoulders. It looked like it was going to fall off again.

  “I wouldn’t move around too soon.” She looked to the gunman. “He needs a hospital.”

  The gunman took another long drink from the bottle. “He needs a morgue.”

  Brian got up. Carefully. He was trying so hard to keep his head level, he looked like a student at a zombie deportment class.

  “I think we’ll be going now,” said Brian. “There’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

  The gunman was across the room in an instant, upturning the dining table in his wake, the bottle of tequila sent flying. “Sit down!”

  “Or what?” asked Brian. “You’re going to knock my head off again? Shoot me?”

  Brian didn’t cower, or step back, or flinch. He just stood there.

  The gunman couldn’t stop moving. One moment he was in Brian’s face, the next he was stepping back, his weight shifting from foot to foot. He looked lost, unsure whether to strike out or run. “Yes, I’m going to shoot you. And throw your fucking head out on the lawn.”

  “You’ll have to open the door to do that, but ... what if the door won’t open? What if you’re trapped in here? With me.”

  This was a totally new Brian. All fear had vanished.

  The gunman raised the stakes. Still looking at Brian, he swung his arm round and pointed the gun at Brenda.

  “Sit down, or she gets it.”

  Brenda felt the blood drain from her face. She could die in the next second. Did either of them care? The gunman didn’t. Did the new Brian? He was too busy playing superzombie to think straight. She could feel things sliding out of control. A bloody conclusion imminent.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Brian. “What if she’s like me and something weird happens?”

  “Like what?”

  “Can’t you guess? After all, you must know by now that I led you here.”

  Brenda’s mouth fell open. Did she hear that right?

  “What ... what are you talking about?” asked the gunman.

  “You don’t really think I ran out of gas?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Someone who wanted you here. In this house. With her.”

  This was not just a new Brian, this was a Hammer House of Horror Brian. Menacing and creepy. He spoke slowly, he looked the gunman in the eye and ... there was more than a hint of madness in that face – the eyes, the smile. He’d transformed.

  The gun swung back to point at Brian.

  Who welcomed it. “Every time you shoot me I get stronger. I feed on it. Are you going to feed me?” He took a step towards the killer and leaned forward, his head teetering as only a partially severed head can, until his forehead rested against the gun barrel.

  “Let’s see what’ll happen next, shall we?” he said.

  The killer took a step back, swinging the gun around to face Brenda. Brian’s head toppled forward – the angle impossible, his nose swinging down towards his chest, a slooping, tearing sound from the back of his neck...

  Then both hands came up and pushed it back into place.

  “Go on then,” he said. “Shoot her. My powers are nothing compared to hers.”

  What little blood Brenda had left, fled. Brian was playing Russian roulette with her life.

  “I don’t believe you,” said the gunman, his voice saying otherwise as nerves lifted it half an octave. He took a step backwards, his right heel hitting the skirting board beneath the window.

  “Do you want her to prove it?”

  “Yeah, prove it. Come on, lady, show me what you got?”

  Crap. Brenda closed her eyes and shook her head. She still wasn’t sure if Brian was insane or playing a clever game. Trying to get her killed or protect her. Did he really think she was a zombie too?

  On the other hand...

  Could she have superpowers? She saw dead people.

  “You never looked upstairs, did you?” said Brian.

  A thump sounded from upstairs. The killer jumped. “Who’s up there?”

  “Her children. Tiny misshapen children.” He spoke slowly, pausing between each word, twisting them into the ebbing confidence of the killer. “Hungry children with lots of little, sharp teeth.”

  Something skittered along the floor upstairs. It sounded like tiny running feet. And was that laughter? Distant, muffled, childish laughter.

  More skittering. Both Brenda and the gunman had to look up, following the sound as it traversed the ceiling. Which was impossible. On so many levels. There were internal walls upstairs. No one could run from the front of the house to the back in a straight line.

  Except ghosts.

  Was that it? Ghosts? Were they helping her? Was Brian a ghost too? It would explain the head and the bullets. But could ghosts take corporeal form?

  The gunman edged along the window towards the door, his hands shaking, the gun pointing at Brenda then Brian.

  “Give me your car keys,” he told Brenda. “Do that and I’m out of here.”

  “Do you want to let him go?” Brian asked Brenda.

  Yes! The sooner the better. This was their chance. He wants to go. We want him to go. So let him go!

  “But he’s a murderer, Brenda. He’ll kill again. And rape. Until someone stops him.”

  Which is why we have police. Come on, Brian! We can end this.

  “It never ends,” said Brian. “Until it ends.”

  Shit! He was answering her thoughts. Could he read her mind? And what did he mean? It never ends until it ends? What kind of gibberish was that? Uh ... sorry, Brian, no offence.

  There was a commotion at the door. The killer was trying to unlock it, but the catch wouldn’t budge. He hit it with his gun, rattled the door, kicked at it, swore.

  “You can’t escape,” said Brian.

