Medium Dead

by Chris Dolley

  “Piffle?” said Brian. “Here I am giving you the low-down on Heaven and Hell and you call it piffle?”

  “It’s entertaining piffle. But tell me one thing – truthfully – you call yourself a demon, but you....” She searched for a good way to phrase the next part. “You don’t act like a demon. You fight crime. You do good.”

  “Demons can be good.” He sounded hurt. “There’s an old saying in Hell, ‘The Devil has the best tunes and the worst publicists.’ Which is sad because Satan’s a really good bloke.”

  “A good bloke?”

  “One of the best. He doesn’t impose his will on anyone, or pass down any laws. Unlike the gods, who can’t pass a rock without feeling the need to chisel out another commandment. Do you know they once had eighteen thousand? It took us ages to get them to whittle it down to ten. Thou shalt not wear white after Labor Day – that was one of theirs. Control freaks, every one of them.

  “Whereas Satan’s more practical and less hands on. He helped you out of Africa, gave you fire, and apples, and pyramid erector sets for your leaders on their birthdays.”

  Brenda snickered. “So he doesn’t torment souls and seduce people to the dark side and make them evil?”

  “Brenda, we demons live in Hell. Why would we fill it with evil human souls, wailing and gnashing their teeth all day? The property values would crash overnight.”

  Brenda had to smile. It was complete bullshit, but ... it had been years since anyone had talked to her like this. Not since college. Not since those carefree days when she’d sit up to all hours talking nonsense and putting the world to rights.

  “And anyway,” continued Brian. “Far more killers claim to hear the voice of God or angels than the devil. Satan doesn’t care what you humans do. Go and enjoy yourselves. And if you have financial problems and have the odd soul you want to mortgage, in he’ll step and help you out. He’ll even handle the souls no one else’ll touch – the sub-prime souls. What a mensch!”

  “You are so full of bullshit.”

  He smiled. “Prime bullshit, I hope.”

  This time he did waggle his eyebrows. “Is that it? Can I go now?”

  “No! How do I contact you?”

  He looked surprised. “Didn’t I say? I’m in the Yellow Pages.”

  “I’m serious. If I find a murder victim how do I contact you?”

  “I really am in the Yellow Pages. Have a look if you don’t believe me. I’m under ‘D’ for Demons: friendly.”

  He pointed at the phone directory on the small table by the door and crooked a finger at it. The phone directory jumped from the table, began to fly towards Brenda then fell to the ground a yard short.

  “Sorry. I’m weaker than I thought. Magic takes it out of me.”

  Brenda retrieved the directory from the floor and started to flick through the pages, unsure if she were going to find a phone number or the set up for another joke.

  She found both. A phone number – HELL 666 – and a half page picture of a smiling Brian, looking like a used car salesman with horns.

  “You’ve just done this, haven’t you?”

  Brian raised both hands, palms out. “Haven’t got the energy. It really has been there all week. I conjured it last Saturday. I have my own call center.”

  “With Sanjay no doubt.”

  “He likes to keep busy.”

  o0o

  The next day, Brenda was feeling guilty. She’d been a fully-fledged crime fighter for twenty-four hours and not one ghost had been to see her. Where were they all? She hadn’t seen a ghost in eight days. She’d never gone that long before without a visitation. Most days she’d have several. Had Brian scared them all off?

  Or had Brenda lost her ability to see the dead? That would be typical of Brenda’s life. Give her a talent she doesn’t want, then take it away the moment she finds a use for it.

  Brenda paddled in the shallow end of the depression pool for a while, splashing around with ‘why me?’ and ‘God, my life sucks.’ She couldn’t even get into her book – Strong Poison, the first of Dorothy L Sayers’ Harriet Vane books. She had all four Harriet Vane novels set aside for the first week of her summer veg-out re-readathon. She’d been looking forward to it for months. But now she couldn’t get past the first chapter. She’d read the current page three times and nothing had stuck. Her mind was elsewhere, starting at every noise and imaginary shimmer glimpsed from the corner of her eye.

