Thirteen Days of Midnight

by Leo Hunt

“If you move one muscle, I’m going to stab you,” I tell him, voice steady. “I mean it. The police are on their way.”

  He just shrugs, says nothing. Takes another drag on his cigarette.

  “I’ve called the police,” I tell him, voice starting to waver.

  “I must confess,” Blotch-Face begins, standing up, “I am confused.”

  “What are you doing in here?” I ask. “This is my house!”

  “A thousand apologies, sir,” Blotch-Face replies, bowing slightly. He’s got the clear voice of a news anchor. “Have we caused some sort of offense? You appear to be . . . aggravated.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Bloody hell,” says the skinhead.

  “I am the Vassal,” says Blotch-Face, “a guide when the way is dark.”

  “What?”

  “This is my colleague, the Judge,” continues Blotch-Face, waving his hand at the skinhead.

  “All right, boss,” the skinhead says.

  “Who are you?” I ask again. The skinhead looks nothing like any judge I’ve ever seen.

  “Was my explanation inadequate? We can delve into detailed biographies if need be, but I thought it best to give a brief outline. The others should arrive in the next few days, I would imagine.”

  “The others?”

  “The rest of your Host, sir,” says Blotch-Face, the Vassal.

  “You’re mental. ‘Host’?”

  “Is this about last night?” asks the skinhead — the Judge — uneasily. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he seems afraid of me. “ ’Cause if it is, then we’re properly sorry and humble, honest. Well out of line, manifesting like we did.”

  “ ‘Manifesting’?”

  “We would never ordinarily presume to attend to you when you had not specifically requested us,” says the Vassal. “My colleague and I were simply anxious due to a lack of instructions following the transfer.”

  “You ain’t seem that keen on my cooking,” says the Judge. “Felt like I should ask what you wanted to eat.”

  “ ‘Transfer’? Please, in as few words as possible, explain who you are and what you’re doing in my house.”

  “I think,” says the Vassal, “we have presumed too much.”

  “Can say that again.” The Judge shorts.

  “You are Master Luke A. Manchett, correct?” the Vassal asks.

  “Yes,” I say, still gripping the skewer in case they rush me. “That’s my name.”

  “Your father is Dr. Horatio Manchett,” he continues.

  “Was,” I say. “He’s dead. Is this about the money? Because I don’t have it. The lawyers didn’t give me it yet. I’m still waiting. I don’t have the money.”

  The men exchange a puzzled look.

  “We have precious little use for money these days,” the Vassal says slowly. “We are part of your father’s Host. I take it you don’t understand the term?”

  “Clearly I don’t.”

  “We’re his Host,” says the Judge. “His crew, his boys, his power.”

  “We are — were — your father’s servants,” says the Vassal. “And in the event of his death, dominion over his Host transfers to the eldest living heir. Which, so far as we are aware, means you, Luke. Didn’t he explain this to you?”

  “He left me some papers. I haven’t read them yet.”

  “I’m sure they will illuminate these affairs better than we,” says the Vassal. “I am not an expert on matters of succession.”

  “I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “You’re his servants?”

  “Slaves, more like,” remarks the Judge. The Vassal shoots him a look.

  “My colleague and I have differing opinions on this subject,” he explains, “but, yes, we are servants. We have been signed for and are now indebted to you until the event of your own death.”

  “So I . . . own you?”

  “Yes,” he says, bowing again. The Judge tips his stubbly head down, too. “We are your Host, your property to do with as you see fit.”

  “You’re my property? There’s laws against that. Dad kept slaves? How many?”

  “The Manchett Host numbers eight souls,” says the Vassal. “They are not all as . . . reasonable as the Judge and myself. However, they will present themselves when called.”

  “But . . . you can’t have slaves! It’s illegal! What am I supposed to tell Mum? Oh, yeah, we’ve got an extra eight people living in our house now? Don’t worry about it? Dad left them to me?”

