“He could die,” Blake finally managed to blurt. The tears he had been trying to control began to fall. “He could die, and it’s all because I’ve got this stupid gift. You were right to leave when you did, Brian.”
“Blake, for the first time since meeting you I think I can imagine, just the smallest bit, what it must be like. And I was a coward for bolting the way I did. Me, the tough cop with a gun, afraid of ghosts. Your boyfriend, Joe,” he said, gesturing to the bar, “he’s the brave one. I was selfish. Joe is a better person than I could ever hope to be. Don’t give up on him.”
Suddenly, they embraced and held one another for a moment before Blake spoke. “Thank you,” he whispered, finally releasing Brian. “Will you do me one more favor?”
“Anything.”
“Look through old police reports. There has to be some sort of record of a guy in his twenties having died here. If I know who I’m dealing with, I might have a better chance of getting rid of him.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
The owner of the Bayside Bar, an older gay man—in his late fifties or early sixties—had come to the bar after a call from the police regarding the attack. The man, with his gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and a white beard, locked up the bar after the police departed.
He called to Blake as he walked up the street. “Mr. Danzig,” he hurried to catch up, “would you like a ride somewhere?”
“I was going to catch a cab,” Blake said, grateful for the company, “but sure, I’d appreciate that.”
“My name’s George.” The man extended his hand.
“Blake,” he said, shaking George’s hand.
“I know who you are. I’ve seen your show.”
Blake was in no mood to ask whether George was a fan. He just wanted to get to the hospital to see how Joe was doing.
They walked to a white, two-door Porsche parked nearby, and Blake climbed into the passenger seat.
“Where to?” George asked.
“They said they were taking Joe to St. Mary’s.”
George nodded and set off through the deserted streets of the sleeping city. As they drove, Blake felt very alone. Not the aloneness that everybody feels at night, cut off from the rest of the world, but truly alone. Perhaps, because of what had just happened to Joe, but also because he was afraid that Joe, like Brian, would leave him alone.
He looked at George. “Can I ask you about your bar’s ghost?”
George chuckled. “You mean Charlie?”
“Yes. Why do you call him Charlie?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” George laughed. “I had to call it something.”
“Have you ever seen it?”
“Sure. A blond kid, not bad-looking, but a real pain in the ass. Constantly breaking glasses and turning on lights.”
“Do you know why he haunts your bar?”
George shook his head. “Died there, I guess. But not on my watch. I’ve only owned the place four years.”
*
George let Blake off at the emergency-room exit on Bush Street and handed him a business card before driving away. “Call me when they know something.” His expression was stony.
Blake nodded and thanked George for the ride before walking into the hospital.
Aside from churches and cemeteries, a hospital was one of the worst places for him to be. It was literally a jumping-off point to the spirit world, and this hospital was no different from any other. Ghosts of every age, gender, and race roamed the halls and waiting rooms, either recently deceased or forever trapped within the walls of the institution. Blake did his best to not make eye contact with any of them. He had learned that once they realized he could see them they always spoke, and he was in no mood to deal with spirits, not while Joe was stuck between life and death. He gritted his teeth and walked into the waiting room.
It was more crowded than Blake would have imagined, with two people standing in line ahead of him. Fortunately, the admitting nurse, a tall, pretty brunette with dark brown eyes, was a fan of Haunted California and recognized Blake.
“How may I help you, Mr. Danzig?” she asked.
“A friend of mine was brought in, stabbed in an attempted robbery.”
“Let’s see.” She consulted her computer screen. “He was admitted and taken right into surgery…”
“Is he all right?” Blake was suddenly panicked.
“It looks like he’s still in surgery. If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll have the doctor talk to you when he’s finished.”
“Thanks.” Blake located an empty chair and wearily sat down. Resting his head back against the cold, white wall, he closed his eyes, hoping he could sleep. Maybe he would wake up and Joe would be okay or, better yet, he would discover this had all been a bad dream. But he was only kidding himself. The reality of the situation was probably that Joe, even if he did make it through surgery, would probably never want to see him again. And who could blame him? After all, wasn’t it Blake’s “gift” that caused the ghost to do what he did in the first place? Without his ability to see ghosts, there would never have been an attack and, as he drifted off, Blake wished his gift would go away.
“Mr. Danzig.” Someone was shaking him. Blake opened his eyes, his neck stiff from sitting upright in the uncomfortable chair. He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock. It took him a moment to clear his head. He had been dreaming of Melody, and in the dream she had cast a magic spell on him to remove his “gift.” Was that possible? He decided to ask her the next time he saw her and jumped up from his seat.
“Is he going to be all right?” Blake’s voice was shaking.
“Your friend was lucky,” said the doctor, a handsome young man of Arabic descent. “The knife pierced the abdominal wall but missed any major organs.”
Waves of relief washed over Blake. “Can I see him?”
“I’m afraid not.” The doctor looked serious. “The knife wound appeared to have been self-inflicted and your friend kept talking about being possessed. Therefore, I felt it in his best interest to have him moved to the psychiatric ward.”
