Immortown

by Lily Markova

  “Do you know India, Kai, and Remy?”

  He nods. “The Skarsens. Well, Remy Prickett isn’t one, but he hangs out with them a lot.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Kai and India Skarsen have been here from the very beginning. Krystle Gremm, too. They died in the fire in nineteen sixty-three. India’s all right, more or less. Kai and Krystle, on the other hand. . . . They call whomever they want here, out of boredom, for entertainment’s sake.”

  “I’ve met Krystle too. She said she and my brother were. . .together,” I say, allowing a handful of black sand to seep through my fingers.

  “I don’t envy him.” Chase jerks his shoulder, as if shaking off a bug. “I mean, she’s gorgeous and all that but can be such a terrible thorn in your side. Keeps nosing around, drilling you with those probing stares, like she suspects that I’m—”

  He checks himself, sucking in his lips, then adds quickly, “Must have been her, the one who called him here, your brother.”

  “What does that even mean, ‘called him’? I understand the person you call here dies, but how, if no one in Levengleds can even see us?”

  “Uh. . .you’re going to find out eventually anyway. . . . Just promise you won’t call Aria, okay?” Chase is waiting, as if killing his friends is something I might want to do for some reason, so I give him a quick nod. “As a ghost, once you have sensed someone alive around, you can creep into their dreams, talk to them, coax them, persuade them to follow you. Night after night, the ghost will torment their victims, send them horrible nightmares, convince them that their lives are joyless and pointless, that they’re losing their minds, until they see no other way but to kill themselves.”

  He speaks so evenly, as if of a harmless hobby like embroidery, not suicides. Maybe three years from now, I, too, won’t be so oversensitive. Maybe, I’ll even call someone. I don’t know what Immortown could turn me into, and these days I’m not sure what I can expect from myself.

  White birds sweep over the ocean that’s in Levengleds, wings slicing the water’s glassy surface here and there. By the raging, foaming ocean of Immortown, we’re completely alone. It is possible that Chase has just answered the question I never asked anyone but myself. I want to be angry, want to yell that if Iver’s death was Krystle’s fault, then I’ll personally make sure that the vulturess suffers. But I don’t feel anger; I don’t feel anything, really, just the cold.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice some movement by my foot. A stone, rather large and greenish, is quivering and flickering, becoming fainter in color. So odd. . . . I remember how the rope from Chase’s backpack dissolved into the air before he could seize it. My hand reaches for the stone.

  “NO!” shouts Chase. “Don’t touch it!”

  He is rushing toward me, but it’s too late. My fingers are already closed around the stone—it is hot to the touch. There is a short-lived tingling in my wrist, like a weak electric discharge, and it all stops. A perfectly ordinary pebble, wet and cold, is sitting on my palm. Chase freezes in his tracks, still a few yards away. He peers at my hand as though I were holding either a tarantula or gold bullion; then he lets out a weird yap-like exclamation, resumes the dashing toward me, and pulls me into a lung-squeezing hug.

  “Personal space,” I gasp, patting him on the back awkwardly. “Okay, okay, that’ll do. Did I ever mention I like my ribs unbroken?”

  “You’re alive! You really are alive!” he yells at me in complete amazement.

  “Told you,” I agree readily, setting my skew beanie straight. “What time did you say the next train to Levengleds left?”

  “We need to get back to the hotel, now!”

  The waves are sparkling, as if the entire ocean were filled with little fireflies. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before. I don’t want to leave, but Chase grabs me by the elbow and, slipping and stumbling, drags me along.

  It’s only in the Last Shelter that he lets go of me and begins striding back and forth across the lobby in agitation.

  “I can’t believe it! So that’s how you took these hats from the store—you just took them, and that was it!”

  “And I left them all the cash I had on me,” I say in my defense. “I’m not a thief.”