  “It is illegal to keep living bodies as slaves, yes,” says the Vassal. “Unfortunately, no such laws govern the soul. Since — well, this is a delicate matter for both of us — since the Judge and I are no longer alive, there are no laws about keeping us in bonded service.”

  “You . . . what?”

  “He really don’t know?” asks the Judge. “Or is he just out to trip us?”

  “You’re dead,” I say. “You’re telling me that you’re both dead. I’m talking to dead people right now.”

  “Well, all right,” says the Judge. “Touchy subject. No need to rub it in.”

  “You’re ghosts,” I say.

  “We are spirits,” says the Vassal. “Your late father was a necromancer, one of those who use ancient rites to raise and bind the dead into their service.”

  For a moment we all stare at one another, and then I burst out laughing. It’s too much. The Vassal and the Judge grin at each other in an unamused way.

  “You’re priceless,” I say. “This is ridiculous.”

  There’s a heavy knock on the front door. Thank you, Dunbarrow Constabulary, your timing is perfect.

  “All right,” I say, “you stay here. That’s the police now. I’m just going to let them in, and then you can tell them about ‘ancient rites’ and how you’re ghosts left to me by my father in his will, and then when you’ve told them that, the men with white coats and nets are going to come and take you both away.”

  “Let them in, by all means,” says the Vassal. “Neither of us would presume to tell you what you may or may not do. But I do not expect they will be able to provide the aid you imagine yourself to need.”

  I don’t bother to reply. The second these maniacs are out of my kitchen and sitting in handcuffs in the back of a van, the happier I’ll be. I realize that opening the door to the police while holding a weapon tends to create a bad impression, so I hide my skewer in the umbrella stand and open the door. The policemen are sensible-looking, red cheeked and broad shouldered.

  “Morning, sir. So what’s the problem exactly?” the taller one asks, stepping into the hallway.

  “There are two men in my kitchen,” I say. “They claim they’re friends of my father. They came into my house without being asked and now they won’t leave.”

  “I see,” he says. “I see.”

  “Please, can you ask them to leave?” I ask, “I’m on my own here.”

  “Let’s see what’s going on,” he says. “I’m sure we can work this out.”

  He walks past me, turning awkwardly in the narrow hallway, and enters the kitchen. I breathe out with relief. His partner stays in the hall with me. Everything’s going to be OK.

  “The kitchen, you said?” comes his voice.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I say.

  “Nobody here, son.”

  “They were just there,” I say. “Maybe they’ve gone to another room.” I follow him into the kitchen and freeze up all over again. No. No. This is not happening.

  The policeman is wandering vaguely toward the fridge. He looks at the rows of silver pans, at the toaster, at the shards of the blue plate sitting in the dustpan. He doesn’t look at the most important things in the room, which are the two maniacs.

  “Are you all right, son?” the policeman asks. “You’re a bit pale.”

  “Almost as if he can’t see us. Funny how that works,” the Judge remarks.

  “They’re right . . . they were right here.”

  “I’ll have a loo
k around the other rooms,” he says. “My partner will check upstairs. You just stay here and yell if you need me. Is there anyone else here?”

  “My dog,” I say. “My dog’s upstairs. And my mum. She’s . . . she’s sick, though.”

  “Right you are,” he says, and wanders into the living room.

  “This isn’t happening,” I say.

  “We tried to explain, sir,” says the Vassal. “I am so sorry. I hope this is not too distressing for you.”

  “You . . .” I struggle for a word. “You’re real ghosts. You’re dead.”

  “In one sense,” says the Vassal, “yes. In others, no.”

  “So you’re — what?” I ask. “I’m not very — this isn’t scientific at all. It’s rubbish. This is nonsense.”

  “Science got nothing to do with it,” says the Judge. “We ain’t crossed over, we lingered. That’s all there is to it.”

  “So you . . . you’re a human consciousness? Something that survived death, some part of a human that isn’t physical. Some kind of energy or —”

  “If I may, sir,” says the Vassal, “I would advise against thinking about it too much. It’s never done me any good, I know that much. Better minds than yours or mine have chased their own tails for lifetimes regarding such questions.”