  Even The Rich, The Spoiled, and the Surgically Enhanced failed to lift her spirits. Celeste had forsworn sex and fled to an exclusive recovery clinic in Tibet where she was being looked after by a hunky lama called Darley. With Celeste’s track record, Darley would either turn out to be her long lost brother – kidnapped by a gang of rogue lamas as a child and raised by Yeti – or the reincarnation of her grandfather – the one who’d died in the Turkish bordello knife fight.

  Normally an episode like that would have had Brenda speculating for days. But today she was too preoccupied. Maybe if she could summon a ghost...

  Could she? She didn’t have the power to send them away – she’d tried often enough.

  But how difficult could it be? The dead knew where she lived. Half the astral plane had popped in for a whine at one time or the other.

  Brenda dimmed the living room lights. Should she put on some mood music? A few Gregorian Chants. A dash of Leonard Cohen.

  She decided to forego the accompaniment. Silence was good. She’d be able to hear better.

  She sat down on the floor in front of the sofa and closed her eyes. A few deep breaths. A shake of her arms and shoulders. Flex and relax.

  What next? Should she light a candle? Or fetch a pen and paper?

  The pen and paper sounded good – she’d need something to write the victim’s details down.

  Back she came with a notebook, two ballpoints, a can of air freshener and a large glass of wine. Be prepared, the motto of boy scouts and psychic investigators everywhere.

  She closed her eyes again, another deep breath, more loosening up exercises, a quick slurp and...

  Now what?

  How about ‘Is anyone out there?’

  Not specific enough.

  “Are any murder victims out there?”

  She listened, hardly daring to breathe. Not a sound. She opened her eyes. Still nothing. Should she keep her eyes open? All the mediums she’d seen on television closed their eyes, but then they were trying to channel the dead which Brenda definitely did not want to do. She wanted her ghosts out in the open, not poking about inside her.

  Brenda took a couple of long looks over each shoulder. She didn’t want to be crept up upon either.

  “Hello,” she said. “Anyone out there? Anyone with a grievance?”

  Not a sound. Not a shimmer. Was it lunchtime on the astral plane? Was something good on TV up there?

  She took another slurp of wine before trying again, adding a pleading tone to her voice, then a friendly tone, and finally an authoritarian bark.

  “I command thee! Any spirit who hears my voice. If you’ve been killed step forward!”

  There was a shimmer to her right – by the bookcase. An outline of a child rippling against the book spines. Building, fading, pulsing slowly in and out of phase.

  “You’re safe here,” said Brenda. “Step forward so I can see you.”

  A small girl drifted out of the bookcase. The temperature dropped immediately. She couldn’t be older than seven. Her hair was long, dark and unkempt. She looked lost. And her face was streaked with tears.

  Brenda shuffled to face her, not wanting to make any sudden movements in case she frightened the girl off.

  “Hello. My name’s Brenda. What’s yours?”

  The girl looked away. Her fingers were nervously playing with the hem of her blue T-shirt.

  “I expect you have a pretty name,” said Brenda.

  “I don’t have a name.”

  Her voice was small and strangely distant as though it wasn’t coming
from the girl, but from some place further off. A place with an echo.

  “You’ve got to have a name. All little girls have names.”

  “I don’t.”

  She still wouldn’t look at Brenda. She showed no interest in her surroundings at all. Her eyes downcast, staring vacantly at the carpet.

  “What does your mother call you?”

  “Don’t have a mother.”

  The echo was becoming more pronounced – as though the girl’s voice was coming from a large empty room.

  “What does your father call you?”

  “Sacrifice.”

  Sacrifice? Brenda had heard some strange girl’s names before, but Sacrifice?

  “That’s a ... that’s a nice name. What do your friends call you?”

  “Don’t have any friends.”

  “But you must go to school.”

  “No.”

