The Realms of the Dead

by William Todd Rose

  Chuck and Control exchanged a glance, each raising an eyebrow in a silent question. They had a passing knowledge of the work done in Physical Research and Anomalies; tasked with investigating events commonly referred to as paranormal, it was rumored that the department identified candidates who scored well above average on tests measuring clairvoyance and other extrasensory abilities. These candidates, it was said, then had microchips implanted in their right brain hemispheres. These chips acted simultaneously as receivers, broadcasters, and amplifiers. If this were true, it would certainly explain the thin scar half-hidden in the child’s hairline.

  “Sir, may I ask what interest P.R.A. has in our work?” Control pronounced the acronym like the word pray as she leaned forward. “Crossfades and Cutscenes, after all, have no manifestations in the physical—”

  “I’m getting to that,” Director Murphy interrupted as he picked up a remote control from the table. He swiveled in his chair and pointed it at the TV as he clicked a button.

  The Institute’s seal was replaced by white lettering on a black background, the text warning that disclosure of any information contained in the following footage would be in direct violation of non-disclosure agreements and punishable in accordance with subsection C, paragraph 4 of the Disciplinary Actions policy.

  “The video you’re about to see was taken two nights ago at precisely oh-two-hundred hours.”

  The warning faded from the screen. In its place was a slightly grainy image of an office, captured from a high angle. The camera focused on a Sleeper who was stretched across a hospital bed, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the ventilator by his side. Partially hidden by the time stamp in the lower left-hand corner, Chuck could just make out the contours of a fountain shaped like Buddha.

  “That’s my office! That’s Nodens!”

  The Director frowned at Chuck’s use of a nickname for the comatose man, but remained silent. At the moment the time stamp changed to 2:00 A.M., Nodens’s body was racked with convulsions. The man twitched and flopped on the bed, his jaw clenched so tightly that the veins in his temples bulged in sharp relief. His eyelids flew open and even the dim lighting couldn’t hide the glassy sheen of terror reflected in them as his arms and legs twitched with spasms. Glistening with sweat, Nodens balled his hands into fists as his entire body stiffened.

  Chuck felt as though he’d been sucker punched in the gut. His stomach threatened to purge his breakfast and he pressed his hands against his abdomen as if he could soothe the queasiness inside.

  They were watching a man die. A man whom Chuck had seen nearly every day for over a year. A man whose true name he’d never known. Since the pharmaceutical cocktail fed through the IVs kept the Sleeper in an induced coma, no personal bonds had ever formed. It wasn’t as if the two had chatted about their days, sharing jokes and little tidbits of personal history. According to protocol, Nodens was supposed to have been no different than the equipment that kept him alive: just another useful tool, destined to break down and be replaced with a newer model. Knowing protocol, however, was not necessarily the same as following it.

  At precisely 2:01 A.M., Nodens’s body went limp. His arms snaked through the bedrails and dangled over the edges as wide, unblinking eyes stared into the unknown. His jaw had dropped open and the man’s tongue was just visible at the corner of his lips; the only movement on the screen now was voided waste leaking into his catheter and colostomy bag.

  At some point Chuck had gripped the arms of his chair and he now squeezed them so tightly that the leather creaked. He wanted to jump out of his chair and demand to know why they’d been subjected to this, why they’d had to witness those final, agonizing moments instead of allowing the man to slip into The Divide with dignity and grace. His throat, however, felt so dry and tight that he doubted he could actually force words through it. Instead, he simply gritted his teeth as Control touched his shoulder with a reassuring hand.

  “Magnification at three times, playback speed reduced by half.” The Director sounded unfazed by what they’d just seen, as if a man’s death held less importance than what he would be having for lunch. “Again, oh-two-hundred hours.”

  The camera was now zoomed in on one of the IV bags dangling from the stand by Nodens’s bed. As they watched, the bag deflated as though squeezed by an invisible hand. The clear liquid shot into the IV tube and Chuck snapped to attention with a gasp.