  “I saw you enter the archives, but you were in Levengleds. . . . A ghost, in order to get something from the living world, needs to have it destroyed first,” Chase explains impatiently, pacing the room, like a teacher cramming an algorithm for solving the simplest math problems into a child’s head. “They cannot come in contact with Levengleds, not directly—only through its residents’ dreams. Ghosts inspire people to burn or break whatever they require, and only then that object ‘dies’ and becomes a part of Immortown. You, as a person who happens to be on both sides at the same time, don’t have to break or burn anything. Touch a thing, and it’s yours!”

  I’m sitting at the coffee table, with my hand propping my cheek, wondering if I was too quick to wave aside my doubts as to Chase’s mental well-being. “Look, you were so positive that I was dead, that everybody in Immortown was dead, and now you announce I can find myself both in Levengleds and Immortown at once?”

  “In actual fact, you belong to Immortown. But you’re not supposed to be here, it’s some kind of malfunction, so you can shift objects, write on windows, even touch the living in Levengleds because you’re still a part of that world, too! Ghosts can’t even see it, they can only sense somebody’s presence. . . . When an object—say, a building—is erased—um, that is to say, when it disappears from Immortown—a ghost who is touching that object vanishes with it. You touched that stone when it was about to be erased, but instead of letting it take you away, you prevented it from disappearing, you brought it back to Immortown! Because you’re alive, you’re too heavy for the ghost of a stone, or even a house, to tow you along.”

  While I try to process his words, Chase shakes his wet boots out of his backpack and places them beside the fireplace to dry. He peers into the backpack some more, shaking it from side to side again, then pulls out a piece of paper folded in four and holds it out to me.

  “Here, take this. I can draw it from memory now.”

  I unfold what turns out to be a map of Levengleds, one of those you might find at free newsstands around the town. It’s dappled and streaked all over with marks and notes—a map of Immortown drawn by hand over Levengleds.

  “Thanks. What happens,” I say, stuffing it into the side pocket of my jeans, “to those who vanish?”

  What if nobody warned Iver, what if he wasn’t careful? Or. . . He’s already escaped one world once—voluntarily. He could seek freedom from the world of the dead, too.

  “No one knows,” says Chase. “Not a single ghost has ever returned. They all dread it as all hell; they fear they might end up stuck somewhere in between. Can you imagine? Some ghosts don’t even wear clothes in case those are erased. They sleep on the ground in Monet Park, just to make sure. Although, they might have indulged in that kind of behavior while they were alive, too, I don’t know. As I understand it, the bigger the object, the longer the process of its erasure lasts, but you’d still have a second to throw off your clothes. . . .”

  “They?” I narrow my eyes at Chase, ignoring the last part of his claptrap. “You said you were dead too.”

  “I had to lie, and you’ll have to as well. No one else can know we’re alive, do you understand?” Chase gives me a stern ‘you’re-not-paying-attention’ look.

  “Why?”

  “Because if they know, they’ll know they can control you. They will be able to insinuate themselves into your mind while you’re asleep and make you do anything they want. Besides, they might simply envy the fact that there’s hope for you and kill you out of spite. Especially Krystle—she’s still obsessed with finding a way out. Dude, honestly, not a good time!” Chase yells, waving away the fork attempting to comb his hair.

  “But why are we here? Is there a breach somewhere in Immortown’s
ghostly fence?”

  “No idea. I’ve been scrolling through my memories of my last few days in Levengleds for three years now, and I haven’t found any clues—it was just, like, ‘here today, gone tomorrow.’ So just please try to remember what brought you here. That could help us understand how we get back.”

  “You believe that it’s possible?”

  “I have to believe. Not much else I can do, is there?”

  I’m not sure I remember correctly what hope feels like, but the idea of keeping myself busy with attempts to get back home helps create the illusion that there is a point to my waking up, drinking coffee, and talking to Chase.

  “All right. Let’s do it, then,” I say. “But I can’t leave before I see my brother.”

  Chase sits on the floor and rubs his temples in a circular motion as though that could help him think faster. “First, we have to figure out how you got here.”