  Brenda paused. “How old are you?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Goosebumps. Brenda had never met a child who didn’t know their age to the nearest three months. And the matter of fact way the girl was speaking. She wasn’t frightened or shy.

  “Where do you live?” asked Brenda.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Is it in a city?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Do you live in a house or an apartment?”

  The ghost shrugged, her eyes now riveted on her fingers and the tiny piece of T-shirt wrapped around them.

  “What can you see out of your bedroom window?”

  “Don’t have a window.”

  Double goosebumps. Brenda had a very bad feeling about this.

  “Why were you crying?”

  “Because it hurt.”

  Brenda took a deep breath. If this were a living child she’d stop at this point and hand everything over to an expert. The girl had probably been abused. God knows what memories she had festering below the surface. Did Brenda have the right to force her to relive them?

  Or were the dead inured to trauma?

  She studied the girl, shuffling closer, bending down to look up into her face. She didn’t seem agitated in any way. There was no quiver in her voice. If it wasn’t for the tear-stained face and what she had to say, Brenda would have sworn she was fine.

  But...

  What if the girl started to cry, or became hysterical? Brenda couldn’t hug her, or provide any form of physical support.

  But if she let her fade away, which was the norm for all the ghosts Brenda had met – they rarely stayed for more than ten minutes – a child torturer could get away.

  “Did your daddy hurt you?” asked Brenda.

  The girl didn’t speak. She just nodded.

  “What’s your daddy’s name?”

  “Daddy.”

  “What do other people call him?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “Do you see him with other people?”

  “No.”

  “Are you allowed out of your room?”

  “Never.”

  Brenda shivered. What should she do now? She had no idea of the girl’s identity. Sacrifice didn’t sound like a real name. She had no surname, no address. She couldn’t even place the girl’s accent. It might be local. It might be anywhere in the country.

  A photograph! Brenda got up slowly and walked – fighting the urge to break into a run – to the drawer where she kept her camera. She pulled it out, fumbled with the controls, switched it on, turned, pointed it at the little girl and...

  There was no little girl in the viewing screen. Brenda could see her, but the camera couldn’t. She took the picture just in case, but held out little hope.

  Frustration. There had to be something else she could do. But what? She couldn’t take fingerprints. She couldn’t make a sketch – she was useless at drawing, always had been.

  ‘Brian!’ She framed the thought and gave it as much power as she could, firing it through the ceiling and beyond. Surely he had to be somewhere out there. ‘Come on! You wanted a murder victim. Here she is. Come and get her!’

  No answer. The girl continued to play with the hem of her T-shirt. Brenda ran for the phone. Was there time to call Brian? Was HELL 666 a real number? She grabbed the phone, turned to check on Sacrifice and...

  The girl was fading. Her outline blurring into its surroundings.

  “No! Sacrifice. Don’t go! You’re safe here.”

  The girl looked up, her features transparent and fading.

  “Are you my mommy?” she said, her voice trailing away.

  Then she was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  Brenda was still shaking five minutes later. She’d seen hundreds of ghosts, but none had touched her like Sacrifice. What the girl must have gone through. And for so long. Had she lived her entire life in a windowless cell?

  She tapped Brian’s number on the phone pad and waited. After three rings there was a click on the line, then a woman’s voice in a slow and heavily accented eastern European drawl began to speak.

  “You have reached switchboard from Hell. If you sold soul and now have question, press one. If you have soul and want quote, press two. If you want speak Satan, press 666. If you want speak Brian, press three.”

  Brenda shook her head. She was in no mood for jokes. But she pressed three just the same.

  The Rolling Stones cranked out the opening bars to Sympathy for the Devil. Brenda rolled her eyes.

  Then Sanjay’s voice came on the line.

  “Brian cannot be coming to the phone at this moment. Please be leaving message after the scream.”

  Scream?

  Even with the warning it was still a shock when it came. A scream-queen ear-splitter that nearly knocked the phone from Brenda’s hand.

