Urban Occult

by Various

  No, please, do come in. Just mind the silver mirrors there. No, it’s kind of you to pop by and, yes, in fact six hours isn’t the normal length of time involved for this procedure. You’re right to mention that. Yes, your father is still sat working at his desk there. I do see that. Obviously. But things have been a little difficult here. As I’m sure you probably supposed. Well, frankly, the old man seems impervious to any and every attempt to remove him to the afterlife. He simply acts as if I’m not here and, well, carries on sorting invoices. Even the most compelling of domination spells only caused him to merely take a break with a word search. I really couldn’t say I’ve ever encountered this level of resistance to any of my workings before. No demonic entities seem to be present, and trying to thwart my attempts to return him to the afterlife. I’ve seen no evidence of possession, reincarnation or Gypsy curses. And I’m attributing the shuffling to the unsteady gait of the elderly rather than any more zombified tendencies.

  Entirely inexplicable, I’m forced to admit. But don’t worry; we’ll have the old fella popped back into a grave in no time. A little persistence is all that’s required. And maybe more tea.

  I’d like to try removing Mr. Moses to another location if I may. It might be helpful to search the room. You never know what type of sneaky image dolls may have been hidden in the most unusual of ways. And amulets can be placed in terribly vexing locations. I encountered a soul transmuted into a Silver Jubilee commemorative tea pot once. The resurrected being a staunch royalist who simply banked on that being the last place anybody would look. It forms a tie, you see, that grounds the deceased to the mortal plane. Normally the application of some counter spellwork on the object can undo that. And, well yes, just smashing the thing will also mostly work. If you could perhaps point Mr. Moses toward those nice sandwiches you have in the kitchen, and I’ll quickly see if there’s anything untoward here that we may not have noticed at first glance.

  Yes, he does seem rather strongly disinclined to leave, doesn’t he? I can see why this sort of work ethic made him such a success in the world of business. The dead do tend to cling to these pre-established patterns of behaviour but really, by this point, I would have hoped for some haunting of a close relative. Or at least an attempt to draw attention to himself with a tiny bit of moaning. He’s throwing himself into the revenant role with so little enthusiasm that I’m wondering why he bothered to return. Just leaving him occupied with some light administration isn’t an option I suppose? I mean he doesn’t appear to be proving a particular nuisance to anybody. And I’m sure we could resolve the issue with the scratching sounds emanating from the cabinet. No? Well, I appreciate you’d really prefer him banished to the afterlife. Inheriting the controlling interest in a multimillion pound business I’m sure has nothing to do with it.

  Perhaps if I could return tomorrow? It’s getting a rather late now. And I’d really feel the matter requires a little more thought. Just keep a watchful eye on Mr Moses. Nobody likes trying to explain why they have a reanimated corpse about the house to the neighbours.

  So I see there’s been no dramatic developments in the situation overnight. And I did say to call if there was any unexpected change. But no? The dearly departed are still busy with the paperwork? Yes, I’m sure that’s terribly tiresome for you but at least the walls aren’t dripping blood. I have considered the matter further and did wonder exactly who Mr. Moses is still corresponding with. Oh, I see, due to the possibly impaired business judgment of the undead you’ve simply been leaving the letters unsent. Probably a wise move. Generally being brought back from the grave can give people a rather shaky grasp of important economic decisions. A new line of transactions written in blood aren’t the best of ideas. Tends to be a little too binding. And good customer relations aren’t helped by involving the recently deceased, for the most part. If we could just check, though, exactly who the gentleman has been trying to contact? I think it might be wise.