  “I don’t understand how I did,” I say. “I drove to Levengleds, spent the night in the hotel, visited my brother in the morning—well, you know, his grave—and on my way back to town, I saw those gates. ‘You are never leaving Immortown.’ ” I widen my eyes theatrically and make my voice sound sepulchral as I recite the creepy phrase from the plaque.

  Chase shakes his head. “It can’t be that simple. One second we’re there, the next we’re here. No, something had to trigger that transition, something that happened to both of us. . . .”

  A series of dull bangs coming from outside makes me instinctively grasp the knife that Dude loves to throw around so much. I tiptoe over to the window. On the doorstep, a figure in a dark coat raps the massive brass knocker, pearly tresses cascading from under her hood.

  “It’s India,” I whisper, clutching the knife tighter. The fear, the panic, the need to survive that overwhelmed me during my first encounter with her returns, crashing down on me with its full weight. “Let’s just wait until she leaves.”

  “She’ll come in anyway. This is her town. Now, listen to me. There’s some important points you should know,” Chase whispers back hurriedly. “I wear the backpack because this way my stuff can’t be erased. If you have a possession you can’t afford to lose, I suggest you hold on to it at all times. But never, ever again touch an object that looks as though it’s about to vanish, no matter how important it is to you, if someone other than me can see you do that. And give no sign of being able to see Levengleds. The Skarsens will teach you how to sense the living; pretend you’re getting good at it, just not too quickly. Don’t describe looks, describe personalities—do try to hit the nail on the head. Oh, and one more thing: The Skarsens throw parties to celebrate every newcomer.”

  “Parties?” Now I’m truly terrified. “Not for me. Crowded places. . .disrupt me.”

  “They won’t simply leave you be. Can’t burst into somebody’s house and expect them to ignore you, can you? You’re going to have to go to that party and try to survive it,” Chase says with a flinty look in his eye. “The part where you drink more in one hour than you’ve had in your entire life is not even the hardest. The mingling part is. Remember to tell everyone a believable story of your death—but don’t say you were called here; they’ll suspect something’s not right once they realize you can’t identify the ghost who did the calling. Lie; say that you killed yourself because you were sad—you’ll fit right in. Oh yeah, and don’t forget to ask them to please not kill you. They enjoy axing newbies’ heads off in the middle of the celebration. Tell them you’re not ready emotionally to relive that yet, psychological trauma and everything. In short, you’re going to have to do a lot of acting.”

  “That I can do,” I say, without due certainty.

  Chase winks at me and opens the door.

  “Chase?” India raises her heavy eyebrows. “I assumed you weren’t with us any longer. Freya, I figured I’d find you here.”

  India steps inside, lowering her hood. The door behind her closes by itself—that, or Dude is displaying some chivalry for a change.

  “Sorry, can’t say it’s good to see you,” I say, twirling the knife between my fingers. “Keep away from me, unless you want your clothes soiled with your blood.”

  “Actually,” says India, casting down her eyes and fiddling with her gloves, “I came to apologize. We didn’t mean to scare you. The shock method has so far been the most effective when a ghost needs proof of what they are.”

  “I prefer a heart-to-heart chat.”

  “Freya, I am so, so sorry. Please don’t feel angry. I promise no one here will trouble you again.”

  “Fine.” I put the knife aside on the edge of the oak table—but not too far aside.

  India gives me a sheepish smile. “Thank you. Now, I need you to come with me. We’re arranging your reception today, as is our tradition. You will meet other gh—those like you tonight. We will show you that it doesn’t have to be lonely and sad here.”

  Behind her, Chase nods at me vigorously.

  “Fine,” I repeat, glaring at him. “But only if Chase agrees to be my ‘plus one.’ ”

  “I’m sure I know someone who can convince him to.” The degree of India’s affability drops rapidly as she turns to Chase momentarily with an air of disdain.

  “I’ll come along later,” Chase says, when India faces me again. He gestures at his backpack and taps himself on the forehead, apparently trying to convey that I’m not too wise for making amendments to our hastily sculpted plan.

