Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files)

by A. J. Aalto

  “Is she doing this?”

  I didn’t have time to work out the possibilities of cold air sink and convection caused by incorporeal human entities in any sort of scientific fashion, because panic was rattling through my brain as if a pinball wizard was at the paddles. I answered, very simply, with my gut feeling. “Yes.”

  I clutched the bag of skull fragments, took two breaths in and out, heaved in a deep, final breath, and dove under the water towards the Briggs-Adsit plot.

  The water was turbulent and churning and sluggish with slush. I could barely see, and there were obstacles in my way, chunks of cement and bricks that mimicked broken headstones and grave markers. I had to come up for a quick gulp of breath and then dive beneath again, to do another rapid, scrambling search for the marker, if there even was one. I began to doubt I’d find anything and pushed up for another breath when I spotted something half sunk in the mud, a rounded stone. I stuck my foot on it, went up to gulp air, and thrust down again, left hand first. My palm hit the marker and I summoned a hot burst of psi to explore the stone. What I felt wasn’t Mama-Captain and her homicidal wrath, it was John’s cowering in cold, lonely terror.

  I shoved my arms down into the mud, making room for the bag of skull fragments, pressing it down as best I could. The swirling, bitingly cold water stung my eyes. I pulled extra mud on top of the burial spot. The frosty slush in the water felt like death’s cold fingers in my hair. When I was sure the bag would stay under the mud, I pushed off and surfaced, coughing and hauling air deeply and noisily into my screaming lungs. Schenk met me with both hands outstretched to steady me as the waves coursed around us.

  I took the tear vial out of my pocket, wrapped the necklace of the lacrimosa around my neck, and slipped Asmodeus’ ring on it before closing the clasp. The wind responded with another violent burst, shoving water in a wild vortex away from our bodies, only to have it rush back in on us.

  The black outline of the poltergeist coalesced above us and I grabbed the necklace off my neck and showed it to her.

  “Hullo, Mama!” I cried, teeth chattering. “Got something of yours! Come get it!”

  The entity poured out of the sky like purge fluids from a putrefying corpse, thick, viscous, and nasty. When it collected into an identifiable shape and turned its face at me, I swung the necklace back and forth like an old-timey hypnotist with a pocket watch.

  Schenk yelled at me through the wind, “Throw it. Just throw it and let’s get the fuck out!”

  I couldn’t risk the chance that she wouldn’t get it back. I had to get it in her grasp, had to make sure. I held it out to her, knowing that she could drain every bit of energy from my body at any second, needing her to take the necklace and the ring of Asmodeus, to accept the gift. I felt the tart sting of hot cinnamon candies on the back of my tongue, but instinct told me to wait.... wait....

  The old woman took shape mere inches from my face, and I heard a rustling crunch as all my wet hair suddenly froze into a wild mane of icicles.

  “Someone wants to meet you,” I told the snarling apparition. “In fact, I suspect He will be delighted to make your acquaintance, you unremitting bitch.”

  The ground shuddered behind me.

  Mama-Captain took the lacrimosa. Her spectral mouth dropped to reveal only blackness, a great chasm of pain and rage, and the sound that came out of it was the buzz of a million angry wasps. She lifted the necklace and slipped it over her head, where it settled on the fine, black turn of her neck.

  That’s when I whispered His name. “Asmodeus.” Just once. Once was enough. My tongue stung again, harder, hotter.

  Mama-Captain turned to walk back into the shallow water, trailing her ectoplasm, reminding me again of electrified, liquid spider webs. The water behind her began to bubble, to boil, and my heart slammed in my chest. I threw a hand out to grab at Schenk’s arm.

  “We gotta get back,” I said. “Back off. Now!” I threw the bible back at him. “Hold this! Don’t look back.”

  “What did you do?” he yelled.

  “Trust me, turn your back!” I shoved at him, and he launched into motion. “I think this might be some serious Raiders of the Lost Ark Shit,” I screamed at his back. “Don’t look back! Don’t listen to it!”

  Schenk put twenty feet between him and the pond and turned his back on the water; he didn’t look back, except a quick peek at me to make sure I was still close by. I, on the other hand, had to look at the pond. I had to see this.

