City of Ghosts

by J. H. Moncrieff

  “What did you do that went viral?” She narrowed her eyes at me, folding her arms across her chest.

  Me and my big mouth. The last thing I wanted was for her to know how stupid I’d been, but what the hell. Either I fessed up or she’d forever think I was lying about my blogging prowess.

  “Me and a buddy did a series of videos recreating some of the stupid shit people do to win Darwin Award Honorable Mentions—the ones that aren’t fatal. Kind of like Jackass, but with fewer poop and dick jokes.”

  Rather than look horrified, she leaned forward. “What kind of stuff did you do?”

  “Aw, really dumb things like cramming ghost peppers in our mouths or…other places, and exploding things in the microwave. It was just a bunch of brainless stunts, but people went apeshit over it. I have over two hundred thousand Facebook fans and over a million YouTube subscribers. Trust me, it could work. It will work.”

  “Two hundred thousand Facebook fans? There are a lot of celebrities who don’t have that many. That’s from your Darwin videos?”

  “Nah. I also used to run the radio station in college, and I DJed on the weekends. Most of them come from that. But they’re pretty supportive. If I ask them to share something, they will.” I hope.

  Kate shook her head in disbelief, sinking onto her bed—folded clothes be damned. “I had no idea you were so well known.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I thought a series of supernatural books would take off. I already have a decent platform. Once the post is done, I can start tweeting it and putting it up on Facebook. I can get Kai to send me photos of the soldiers.” My mind raced ahead, crafting the first sentence of the blog post to end all blog posts. “Hey, maybe I should interview you for the blog. How many people have met a real medium?”

  “More than you’ll ever know. It’s not like most of us advertise. Kind of like you and your secret YouTube celebrity status.” She smirked. “Who would have thought you were the next Bieber?”

  “Hey, them’s fighting words. Don’t make me come over there.”

  “Seriously, though, I’d rather stay out of the public eye, if that’s okay. If you need me to confirm your story or something, I will, but otherwise I want to be left out of it. The fewer people who know about me, the better.”

  “Okay, I can respect that. Is it cool to talk about some of the stuff you’ve said, without using your name?”

  She hesitated. “What kind of stuff?”

  “You know, about Yuèhai. Even what you told me about Clarke is interesting, but I’m not sure I can fit it in.”

  “You’re not going to say we’ve been talking to a dead girl, are you?”

  My fingers were itching. I was eager to begin. I hadn’t written anything longer than a text since college, but this thing seemed to be writing itself. It was going to be amazing. It might even lead to that book deal I’d been lusting after. “That was the plan. That’s part of the hook, Kate. That’s what’ll get people reading.”

  Her eyes widened. “You don’t want to do that.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course I want to do it. You seriously thought I would leave it out? It’s the craziest part.”

  “That’s the problem, Jackson. People will think you’re crazy. Or out for attention. Or hoping for big bucks. Trust me. The world isn’t kind to those who are brave enough to admit there’s more to this existence than we know.”

  I couldn’t argue with Kate’s personal experience. “So I’ll focus on the cover-up, maybe get some people at home digging into it. They can probably find out more than we can in the time we have.” I was already scanning the Wikipedia entry for Hensu. So far it appeared to have been written entirely for tourists. There was no mention of a dark history.

  “Well, if you’re going to write, I might as well have that shower.”

  “Hey, Kate?”

  “Yeah?” She paused midway to the bathroom, clutching a small fabric bag—the thing she’d apparently torn her pack apart to find.

  “What happened with that ghost?”

  Her brow furrowed. “What ghost? Yuèhai?”

  My phone bleeped. My sister must have told Mom I was online, because I already had a message from her. Putting the phone down, I focused on Kate. “You said you’d only seen one ghost as angry as Yuèhai—that it didn’t end well. What happened?”

  “Oh, that.” Kate looked longingly at her bag of toiletries. As a guy, I was feeling pretty grungy. I imagined it was even worse for her. “That’s a long story. I’ll tell you at dinner.”

