by J-F. Dubeau
The only traits that made Dr. McKenzie stand out were his understanding of medicine and his own acquired comfort with the dead. When Randy put an iron nail to Audrey’s eye and plunged it in with the strike of a hammer, his hands didn’t shake. He felt some pangs of moral discomfort, but he had no trouble keeping his instruments straight. He’d seen enough cadavers moan or twitch on his autopsy table that he no longer was bothered by interacting with corpses. Gas escaping guts and lungs, postmortem reflexes. More scientifically sound than cheating reality, but with results that could be just as disturbing to the uninitiated.
Erica, however, wasn’t quite as used to this sort of thing. She’d cut open her fair share of animals while taking biology classes and had been present for a few autopsies, but nothing could have prepared her for Audrey’s apparition.
For a moment, the ghost materialized against its will, fighting the summons by twisting and distorting its form. Her limbs bent at impossible angles, and her face contorted like a demon’s. It was unsettling to witness, a child so young undergoing such torture. Once she recognized the familiar bear that was being used to reel her spirit in, however, Audrey calmed down, accepting the summons smoothly.
But for Erica Hazelwood, the sight was a complete break with what she was willing to accept. Both hands covered her mouth as she stared, uncomprehending, at the sight before her.
Randy felt bad for her. Even though he’d insisted that she leave, she had chosen to stay without understanding the consequences. What must she think of him? he wondered. He’d exchanged being an overweight but admired mentor with being a creepy monster who dealt in the dark arts.
“It’s okay, Dr. Hazelwood.” Penny, who had kept her composure during the summoning, moved to comfort the poor psychologist. Erica would have none of it, stepping away from the young girl.
Audrey, ethereal and made of light, silently reached for her toy. Randy handed it to her, doing his best to smile at the girl. He expected her small hands to pass through the stuffed bear and that he’d have to comfort her because of it, but they didn’t. For a brief moment, while both he and Audrey held the toy, the medical examiner felt a connection with the land of the dead. The toy became as cold as ice before his hands passed through its immaterial form.
“Thank you,” the ghost squeaked while holding her bear tightly to her cheek.
“Audrey?” Penny said.
The diminutive apparition squealed in delight but quickly raised a hand to her cheek. The cut from Penny’s knife was still visible. It made the girl wary of her former babysitter.
“Randy?” Erica finally found her voice. “What is going on?”
“This,” he answered, attempting to stay clinical, “is William and Beatrice Bergeron’s daughter, Audrey. She died, but I used some, uh . . . procedures, to anchor her spirit. I guess you’d call her a ghost.”
“I’m not seeing this, Randy. Am I?”
“You are.”
“This can’t be. I’m having a breakdown. Lack of sleep can lead to visual and auditory halluci—”
“Erica. This is Saint-Ferdinand. You wanted to know more about its secrets, well, here you are. It only gets worse from here. You can still leave, and I very much hope you do.”
His protégé’s eyes darted between Randy and the ghost. They didn’t reflect comprehension or understanding, only fear. Beneath that, though, the medical examiner could see a hint of amazement.
“No,” she said, and swallowed. “No. I can’t walk away from this. Even if I’m just going crazy.”
Randy sighed and shook his head. He had no idea what the future would hold. He knew it would be dangerous, perhaps deadly, and that Erica was ill prepared to survive if things got ugly. But he had no time to explain everything, not at this very minute. With luck, he could convince her to leave town with him once he was done here.
“Audrey?” he called. “Penelope here tells me you have a way to help get my . . . my spirit to the circus?”
“Yes!” she said, her voice like small bells. “You want to know how?”
“Absolutely, honey. I’d love to give it a try. What do I have to do?”
“Well, you can’t go alone, or the shadows will get you. The shadows eat all the ghosts.”
The god, Randy thought. Even while imprisoned, it could still attract the souls of the dead to its location. He’d tried to use that as a way of locating it in the past, but he didn’t know the correct rituals.