The doctor’s words slammed into Blake like a freight train. Not only had he caused Joe to be stabbed by a malevolent ghost, but also be locked up like an insane man. Blake collapsed back into the chair, his mind reeling.
“That’s crazy. He was stabbed. I was there!”
“I’m sorry, but we have to follow certain procedures in cases like this. Your input is certainly helpful, though, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“When can I see him?” Blake managed to say, his voice weak.
“We’ll keep him under observation for twenty-four hours. After that, we’ll have to wait and see.”
Blake nodded dumbly, and the doctor walked away without another word.
Thoroughly exhausted, Blake was getting up when his cell phone—which was on vibrate mode—began to dance in his pocket. He pulled it out, relieved to see it was Brian. After striding out of the waiting room, he ignored the others lingering outside and hastily explained what the doctor had told him.
Brian was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “It makes sense. But don’t worry. I’ll try to pull some strings and get him out of there. I mean, we have a witness to the attack. I’ll just explain that he was holding the knife as he tried to fight off his attacker. That should clear things up.”
“Thanks, Brian. But no matter how much you fix it, I doubt our relationship will go any further after tonight.”
“Relationship?” Brian raised an eyebrow as Blake nodded. “Don’t talk that way, okay? If Joe loves you, it will be fine. And I’ve got good news. I think I’ve found out who your ghost is.”
“Who?”
“His name was Derek Marshall, and he was a little too fond of cocaine. Ten years ago he overdosed in the bathroom at the bar, and he matches your description.”
“Thanks.” Blake hung up his phone and stepped closer to Bush Street, searching for a taxi. Whether Derek Marshall was
ready to move on was irrelevant. He was dangerous and would have to, whether he liked it or not.
*
As promised, Blake awakened George with the news of Joe’s surgery. Hesitantly, he recounted the true story of what had happened at the bar and the need to deal with it.
“I always knew the place was haunted.” George’s voice was tired. “I called him Charlie and never thought he’d hurt anyone. Break glasses, yes. But not try to stab one of my bartenders.”
Despite having been awakened twice that night, George agreed to meet Blake back at the bar. He was just getting out of his Porsche when the cab carrying Blake arrived.
“Do you mind if I come in and watch?” George asked as he unlocked the door.
Blake considered the situation. The spirit had briefly possessed Joe. Would he attempt the same thing with the owner? “I’m not sure. He’s dangerous.”
“Hell.” George chuckled. “I’ve been around the block. If AIDS and gay bashers couldn’t get me, then neither can any fucking ghost.”
Blake considered him for a moment, then nodded. Who was he to argue with that reasoning? “Okay, but there’s no shame in running if things get hairy.”
They entered the bar, which George illuminated by flipping a series of switches on a circuit breaker located behind the door. The room was oddly silent, and Blake stepped cautiously toward the bar. George, who seemed exhilarated by the experience, looked around excitedly.
“Derek,” Blake called in a loud voice. “Derek Marshall. Are you still here?”
Suddenly, the jukebox behind them came to life and George—despite his earlier bravado—jumped. “Shit,” he said, laughing. “Sorry, that surprised me.”
The jukebox didn’t faze Blake. “We’re not here to listen to music, Derek. You hurt my friend and we can’t let you hurt people.”
The door to the men’s room swung slowly open and the spirit emerged. George, who had never actually seen the spirit manifest when summoned, gasped and took a step back.
“It’s time for you to move on,” Blake said. “You’re dead.”
The ghost stopped abruptly, seeming confused.
“You overdosed in the bathroom, remember?”
“No.” The spirit’s voice was almost a whisper. “No.”
“Yes, you’re a goddamned drug addict and you killed yourself in that bathroom by shoving cocaine up your nose.”
“No. That’s a lie.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel like shit, knowing what you did to your poor mother by killing yourself like that? It’s time for you to go now, Derek.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” the ghost shouted. Suddenly, he was standing in front of Blake, his eyes wild. “It was an accident!”
“You’re dead,” Blake said, undaunted. “Leave this place now.”
“You can’t make me leave,” the ghost said, his face contorted into an evil grimace.
George stepped forward. “I can. This is my bar, and doing drugs on the premises is forbidden.” Then, pointing to the door, he dropped his dreaded bombshell. “You’re eighty-sixed,” he yelled. “Don’t ever come back here again!”
To Blake’s astonishment, George had apparently said the magic words, because the ghost’s expression turned to one of outrage and he stormed out the door. It slammed shut behind him with such force that a poster tumbled from the wall beside it.
“Very good,” Blake said. “Maybe you should take my job.” Then he looked back at the door. While it was true that the ghost had been cast from the bar, he was still out there and knew where Blake lived. He hoped he had seen the last of the psychotic spirit, but was prepared for all-out war if he reappeared.
*
Blake went home and tried to sleep but, distraught over what had happened to Joe, tossed and turned. At ten o’clock, he got out of bed and dialed Melody’s number. After he quickly explained what had happened the night before, and certain that he and Joe were finished, he announced that he had made a decision. “I want you to do a spell to take away my ability to see ghosts,” he said resignedly.