  The demon king Asmodeus, The Overlord, the Banker at the Baccarat table of Hell, King of the Second Circle, Lord of forty-three legions of demons, and all around infernal pain in the ass, shot out of the icy froth with His scaly, red arms thrown wide. Bigger than I’d ever seen Him, he opened His bull's mouth, the smile never leaving His human face as He swallowed Mama Briggs-Adsit whole. His goat's head bleated something that sounded ominously like an incantation in an unclean tongue at the roiling sky. Everything in me flushed hot and limp, like I’d been trapped in a sauna all day.

  He glanced down and spotted me. The ground shook again, and snow and ice began to rain off boughs and branches of the trees between us. I might have peed myself again, but I'll never tell.

  Asmodeus waved at me with one dragon-like claw, and my nipples hardened painfully under my clothes. A waft of hellborn heat hit me and Schenk, and my frozen hair blew straight back from my face, clattering around my ears like frosty dreadlocks before melting into a sodden mess. I watched the demon king as he did a strange little happy dance in the water, kicking up droplets, surrounded by fresh steam as his infernal influence battled the wintery conditions, looking very much like an overgrown puppy with a bacon treat, or the most sarcastic rendition of me getting my first Girl Scout cookie of the season. He flapped about and waggled his rear end in my general direction. Not the scariest demon sighting in my life, but I had come to expect odd things from the Master of the Falskaar Vouras.

  I glanced at Schenk, who was still obediently not looking; no fool, this mortal knew when the paranormal shit was hitting the fan, and knew when he was out of his league. Apparently, I did not share the same measure of common sense. My brain suggested, “hey, hauling ass out of here sounds like a good idea,” but the rest of me thought maybe I should stay. A prickling along the back of my neck urged me to take one last look at the demon king.

  The Overlord stood still now, staring over at me, and I felt the weight of His focus shift. He’d had His fun, collected a new soul, and gobbled it up. Now, His terrible yellow eyes caught my gaze, and I felt Him bear down through that same Bond that allowed Harry and me to communicate our wants and needs so effortlessly to one another. For a moment, there was no doubt that I belonged to this creature. I was His DaySitter as much as I was Harry’s. I was a servant of the Second Circle of Hell. There would be no redemption of my soul, and someday I would join Mama-Captain in that scaly red gullet. That demon would guzzle me right down and then do a gleeful jig to work off the calories. He was my future, right there, smile spreading to reveal a sharp, nightmarish landscape of shattered teeth. The only silver lining to His visit was He was defrosting us where we stood; sure, it was hellfire, but it sure was toasty.

  Heat you right up, the demon promised, His infernal and familiar voice pushing into my brain.

  “I hear ya,” I said, mostly to myself, nodding in His direction. “But not today. I’ve got more asses to save first.”

  And more to send Me, He reminded me with a chuckle that felt like being ground between boulders inside my chest. I saw His focus shift to Schenk and I tensed; for a dreadful moment I could picture Him taking the cop, too, for no other reason than greed. Instead, He pressed His voice into my brain again. Finally found a man who listens to you. What a chump. He should have his head examined.

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I flipped the demon king an enthusiastic middle finger. His yellow eyes gleamed with glee.

  Thanks for the hot date. The demon king put a hand to each of His less-hu
man heads, and blew me a double kiss the likes of which few humans would ever see. Later, Toots.

  Asmodeus put His hat back on His human head, and sank grinning into the now-boiling water of the Welland Canal overflow pond like a sweaty fat man in a hot tub. A single black feather drifted down from the sky, landing on the snow in front of my boots.

  ***

  “Slow down,” I panted, lifting my voice to be heard over the wind. “Whoa, Longshanks. Stop. Hold up!”

  Once the heat of the demonic presence had melted the snow around Schenk’s boots, he’d gotten a metaphorical spark up his ass and bolted up the hill. Without a moment's consideration whether or not what I'd told him not to look at was gone, Schenk had had enough. I chased him uphill until I nearly fell down with exhaustion. I paused at the back of the New Red Hook Cemetery to lean against the obelisk of the town founder, a man who had built mills where they’d told him not to, a man who had seen future progress and had acted accordingly. Today, his town didn’t exist, save for these cemetery stones and two tall metal gates and a rather pitiful hedge. Now, I rested against his memorial and wondered what he would think about all this. My teeth were still chattering something fierce, but I was filled with the fire of victory deep in my belly. Mama-Captain was gone; her soul was paying the ultimate price for her murderous rampage; maybe that had bought me a bit of internal toastiness from Asmodeus as a promise and a reminder, as well as some perverted kind of thanks.

