Nearly Departed

by Max Patrick Schlienger



  Nearly Departed

  by Max Patrick Schlienger

  Copyright © 2012 Max Patrick Schlienger

  https://www.nearlydeparted.net

  This novel is presented in electronic format, and may be duplicated, distributed, or shared via any means or with anyone for any non-commercial purposes, provided that the content remains in its complete and unaltered form. No piece of this novel may be sold for profit or adapted to other media without a written agreement from the author.

  Table of Contents

  A Note from the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  About the Author

  A Note from the Author

  This book wouldn't have been possible without the help and support of several people. My talented editors, Joy and Amy, were quick to tell me when an idea was stupid. Corinne, who served as my first proofreader, used her real-life accent to help me get my characters' British vernacular right.

  So, if you're mad that this book exists, blame them.

  Nearly Departed is a work of fiction, at least as far as the main characters and their interactions with each other go. However, all of the locations – except for Thoreau's Tavern – are real, as are many of the events, historical accounts, and bizarre Californian laws. Of particular note is the San Francisco Ghost Hunt Walking Tour, which leaves from the Queen Anne Hotel every Wednesday through Sunday at 7:00pm. It is guided by Jim Fassbinder, who is (despite appearing in this book) also a very real person.

  Chapter One

  It was a dark and stormy night. While the darkness could probably be taken for granted, it took a certain amount of good fortune for the presence of the rain to complete the evening’s mysterious setting. A flash of lightning would have been nice, but the San Francisco Bay Area was not known for its impressive storms. There was actually a decent chance that the weather would undergo a drastic change at any second, and begin to imitate a climate with a decidedly less ominous nature. For now, at least, the regrettable absence of thunder was an annoyance, but an expected one. If nothing else, it called attention to the sound of rain on the sidewalk and its muted echo as the drops spattered on the shingled roofs of nearby houses.

  Contrary to what the scowl on his face would have led a passerby to believe, the lone figure standing in the rain was secretly grateful for the evening’s weather. It meant that the mood for his work was already set, which would limit the amount of effort he’d have to expend in creating the necessary atmosphere. A cloud of thick smoke billowed from his mahogany pipe, and he watched as it drifted towards the unimpressive house across the street. Even in the dim light, he could see the paint was old and marked with cracks, and a section of the front porch slumped despondently, having long since succumbed to the effects of gravity.

  The figure rummaged in his pocket and came away with a silver pocket watch. His gloved hands fumbled with the catch, and he muttered something indistinct in an irritated whisper. Finally, after glancing around to make sure that he was alone, the figure replaced the pocket watch and instead looked at the time displayed on the glowing screen of his cellular phone. Satisfied, he replaced the phone in his overcoat’s inside pocket, having first checked to make sure that it had been programmed to remain silent. The last thing he needed was for it to start playing that ridiculous song which indicated that someone was calling him.

  A sputtering hiss emanated from the damp sidewalk as the figure tapped out the contents of his pipe and crossed the street towards the house with the cracked paint. Then, cursing silently, he hurried back and retrieved the slim black briefcase from where he had set it before digging for his watch. Once again, he glanced around to make sure that his behavior had gone unseen, taking particular care to examine the illuminated windows of the house in front of him. There was no visible movement, which he took to be a good sign, and he approached at a slightly more hurried pace than he had the first time. After reaching the door, the figure stopped for just long enough to quickly inspect himself, and then reached forward and knocked on the door with three slow, steady hits.

  Several seconds passed, and the figure wondered if he should have just used the doorbell. Before he could knock again, however, there was a sound of movement from the other side of the door, and it swung open to reveal a heavyset woman in a pleated skirt and a homemade brown sweater. Her long hair, which probably would have been graying if not for the unrealistically red dye, did very little to hide the gaudy earrings and necklaces that framed her face. She stared through the doorway, squinting in an effort to pierce the shadows cast by the figure’s black fedora.

  “Doctor September?” the woman asked hesitantly.

  The figure stepped forward, allowing the light from within the house to slowly climb up his body. His attire was completely black, save for the brown tweed sport coat and cream-colored tie worn beneath his duster. He placed his pipe in his coat’s pocket, and removed his oblong glasses, which he wiped on his sleeve to clear the droplets of water still clinging to the lenses.

  “Yes,” the figure replied finally, replacing the glasses on the bridge of his nose, “I am Doctor Darvyn Luciano September. You may call me what you wish.” Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped forward again and looked around the interior of the house. He stroked his neatly-trimmed beard as he moved, running his fingers along where the edges were streaked with gray. After a moment, he turned back to the woman, who had closed the door and was watching him with a look of simultaneous nervousness, excitement and – he suppressed a shudder – lust.

  “Well, then,” said September. His voice was not especially deep or forceful, but it was rather compelling and tinged with a mysterious accent that may have been German in origin. At least, he hoped it sounded mysterious. “Why don’t we sit down,” he suggested, “and you can tell me a little more about your problem.”