  “That was the barbiturates, by the way, not the nutrients. Your Sleeper didn’t die of natural causes, Grainger. He overdosed.”

  “I don’t understand.” A slight tremor betrayed Control’s underlying emotions as questions spilled out of her. “Overdosed? Shouldn’t the IV have kept that from…I mean, aren’t there safeguards to ensure…”

  “What happened to that IV bag,” Director Murphy said, speaking over Control, “was not a natural occurrence. The drugs were forced out of it by an entity—or entities—unknown. This same entity was also responsible for thoroughly destroying the workings of the drip, allowing the full contents to enter the Sleeper’s bloodstream in less than a minute.”

  “The room’s temperature dropped.” Chuck had been so focused on the video that Marilee’s soft voice made him jump. “By fifteen degrees. Electromagnetics spiked, too. Right before.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. Propping his elbows on the table, Chuck buried his face in his hands as he tried to take everything in. His arms prickled with goose bumps and his scalp tingled as he considered the implications.

  “So what you’re telling us,” he finally stammered, “is that Nodens was murdered. By a ghost?”

  “We call ’em NCMs,” Marilee explained, her tone as curt as any adult’s. “Non-Corporeal Manifestations. But yeah, pretty much the same thing.”

  “So where do we fit in?” Control had regained her composure and cut right to the point. She leaned back in her chair with any personal feelings veiled by an expression of professional interest. “As I said earlier, we’re Subject Matter Experts on Crossfades. Marilee here is the SME on hauntings. I don’t really see how we could help.”

  “Marilee will brief you further on the way back to Grainger’s office. And remember, you two: I want this by the book. None of that cowboy bullshit you pulled on the Albert Lewis case. Grainger’s lucky we let him come back after that one. But I can guarantee you it won’t happen again.”

  Director Murphy’s statement had the finality of a dismissal, but Chuck remained seated while Control stood. The shock of watching Nodens die had begun to wear off and his mind wasn’t quite as sluggish. He stared straight ahead, his eyes as unfocused and distant as if he were looking through the whiteboard and walls, gazing at a point miles away. He remembered the nightmare he’d had about the school and his own severed head rasping its dire warning.

  It’s found you.

  When he’d bolted awake, he’d glanced at his alarm clock just long enough to register the time.

  Two A.M. Oh-two-hundred hours.

  The exact time, on the exact night, that Nodens’s life had been snuffed out.

  It’s coming for you.

  Chuck Grainger was not a man who believed in coincidences. Especially ones of this magnitude.

  The realization chased a chill down his spine and he gulped a single time, wondering exactly what it might mean.

  “Is there an issue, Grainger?”

  Murphy’s voice pulled Chuck out of his head and he found himself looking directly into Marilee Williams’s eyes. The young girl’s brow was furrowed and she scrutinized Chuck with such intensity that he fidgeted in his seat and looked away, hoping to sever whatever bond may have existed. For he was certain some sort of link did exist; he felt something foreign meandering through his thoughts like an intelligent fog. It curled around memories and enveloped emotions, searching, probing, seeking out the hidden recesses where his deepest secrets dwelled, and prying away layers of experience as its tendrils dug deeper and deeper into his brain.

  “Grainger! Is ther
e an issue?”

  “No.” As he spoke, Chuck mentally recited a litany of mathematical formulas, erecting a wall of numbers and functions in his mind. It was a technique he used in the field to help keep his emotions in check and now he hoped this same mantra could block the little girl from further exploring his thoughts. “No issue, sir.”

  Marliee’s expression relaxed and she slumped in her seat, though her eyes never strayed from Chuck’s face. The girl hinted at a smile, something that the casual observer may have noticed as nothing more than a twitch at the corner of her mouth. It did not seem to be a smile of joy or amusement, however; it was a knowing smile, the smirk of someone who’d just stumbled across something they were never meant to see.

  You’re just being paranoid, he told himself. Sleep deprivation can do that. I mean, she’s just a kid. Let it go, man. Let it go.