  Oh, his mail has just been sitting in the out tray here. Now lets take a look. Don’t worry: Mr. Moses seems presently fully occupied with those ledger books. So would a Mr. Cain of Moreland Holdings Ltd be anybody you were aware of? As there seem to be an awful lot of letters here addressed to him. In fact every letter here is addressed to him. That’s seems slightly, well, unusual. Now I don’t normally advocate the opening of others’ personal mail, but under the circumstances I feel we really should take a look. Perhaps if I just briefly read this one here. Well, it appears to be an invoice. Oh and, that is an awfully large sum of money to be demanding. Mr. Cain seems to have been rather remiss in settling his affairs. Maybe we should investigate another letter? It is a rather alarming amount. And the next one here is the same. Exactly the same. An invoice to Mr. Cain for over twenty three thousand pounds. In fact, all your father appears to have been doing is invoicing Mr. Cain for twenty three thousand pounds. Again. And again. And again.

  Yes, putting the kettle on at this point, I really do feel, is for the best.

  Well, yes, the full extent of your father’s reanimated activity does seem to be solely the billing of his business associate. Clearly the matter seems terribly important to him. But surely there must have been other financial transactions that remained unresolved when he passed over? Why would this one appear to be so important? And based on what you’ve told me now, the amount of money involved isn’t really an issue in a company worth millions. Perhaps it’s time I made a little call to Mr. Cain. Maybe he can throw some light on the situation. It seems rather rude to bother the gentleman about his unpaid bills but I’m at a loss to find any other avenues to explore. And you’re sure Mr. Moses didn’t possess any rather more demonic business contacts of any type? All the paperwork here appears to be for accounting services. Which isn’t generally an issue that I’ve found provokes the reanimation of the dead to the land of the living.

  If I may borrow your phone? I have terrible problems with my signal sometimes. Telecommunication companies seem oblivious to the interference caused by ley lines among the more sensitive of us.

  Mr. Cain does seem to be the most unpleasant of persons. He was really very rude, and pointed out that in nearly forty years of doing business with your family he’d never overcharged them a penny. He’s rather firmly of the opinion that your father is simply trying to dupe him out of a payment. Well, that and his offensive status as a cantankerous old goat. Apparently they have some history of acrimony over the years. I’m somewhat left with the impression that ‘mutual hatred’ would rather sum it up nicely. They’ve trading for decades as finances necessitated it. But I do feel he rather regretted that Mr. Moses wasn’t actually dead. To say that they hate each other seems an understatement. Seemingly, Mr. Cain has no intention of paying the sum demanded and has sent back all invoices making this intention very clear. In fact, he laughed rather unpleasantly at this point and suggested I take a look at the paperwork before bothering him again. Well, before he slammed the phone down that is.

  So all of this correspondence would simply be filed by Mr. Moses in his office? In that case we should at least check a few before proceeding further. I think he’s fully occupied with a brief period of repeatedly opening and shutting cupboard doors. Sometimes the dead do seem to get somewhat stuck in repetitive manual tasks. Perhaps the brain never fully recovers from death and their actions occasionally just return to a basic task they’re familiar with. You’d think they’d become bored, but perhaps they really just have nothing better to do. Noisily opening doors does seem to fascinate them though. But at least they’re not making a mess, I suppose. If you could just find the right files for me please? That’s very kind.

  But there’s an entire folder here. Surely this can’t all relate to a single bill? There’s correspondence and legal notices going back twenty, thirty years. Solicitors letters. Court summonses. Even an abusive postcard from Margate hoping Mr. Moses doesn’t recover from his recent bout of pneumonia. This dispute appears to have obsessed both men for years. Each of them too
stubborn to stand down. Hardly healthy when they should have been looking forward to retiring gracefully and enjoying the occasional round of golf. Obviously the matter seems never to have been resolved to anybody’s satisfaction. Oh, and do you see? Each of your father’s invoices has been returned unpaid. And each unpaid invoice returned with the same message written on it. ‘I’ll see you in Hell first.’ Well, that’s not terribly polite.

