Writers of the Future, Volume 29

by L. Ron Hubbard

  People would talk to her as little as possible, and whisper when her back was turned.

  As she walked, she could hear the ghosts of Bone Rattler Street whispering. She had thought about asking the Shaker why He never left Bone Rattler Street once, but she had decided she already knew why.

  This city was small, but it was his. So long as He stayed in His place on Bone Rattler Street, the Shaker was mysterious. As long as He stayed in Bone Rattler Street, He was something to be feared, an unknown, and as long as He stayed there, He would not remember just how small this city He had been given was.

  It was His kingdom, and for a time, Vivian was His queen.

  They called people like Vivian Shades. Shades served the Immortals however they were required, walking between the streets of the living and the streets of the dead as ambassadors. In the city of Arlington, where Vivian had moved after her divorce, they had another name. Ghost Wives.

  In His time, the Shaker had taken three men as Shades, and the rest had been women. His Ghost Wives became a facet of Arlington culture, to the point that whenever a new Shade was chosen, her family would prepare a wedding for her.

  Vivian had come to Arlington not knowing any of this. She was escaping her ex-husband, and had stumbled into Bone Rattler Street on the night of November first, in the middle of a rainstorm. She hadn’t known she was in the city’s Dead District, and had run for the nearest place with light, hammering on the door. “Please, please let me in,” she’d called, “I need help.”

  The door had swung inward without a person there to greet her, and Vivian walked into an empty—but warm—Chinese restaurant, dripping icy rainwater on the floor.

  She shivered in the entrance for a few moments, and seeing no one there, realized too late where she was.

  “It’s considered impolite to intrude without saying thank you.”

  Vivian whirled, but no one was there. “Th-thank you,” she stammered. “I’m sorry; I didn’t realize where I was—”

  “You must have been terrified not to realize what part of town you were in.”

  “Not terrified, just…running. Running, and very, very lost.” She still couldn’t see the speaker, but she knew it had to be a ghost, or this city’s Immortal.

  “Yes, very lost indeed.” He stepped out of a side room. Back then He had looked like a boy, wearing dirty clothes. “Sit down. I would like to talk to you.”

  How He got her to pour out the entire story, Vivian would never remember—only that He made her feel as if she could trust Him. He had listened as she cried and babbled about her divorce.

  When she finished, He said—“I can give you a new purpose.”

  Vivian knew what He meant. She had never wanted to be a Shade, but now she gave it thought. What did she have in life? No job, no marriage…she didn’t even want to see her family, not after what had happened.

  So she nodded. “I’d like that.”

  He gave her the red umbrella that night, and sent her off with an address where she would find a place to sleep.

  They knew when they saw the umbrella. This new woman, this stranger, was Arlington’s new Ghost Wife.

  There were no ceremonies for Vivian. There was no mock wedding dress, no ring purchased by her family. She was the first Ghost Wife in Arlington in a hundred years to go without a sort of wedding to her new profession. She simply slipped into it, and for four years, she had gone her rounds every Sunday and holiday.

  She rather liked the term Ghost Wife.

  It felt more human than Shade.

  The morning of the next Sunday, Vivian woke sick.

  Miserably sick.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned, realizing she had a fever on top of a sore throat and a congested nose. She crawled out of bed and forced herself to get some breakfast.

  It wasn’t as if she could call in sick. There was no one to fill in for her on the walk, and no one who would even be accepted on Bone Rattler Street if they tried. She was the only one they would let pass, and the only one the Shaker would see.

  People noticed she was ill as she passed, and offered her things—tea and the like. For all that they feared her, and wouldn’t speak to her, they were as kind to Vivian as their fear would allow. They wanted this stranger to Arlington to be the Ghost Wife for as long as possible, to prevent one of their own daughters from taking her place.

  A cup of hot lemon tea in her hand, Vivian did her best to make her usual run, leaving irises and the other gifts at their destinations. By the time she reached the Shaker’s house, she was exhausted, and trembling.

  She didn’t even make it to the door, and sat on the steps before she collapsed. She heard the door open behind her, and felt the Whispers flood down around her. That’s when she fainted.

  She woke sometime later, in the Shaker’s bed. She felt a thousand times better.

  The Whispers haunted the corners of her room, and this time didn’t flee when she looked at them. This time they looked back.

  “Feeling better?”

  Vivian looked up. The Shaker stood in the door, watching her. The Whispers crowded around Him, tugging at His coat. “Much,” Vivian murmured, hugging a pillow against her side. “Thank you.”

  “I could hardly let my ‘wife’ suffer.”

  He smirked at her surprised expression. “What, you thought I didn’t know that one? Ghost Wife…a good name, I suppose.”

  Vivian laughed softly and stretched. It had grown dark outside. “I wondered if we could talk about something,” she said.

  “We talk about many things.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  He brushed away the Whispers and they fled, and the Shaker walked to the foot of the bed to listen. “What did you wish to talk about?”