  The killer took a step back, aimed at the lock, fired once, twice. Wood splintered, but the door still wouldn’t open. He pulled at it, kicked at it, threw himself at it, shoulder first.

  ‘Let him go!’ Brenda framed the thought and flung it at Brian. She wanted the killer out of her house and gone. ‘Can’t you call the police? Or immobilize him? He won’t be able to hurt anyone in prison!’

  ‘His kind can inflict pain wherever they are.’Brian’s voice resounded inside her head. Except that it wasn’t Brian’s – not the one he was speaking with. This one had an English accent. Did all ghosts think with an English accent?

  ‘Only the really old ones. And what if a clever lawyer gets our friend here off with a lighter sentence? Or there’s not enough evidence? Or he brokers a deal?’

  ‘So what would you do? Torture him?’

  ‘I strive to make the punishment fit the crime.’

  The gunman gave up on the front door and ran through the house to the back. The kitchen door rat
tled. It hadn’t been locked, but now...

  “Fuck!”

  Thumps and thuds came from the kitchen. And screams – both of rage and fear. He was kicking at the door, beating on the glass, screaming at them to break. Two shots rang out, but there was no sound of breaking glass. Was the whole house magically sealed? The glass in the kitchen door was nothing special. A gun butt should have shattered it easily.

  The front doorbell rang.

  Brenda jumped. The banging from the kitchen stopped. Were the police at the door? A neighbor? There’d been so many gunshots someone must have got curious.

  “Would you like to open the door, Brenda?” asked Brian.

  “No!” screamed the gunman, emerging wild-eyed from the kitchen. “Stay back, both of you.”

  He started to run towards the door. Brian lunged forward like a swordless fencer, stamping his lead foot on the floor in front of the gunman, then jumped back.

  The killer ignored him, running for the door, one stride, two then....

  Brenda blinked. Even after all she’d seen she couldn’t quite believe it. The killer’s feet stuck to the carpet where Brian had stamped his foot. Except it wasn’t really carpet any more. It stretched and clung like sticky toffee. The killer was leaning forward, straining, panicking, his breathing ragged and loud, his arms waving wildly as he tried to keep his balance and pull his feet clear. One foot was six inches off the ground, a sticky fibrous goo stretched between the carpet and the sole of his shoe.

  Brian stepped forward, having no such trouble, and twisted the gun free from the killer’s right hand.

  “The door, Brenda,” he said. “I think it’s time you found out who’s on the other side.”

  Brenda slowly lifted her right foot – testing to see if the carpet came with it. It didn’t. And the door latch behaved itself too, sliding back as easily as ever. Then Brenda paused. Whoever was going to be on the other side of that door had only rung the once. Why? If it had been the police they’d have banged on the door until they had an answer. A concerned neighbor would have shouted through the door, asking if she was all right. They wouldn’t ring once and wait.

  Could the killer have an accomplice? Had Brian lured another serial killing rapist to her house?

  “You’re perfectly safe,” said Brian. “She’s expected.”

  She? How many more people were there?

  Brenda gripped the door handle, turned it and slowly pulled the door open.

  It was a hooker.

  Brenda’s jaw, which over the last hour had been getting closer and closer to the ground every time she opened it, set a new record. A hooker?

  “Hello. I Luljeta,” said the hooker in a heavily accented east European accent. Beneath the make-up she could have been any age. Mid-twenties, mid-teens. The little clothes she wore were garish, revealing and straight from the shelves of HookerMart. “I very pleased to meet.”

  She grabbed Brenda’s hand and shook it, her eyes filling up. “You make me very happy.”

  What? How? Brenda was approaching ‘who?’ when Brian spoke.

  “Come in, Luljeta. It won’t be long now.”

  What won’t be long? Brenda stood back to let Luljeta inside.

  “Who’s she?” said the gunman, his voice shaking.

  “Who do you think she is?” said Brian. “One of your victims perhaps? It would be poetic justice, would it not?” He circled the mired killer. “Do you think I should give her this gun? Or maybe a knife? Let her carve her own form of justice into your murdering rapist hide.”

  “I’ve never seen her before!”

  “Are you sure? Take a closer look. Think of all those girls you raped before you got the taste for killing. Could she be one of them? Or maybe a sister?”

  Brenda stood by the open door, glancing outside. Maybe this would be a good time to leave?

  “Close the door, Brenda, and come inside. You have to see this.”

  She felt compelled to close the door. She looked at Luljeta. There was real hatred in the girl’s eyes. She stood there, arms folded, weight resting on her right foot, watching Brian taunt the killer, waiting.

  “But I’m far more creative than that,” said Brian. “You see, Luljeta here sold everything she had in Albania for the promise of a better life in the West. And guess what? The gang who arranged her trip sold her to the Albanian Mafia. Now she’s a sex slave with no hope of escape. They give her food, accommodation and clothes and keep all the money she earns. She ran away once, but her handlers tracked her down and dragged her back. She still has the scars. If she tries it again they’ll kill her. No way out. Unless – and this is where you come in....”

  He stopped circling.

