by Tim McGregor
The doorman crossed to the bar on the far side of the room, glancing up at the wide saloon mirror that hung over the length of it. Setting two rock glasses on a tray, he poured two fingers in each and brought the tray around.
Gantry took one. “Ta.”
Crypto waved his away, too entranced in his prize to think of anything else. Marty, miffed that there was not a third glass on the tray, took the remaining glass.
Gantry never let his eyes off the death metal star. Rumour had it that Crypto Death Machine was writing a rock opera about the late Reverend Jones and his little cult down in Guyana. Gantry had no idea if this was true and he didn’t care. Crypto was a collector of macabre artifacts and he was willing to pay. More importantly though, Crypto Death Machine, prat though he was, had influence. Power.
“So,” Gantry said. “We have a deal, yeah?”
Crypto waved a hand at his manager. “Pay him.”
Marty’s face darkened but he stepped behind his employer’s tall chair and came back with a black satchel that looked identical to the one Gantry had. He placed it before the Englishman and stepped away quickly.
Gantry twisted the clasp open and looked inside and then closed the bag again.
“It’s all there,” Marty said, offended.
“Deal’s changed.” Gantry dropped the cigarette to the floor and stepped on it.
Crypto tore his eyes from the pistol and levelled them at the other man. He remained silent.
Marty fumed. “That’s the price we agreed upon. Every dollar. Take it or leave it.”
“Situations change, Marty old man. Your money’s no good. I want something else.”
Crypto leaned forward. “What do you want?”
“A debt. A boon. A favour.” Gantry shook out another cigarette from the pack. “Not now, not tomorrow. But sometime. And when I call it in, you do as I say. Immediately and without question.”
Crypto’s eyes narrowed, as if souring on the deal. Marty laughed loudly, like he couldn’t believe his ears. “You want a favour? So we walk out of here with the piece and the money? Done.”
The doorman, of all people, interjected. “That hardly seems fair.”
“No one asked you!” Marty barked. He turned back to Gantry. “He has a point though. Crypto doesn’t like to owe anyone anything. Whatever favour you need, he may not be able to make it happen.”
“Oh, he will.”
Crypto spoke up. “You sound awfully sure of yourself, Mister Gantry. What’s to stop me from taking the piece and my money and never answering your call?”
“That’s your perogative. But you’d regret it.”
“How’s that?” Marty scoffed.
“There’s a little lock on the gun there. Don’t bother looking for it, you can’t see it. The thing is, Crypto, the gun your holding is bound to a lot of angry souls. How many people drank the Kool-Aid back in Jonestown? Nine hundred or so. That’s a lot of ghosts.”
Gantry flipped open his Zippo and lit the cigarette. No rush, watching the other men react. “So, if you renege on our deal, all I have to do is turn that little lock and the gates flood open. Nine hundred pissed off souls come screaming out, looking for a little payback. Think you can handle that, Crypto?”
The silence was taught and the rock manager’s brow took on a sheen of sweat. This is where the reputation came into play. An article of faith among the players. Do you believe?
Crypto Death Machine folded the gun back into its oily rag and placed the package into the satchel at his feet. Then he snapped the clasps shut. “Agreed.”
Marty was about to stutter out a protest but a glance from Crypto shut it down.
Gantry got to his feet. “Super. I’ll be in touch.” He turned to go but then stopped. Reaching down into the black bag near his chair, he withdrew a bundle of bills and stuffed it into his back pocket. “Walking around money. See ya.”
The big man guarding the entrance swung the door open and John Gantry walked out of the room. When the door clicked home, Marty turned to his employer. “You honestly believe that shit?”
“Course not,” Crypto said, but there was a tiny crack in his voice as he said it.
Curbside, the lights over the club entrance were dark as John Gantry stepped into the night air. He looked around for a cab but the street was empty. He put a finger to his ear and wiggled it. The ringing in his ear had been a low buzz inside the club but stepping out into the night was like someone had dialled the volume way up. It was splitting his brain like an ice pick through his eardrum.