  ~ Chapter Twenty-Two ~

  “Isabelle was an ugly girl. Painfully ugly. You know how they say everyone has something beautiful about them? Well, she didn’t. Almost everyone has pretty eyes, but hers were yellow. And I’m not talking golden, either. They were the color of piss.” Kate toyed with the edge of her placemat, fraying the paper into neat little ribbons. “It shouldn’t have mattered, because we shouldn’t care what people look like. But of course, when you’re a teenager, nothing else matters as much.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. Leaning closer, I touched her hand to comfort her. It was cool to the touch, which was surprising, given the restaurant wasn’t air-conditioned and it was twenty degrees hotter than hell outside. “Are you okay to talk about this?”

  She swiped at her eyes. “I don’t know why it still bothers me so much,” she said in a shaky voice. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. No one’s judging you. Take your time.”

  We’d taken a stab at ordering on our own, without Harold, Martin, or even the trusty Rough Guide. (Mostly because I’d forgotten it in the hotel room. Perhaps Martin carried it everywhere to get in the habit.) In Hong Kong, it was a lot easier. I’d recognized some things on the menu. We were both craving noodles because there just wasn’t enough starch in our diets yet, apparently, so we’d ordered bowls of udon. Japanese food in Hong Kong—gotta love it.

  “Anyway, the other kids were cruel to Isabelle, as you might have guessed. Her mom told me they used to chase her home from school sometimes. She bought Isabelle a bike so her daughter could get away from them, but the bullies took her bike apart and threw the pieces at her as they chased her through town. And even though dozens of people must have seen this, no one did anything.”

  She took a deep breath. “I know this because Isabelle used to run to my house. My mom was a part of Neighborhood Watch. She had this sign in the window that said our house was a safe place for a little kid in trouble. Thinking back now, I wonder how many pedophiles ordered those signs. There was probably some kind of screening process, but still—weird. Anyway, Isabelle took advantage of that sign a lot.

  “And I hate to admit it, because it makes me sound like a real shit, but I resented my mother for taking her in. I fucking loathed that stupid sign, even tried to get the dog to eat it.”

  I laughed. “Seriously?”

  She nodded. “What can I say? Kids are creeps. Whenever I asked my mom why we had to take Izzy in, she would say it was our Christian duty or some such shit. You see, the thing was, I don’t think my mom liked her either. Izzy was always covered in snot, or dirt, or blood, or a combination of the three. She stunk up our bathroom. There was something about her that repulsed people, even people who tried to be nice to her. It wasn’t only her appearance—she was an unlikeable person, you know? As I got older, I tried to be more compassionate, but I just couldn’t. So I avoided her.”

  I’d always had a soft spot for bullied kids, maybe because being black in a town like Minneapolis wasn’t exactly an ideal situation. There’d been a few kids in elementary school who’d been determined to make my life miserable. Years later, one of them tried to get me to DJ his wedding, pulling the old “grade-school buddy” bit. I told him where he could put my turntable.

  But I also got where Kate was coming from. It takes balls of steel to stand up to bullies when you’re a kid. Christ, how many adults are that brave, come to think of it? All you want when you’re a kid is to b
e left in peace, and when you see someone being terrorized, your first thought is usually Thank God it isn’t me. The last thing you want to do is poke the rabid monkey with a stick so it turns on you instead. I hope this generation of kids is braver than we were.

  Kate sipped her water with a guilty expression. “I’m not proud of this next part. I haven’t told anyone this for a long time.”

  “No judgment. You were just a kid, Kate. Don’t be too hard on yourself.” Her placemat was in tatters so I slid mine across the table. With a weak smile, she picked at it.

  “When she got older, Isabelle didn’t come to our house as often. I don’t think the kids stopped picking on her so much as they changed the way they tormented her. Instead of beating the shit out of her, they were usually satisfied with name-calling and stuff like that.”

  “Stuff that leaves deeper scars, but requires less energy.”