  “Oh! Oh, yes, of course!” the woman said, rushing forward. There was a duck-like quality to her gait, which was still surprisingly quick for a woman of her build, and her excessive jewelry jangled discordantly as she walked. She gestured to a table, bare save for a steaming white mug of something or other. It stood in the middle of a room that was almost maze-like as a result of the numerous pieces of eclectic artwork adorning much of the available space near the walls. September walked cautiously, holding his briefcase in front of him so as not to accidentally knock over a cheap wooden sculpture which may or may not have been of some kind of cat. He placed the briefcase on the table, and pulled off his gloves as the woman looked on. Her gaze held more interest than one might have expected given the situation, but then again, the situation wasn’t strictly a normal one.

  “Can I take your coat?” the woman asked. “Or your hat?”

  “That would be most kind of you,” replied September, removing both articles. His brown hair was streaked with gray in much the same way as his beard, and he ran his fingers through it once to smooth it out. The woman draped September’s overcoat on one of her many sculptures and then placed his fedora on the head of another before hurrying back to the table and sitting down opposite him.

  “Now, Mrs. Bennett –” September began as he sat down, but the woman interrupted him.

  “Oh, no, call me Moon.” That was a new one, thought September. He cleared his throat quietly.

  “Very well, Moon. I understand you�
�ve been having some problems of the supernatural variety.”

  “Oh, I don’t know that I’d call them problems,” the woman laughed. “It’s just something I hope you can fix, is all.”

  “I will certainly try,” said September. He opened his briefcase and started removing objects from within it. “While I am preparing, perhaps you can explain things in a little more detail.” He was consciously avoiding the use of the woman’s name, for fear of sounding insincere. She had been listed as Alberta Bennett, a forty-six-year-old waitress from Pacifica, a few miles south of San Francisco. The house had belonged to her ex-husband who had, at least by her telling, left her many years ago when the mystical energy that surrounded her had gotten to be too much for him. Since then, she had been single, although a range of failed romances had marked the time. It was another detail that September would have preferred to ignore, but it was also likely to be his best chance for success with the woman. He continued to pull things from his briefcase, paying little attention to the story he was being told, which was remarkably similar to the one she had offered him on the phone earlier in the week.

  “The way I understand it,” September said, jumping in when the woman paused for a breath, “is that you feel there is a malicious entity that is attracted to your power, and that this entity has been driving people away from you.”

  “It’s been really terrible,” the woman replied, sounding almost giddy, and not at all like she thought the situation was terrible in the least. “I’ve been on three dates this month, with guys who asked me out at the restaurant. That’s where I work, did I tell you? At a restaurant?”

  “You told me,” answered September. “Go on.”

  “So, I’ve been on three dates,” the woman said again, “and every time, when I tell them that I’m a witch, the spirit scares them off.”

  “I see.” September set a black candle in the center of the table. He had chosen it not so much for its dark color but for its tendency to sputter and crackle predictably while lit. “How, exactly, does this spirit scare these men away?”

  “It sneaks into their minds and tells them to avoid me,” the woman responded. She watched with wide eyes as September took a box of matches from the assorted items on the table and lit the candle with a quick and practiced motion. It threw off a light shower of embers before settling into a burn that was more or less steady, punctuated only by the occasional hiss of smoke.

  “Why do you think this spirit is doing this to you?” He replaced the matches in his briefcase, then set about arranging the various remaining objects around the candle. There was a tiny pewter pyramid, an ornate metal box, two silver chopsticks and what looked like it might have been an ancient medallion of some kind, but was in fact a buffalo nickel that had been flattened with a hammer. September looked up at the woman over the rims of his glasses. “Moon?” he prompted, still feeling silly.

  “Oh, oh, sorry!” she replied, shaking her head quickly. “Yeah, I think he wants me for himself, and he doesn’t like competition.”

  “So this spirit is a male, then.”

  “Oh, yes!” the woman replied enthusiastically. “Yes, he’s definitely a man. Sometimes he shows himself to me. He’s very handsome, very muscular, and he’s very, very attentive.” She giggled to herself.

  “When did he first show up?” asked September hastily. The response came as though he hadn’t said anything at all.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s been here for a long time. He might have been here for the Gold Rush, even, but I couldn’t sense him until I started trying to date again. The other women in my coven told me that it would be good for me to have a companion.”

  “Do these other women have spirits following them, too?” September thought about reaching for the notebook he kept in his inside pocket, but waited to hear the answer to his question first.

  “Oh, no…” the woman replied. She had a smile on her face that might have given her the air of having some forbidden secret, but only if one didn’t look too closely. “None of them have the gift. They’re too involved with other things. Why, one of them even has a husband who is Jewish, and they didn’t even have a handfasting!”

  “How horrid,” September answered flatly, keeping his face neutral.