“Who would I go with? You?”
“I can’t protect you. You need a body.”
Back to square one was Randy’s first thought. If he could simply walk out and meet Cicero in person, talk to him face-to-face with his own flesh and blood, there wouldn’t be a problem. The amateur necromancer tried to think. Perhaps he could pretend to be dead. Have his body carted off and reanimated outside the jail. It was the kind of thing that worked in movies. Certainly there was something in all the tricks he’d learned that could simulate the effect.
“It doesn’t have to be your body, Dr. McKenzie,” Penny said, interrupting his thoughts. “Audrey can help you possess someone else.”
“Don’t do it, Randy,” Finnegan warned from the next cell.
“How?” McKenzie directed his question at the apparition.
“You know how, when you’re so scared, you jump out of your skin?”
“That’s just an expression, honey.”
The ghost shook her head slowly. “It’s not. I see it all the time. I saw the lady over there do it when she saw me.” Audrey pointed at Erica. “It’s not for long, but if you do it to Penny, I can catch her.”
Yes. This would leave the teenage girl’s body empty, hungering for something to inhabit it. The flesh abhors a vacuum. Randy had read those words somewhere in his father’s notes. It wouldn’t take much for him to abandon his own. Just a simple near-death experience.
“Let me do it, Randy,” Sam said. “I owe the village that much. Let me take the risk.”
“I am not letting him possess me,” Penelope answered. “You’ve been my doctor since I was a child, Dr. McKenzie. I trust you.”
Hesitation was for the weak and time was slipping away, Randy tried to tell himself. And this was not a world that was kind to the weak.
“Close your eyes,” he instructed the teenage girl. “Now hum a song. Something repetitive, preferably devoid of feeling. Maybe one of those pop songs kids your age like so much.”
Penny gave him a disapproving look but was otherwise compliant. She began to hum something the medical examiner had heard a hundred times on the radio but still couldn’t name. The tune was almost pleasant at first. The repetition quickly became grating as the experiment stretched into minutes. Dutifully, the girl kept on humming. As instructed, there was no emotion in her cadence. No passion. She simply repeated the melody along for what seemed like an hour. Randy had to quietly hush Erica as she began to protest. At long last, Penny’s music faded into the background.
WHAP!
Without warning, Randy clapped his hands a mere inch from the teenager’s left ear. As she popped her eyes open in shock, it happened. Penny’s beautiful blue eyes went vacant. There was no name for what she lost in that moment. Soul didn’t do it justice. The same spark Dr. McKenzie had been able to find in Audrey’s dead body after her funeral was now absent from Penny’s eyes.
“All right, Sam. You want to help? Now’s your chance.”
“God dammit, Randy, don’t ask me to do that.”
“You’re the only choice,” the medical examiner said, moving as close to the wall that separated the two cells as he could.
“God dammit. Good luck,” Sam said before reaching through the bars and grabbing Randy’s neck with both of his bony hands.
“Oh God!” Erica screamed, but Randy, already choking, waved her off.
It was excruciating to endure. At first the medical examiner was confident in what he was doing, but as the moments passed and his lungs burned, his faith wavered. He pulled at Finneg
an’s hands, the hands of an experienced killer, but they expertly cut off his air supply. Randy’s vision became increasingly narrow and blurry, spots obscuring his sight. As consciousness slipped from him, he began to wonder if this had been a good idea after all.
PAUL
PAUL DIDN’T DRINK. A long time ago, when he and Randy had been teenagers, their father had caught them shoplifting beer at the convenience store, stuffing bottles into their winter coats. Neil McKenzie had never been a kind man, and no one had ever accused him of being tolerant, either. So it had come as little surprise to the McKenzie boys that their father had made them go through all the clichés as punishment.
First he had the boys bring the stolen goods back to Harland, the proprietor of the store. Not satisfied with the humiliation, Neil decided to teach his sons about the vices of alcohol, too. Purchasing a twenty-four-bottle case of the nastiest beer on the market, he had Paul and Randy drink every last one.