  “I’m going to need to sit down,” I say.

  “Sorry, lad?” says the policeman behind me.

  “Oh, nothing,” I reply.

  “Nice dog you’ve got,” he says. “What’s his name?”

  “Ham.”

  “Very nice dog. Anyway, son, we had a look around, and there’s nobody here. Your mum’s asleep, seems like. Perhaps these blokes left when they heard us come in.”

  There’s something in his tone that makes me think he doesn’t believe there was anyone in the house and is on the verge of delivering a lecture about false emergency calls, but I think he can also see I’m genuinely upset about something.

  “Must have,” I agree.

  “Anyway,” says the policeman, “I know it must have been a scare, two strangers in your house. You said they were friends of you dad?”

  “They said they were,” I say. “They were a bit . . . odd.”

  “Well, you give me their descriptions and we’ll keep an eye out for them. And make sure to call if they come round again. Have they threatened you at all?”

  “No,” I say. “They’re just really weird.”

  I give the policeman a fairly accurate description of the Judge and the Vassal, which to his credit he records without raising an eyebrow, and then he closes his notebook and tells me to stay safe and leaves me alone with the dead.

  “Bit of a rat, ain’t you?” says the Judge. “Getting all talkative with the coppers.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be my servant?”

  “Speak me mind,” he says and shrugs. One of the policemen shuts the door with a bang. Their car growls in the driveway. The ghosts look at me expectantly. I put my hands over my eyes for a few moments, but when I take them away, the ghosts are still there. The trees outside nod in the wind.

  “I’ve got a lot of questions,” I tell them after a moment. “Seems like I’ll be missing school again today.”

  “Understandable,” says the Vassal.

  “Could . . . could one of you make me a cup of tea?”

  Unfortunately, my burning question — what it’s actually like to die — goes unanswered by the ghosts. They don’t remember the actual dying bit, and apparently once you’re dead, it’s difficult to even realize what’s happened to you. Some ghosts never work it out. Not all dead people, as the Vassal explains, are equally cognizant. Souls are as varied in death as they were in life.

  “The Judge and I,” he tells me, “have retained the majority of the soul, our animus. We still have a strong sense of time, self, and place. We know that we exist only in spirit. Not all of our colleagues were so lucky.”

  “You said there were how many in the Host?”

  “Eight. A full Host of eight.”

  “So do they all have names like you? Are they all ‘the Something’? Do you have real names?”

  “Lost my proper name when I died,” the Judge tells me. “Can’t remember it.”

  “As I say, I am not an expert,” the Vassal says. “From what I understand of the process, when a spirit is bound, it must be titled, given a bond name, so that the commands that are given to it cannot be resisted. There are certain positions within a Host that must always be filled. I and the Judge fill two of those roles.”

  “So there’s always a Vassal and a Judge? Why?”

  “The purpose behind our titles is explicated in the Book.”

  “The book?”

  “The Book of Eight. An infernal tome. The Book contains the rituals of binding, and much else besides.”

  I keep my expression calm. I have a good idea what might be inside the little green book Dad left me.

  “What are the others like?” I ask. “Why aren’t they here?”

  “They’re shirkers,” says the Judge. He’s making my tea, leaning against the counter, waiting for our kettle to boil. I get a sudden rush in my head when I look at the steam condensing on the window near the kettle. The kettle really is on; it’s really boiling. If this is a hallucination, it’s a very good one.

  “I mean, they’re around and all that,” the Judge continues. “They’re in L.A., most of ’em.”

  “Los Angeles? Why?”

  “Discussions was being held with your dad.”

  “A motion picture,” says the Vassal.

  “Really? I thought he died in England.”

  “Foreign soil, I’m afraid,” says the Vassal, bowing his head.

  The kettle boils, and the Judge picks it up and pours the water into my mug. If I look out of the corner of my eye, I can see the kettle floating in midair. When I look straight at him, the Judge comes slowly into focus, blurry at first before adjusting into a bright, sharp figure.