  “I know, it’s awful, isn’t it? They think that I’m missing the point by talking to spirits and doing my spells, but they’re not the ones who have to deal with this!”

  “That... really doesn’t make any sense,” said September hesitantly.

  “What?”

  He bowed his head. “I’m sorry; I was meditating on your situation.”

  “You said I didn’t make any sense,” the woman said with a hint of suspicion. September’s face gave no indication as to his thoughts, but he was hastily trying to recover the situation.

  “I think you may have misheard me, Moon,” he said calmly. “I merely said that I agree with you, and that it doesn’t seem to make sense for you to have to deal with this on your own.” It might have been a stretch, but he had learned some time ago that many people had a habit of going along with things if they thought it had been their idea. As he expected, the woman’s skepticism quickly dissipated.

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said. She took a sip from the mug in front of her. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like some tea?”

  “Thank you, but I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?” she pressed. “I make it myself.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Several minutes passed in awkward silence, during which time September rearranged the objects on the table, more or less at random. Moon watched with fading interest, seemingly intent on some result that was threatening to remain absent. It might be prudent, September thought, to keep her talking, but just as he was about to launch into another string of practiced patter, the candle let out a sharp crack, and a glowing ember danced into the air. September adjusted his glasses and followed the glow with his eyes, putting on an expression of intense concentration.

  “Oh, my…” He turned one of the chopsticks to face the candle, then slowly rotated the pyramid.

  “What?” asked the woman excitedly, her curiosity suddenly returned. “What? What is it?”

  September held up a finger for silence, continuing to turn the pyramid as he stared at the candle. Usually, the sparks came in groups, and he probably only needed to wait a few more seconds before –

  “Oh my god!” the woman exclaimed, as a sudden outburst of sound and light erupted from the candle.

  “Now!” September shouted. He reached forward and opened the silver box, and then slammed it shut. The candle sputtered once or twice more before going back to burning quietly and steadily. September leaned forward and lightly blew it out, leaving a thin trail of smoke rising towards the ceiling.

  “What was that?” the woman asked. “What did you do? What happened?”

  “Nothing significant,” September replied, pulling the box towards him and opening it. He pretended to examine the contents – or lack thereof – and did his best to ignore the reflection of his own blue eyes staring back at him from the polished silver interior. After a moment of silence, during which the woman anxiously folded and unfolded her hands, September looked up.

  “I have found the source of your problem,” he declared. He adjusted his glasses and met the woman’s stare straight-on. “However, this is not a matter of eliminating the spirit or of dealing with him directly. The two of you have become linked, and so it is you who must stop him from driving your suitors away.”

  “Hah, my suitors,” the woman laughed.

  “Ma’am… Moon…” September began. “I am not supposed to do this, but I can sense that you are a special case, and it is my desire to help you.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “Your situation is not in my area of expertise, but I do have a friend who can provide you with much better assistance. He is both well-qualified and trustworthy.” He held the card out to the woman, who took it eagerly
at first, but then scowled with anger and suspicion.

  “A shrink?” she scoffed. “You want to send me to a fucking shrink? God, they all want to send me to fucking shrinks…” September leaned forward and removed his glasses, willing his gaze to appear both stern and piercing.

  “He is no mere psychiatrist, Moon. This man will help you learn how to control your spirit, and how to keep him from upsetting your life any further.” He gestured with his glasses. “I do not have the ability to help you here. I am an investigator and a consultant, nothing more. If you wish to continue on your own, that is your choice. However, if you have any desire to bring this spirit under your power…” He trailed off and let the sentence hang in the air. It had the calculated effect. The woman’s look of suspicion was replaced by one of interest and greed, tinged only slightly with the sort of apprehension one would expect from a more... a more sane person, he supposed.

  “Really?” she asked. She looked down at the card again. “How come you’re not supposed to tell people about him?” September returned his glasses to their place on the bridge of his nose and stood. He retrieved his briefcase from the floor and carefully packed the objects on the table back inside it.

  “He does not often take on new clients, but with my recommendation, he will undoubtedly be willing to speak with you.” He snapped the briefcase shut and went to take his overcoat and hat from the sculptures where they had been hung. He hoped that the woman wouldn’t realize that he had not actually answered her question, and he donned his outer clothing as quickly as he could manage without seeming rushed.

  “Oh, I’ll let you out,” the woman said. She hurried past September, nearly knocking him into one of the cat-like statues, and opened the door. Even in the brief few moments he had been inside, the rain had mostly dissipated, leaving a damp coating of water on the ground and a thin mist blurring the air. September walked forward, pulling on his gloves and trying not to appear clumsy as he wrestled with his briefcase.

  “I sincerely hope that things work out for you,” he said as he stepped outside. The woman leaned against the doorframe and watched him leave.

  “Goodnight, Doctor September.” He winced even before he answered, but saw no way of avoiding it at this point.

  “Goodnight, Moon.”

  Then, with a nod of his head, he turned on his heel, walking up the street and into the night.