Randy, being older and larger, weathered the ordeal with little more than a nightmarish hangover the next day. Paul, who’d always been scrawny even for his age, did not fare so well. The only silver lining to his intoxication was being spared the hangover, but only because he had vomited up the entire contents of his stomach over the course of the night. Even when he had nothing left to barf up, he would dry heave until he spat up bile. Though the boy had clearly learned his lesson, Neil would be waiting next to the bathroom door with a bottle. This went on until Paul had drunk his half of the beer.
As a result, both boys had stayed away from alcohol until they were in their midtwenties. Once Randy built up the courage to drink again, he took to it like a fish to water, though with a marked preference toward wines and whiskeys. Paul, however, never touched a drink again, the very smell still dredging up feelings of nausea.
Despite the psychological scars of that lesson, Paul had recently purchased a large bottle of the cheapest malt whiskey at the local liquor store. He pulled it out of its hiding place under the kitchen sink and removed the brown paper bag.
He decided a few days back that he needed the liquid courage. Prophecy had told him the booze would come in handy, and it did not disappoint. The moment he saw the door to the shed was open, saw an eerie glow leaking through the opening, he knew his time had come.
This isn’t so bad, he thought as he cracked open the metal screw top on the bottle. Paul had assumed that when this moment came, he’d be filled with dread. That courage would fail him and he wouldn’t live up to his destiny. Instead he felt almost relieved. Then again, fate was a strange thing, wasn’t it?
He took a quick, tentative whiff of the bottle. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel like retching. The smell was more medicinal than intoxicating, like rubbing alcohol with a hint of sugar. Still, he wasn’t looking forward to having it go down his throat. The more he contemplated it, the less he felt it necessary. Before he could make a decision, a wet, bloodcurdling scream came from outside.
Resolute, Paul put the bottle down on the counter. He made his way to the back door and kicked it open. He grabbed a rake that had been leaning against the porch and ran to the shed. Without looking, without thinking, he walked through the broken door, brandishing his makeshift weapon.
The sight that welcomed him was everything he had been told it would be and more. There was no doubt in his mind that before him stood a god, both beautiful and terrible to behold. In its grasp was André, the boy Paul had been told he would attempt to rescue but be doomed to fail. Even knowing all this, Venus’s father raised his rake. He could see that the boy, who had been relieved of his extremities, finger by finger, arm by arm, was barely alive yet staring directly at him.
“Neil McKenzie . . . ,” called the creature.
Paul didn’t bother to correct the mistake. Didn’t take his eyes off the young man who was dying in the god’s clutches. There was still hope in those eyes. Hope either for rescue or a quick release from his torment. Unfortunately, Paul knew both of them would get neither. Yet he charged forward with a glad heart, swinging his crude weapon wildly, knowing that he was meeting his destiny with nobility. He was defending that shred of hope in the eyes of his daughter’s former friend, at the cost of his own life.
After all, what else was he supposed to do?
VENUS
“ARE YOU SURE you don’t want to stay?”
It was the third time Venus had asked Abraham this question. Not that she was particularly looking forward to driving over an hour alone with Ezekiel. He reeked of cigarettes, and his truck looked like an absolute deathtrap. Rickety and old, the thing appeared to have been through a war that it lost. There was no doubt in her mind that many of the pieces for the vintage piece of junk were well out of warranty. To top it all off, the circus performer gave her the creeps. She couldn’t forget the event that had brought them together, and it was a little difficult not to hate the man for attempting to kill Harry Peterson.
But above all, Venus wanted to make sure her friend wasn’t accompanying them out of misplaced chivalry. His father’s health had finally stabilized, but while he remained in the intensive care unit, there was no way to tell what his condition might be when he woke up. Abraham would want to be there when that happened, and Venus didn’t want to take that from him. But the farm boy shook his head.