  “Good,” Murphy snapped. “Then I suggest you vacate that seat and hightail your ass back to your damn office. P.R.A. is sending some equipment over to aid this investigation and you’d better be there to sign for it if you know what’s good for you.”

  Marilee and Chuck rose simultaneously, as though whatever bond he’d imagined had joined their minds also connected them physically. The girl smiled again, this time a little too broadly and sweetly.

  “That’s right, Mr. Grainger. I can’t sign for it. After all…it’s coming for you.”

  Chapter 3

  On the way back to Chuck’s office, Marilee filled them in on the details.

  “It’s called a Bleedover,” she explained. “They’re rare, but it’s kinda like a stone skipping across a metaphysical pond. The handbook says the odds of experiencing one in the field are astronomical. You actually have a better chance of stumblin’ across a Vertices Collision Scenario.”

  Chuck found such a childish voice speaking so knowledgably about esoteric matters mildly disconcerting. In some ways, it almost seemed as though a much older spirit possessed the girl; she carried herself with poise and dignity, unhampered with the usual awkwardness of preadolescence, and her words rang with confidence that could only be earned through experience. His interest in the subject matter, however, far outweighed the freakish nature of the exchange. He was able to push through the undercurrents of unease the girl stirred in him, yet still maintained his mathematical barrier, unwilling to lower his defenses entirely.

  According to Marilee, some souls who didn’t finish their journey across The Divide weren’t content to create their own realities within the confines of a Crossfade. They longed to return to the physical world, to claim their spot among the living, and hang on to it with everything they had.

  “It’d be like settlin’ for a hamburger when what you really want is steak.”

  Unlike most diverted spirits, these particular souls had come to the realization that they were dead. They spent eternity hopping from Crossfade to Crossfade, desperately searching for a path that would lead them back home. Most never found it. But every few centuries or so, one of these transient souls would somehow stumble across such a path.

  “Most hauntings are nothin’ more than overactive imaginations or hoaxes. The Gray Man of Pawleys Island, the Bell Witch…those are confirmed NCMs. The real deal.”

  “This is all fascinating,” Control chimed in as they passed the Command Center suites, “but I still don’t understand what this has to do with us.”

  The girl took a breath through her nose as she rolled her eyes; Chuck could tell her exasperation didn’t sit well with his partner, but remained silent, choosing neutrality over interdepartmental bickering.

  “An NCM needs three things to keep its hold on our world,” she explained, “a conduit, a reason, and a source of energy. The conduit can be anything which links the spirit to this reality: a person, an object, or their own remains…literally anything. The reason is pretty self-explanatory, I think. It’s where the ‘unfinished business’ part of a haunting comes into play.”

  Albert Lewis.

  The serial killer’s name shattered the wall of integers and quotients Chuck had erected and Marilee’s head snapped toward him, her eyes narrowing as he felt invisible fingers reach toward his mind. Instead of pursuing the line of thought, Chuck scrambled to repair his resistance. The Brouwer Fixed-Point Theorem, the Riemann Hypothesis, and the Translocation Equation: He purposefully selected the most difficult problems, hoping the advanced concepts would further stymie the girl’s attempts to invade his brain.

  Marilee frowned for a second before turning her attention back to Control.

  “As I was saying,” the girl went on, “the third requirement is an energy source. The energy comes from Crossfades. As they jump from Crossfade to Crossfade, NCMs collect tiny bits of residual energy. They store it up, like a battery bein’ charged. That power is what lets ’em interact with our world. And the more Crossfades an NCM touches, the stronger the manifestation.”

  The trio stood outside Chuck’s office and he bent slightly, lowering his head so he stared directly into the retinal scanner embedded in the doorjamb. A fraction of a second later, there was a soft click. Returning to his full height, Chuck turned the knob and held the door open, though neither of his female companions made a move toward it.

  “As you pointed out in the conference room, you guys are the Crossfades SMEs. In fact, Mr. Grainger has become kinda famous in the field. Even people in P.R.A. know who he is.”