  Vivian looked at Him from under her eyelashes. “Children.”

  The Shaker studied her a long moment in complete silence. His eyes—she couldn’t name the color, but they were somewhere between blue and green— took her in.

  “Children.”

  “I’m completely alone,” Vivian murmured. “Someday even you’ll want me gone…I want someone to remember me as their mother.”

  “You know what my children are, what they become.”

  “The Whispers,” Vivian said, nodding, “But, Shaker—”

  “Is that what you want, Vivian? Children never really alive, never really dead?” His voice never rose, but she could hear anger in it. His eyes blazed. The Shaker whirled on His boot heel, striding to the door. “Rosa,” He called. A Whisper appeared, her indistinct form that of a girl of about eight or nine. Rosa clung to the Shaker’s coat, her eyes—like blue fire—staring at Vivian.

  “She was born ninety-three years ago,” the Shaker said.“Her mother died and now she lives here. I say lives…you know what she is. A shadow. She died, and this is what she became.” The Shaker patted her head, and Rosa fled. A ghost. A shadow. A Whisper. “Unlike you petty mortals, she’ll never move on. She’ll always be here, with me.” The Shaker looked coldly at her. “Is that what you want for your children?”

  Vivian had tears in her eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  He pursed His lips, and swept out of the room. Vivian hugged the pillow to her chest, trying not to cry.

  She hadn’t thought He’d get so angry.

  Rosa came creeping back, and climbed onto the foot of the bed. “He doesn’t mean it.” Her voice was hollow, tremulous, as if it wasn’t quite there. “He loves you,” Rosa said. “He wants you to be happy.”

  Vivian wiped at her eyes. “And you?”

  “It’s not so bad,” Ro
sa murmured, “You don’t have to be scared of Death when an Immortal is your father.” She smiled. Her shadowy figure flickered. “Momma moved on, and it got lonely…but He takes good care of us.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Only sixty-two. Some Immortals have thousands.”

  Vivian couldn’t help but laugh. The number seemed so ludicrous, but she knew it was true. “Is He terribly angry with me?”

  “Just a little, but more at Himself. He’ll come around. Just wait.” Rosa hesitated, and touched Vivian’s hand. Her touch was cold, but not as icy as the Shaker’s.

  “Thank you,” Vivian said, grasping the little Whisper’s hand.

  Rosa smiled again. “You’re welcome, Vivian.”

  She stayed in the bed until He returned at almost midnight. “Stay a little late?” He asked.

  She nodded, holding out her arms to Him. He put a fervency and tenderness into that night, holding her close until she could hardly breathe. Vivian’s nails scratched His back and she kept saying the same thing over and over—“I love you, oh, God, oh, God, I love you.”

  He burned her a little, but not nearly as much as he’d used to. Vivian gently traced out previous scars, the scars that would mark her as a Shade for the rest of her life. Even if He dismissed her, she would never be able to keep it secret that she had been a Shade, a Ghost Wife.

  The Shaker kissed the back of her shoulder. He would never apologize for anything—that she had learned quickly enough.

  “Do you really want children?”

  “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I hadn’t thought about it,” she murmured. “I’ve been thinking about it for two years.”

  He drew a fiery hand up her arm, gently clasping her shoulder. She could feel Him trying to force it to cool, for her sake. “Say it again,” He whispered.

  “I love you.”

  She winced as she made her walk home, the new burns paining her. She would have to apply a salve before she slept.

  She heard it then—the keening cry coming from the living part of the city.

  Someone had died.

  A shadow passed over Bone Rattler Street, and the temperature fell to wintry levels. Vivian shivered, looking upward even though she knew she wouldn’t see Him. The Shaker had just claimed a new occupant of Bone Rattler Street.

  She heard a girl singing as she made her way back home, asking Death to spare her another year. The song never failed to make Vivian feel like an outcast, serving this Immortal everyone feared. People glared at her whenever someone died, as if she were responsible. Vivian hurried past the singing girl and through the darkness to her house, thinking of her previous conversation with the Shaker.

  What have I done to them that’s so devilish?

  What you were made to do.

  You mortals. You understand so little.

  Unlike you petty mortals, she’ll never move on.

  He loves you. He wants you to be happy.

  Vivian choked back tears as the realization hit her—he envied them. She would die. She might haunt Bone Rattler Street for a few decades, but eventually she would move on to whatever awaited her. The Shaker and His Whispers never would. They would be trapped in that same place until Arlington ceased to be, until all people were but dust on the wind, and the world was dead.

  The Shaker would always be there.

  I could hardly let my wife suffer.

  He loves you.

  Had He loved all His wives? Had He watched each of them fade, and die, leaving Him behind in eternity?

  Just inside her front door, Vivian fell to her knees, a hand over her mouth as tears rolled down her cheeks. She thought of the Shaker, adjusting His forms to suit each of His Shades, looking for what they most liked. Learning what most pleased them. Doing His best to make them happy.

  How many loves had He lost to time?