  “So you were all in Los Angeles, and Dad died. Have the others just stayed there? Are they going to come back?”

  “If you call them,” says the Vassal, “they must come. All of them.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “Call them right now? A day, maybe,” says the Judge.

  “But . . . you’re ghosts. How can it take you time to go anywhere?”

  “I didn’t realize you was now an expert on being dead, boss. How does it take us time to go anywhere? Same as it takes you bloody time.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” I say.

  “We enjoy certain advantages due to our incorporeal state,” says the Vassal. “We can travel as the crow flies, so to speak. There are limits on where and when we may voyage, but they are not the same as those that limit the living. Walls and flames, mountains and oceans: such things pose no boundary. We are restricted by the movements of the stars, the music of the spheres. When the planets are in the wrong configuration, there is very little we can do.”

  “So you can’t just go back to say, America, right now?”

  “There is only one who can be in all places at all times, and we are not he.”

  “Like God?” I ask. “Are you saying there’s a God?”

  “That all right for you, boss?” asks the Judge, thumping the tea down at my right elbow.

  “I know that there is,” says the Vassal, “although this heathen may tell you otherwise.”

  “It don’t seem very likely,” says the Judge. “I been dead near thirty years now, and I ain’t got one sniff of a pearly gate.”

  “And by whose judgment is that counted as evidence?” asks the Vassal. “You have not been to the other side, colleague. None of us has.”

  “The Shepherd’s been,” says the Judge. “Went to the other place and came back, too. Told me about it.”

  The Vassal stares at the ceiling.

  “The Shepherd?” I ask.

  “Another of the Host,” replies the Vassal finally.

&n
bsp; “We ain’t speaking ill of the dead,” says the Judge.

  My head is starting to hurt.

  “Listen,” I say, “can you all, like, take another order or whatever?”

  “Of course,” says the Vassal.

  “Take a day off. I’m sure normal service, whatever that was, will resume . . . soon. I would think. But for now, you can all take the day off. Look around the town, or something.”

  “Our gratitude is boundless,” the Vassal says.

  The Judge gives me a crooked grin, then nods.

  “You want supper made?” he asks.

  “I’ll get a pizza. Just, like . . . enjoy yourselves, I suppose?”

  For the first time the ghosts are genuinely smiling. They bow to me and then walk out through the wall and into the garden. The Vassal keeps walking, toward the town center. The Judge lingers, as if deciding what to do. When he sees that I’m still watching, he grins before vanishing, like someone switched him off.

  I take a deep breath and walk upstairs with my cup of tea. Ham is in my room, wrapped up in my duvet. He grunts anxiously.

  “It’s all right, boy,” I say. “They’ve gone.”

  I sit and rub his head, running my fingers through his tangled fur. I don’t know what to think. When the dead were here, in my kitchen, it was easier. I couldn’t doubt myself, because it was happening to me. Now that they’ve gone, the doubts come flooding in. This is just stupid. There is no such thing as ghosts, because — well, there just isn’t, no matter what the ghosts themselves might tell you.

  But this has been too orderly for a hallucination. I think when you go insane, it tends to be things like hearing voices from the TV telling you to assassinate the president. I don’t know how convincingly my mind could create different people, but the ghosts seemed unique and distinctive, and they were lucid, making a twisted kind of sense. Neither of them was anything like people I’ve met before. The Vassal doesn’t seem like someone from this century, even. He’s dressed like someone who really is from the past, rather than an actor playing someone from the past.

  Assuming this is real, I don’t know what to make of Dad anymore. He had ghosts bound into his service? It makes sense, I suppose, of the time I saw him talking to himself: There was someone else there, someone I couldn’t see. What kind of person gets himself into this? Why? Were all the ghosts on his TV show real? Does this tie in with his surprisingly large fortune? All this time, I realize I’ve been wondering why he left, why it was so sudden, what happened between him and Mum. Now I’m starting to wonder if there wasn’t something else, something neither of us had any idea about, pulling him away.