  “You help her.”

  “How?”

  “Empty your pockets. Give her all your money, all those credit cards. My car keys. Everything.”

  The killer agreed in an instant. He emptied his pockets with shaking hands, passing everything to Brian and watched as he, in turn, filled Luljeta’s open palms.

  “You’re free now,” Brian told her. “Take the money and my car – the black BMW outside. Go as far away as you can. No one will follow.”

  Brenda didn’t understand. But then she’d understood very little all morning.

  Luljeta started to cry. She thanked Brian. She thanked Brenda. She went back and hugged Brian. Then left, the door clicking shut behind her.

  “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Now let me go,” pleaded the killer.

  Brian began circling again.

  “I haven’t said how you’re going to help her yet.”

  “I gave her money!”

  “A few dollars. That’s not going to keep her safe. There’s only one thing that will.”

  “What?”

  A thought echoed by Brenda. Was he going to kill him after all?

  “You’re going to trade places,” said Brian.

  The killer looked confused, then horrified. “What are you going to do?”

  Brian rolled up his right sleeve and flexed the fingers of his right hand.

  “No!” screamed the killer. “Keep back!” He swung at Brian, missed, tried again, grabbed hold of his hair, tugged. But Brian’s head stayed on. And Brian’s right hand reached forward and slowly pushed inside the killer’s chest.

  Brenda swallowed hard. Brian’s hand was inside the killer. She could see it! It was up to his wrists, the killer’s flesh parting as though it was made of soft cheese. There wasn’t even any blood. The killer was struggling and screaming and...

  Changing. His clothes, his features. He was shrinking into ... Luljeta. A perfect replica. Even his voice had raised an octave. And that accent.

  “What you do to me? You crazy motherfucker!”

  “I’m giving you a fresh perspective on sex and violence.”

  And with that, the Hillsdale Rapist vanished.

  Brenda blinked. “Where did he go?”

  Brian reverted to his English accent. “A massage parlor downtown. She doesn’t look very happy.”

  “You can see him ... her?”

  Brian’s eyes had become unfocussed. He stared past her right shoulder into space.

  “I can see her,” he said. “And so can her pimp.”

  “What are you?” she asked.

  Before Brian could answer, a woman materialized behind him. The dead woman from breakfast, her eyes blacker than ever, her face set in a tight-lipped scowl.

  “You wouldn’t listen, would you?” she snapped. “Don’t look at me. He can’t read your mind at the moment – magic takes it out of him – but don’t let him know I’m here. He’s a Vigilante Demon.”

  “Me?” said Brian, oblivious to the ghost behind him. “I’m the third arm of the justice system. Law, Order and Vengeance. And I’m looking for a partner.”

  “A partner?”

  “He means bait,” said the woman. “He may be invulnerable, but we’re not. I was his last partner.”

  “Yes,” said Brian. “A partner. Someone wh
o can see and hear the dead. I can’t, so I need someone who the dead come to. Someone who’ll listen to them, look out for the ones who were murdered and question them – try to find out who killed them. You pass the information to me and we ... we bring them to justice. Find a fitting punishment.”

  “Like turning a rapist into a sex slave?”

  “Exactly. We bring the bad guys to justice and have a little fun doing it. Our serial killing rapist friend had a penchant for violent horror films, so I chose a zombie theme for his takedown. Considerably more gory than my usual takedowns but, I hope, as inventive. What do you say? Are you interested?”

  The dead woman shook her head. “He’ll use you like he did today. Dangle you in front of every sick killer in the country and get you killed like he did me. He takes too many risks.”

  “Come on, Brenda. It’s your chance to make a difference. Get killers off the streets.”

  Brenda didn’t know what to say.

  “You can’t do it!” said the ghost. “You’re not ready. You’re not even a proper medium! You could never replace me!”

  Then a second ghost materialized – floating, shining – a few feet to Brian’s left. The ghost of Gabriella Czerna, the killer’s last victim, her clothes no longer ripped or blood stained, her face no longer bruised. “Thank you,” she said.

  Just the two words.

  And, sometimes, two words are enough.

  Chapter Three

  And sometimes they’re not.

  “Wait!” Brenda shouted. “I’ve changed my mind! I don’t want to be a crime fighter. Come back!”

  She couldn’t believe it. How could everyone vanish like that? One minute she was the center of attention, everyone and her ghost offering advice, the next – poof – she was on her own. No Brian, no ghosts and no idea of what was supposed to happen next.

  “Brian!” She shouted at the ceiling, swung round and yelled at the windows. “Brian!”

  Where had he gone? And why so suddenly? Had he sensed she was having second thoughts? Was that the way demons negotiated – close the deal, then shoot off before the poor sap of a human could change her mind?

  Brenda slumped into the nearest chair. She’d been set up. The man had brought a serial-killing rapist into her home for Chrissakes! Deliberately! The whole thing must have been some kind of test – an audition – to see ... to see what? If he could work with her? If she could watch someone’s head fly from their shoulders without freaking out?