  “Yeah. By the time I was in junior high, Mom decided to get a job. She was working at this hardware store, doing their books or something, I guess. It left me with a few hours to kill after school before she got home, but I didn’t mind.”

  “You have any wild parties?” I felt a strange heaviness in my chest, like someone was pushing a gigantic rock against my heart. If I’d been a bit older, I’d have thought I was having a heart attack. Something told me I did not want to hear the rest of the story. Surveying the restaurant, I wondered if the soldiers had found us. Or Yuèhai. But I saw no one I recognized. No one was even checking us out for a change. In Hong Kong I felt almost human again, instead of a creature in a zoo.

  My attempt to lighten the mood failed dismally. Kate smirked, but it was to placate me, nothing more. “Oh yeah, the wildest. When I was really feeling rebellious, I’d raid my mom’s bookcase.”

  “Her bookcase?”

  “Hey, for a Christian lady, my mom had a lot of smutty books. Some kids lose themselves in alcohol or drugs, but for me it was always books.”

  “I get that. For me it was music. Still is.”

  “I’ll never forget that day, no matter how much I try. My mom was at work, and I’d found her stash of Jackie Collins paperbacks. I was going through them one by one, reading the sexy parts. I was so enthralled, I kind of forgot where I was. And then someone pounded on the door. It scared the crap out of me. I leapt off the couch and the books went flying. I panicked, convinced my mom had come home early and I was going to be grounded for life…and then I realized my mom wouldn’t knock.

  “Whoever it was didn’t stop. They banged on the door like they were going to break it down. Ordinarily, it would have scared me—I was a pretty jumpy kid—but for some reason, it made me mad. I finally stomped over to the door to see who it was…”

  “Isabelle?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry; I don’t know if I can do this.”

  I wasn’t sure I could either, but she needed to finish the story, if for no other reason than to be reassured she wasn’t the Antichrist.

  She was using my napkin to dry her face when the waitress arrived with our soup. Steam curled from the giant bowls, drawing designs on the air. It smelled amazing. In spite of the fact that I’d lost my appetite during Kate’s story, my stomach growled.

  The waitress stared at Kate, her brow furrowed in concern. “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said. I could tell it was taking every bit of self-control Kate had not to break out sobbing. “She’s homesick.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe this will make you feel better.” The waitress handed me those thick white ceramic spoons that are synonymous with udon. “You from America?”

  “Canada.” It was good to toss as many red herrings as possible on our trail. I hadn’t seen any other black dudes traveling with white girls in China. Besides, everyone liked Canadians better. Americans had a reputation for being obnoxious, probably because we did stupid things, like tasting real Chinese food and complaining it wasn’t like the shit back home. Thank God it wasn’t like the shit back home.

  Her expression brightened. Uh oh. I’d picked the wrong country. Fuck. Should have said Britain, but that would have meant pulling off the accent.

  “Ah, Canada. I have a cousin who lives in Vancouver. Maybe you know him?”

  “No, sorry. We’ve never been to Vancouver.”

  “Where are you from?”

  No hesitation there. “Winnipeg.” I’d never been, but it was pretty close to Minneapolis, so I knew it was bitch-ass cold for at least six months of the year. I also knew the odds were this woman had never heard of it.

  I was right.

  “Oh,” she said, sounding confused.

  “This smells amazing. Thanks so much. I’m sure we’ll enjoy it.” Kate was wiping her eyes and giving me absolutely no help whatsoever, but as I grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and pulled my chopsticks apart with a satisfying crack, our server took the hint.

  “You’re welcome. I hope you feel better.” This last comment was directed at Kate, but if our waitress had been expecting a response, she was disappointed. Kate focused on the table, the brim of my old cap hiding her face. The waitress finally left.

  “Okay, she’s gone.”

  Kate’s tears had left bright streaks on her pale skin, like something had scratched her. Her eyes were red enough to match her hair.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be okay. I was an idiot to talk about this. I thought it was over, but she…she doesn’t like me talking about her.”

