The 'Geisters

by David Nickle

  “Well yeah. He’s dead. Pft. No more. Gone—”

  “I get it. I’m sorry, sis. I don’t know what to say. I remember when Laurie died . . . you remember her, right?”

  “Couldn’t forget her.”

  “Well I couldn’t talk about it, but it tore me to shreds. I really loved her.”

  “You were only together for a few months.”

  “Same as you and Michael. Long enough to know.”

  Ann considered that. “Not really,” she said.

  “Wait a second—are you telling me you might not have truly loved Michael Voors?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I married him, right?”

  “I was there.”

  “We were good together, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “But you know—he betrayed me.”

  “Did he now?” Philip asked.

  “So I don’t—”

  “What?”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  A knowing chuckle drifted out of the darkness. “You’re kind of full of shit sometimes, you know that?”

  “Oh am I?”

  “Oh yes. You are. Look. Michael Voors was a really stand-up guy. I remember when you brought him by the first time. You introduced me, and being who I was—I was just lying there. And Michael leaned over, not too close, and looked me in the eye, and introduced himself again, and not batting a fuckin’ eyelid, told me how happy he was to meet me. Those things are always weird—I’d stand, you know, if I could.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven. Now stop interrupting. Michael kept his cool around me, and I admired that. Really polite.”

  “Just what a girl looks for in a man,” said Ann.

  “If you say so. I mean, you picked him, right?”

  “I’m not so sure that I did, actually.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Really. I think that I didn’t have too much say in whether or not I’d marry Michael. I think I was manipulated into it.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. After Michael died—well when Michael died. I caught him . . .”

  “Caught him what?”

  Ann struggled. “Doing it.”

  “Doing it. With who?”

  “The Insect.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah. Whoa.”

  “Okay,” said Philip. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I been watching CNN, and I know all about what’s been going on in Florida.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s say that I know about this ‘mile high’ club thing, but was being too polite to bring it up with you.”

  “Sounds plausible.”

  “So let me ask you this. Was Michael ‘doing it’ with your poltergeist during the flight?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was all of that turbulence that nearly brought your plane down—was that all caused when things got . . . how shall we say . . .

  out of hand?”

  “It was.”

  “Okay. Now are you sure—”

  “I don’t think it was the first time. And I don’t think just him. I think Ian Rickhardt—”

  “Asshole.”

  “Yeah. I think he did it with the polter—the Insect too, in Tobago. I saw it. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. . . .” Ann recalled Rickhardt again, turning in the air outside their villa as the world combusted. “But I think he was. . . having sex with it. And I think the Insect . . . it doesn’t like it.”

  “Hmm. Man fucks ghost. I guess if you can describe it, there’s someone who’s into it.”

  “More than one.”

  “Well there’s the late Michael Voors. And Ian Rickhardt. So that’s two of them, I guess.”

  “There’s more,” said Ann. She told him about Hirsch, and his display in the hospital room.

  “Shit.”

  “He’s not dead, but he can’t move. He’s like—”

  “Like me. Yeah. And Auntie Eva—she’s had a stroke too. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”

  “You don’t think—”

  “Well Eva, bless her, had it coming. She was eating poutine before your wedding, as I recall her saying.”

  Ann bridled. “And Philip—you are okay, aren’t you?”

  “Right as rain.”

  “But I mean, you can tell me that. I got Jeanie to talk to Lesley, to check up on you.”

  “I’m just fine.”

  “I mean, I’m not just talking to myself, and—”

  “Hey, hush. You want this conversation to continue, don’t go too far down that road.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re into some important shit, here, little sister. You want to keep your eye on the prize.”

  Ann peered into the darkness. She thought she could discern shapes there—not of Philip, but of some kind of architecture. Were there stairs? A faint shape of a window, covered or dark, by the first landing?

  “It’s interesting,” said Philip. “Hey, remember the innkeepah?”

  “Penny?” Ann squinted into the dark; it really was taking some form. “Oh. You mean—”

  “Yeah. The camp.”