  I don’t wish to alarm you, but I’m guessing your father hasn’t generally taken to brandishing that, I must say, very sharp looking letter opener at guests so far? Well he appears to be doing so now. I suggest we maybe edge slowly away. Slight levitation like that is usually a sign that they’re about to turn nasty. And clearly seeing these invoices again is starting to agitate him. See how he’s just phased through an entire sofa there, and is causing the lighting to flicker? Well, that’s really not very good for the wiring in older houses like these, so I suggest you pop the offending file straight onto the fire. Right now. Yes, burn it. Burn it now. Your father may be a corporeal figure with a letter opener but he still looks like he could do a fair bit of damage. Swinging it about like that is bound to do someone a mischief any second now. Even though your parlour palm’s taken the brunt of the damage so far, we really need to sever his object link to this existence.

  Sooner rather than later would be nice. He is suddenly looking rather feisty there for a reanimated pensioner.

  Well, I really thought that would do it. All of the offending paper work has been consigned to the flames. And I’ve quickly chanted an appropriate passing-over incantation. Mr. Moses does seems calmer now, but why is he still here? Surely the unresolved invoicing was you father’s link to this plane, and clear motivation for returning? You’d think he’d be glad to be rid of such a volume of tedious paperwork and move on. I feel he’s acting rather ungratefully, to be honest. The solidity of his form has definitely started to waver a little though. And he really does appear more translucent. But there seems very little evidence of him actually planning to return to the afterlife. I am rather starting to think your father refused to remain dead out of sheer bloody-mindedness, in truth. It has been known. There seems no occult explanation for his presence here. It’s simply that he just can’t leave his unpaid bills alone. Mr. Cain repeatedly wished to see him in Hell before he’d settle his invoice, and I rather think the stubborn old man is taking him at his word. I’m becoming sure it’s the only thing that’s keeping him with us. Mr. Moses won’t enter into the afterlife until his rival either dies first, or sends a cheque.

  The dead can be very unreasonable like that. Almost obsessive, you might say. They do get so easily fixated on one single issue, and simply refuse to move on. Regardless of all polite behaviour, they hang about making a nuisance of themselves. Always bothering relatives with some attention-seeking parlour tricks. No regard for etiquette. No consideration for the living. It does all become rather trying, but I think this current unpleasant episode can now be swiftly resolved. If I could possibly borrow some notepaper? All that’s needed is to compose a quick announcement. A blatantly untrue one, you understand, but I feel it will get the job done. Do trust me here. Even as I note this down, Mr Moses seems to be looking increasingly insubstantial. And I’m not past being a little sneaky when Gerald Gardner has failed us. One moment whilst I make a quick phone call. I simply need to ask for this public notice to be placed and I think all your unfortunate problems with the undead will be over. Perhaps you should make sure to bring the papers up for your father tomorrow morning. I know you mentioned he still reads them thoroughly. Well, hopefully tomorrow, he’ll read them for the last time.

  Oh, what did I write? Sorry, I didn’t explain, did I? Well, I’m sure he won’t mind under the circumstances. And he did rather want to see your father in Hell first. I’ve just composed Mr. Cain’s obituary for The Times.

  The End

  A Time for Redemption

  Alan Baxter

  Brendan nearly pissed his pants when he stopped time.

  A girl sat a few seats along the Uni library table, Styrofoam cup resting on her lower lip. Coffee hung flat over the rim. Steam stood in the air, a trapped translucent swirl catching the sun.

  He stood, reached towards the cup. Moving carefully past the girl’s lip, he touched a fingertip to the coffee. It rippled, hot and wet, and he jumped, expecting it to feel as solid as it looked. His touch shifted it to one side.

  He had stopped the world. Everything a 3D photograph. Shadows tickled the corners of his vision, but wherever he looked was still.

  Trembling, he reached for the girl’s breast, cupped it through her light t-shirt. Firm, beautiful, delicious to the touch. He squeezed. Overcome with nerves and guilt he backed away, lifting the medallion that hung around his neck. Shining metal, heavy and reeking of age, the metal cord pliable as rope. Fear and excitement rode through his gut.

  Returning to his seat, watching the girl, he spoke the strange words again.