  I turned on the hill to face the pond, considering.

  Schenk slowed to a stop, coughed hard until he caught his breath, then joined me. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded. “No. Stop. Don’t tell me. Is it over? Is it done?”

  He looked like a drowned rat, except he was so much bigger than a rat, so maybe like a drowned horse, and I thought to mention that to him, and couldn’t find a way to make it sound complimentary, so I thought I better skip it. When my gaze drifted to the top of his head, though, what little smile I’d had slid right off. He looked like he’d been frosted, or maybe dunked in a vat of industrial bleach, scalp first.

  “Uh, Schenk? I don’t mean to alarm you, but,” I squinted up at him. “All your fucking hair turned white.”

  He slapped a hand to his head. “Shit,” he said, but his eyes were on me. Or rather, my forehead. “I don’t want to alarm you, but your hair has gone black. And blue. Like your face.”

  “What?” I grabbed a wet handful from behind my ear and pulled it in front of my sore eye. I saw black locks and a streak of turquoise. Just like Britney Wyatt’s hair. “That doesn’t happen!”

  But as I said it, I heard all the times I’d said the exact same thing about ghosts not affecting the physical realm over and over for the past week. I gave up. It was scientifically implausible and surely some kind of magical glitch; I’d put it on the Worry About it Later list, which was getting alarmingly long. Positivity, Marnie; maybe that just means you'll have a lot of later to worry with. Elian would be so proud, once he stopped facepalming.

  “At least it’s over,” he said.

  “Almost. One more thing,” I said, plunking down on my knees in the snow and hauling my backpack off my aching shoulders. I plopped the scrying board on the ground, but the zipper had been half-open and the planchette was gone, lost to the pond or the tunnel or the running. “Gimme your pencil.”

  He didn’t ask, just handed it to me. I tapped it three times on the board, taptaptap, and then laid it to point at HELLO, and most definitely did not start humming the Lionel Richie song.

  “Father Scarrow?” I called. “Renfield Aquinas Thackery Scarrow…”

  Schenk moaned. “No more ghosts.”

  “... Britney Anne Wyatt. Barnaby Allen Nowland.”

  When the three figures appeared, I added, “Captain John Briggs-Adsit, I’m calling you. Do you hear me, John?”

  The man who appeared in uniform before me did not look familiar; he was not cowering in a corner but standing upright, chin high, wearing his hat slightly askew at a jaunty angle. The smile on his lips was beatific and serene. Britney’s spirit extended a hand toward me, and in it was a square shadow, the hint of a business card. Barnaby’s ghost stepped in front of her, looking first at the cop and then me, seeming confused and lost. Father Scarrow’s spirit put his palms together, tenting his fingers, and looked toward the Heavens.

  “Really dude?” I drawled, giving a snort. “Okay, then. Good luck with that.” I glanced up over my shoulder. “Any last messages for the departed, Longshanks?”

  Schenk shook his head hard, and I realized he was choked up and didn’t want to speak for fear of being emotional in front of me. I snapped that twig right away. “Come on, ya big soft softie of softiness. You found her, dude. She’s going to be at peace. Say goodbye.”

  He rubbed his goatee hard and grumbled something at me that sounded suspiciously like shutthefuckup. Then he crammed both hands in his wet pockets, stamped his feet, and said, “Come on, let’s get this done. I’ve got white hair and hypothermia. Jesus.”

  I nodded, took one long, final look at Father Scarrow, who was vamping angelic now, and moved the planchette to GOODBYE.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE NEXT MORNING was cold but sunny, and my mood was damn near delightful. The heated bench seat of the hearse was toasting my tush by the time Mr. Merritt cruised past the New Red Hook Cemetery. The gates were open. The path had been plowed and salted. There were media vans and cars outside the police cordon, and two uniformed officers oversaw the buzz of forensic crews going in and out. There was no sign of Schenk’s midnight blue Sonata or his newly frosty locks. Mr. Merritt glanced at me for direction and I nodded to carry on. He did a circle in the crunching gravel just as some reporters noticed the hearse; not that it wasn't exactly the most inconspicuous vehicle in which to be traipsing around. I saw Jerry Formick go for his camera, so I powered the window down in time to shoot him a farewell finger. He snapped a few pictures as we sped away. I hoped he got a good one of my nifty new black and blue ghost hair.