  “I do remember the innkeepah. That was Dr. Sunderland, right?”

  “He was a creepy old bastard.”

  “He really helped us, though.”

  “Yeah. Did you ever let him touch you?”

  “Ew. No.”

  Philip was quiet for a moment, and Ann thought she heard a click—and far off, down a long hallway, a light came on.

  “Well, that’s good. He touched me.”

  “What?”

  “Not like that. But I remember a needle.”

  “Philip! What?”

  “You were there. We were in the music room—remember?”

  “Not too well.”

  “Mom and dad were sleeping. He had us in there listening to some kind of boring music. Pan pipe or something.”

  A kind of music started to echo down the hallway. Ann could see that it was lined with doors—but not doors such as she might have found in the Insect’s world. It had more of an institutional feel; there were little windows in them, and light filtered dully through them. Maybe they were classrooms. The music came from one of these; it was slow and almost atonal. Ann recalled listening to it as she sat on a beanbag chair in a brighter room, blinds drawn against the snowy winter. Dr. Sunderland sat there cross-legged in a pair of track pants and a sweatshirt, on his own beanbag. Ann was watching, as he fiddled with a wooden box, as Philip sat there beside him, knees up, hands leaning back like he was getting ready to crab-walk.

  Dr. Sunderland nodded to Philip, and whispered, “Hold still,”

  as he opened the box and removed a syringe, and when Philip pulled away, he slowly, firmly, took hold of Philip’s arm and inserted the needle.

  “Yeah,” said Ann, “I remember.”

  “And I was out cold,” said Philip. “And it was just you and Dr. Sunderland. And what did he say, Ann?”

  “‘Now, you’re isolated,’ I think.”

  “And then?”

  Ann swallowed. “‘It’s just the three of us.’”

  And Sunderland had reached into the box, and pulled out a scalpel, which gleamed in the light. And he let it go, and watched as it floated there in front of him. Philip lay still, but he was still aware—still awake. Dr. Sunderland climbed to his knees, and backed away, and watched as the tiny blade moved through the air, slowly, towards Philip’s face.

  “It’s just the three of us,” he said to Ann again. “And Philip.”

  Ann remembered that much.

  “Did he . . . let it cut you?”

  “I didn’t get cut,” said Philip. “I remember that. But the knife came really close to my face. I was terrified. Scared shitless. So were you. I remember yo
u sitting up and yelling for it to stop, and yelling at Dr. Sunderland to make it stop. And you yelled at it. And you yelled at me. And do you remember how Sunderland’s face got?”

  Ann thought about that. He was biting his lower lip, his shoulders were really stiff, as he watched the knife hover there, closer and closer until the blade caressed Philip’s jawline.

  “And then he . . . it was like he barked,” said Ann. “I remember that. It was like a dog.” She frowned. “And you didn’t get cut. It was like he called it off. With a bark. That’s weird, isn’t it?”

  Philip chuckled. “Yeah—you were pretty young. So was I. And maybe he did call it off. But you know something? That’s what it sounds like. Sometimes. A shout. A bark. It can sound that way . . . when a guy comes.”

  Ann found herself walking down the corridor now, past that flight of stairs leading up. At the far end, something was heading toward her.

  “Ann,” said Philip. “Is that you?”

  “Coming,” said Ann. “He was one of them too. Hirsch said there were a lot of them watching me. And he was the first of them.”

  “Ann,” said Philip. “Ann—I think I’m in trouble.” The figure drew closer. It moved very quickly for coming along such a long hallway.

  “I need you.”

  It wasn’t Philip, Ann realized.

  Any more than the disembodied voice who’d been speaking with her was, telling her things that really—she already knew.

  Philip was back in Canada, living by the good grace of the trust fund their parents had left him. He might even be safe there.

  And the figure that emerged from the corridor . . .

  That was someone else.

  The doors flung open. Light streamed in.