  “Brian! Stop messing around and get over here now. I’ve found a victim.”

  She slammed the phone down.

  “Thank you for calling,” said Sanjay. “Have an evil day.”

  She waited for Brian to call back. Made herself a cup of coffee. Waited some more. Where was he? Out on a case? Asleep in his coffin? Recharging his magical batteries?

  She eschewed a second cup of coffee in favor of some hardcore pacing, wearing out a channel between her bookcase and the door. What should she do next? Call the police? Wait for Brian?

  She paced. She thought. She argued with herself.

  Then she had an idea. The internet! Maybe she could trace the girl online?

  She pulled out her laptop and started searching. She Googled murdered children. She Googled missing children. She Googled dead children – accidents, fires, anything.

  And found a depressingly large number of hits. She tried to cut the numbers by adding the name ‘Sacrifice’ to the search. And found hundreds of links to ritualistic murders – most of them in Africa. She skimmed and searched, typed in new keywords, experimented with new combinations. An hour passed. Two. No picture of Sacrifice, but thousands of depressing stories. Every day over two thousand children went missing in the US. Nearly 600 infants under the age of five were murdered every year. She could surf for days and barely skim the surface.

  And what if Sacrifice’s body had never been found? What if she’d been locked in a windowless room all her life and the authorities never even knew she existed?

  She switched the laptop off. And cursed Brian. Didn’t they have pagers in hell?

  She called HELL 666 again and received the same message from Sanjay and his Transylvanian sidekick. After the scream, she added her own.

  o0o

  The next day came and still no Brian. Did he only work on Saturdays? Brenda thought about leaving another message on his answering machine, but decided against it. For all she knew, HELL 666 could be another of Brian’s little jokes – a dummy call center set up for comic relief, not for taking messages.

  She’d go to the police instead.

  And say what?

  Hello, I’m the neighborhood psychic and I’d like to look through your files.


  How far would that get her?

  I’m a witness to a possible abduction.

  She liked that better. It would certainly get their attention, but ... how would she follow it up? She had no idea when Sacrifice was killed, or where. It could be yesterday, it could be years in the past. And the first question the police would ask would be ‘where and when did this abduction take place?’ Brenda didn’t have a clue.

  Despondency. She had important information in a murder case and no way to impart it – without sounding like a crazy person and tainting every word that came out of her mouth.

  Could she make up a story?

  That improved her mood. She could invent a location. Tell them it happened locally just to get a look at their files.

  Doubt swept back in. What if they only showed her pictures of local missing children? She needed to see pictures of every missing or murdered child from across the country.

  She thought about it some more. She needed a good reason to access every file they had. Research? How about I’m doing research for an article on abused children? It was vague enough to give her a reason to look at all their files. But would she need ID? Some kind of reporter’s accreditation, or letter from a university?

  Time to blame Brian. Where was he? This was exactly the kind of thing he should be helping her with. He could fashion accreditation out of thin air.

  Doubt, an ever-present in the Steele household, hopped back onto Brenda’s shoulder. It whispered in her ear. She wasn’t cut out for crime fighting. Four years ago the confident, adventurous Brenda had crashed and burned in the outside world. How could stay-at-home Brenda hope to fare any better? Stay home. Do what you’re good at. Do what you enjoy. A month ago you were looking forward to the summer break. The Harriet Vane books are there – on the bookcase – waiting. Go on. You’ve already read the first chapter of Strong Poison. Pick it up.

  No! Harriet Vane wouldn’t have turned her back on a mystery and neither would Brenda. She’d drive to the police station now and ... bluff her way past the desk sergeant. She wasn’t sure how, but women had been charming their way past men for thousands of years and Brenda could do charming.

  As she drove to the police station, her plan grew flesh. She was a freelance reporter researching for a book. A charming freelance reporter prepared to flirt, pout, and – if the situation called for it – burst into tears if she didn’t get her way.