  “Do I owe you a grand for that rude hand gesture, Mr. Merritt?” I asked.

  “Did you make a rude hand gesture, madam?”

  “Nope.”

  Combat Butler checked the rear-view mirror to monitor the media vans, maybe to discern if we’d be followed. We weren’t. “Perhaps on your next visit we could work on your lying?”

  “No need,” I said, slouching into a nice, relaxed slump. “I’m already a pretty good liar.”

  “Begging your pardon, madam, but you’re a dreadful liar.”

  “But you’ll miss me when I’m gone, right?”

  “North House will not be the same without you,” he admitted, and I thought that twitch around his mouth meant he was wrestling back a smirk. “Tim Horton’s?”

  “Yes, please.” I glanced behind us at the gleaming casket in the back. “Did Harry pay off my swear debt?”

  “But of course,” Mr. Merritt replied. “Lord Dreppenstedt also included a hearty holiday bonus, including something he called ‘hazard pay.’”

  “Hey, where’s my hazard pay?” I squawked. “I fell in dead people water, was exposed to visions of drowning, slapped in the face with candy, had my hat destroyed by ghost goobers, slugged with dead frogs, nagged by my mother, found out my BFF is a grave robber, and nearly died of hypothermia feeding a poltergeist to a Demon King. Also, I had to promise to give up Timbits. Also-also, I found out that ghosts are scary. That’s not the kind of thing you forget, Mr. Merritt. Now I have to be scared of ghosts for the rest of my life. Don’t even get me started about the articles I’m going to have to write, and the videos I need to upload. Total nightmare. Plus, look at me!” I used a gloved hand to grab a lock of black hair and shake it in his general direction. “For cryin’ in the sink, I look like Lily Munster in Technicolor.”

  “But did you not come here of your own volition, madam?” Mr. Merritt asked with a baffled frown that I suspected was a Fakey Fakerson faux frown, existing only to taunt me. Th
e Blue Sense reported that Mr. Merritt was enjoying himself. “Did you not in fact insist on being part of this investigation?”

  “So, what are you saying? I’m not allowed to complain about stuff that I demanded should happen?” When his eyebrows did a little confirmation of this at me, I huffed playfully at him. “Since when is that a rule?”

  “Always accept your lumps without fuss, madam, when you have asked for them.”

  I was pretty sure Harry hadn't told Combat Butler about our occasionally kinky sex. Maybe. I crossed my arms over my chest but couldn’t help but smile. “I’m going to miss our little talks, Combat Butler. When are you going to come live with us in Colorado?”

  He laughed, then, a surprised hoot, like the idea tickled him. “Oh, no, madam, I think not.”

  “Because I’m a huge pain in the rump?”

  “Not at all,” he said, and my empathy assured me he was being sincere. “I have three grandsons here who need their Pop Pop around.”

  “Let me guess, Byron: those charming young lads are named Ewing, Fairfax, and Wordsworth.”

  “They’re called Cody, Brent, and Tom.”

  “Rats,” I said, and of course thought of Father Scarrow, and his nipple-ripping name, and his lewd smile, and his flowing, outdoor-model hair, and his skinny jeans. I stopped my brain before it showed me his headless body. Almost.

  Mr. Merritt cruised down the Seaway Haulage Road heading north, past the rectory, but Schenk’s car wasn't there, either. There were three others there, and a crime scene van that looked like it had been snowed in last night. I recognized Malashock’s car at the side of the road where the plows had gone through. Mr. Merritt did another U-turn without having to be asked.

  After hitting the nearest Tim Horton’s and grabbing a few coffees and a bag of Danish for the road, he struck out to Lock One, where we caught the first glimpse of Schenk, standing past the torn down frost fence, beyond the yellow police tape, staring out at the last push of the Welland Canal. His car was parked exactly where it had been the first time I met him.