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, “Shaker, I’m so sorry.”

  Winter came softly but surely on Arlington that year. Vivian wore thicker coats, and that was why it took the citizens so long to realize the obvious change in their resident Ghost Wife.

  It wasn’t until she attended the Christmas service and draped her coat over the pew that they saw she was pregnant.

  They were stunned—only the oldest of Arlington citizens could remember the last time a Ghost Wife had been with child, and only the bravest of girls dared to ask her what it had been like to sleep with Death. They were a group, around sixteen or seventeen, and dreadfully curious.

  Vivian laughed a little, shaking her head. “Dangerous,” she replied, “but like nothing you could ever imagine.”

  The child did not stir once during the pregnancy.

  The Whispers had begun to follow her on her walks, though they never left Bone Rattler Street, and they helped her with her deliveries. And the Shaker…well, He fussed over her like a mother hen.

  Christmas night He filled the room with His heat, pacing as Vivian watched Him. “I love you,” she murmured, unprompted. He kissed her.

  “Again.”

  “I love you.”

  A deeper kiss. “Again.”

  “I love you.”

  He forced down His temperature for her safety, pulling her close. Vivian caught a glimmer of what looked like tears in His eyes, and kissed Him softly. “Shaker,” she whispered, “I love you. It’s okay. I love you.”

  He trembled a moment but He would not cry. Vivian wondered how many years He had practiced that. She kissed His face gently. “I love you.”

  The Shaker held her close, without saying a word, without moving. He held her, and asked for nothing more. Vivian stroked His hair, feeling His skin cool under her touch. He smelled of ash.

  When Vivian had first begun her life at Arlington she had never expected the sudden position in society she now held—both a power and a pariah. “Ah, you’re the Black Coat’s, then?”

  “The Bone Rattler took you in?”

  “Picked you right off the street? I don’t know if the Devil’s ever done that before…”

  Those were just a few of the more memorable conversations she’d had when her reputation began to grow. She’d been surprised to learn this Immortal had no permanent name; most towns named theirs something, and that was it. Where she had grown up the Immortal had been named Muerta, and she had been merciless. She sent plagues upon her own city for amusement. Not so with Arlington.

  “Bone Rattler keeps His distance. Doesn’t like to be disturbed. He comes around when it’s time for somebody to die…rest of the time he’s off on that street with His Whispers.”

  When she went on her first Sunday round, half the people in Arlington were out, singing their songs about Death.

  When God is gone and the Devil takes hold,

  Who will have mercy on your soul?

  Vivian had swallowed past her fear, remembering her own experience with this new Immortal. If He was as cruel as they seemed to believe, then He was wilier than Muerta had ever been, deceiving her first with kindness.

  But He was not cruel. He never even raised His voice to her. She could ask questions, speak out of turn…she didn’t understand why Arlington so hated Him.

  He truly won her the day her ex-husband found her.

  It was three months after she found Arlington, and she’d not heard a word from anyone in her old life. One day he just showed up—just as she was reaching Bone Rattler Street.

  “Vivian!”

  She had turned, hardly daring to believe her ears. “Michael.” She didn’t want to see him, not now and not ever.

  He stood there, Michael,
and stared. Stared at her in her new black clothes, with that red umbrella over her arm and the bag full of deliveries. “Viv, what are you doing?”

  She trembled.

  “You don’t mean to tell me,” his voice was deceptively calm, “you’re a Shade, now?”

  “They call me a Ghost Wife,” she mumbled.

  “What?”

  “They call me a Ghost Wife,” Vivian repeated, louder. She clutched the umbrella. “I serve this city’s Immortal.”

  Michael walked toward her, and Vivian stumbled backward. “You’re…a what?” he hissed.

  A sudden burst of cold wind enveloped them both, and Vivian felt a solid presence at her back. The Shaker’s voice growled, “Step away.”

  ILLUSTRATION BY SIDA CHEN

  Michael froze. Vivian didn’t even turn to see what form the Shaker had taken for this; she knew it would be terrifying. She pressed her back against Him, taking comfort from the ice-cold body that met her touch. The Shaker—as she had already dubbed Him in her mind—stayed at her back, growling down at Michael. “You will treat her with more respect in the future.”

  Michael fled. Vivian had never seen him scared of anything, but he was running from the Shaker. For a moment, she felt an immense power she had not known in years. It flooded through her with a heady sensation, and Vivian turned to embrace the Shaker, burying her face in the folds of His black coat. He warmed a moment, and put His arms around her.

  “The next time he comes here,” the Shaker growled, “will be the last time he leaves.”

  Vivian trembled, and smiled.

  She learned quickly that the Shaker was impossible to understand. One day He would ask to hear children’s rhymes, the next she read to Him the most complex text He could find. He pored over mortal literature and art, and withdrew into silence for hours, sometimes weeks at a time, puzzling over something.

  His devotion to a subject that interested Him was insatiable—they could talk about something so much Vivian would watch her own opinion change three or four times before the conclusion.