  The figure stuttered through the shafts of that light, one after another, transforming each time. A little girl—the one Ann had seen outside? No. An old man—perhaps the one who’d helped her from the ditch, and showed her the way to the wreck of the family’s minivan? No. A policeman? A scientist?

  Ian Rickhardt?

  By the time it stood face to face with her, it was none of those. It was the Insect. Finally, it had granted her an audience.

  When it spoke, its voice was the sound of splintering wood.

  The door hung open. A man wearing a pale blue windbreaker, the top of his head covered in close-cropped hair, stepped inside with measured haste. He was sweating, and tense—but he didn’t seem especially afraid.

  He had something in his hand. A gun? No. Not a cell phone either. There were prongs coming off it at one end. It was a Taser.

  He kept his back to the wall as he examined the bed, the luggage that sat unpacked at the foot of it, peered into the washroom. He looked under the bed too.

  The bathroom door was closed. He approached it warily, almost diffidently—who knew what might be waiting inside? It could just be the occupant, having a quiet pee. It could maybe be something else.

  With his free hand, he turned the doorknob and opened the door. The bathroom was dark. Inside was a toilet and a short bathtub, a shower. The light over the sink and mirror was the only light in the room. He flicked it on. There was a jangling sound as he moved the shower curtain from one side to the other.

  At length, he re-emerged from the room. The two prongs at the end of the Taser flashed nervous blue as he idly flicked the switch.

  He went to the bed, lifted a pillow to his face . . . sniffed it. He set it back down. There was a small window looking out the back of the cabin, into the woods. He checked it. Latched shut. He knelt down, peered under the bed.

  As he was doing so, the barrel of a shotgun entered the cabin—preceding Penny, who held it at the ready. The man was preoccupied; he didn’t notice anything until he heard the pump chambering a shell.

  “This is not rock salt, sir,” said Penny. “I aim to shoot you dead.”

  She was wearing a deep blue housecoat. Her hair was uncombed, and stuck out from her left ear. The man looked up and began to rise.

  “Raise your hands,” she said. “I will shoot you dead.”

  “I heard you, ma’am.” The man’s voice was high for one so big. He had an accent that was hard to place. Not quite the same as Penny’s, but close. He stood the rest of the way, and raised both hands. The Taser went into his coat pocket, smoothly. “I’m here with my wife. Just checking in later.”

  “Oh are you?” Penny didn’t move. “Well she ain’t here now. She’s gone.”

  “I can see that,” said the man. “Please put the gun away, ma’am. She’s gone, but she left her car and all her things behind. Do you know where she might’ve gone?”

  “You got no business here,” said Penny. “She wants to talk to you, she’ll call.”

  “It’s really best that I find her.”

  “Uh huh. She a danger to herself and others, by any chance?”

  “You—you have no idea.” It was hard to say, but he might have been trying a smile.

  It was the wrong approach. The shotgun wavered.

  “I can shoot you right here,” said Penny. “You’re in my place—broke in. Looks like you got a joy buzzer there, counts as a weapon.” The barrel of the shotgun wavered only slightly as she braced it. “I’m within my rights. And it’d solve a lot of problems if I did that. Get you what’s comin’ to you.”

  “Now ma’am—” the man’s voice got a little higher “—there’s no need . . .”

  “I think there is,” she said.

  And the shotgun flew from her hand.

  Penny screamed, as it tumbled in the air for an instant—pointed at her—and the man barked, “No!” and moved fast.

  He pulled the Taser from his pocket, and ran fast around the foot of the bed. Penny was frozen, staring at the shotgun, suspended in the air—twirling slow like a baton—so it was easy for him. He jammed the Taser into Penny’s side, and she spasmed and fell to the floor, her housecoat obscenely askew. The man stood over her for a second, but looked out the door, and held his hand up in a calm-down gesture.

  “Thank your friend for me, honey,” he said. “That’s enough.”

  “Okay,” said a voice—a little girl’s voice. “But let’s go from here. Mister Sleepy says it’s scary. He needs a cuddle.”

  “He’s not the only one,” said the man, and glanced down at Penny. “Crazy fuckin’ bitch.”