“Dad would want me to do what’s right. If that means going back home and helping where I can, then that’s what I’ll be doing.”
Venus took her friend by the arm, pulling him away from Ezekiel. The circus performer raised an eyebrow but continued rubbing his bruised ribs while playing with his keychain.
“Abe, your dad is going to need you when he wakes up, but we’re also going to need him. If he knows of anything that can help, anything at all, we need to know.” She squeezed his hand for emphasis. “Listen, I’m not exactly thrilled to be going alone with that guy, but like you said, we have to do what’s right. For me, that’s going back to talk to this Cicero person. For you, it’s finding out if your dad knows where to find the people on that list.”
“Fine. But I don’t like it,” he answered, his jaw clenched.
“Me neither.”
They walked back to the truck just as Ezekiel was catching his keys one last time before jumping into the driver’s seat. The vehicle swayed under the added weight, the suspension complaining of its old age. As Venus went around and got into the passenger side, the engine roared to life like a demon pulled from the depths of hell.
“You coming?” Ezekiel asked as Abraham got near his window.
“Staying with my dad.”
“Let him know I, uh . . . dropped by when he wakes up.”
“Want me to mention how you tried to do him in?” the farm boy asked without a trace of humor.
“Might want to leave that part out. Better I tell him myself.” Ezekiel smiled and winked, then pressed on the accelerator and drove away from the hospital parking lot, leaving Abraham standing alone under the streetlight.
“You shouldn’t joke about that.” Venus didn’t bother to hide her dislike of Ezekiel. He was part of the god’s history and, by association, part of the problems plaguing her. Like everyone else, he kept his secrets and perpetuated the sense of paranoia that crippled her and her friends. Most of all, he seemed very unconcerned by his attempted murder of Harry Peterson, a man he claimed was a friend.
“Yeah, well, I’m not joking,” he answered over the uneven roar of the truck’s engine. It was going to be a long ride home.
“You tried to murder his father! Maybe show a little more compassion.”
Ezekiel smiled at that. It was the kind of smirk one wore when he knew something others in the conversation didn’t. Venus loathed how condescending it was.
“Harry’s not dying in Sherbrooke.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I work in a circus. And what do all good circuses have?”
Venus was tempted to punch him right in his tender ribs. “I don’t know. I’ve nev
er been to one.”
“You’ve never been to the circus?” Ezekiel was shocked. She might as well have told him she’d never enjoyed a hot meal or a warm summer day.
“No. I almost went to Cirque du Soleil once, but tickets were sold out.”
“That’s not a proper circus.”
“I’m asking you about the death of my friend’s dad, and you’re being an elitist about what makes a real circus?”
“Trust me, it’s relevant. You have to understand: these modern shows flirt with magic, often without even realizing it, but a real circus? A real circus loses itself in it!”
Ezekiel was obviously excited to talk about his livelihood. There was a sudden spark to his eyes and a sincerity to his grin that broke through the prior smugness and cynicism. He was no longer a would-be assassin but a child regaling his friends about some grand discovery.
“I’ve had my fill of magic, I think,” Venus said.
“Well, brace yourself then. Cicero’s Circus is all about magic. That’s why we have that one thing that truly brings the mystique of the production together!”
“Get on with it. What do you have at your magic circus that has anything to do with Abraham’s dad?”
“A fortune-teller!”
“A fortune-teller?” Venus repeated the words, punctuating the question with a heavy sigh.
“Don’t tell me, after everything you’ve been through, that you don’t believe in fortune-tellers?”
“I don’t believe in destiny.”
“Whether you believe in it or not doesn’t make it any less of a reality.”
“So I’m supposed to take it from you that I have no free will? That there’s a big book somewhere and everything I’ll do is written down and nothing can be changed?”
As much as she resented it at times, the one constant theme of Venus’s existence had been freedom. Either how much she enjoyed or how little her friends had. The very concept of destiny made a mockery of that.