“Blake—”
“Don’t argue with me, Mel. I’ve thought it through, and the only way I’ll ever have a chance at a normal relationship is to get rid of this supposed gift. I’ve made my mind up.”
Melody’s mind was racing. “Shouldn’t you discuss this with your parents? What would they say?”
“They would tell me not to do it. But it isn’t ruining their lives. It’s ruining mine.”
Melody felt like someone had knocked the breath out of her. What about the show, she wanted to ask. What about the paranormal-investigation business? But she could sense Blake’s desperation, his pain, and so decided against making this about her.
“I don’t know if I can magically make your powers just go away,” she replied calmly. “But maybe we could do a binding spell.”
“Fine,” Blake replied, sounding relieved. “Do it.”
“It will only work if you do it.”
“All right.” Blake sighed. “Can I come over and get it done?”
“Come over tonight, a little before midnight.”
Melody hung up the phone and located her spell book, which contained the binding spell. With any luck, Blake would change his mind. She had, after all, managed to put away quite a bit of money. But she wasn’t sure how the show’s producers would feel about Blake breaking his contract, which clearly stipulated that he film a certain number of episodes per season.
Chapter Sixteen
To Melody’s chagrin, Blake arrived at her apartment promptly at ten minutes to midnight, appearing tired, his normally attractive dark eyes hollow shells. He seemed to be in a trance, not really seeing or hearing anything around him.
“You’re right on time,” Melody said as she held the door open.
“I heard from Brian. They’ve moved Joe from the psychiatric ward into a regular hospital bed.”
“That’s great news. Did you go see him?”
“No.” Blake directed his gaze to the floor. “He won’t want to see me again, and I don’t blame him.”
“How do you know?” Melody touched his arm. “You have to talk to him.”
Blake shook his head, his eyes dark. “Can we just get this…this thing out of me?”
“Blake,” Melody said, changing tactics, “have you thought about what the network will say about this? You’re under contract. And Marty will shit a brick.”
“Fuck them. I’ve been a freak show since I was a kid and I’m tired of it.”
Seeing she couldn’t change Blake’s mind, Melody walked into her bedroom.
When she didn’t return, Blake realized he was meant to follow, and he walked to the bedroom door. Peering into the room, he saw that Melody had placed four pillar candles in a circle. She was lighting them as he entered the room, and she jerked her head toward the middle of it.
“Sit in the middle,” she instructed him, her voice emotionless.
Blake complied and accepted a piece of paper, which had the spell written on it, along with a length of yellow cord.
“This is one of the oldest magic spells in the world,” Melody explained. “You’ll tie a series of nine knots in the cord, each one binding your ability to see ghosts. As you tie each knot, recite the corresponding line from the spell and picture your gift being bound.”
Blake nodded. “Seems simple enough,” he commented as he looked at the cord. “Almost like going to the doctor to have a tumor cut out.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’m positive.”
Without another word, Melody picked up her dagger and, her back to Blake, moved around the circle, summoning what she addressed as the Guardians of the Watchtowers of the north, south, east, and west. When she finished, she turned to Blake and nodded. “You may begin,” she said, solemnly.
Blake tied the first knot, visualizing his “gift” removed, and read from the piece of paper. “With knot of one, the spell’s begun,” h
e recited.
“With knot of two, the spell cometh true,” he said as he tied the second knot.
He tied the third knot. “With knot of three, so mote it be.”
“With knot of four, the power I store,” he said, tying the fourth knot.
“With knot of five, the spell’s alive.”
“With knot of six, the spell I fix.”
“With knot of seven, events I’ll leaven,” Blake read. Was it working?
He concentrated harder. No more ghosts, no more midnight whispers, but, possibly, a lasting relationship in exchange.
“With knot of eight, it will be Fate.”
Blake tied the ninth and final knot, pulling the cord very tight.
“With knot of nine, what’s done is mine!”
He looked up at Melody, expectantly, but she turned away and released the quarters, this time moving counter-clockwise around the circle. When she finished she began to snuff out the four candles surrounding Blake. “Do you feel any differently?” she asked, finally.
Blake thought for a moment. Something was different, but what was it? The constant chatter that surrounded him for years was gone. The whispers were gone. He jumped up and hugged Melody. “It worked!” he exclaimed, beaming. “Thank you!”
He looked at the knotted cord in his hand. “What do I do with this?” He looked from the cord to Melody.
“Put it in a safe place. If you ever want to reverse the spell, just unknot the cord in reverse.”
Blake grimaced and thrust the cord at Melody. “I don’t ever want to reverse that spell,” he said, raising his voice. “Burn it.”
“If you’re sure.” Melody took the cord.
“I’m sure.”
“Blake,” Melody softly touched his arm, “are you afraid of death?”
The question took Blake by surprise and he searched her face for any clue as to what she was getting at. “No,” he said after a moment. “Why?”
She sat down on the edge of her bed and, instead of answering the question, posed another. “Why not?”
“Death is just another step in life. It’s inevitable.”
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