  I consider the knife wistfully for a second, sigh, and grab my coat instead. “All right, let’s go.”

  “You’ll love it here!” India gushes, skipping down the street like a child while I drag myself after her. “I got you an iconic dress for tonight!”

  Parties, the Skarsens. . . . I don’t have the slightest desire to follow their ridiculous rules. I have to find my brother, and I have to find a way to return to the world where every day has something new in store for you, where you can pack your belongings and travel to any place on Earth—in space, even, if you want it enough. But Chase relies on my discretion, and so does the safety of our secret. Hopefully after tonight, India will be out of my hair and he and I will be able to focus on our escape plan—provided I make it through the party, of course.

  “You know,” India goes on, “many of us find an occupation, a way to be useful here. Kai and Remy—you remember them, don’t you?”

  “Rings a bell,” I mutter. As if I a dagger blade digging into your neck were something that could easily slip your mind.

  “So, the three of us run the bar. We make sure that everyone’s having fun, that the drinks don’t run out. And Tom Lezero—you’ll also meet him tonight—he’s our mailman. He finds out what ghosts would like to read, analyzes the preferences of Levengleds’ inhabitants, and asks them to burn their newspapers and magazines—after reading, so there’s no harm done. He also collects the papers we don’t need anymore and takes them to the town archives—because it’s completely impossible to destroy trash in Immortown. He could even get you books, if you want. . . .”

  “Perfect. Let him burn a copy of Fahrenheit Four Hundred and Fifty-One for me,” I say, secretly terrified at such blasphemy.

  “I’ll ensure he does,” says India, beaming. “There are also some, of course, who would rather not contribute to our community in any way. . . .”

  “Chase watches the hotel,” I say, suspecting that he’s the one she’s hinting at. “He gave me a hearty welcome. A priceless rarity around here. . . .”

  “Oh, well, not everybody gets to do what they used to before they came here. Remy, for instance, worked at a tattoo shop. Imagine how peeved he was when he realized tattoos don’t linger long on a ghost’s skin. . . . But for you, we could open a small theater!” India’s voice becomes even reedier with emotion. “It would be nice to gather for your performances sometimes. . . . To diversify our interests. . . .”

  “Sounds fantastic. I’ll think about it.”

  I have a better idea: I’ll get back hom
e and swallow antidepressants until I lose my memory.

  “Oh, there are so many things I have to ask you. Tell me, are you dating Mitch Aské? Is he secretly in love with you?”

  I contemplate telling her that if I knew about any such feelings, they wouldn’t be secret, would they, but decide not to encourage her imagination. “No, we’re friends.”

  Here it comes. I expect questions about whether I’m secretly engaged to the director, whether I’ve made out with my makeup man, whether I am madly in love with my own reflection in every camera lens. . . . This is one of the reasons I don’t do interviews. Purely humiliating.

  “And what’s Moth Madness about? I was dying to see it. . . .”

  I briefly summarize the movie for her. The non-disclosure agreement can be disregarded under the circumstances, I guess, as it didn’t provide for nosy ghosts prone to temper tantrums.

  “Such a shame,” she says, “that you couldn’t finish filming. . . . Have you heard about the fire in the lighthouse?”

  Mitch screams; a flash of bright light; he pushes me away, and I stumble out of the circular room and fall on the stairs. . . .

  “Uh-huh,” I say. “I heard.”

  “So horrid! Happily, you weren’t there. We’re so lucky you died in Levengleds.”

  We approach a three-story building faced with maroon stone that I wasn’t in the mood to examine last time, preoccupied as I was with running for my life. The curtains of the first- and second-floor windows are tightly drawn; on the third floor, there are no windows at all. The small garden before the house is autumnally picturesque and numb; the familiar bird-lamps glow emerald, snatching the pebble-mosaic path to the front door out of the semi-darkness that has already began to envelop the town. Along the path, creep ruby-red flowers like those twining around Immortown gates. Not without a flinch, I notice that the door knocker looks like a miniature funeral wreath.