  That’s when I saw the red marks on her face weren’t from tears. Something had scratched her. I dropped my chopsticks. “What the fuck? What happened?”

  “It’s Isabelle—it’s all right. Calm down. They’ll fade in a little bit. She didn’t go too deep this time. Not like before.”

  “Are you shitting me? Are you telling me a fucking ghost did that to you?”

  Kate flinched as if I’d struck her. “Ssh,” she hissed at me, glancing around the restaurant. “Keep your voice down. We’re supposed to be under the radar.”

  I’d been halfway out of my chair. I lowered myself to my seat again, but my heart was going crazy. The pressure on my chest had gotten worse. “This is fucked up, Kate. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “It is fucked up, but she has her reasons. You’ll see why when you hear the rest of the story.”

  “Is she going to keep doing stuff to you? Because I don’t want to hear the rest if she is.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s usually only at the beginning. And sometimes, if I stop…well, let’s just say it gets worse. She’s like Yuèhai that way—she wants her story told.”

  My jaw ached and I realized I’d been clenching my teeth. I tried to relax—as much as that was possible. “Go on,” I said, wishing I’d never gotten her on the subject to begin with. “Finish it.”

  Part of my brain, the part that had never believed in supernatural shit and probably never would, was screaming. She’s faking it. This is bullshit. She scratched her own face while you weren’t paying attention.

  But I knew it wasn’t true. I knew Kate well enough by now to trust she wouldn’t do something like that. Which was forcing me to consider a whole bunch of stuff that scared the hell out of me. It wasn’t just What happens when we die? but also What happens if Yuèhai decides I’m the enemy?

  “So, Isabelle was at the door…”

  “Yeah. And she was pretty beaten up, as bad as I’d ever seen her. Even through the peephole I could see she had a black eye. It was swollen shut. And there was blood all over her face. I think her mouth was cut up. I don’t know…I’ve blocked most of it out.”

  “Can’t say I blame you.” I’d never seen a woman beat that way, and the image made me profoundly uncomfortable.

  “Seeing her like that, without my mom around, it made me feel panicky. Helpless. I’m not trying to make excuses—I was a shit, a real shit, I know I was—but I was also scared. I was still a kid, really. I didn’t know wha
t to do.”

  Reaching across the table, I took her hand again. I had the worst feeling, like we had to get out of there right away, that at any minute Harold was going to burst in the door with his goons. Or maybe my heart would be the thing that burst. That was a possibility too.

  Kate was crying for real now, tears running freely down her cheeks. “She kept pounding on the door, but I ran away. It was almost like there was a force outside myself that was drawing me back, but I think that’s bullshit. A part of me didn’t want to help her. A part of me hoped she wouldn’t come to our house anymore if I didn’t open the door.”

  I felt an irrational anger toward her mother. How could she have put her preteen daughter in that situation? She should have chucked the Neighborhood Watch sign as soon as she got a job. But maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Isabelle had thought of Kate’s house as a safe zone for so long. Even if the sign was gone, she might have come.

  “She screamed at me through the door. She was saying nasty stuff, like ‘I know you’re there, cunt. I know you can hear me, you little slut. I’ve been raped. Don’t you fucking care that those bastards raped me?’”

  Kate sobbed, covering her face with her hands for a moment. I told her it was okay, even though it wasn’t. It hadn’t been okay for Kate for a very long time, and it probably wouldn’t be for me again, either.

  That was one important thing my friendship with Kate taught me.

  Ghost stories aren’t fun when they’re true.

  “Before she swore at me, I felt awful—sorry for her, even. I think I would have opened the door. But when she yelled at me, I got embarrassed. I was sure that the neighbors could hear everything she was saying, and it made me want to hide under my bed and never come out. And then she went too far and I got mad.”

  “What did she say?” I asked, even though I didn’t want to know.

  “She said, ‘It should have been you. You’re the one they should have done it to. They should have fucked you up the ass, because you would have liked it.’”