  And with that, he flicked off the light, shut the door, and was gone.

  The shotgun landed on the bed.

  A moment later, Ann settled down beside it, as the Insect lowered her gently from the rafters, where it had safely hidden her from the moment the bad man with the poltergeist came to call.

  iii

  There was a lot of beer in the fridge at the Rosedale Arms’ back office. And it was a good thing, Ann thought; there was a lot to process, for everyone involved.

  The office was actually a screened-in porch, with a cone-covered lamp dangling from a chain and wire in the middle of the ceiling. It offered a view of the cabins. Penny and Roy sat with frosty cans of Budweiser in front of them; Ann picked a Corona, downed it quickly, then took another.

  “First things first—that wasn’t your husband, was it?”

  “No,” said Ann. “My husband’s dead.”

  “By your hand?” asked Penny. When Ann didn’t answer right away, she nodded.

  “I feel comfortable askin’ about that, because you saw me nearly shoot that fella dead on your account. So I’m guessin’ you didn’t kill him exactly, but it’s not that simple.”

  “My husband wouldn’t have died,” said Ann, “if it wasn’t for me. But it was his own fault.”

  Roy didn’t say anything, but he gave Ann an appraising look as he took a noisy sip from his Bud.

  “Fair enough,” said Penny. “Any idea who it was that I almost murdered?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ann. “Not exactly. I t
hink he might be one of my late husband’s . . .”

  “Kin?” prompted Roy.

  “Associates,” said Ann.

  “He hooked up in the mob?” asked Roy. “Jesus, tell us we ain’t in the middle of some mob fight. We gotta call the cops.”

  “I don’t think it’s the mob,” said Penny. “And we ain’t callin’ the police.”

  “Why don’t you want to—”

  “Hush. You know why, Ann. You saw what happened. Can’t tell the police anything about that business without either seemin’ crazy or lyin’ about it. And cops don’t like neither of those things.”

  Ann finished her beer, and reached for another, but Penny stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Slow up,” she said. “You’re gonna be drivin’ in a few hours. Don’t want to be tipsy behind the wheel.”

  “We should call the cops,” said Roy again.

  “Shut up, Roy,” said Penny. “No cops. But.” She frowned, as though doing arithmetic on the fly. “Here’s who you are gonna call. Pete Wilshire. You’re still tight with him, right? Well good. Miz ‘Brunt’ here—” her own beer sloshed at the bottom of the bottle as she made air quotes “—is gonna need a car that’s not so easy to trace as a rental with Florida plates. I know Pete can fix her up with somethin’ driveable, for just a small bit of that roll of bills she’s got in her handbag. After seein’ what went on in that room, I can see why she won’t take a bus or a train, or God forbid, an airplane. So you think you can do that?”

  “Not right now,” he said, “but in morning, sure. He won’t be able to do it right straightaway, though.”

  “That’s fine,” said Penny. “Because once you call him, you’re goin’ to follow Miz Brunt into Mobile, where we’ll find a place to return that rental car of hers. She can settle up there, and for good measure maybe go into a bus station and buy a ticket somewhere. Then you can pick her up, bring her over to Pete’s lot, and see her off in her new car.” Penny turned to Ann. “That sound good to you?”

  “Sure,” said Ann, and Penny said, “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m sorry. Thank you. You don’t have to do any of this.”

  “Well, here’s how you can really say thank you,” said Penny. “First off. Keep your cell phone turned off. And don’t go sending revealing messages on chat programs in fancy business centres. Might be all right to buy one of those disposable cell phones, for emergencies. But I’d even keep the battery out of that, most of the time. If you can get any more cash on that credit card you lost, get it—then cut the thing up for real. Don’t use it anywhere. Drive the speed limit, and stay off freeways. Though it may be tempting, don’t buy yourself a gun. It’s easier to get one here than pretty much anywhere else, true enough, but you still gotta show I.D. and register it. And unless you got the will to use it on a fella, it can be turned against you. Like you saw just now.