  “Uh-huh.” Chuck knew Control well enough to recognize when she was unconvinced. “So that’s all this is then? An excuse to work with a minor celebrity? No offense, Chuck, but there are Whisks with far more experience than you.”

  “None taken.” Chuck mumbled his reply. His attention was divided between the conversation and the LED attached to the scanner. Once his identity had been confirmed, it had changed from red to green; now it was red again. Within a few seconds, it would begin flashing. If his office door wasn’t closed thirty seconds later, alarms would trigger in the Command Center, Central Security, and Director Murphy’s office. The episode would be relatively easy to explain, but would still require an incident report as well as a face-to-face interview with the Chief of Security.

  “Hardly,” Marilee scoffed. “That kinda requisition would never get sign-off.”

  “Ladies, if we could continue this conversation inside…”

  “Chucky!” Chuck winced at the over-friendly greeting yelled from behind him. Not only did he despise the nickname, but Travis—the mailroom clerk who insisted on calling him by it—could only be taken in small doses. “Need your autograph for some crates we’ll be hauling down, dude.”

  Marilee and Control continued their conversation as they stepped into the office, but between Travis’s nasal twang and the flashing LED, they may as well have been speaking Mandarin Chinese. Chuck allowed the door to swing shut, forced himself to smile, and turned toward the mustached clerk.

  “Travis.” Chuck nodded with his greeting and struggled to maintain a smile. At least Marilee was gone, he reminded himself; he could relax the stream of numbers for a few moments. That, however, was the only silver lining he could find to this particular interaction.

  Pressing his thumb against the tablet Travis thrust at him, Chuck allowed the electronics to scan his fingerprint before plucking the stylus from its trough.

  “So, you hittin’ that or what, Chucky? Not the little girl, I mean. L5.” Travis pursed his lips in a low whistle. “I got a package for her, if ya know what I mean.”

  “Subsection F, paragraphs one through seventeen,” Chuck muttered as he scrawled his name across the tablet’s surface.

  “Huh?”

  “Put the crates outside the door.” Chuck turned as he spoke, the smile immediately melting from his face. “I’ll take care of them.”

  As he walked away, Travis raised his voice, “Chucky! Chuck! What the hell is subsection F?”

  The scanner flickered over Chuck’s eyes as the locking mechanisms in the door once again clicked.


  “Read your damn handbook, Travis. Employee conduct. Sexual harassment.”

  “What the…I ain’t harassin’ you, dude. What the hell are you talkin’ ’bout?”

  As Chuck opened the door, Travis’s bewildered protests seemed to rapidly rush away from him. For a fraction of a second, there was the sensation of falling, as if he’d stepped over the edge of a bottomless precipice instead of a doorsill. Chuck’s head swam in waves of vertigo and he closed his eyes, leaning against the doorframe until they subsided.

  When he opened them again, the hallway was dark and empty. The clacking keyboards from the administrative assistants at the far end, the gush of air through overhead vents, and the drone of mingled conversations: All had fallen silent, giving the impression that everyone within the complex had simultaneously disappeared.

  Rather than leading into the familiar surroundings of his office, the door now opened onto a meticulously manicured lawn. An oak tree rose in front of a white picket fence and wind whispered through its branches, dappling the picnic table in the center of the yard. A group of children leaned forward from the table’s benches, as motionless as statues, frozen in gestures of excitement. There was only smooth skin where faces should have been, unblemished by eyes, noses, or even mouths. Most of their heads, however, were tilted back, as though looking up at a woman who stood at the end of the table.

  A yellow sundress draped over the woman’s thin body and the hem fluttered and flapped in the breeze, but she was otherwise as stationary as the faceless children clustered around her. She clutched a butcher knife in her right hand and its blade gleamed, poised just above a heavily frosted birthday cake. Multicolored balloons swayed on the ribbons that anchored them to streamers taped along the table’s edges and their shadows crossed paths with that of the knife, creating the illusion that they were being repeatedly stabbed.