  With a rush of sound life restarted, like play clicked on a paused video. The girl made a sound of surprise as her coffee spilled over her chin. Brendan swallowed hard, heart pounding. Dropping the pendant back inside his shirt, he hurried from the library.

  He leaned against red bricks—lichen covered and sun warmed. Mandy sat with her coven of friends in the middle of the quad, laughing in the summer heat. He missed her so much it hurt. Sal and Tiffany would be a problem, always the bouncers on the door to Mandy’s heart. He stared at the tiny whorls and details etched into the shining medallion. His eyes traced the phrase around the edge, the crabbed words that hurt his mind to read, but which contained such power. He didn’t believe in magic. Until now.

  “Just a piece of junk jewellery, I suppose,” his Gran had said. “Must have been your granddad’s. You can keep it.”

  Dear old Granddad, who went fishing one day and never came home.

  If only he could freeze everyone but himself and Mandy, get the chance to talk with her.

  He strolled across the grass towards Mandy and her guards.

  Sal saw him first; face souring as she muttered something. By the time he got there all three wore expressions of stone. Mandy’s eyes were dark.

  “Fucked your girlfriend’s best friend lately?” asked Tiffany.

  Brendan ground his teeth. He looked only at Mandy, desperate for her touch again. “Can I talk to you for a minute.”

  Sal barked a high-pitched laugh. “No you fucking can’t, you sleaze.”

  He still only looked at Mandy. “Just for a minute?”

  Mandy sighed, cast her eyes down at the grass. Slight shake of her head.

  “Just piss off, Brendan,” Tiffany said.

  “Any chance you can call off your attack dogs and talk to me?” He hated Mandy’s friends with such a passion.

  “Attack dogs?” Sal was on her feet, slapping at him with both hands.

  He raised his arms to protect his face, backed away. He imagined hauling back one fist, pounding it into Sal’s face. “Please, give me a call,” he shouted as he fended off Sal’s barrage. “I just want to talk to you. It’s important.”

  Before any of them could say more he shoved Sal away and turned, striding across the grass towards the uni gates.

  Too many doors and keys and passcodes. And he was probably starting to attract attention. It seemed like a simple idea. He watched as a cashier stood and walked from her teller window to the back of the bank, keyed in numbers to disappear into the armoured depths beyond. He had no clue what lay behind that wall, or if the vault was nearby. Or how to open the vault if it were locked. Another door barred the way between the customer area and the tellers with a passcode keypad. So much for the Great Time Caper.

  His grandparents had lived in a huge, beachside mansion, the proceeds of an unexpected and inordinately massive lottery win. The old man had been more than generous to Brendan’s parents, paying off their mortgage, and a healthy trust fund waited for him when his grandmother died. But
she was hale and hearty and in the process of selling the big house to move into an exclusive retirement village. No lack of money in his family, but none of it coming his way any time soon. And now he seriously doubted Grandad had won the lottery after all. Cunning old bastard. But how had he pulled it off?

  The door between the tellers and the public opened. Two suited men walked out, chatting and smiling. Brendan surreptitiously lifted the medallion and whispered the words. Heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears, he walked between mannequin people and squeezed between the two suits. Through the protective glass, beyond the bank into the paused street outside, nothing stirred. A pigeon hung mid-flight, halfway between street and rooftop. Slipping his backpack from his shoulder, he went along the tellers and removed half the notes in each tray.

  Breathing fast and shallow, hands shaking, he slipped back between the suits and resumed his position near a carousel of leaflets. A flicker of movement caught his eye, made his heart slam against his ribs. Shadows slid away from his vision into nothing. Paranoid.

  Taking care not to look towards any cameras, he uttered the guttural invocation. With a hushed flood of sound, everything started up; people snapped into movement, the laughter of the two suits surreal as they passed. Resisting the urge to look towards the tellers he took a couple of leaflets, paused deliberately to scan the back of them, and left.