Something was wrong. Really wrong.
“Shite,” he spat and walked faster toward the lights on Barton Avenue.
A man stepped out of an alleyway after the Englishman had passed, watching Gantry walk away. He dialled his phone, put it to his ear and waited. When someone on the other end picked up, he said “Hey. It’s me. Guess who I just saw?”
29
THE THING HOVERED in her living room, glowering at Billie with its sightless hollow eyes. The flies boiling the air around him grew in number by the second until the dark figure appeared cloaked in the pests and the awful nattering sound of their wings became thunderous.
It had tracked her down and now its filth was infesting her very home. She screamed at it to get out, to forbid it from entering her home but the undertaker man didn’t react. He simply watched her while the flies crawled in and out of his empty eye sockets.
The cold terror in Billie’s heart upended and anger bobbed to the surface. Outrage and indignation ran hot. She threw a book at it. The flies scattered at its impact but the dark figure didn’t react. She had half-expected the paperback to sail right through the entity and hit the wall behind it but that didn’t happen. The book simply vanished, as if swallowed up by a black hole.
Could no one in the building hear her the racket she was making? The people in the flat downstairs had no problem banging the ceiling if her music was too loud. How could they not hear her screams?
The dark mass of insects boiled through the air, crawling over the ceiling and the walls. She felt them land on her skin and in her hair. Then something snatched her wrist and she screamed again.
It was the half-boy. His thin hand locked around her wrist, as solid as rock but cold on her flesh, and he tugged her away. Pulling her towards the open door. Billie blinked stupidly at the legless creature until she realized that the ghost was trying to pull her away from the danger.
Billie ran. Staggering out into the hallway, she tried to shake off the nasty flies tangled in her hair. She bolted for the stairwell door and looked back.
The flies swarmed out of her door en masse as the undertaker man emerged. The half-boy galloped along on his hands, dragging his bloodied stumps after him but his gait was slow and no match for the winged insects. The swarm enveloped him and in a heartbeat the undertaker was hovering over the diminutive phantom. It snatched up the half-boy in its long hands and the little ghost screamed and scratched the floor trying to claw away from the monstrous thing. The screams were terrible and the amputee’s eyes dished wide with terror. The undertaker opened his mouth wide and there was a hideous click, like bone dislocating, and its jaw dropped wider and the crab-boy shrieked as he was swallowed up. The undertaker gulped the ghost down with its outlandish jaw in slow, jerking motions like a garden snake swallowing a mouse.
Billie hammered down the stairs and crashed out the doors. Sprinting fast with the piteous cries of the half-boy still ringing in her ears.
~
Ray Mockler shuddered violently and opened his eyes. An absolute cold had chilled him out of a dead sleep, as if he had gone to bed on a humid June night only to wake up mid-February with the windows open. Along with the chill came a gurgling nausea so noxious that he thought he was going to be sick.
The bed stirred and he rolled partway over to see if his shivering had woken Christina. The sickening feeling spiked hard at what he saw.
A man was in their bed, pressing down on his fian
cee. Dark clothes, his face hidden behind inky hair. He seemed more shadow than human. His hands were pawing at her. The fingernails were purpled and there was grime permanently etched into the knuckles. Christina lay prone and apparently helpless, smothered by the assailant.
He wanted to kill the son of a bitch. Bash the side of his head in with his fist and throw him to the floor and stomp the bastard until his ribs caved in. For once, he wished he had brought his sidearm home, so he could empty the clip into this man who had violated their home and was clawing his woman. But Mockler couldn’t move. His limbs seized up. Even his eyelids didn’t obey, forcing him to watch.
That’s when he knew it was a nightmare. Not unlike the others he was prey to but those were about work. The misery and the deaths and the mindless, heartless ways that people end one another’s lives. Christina never appeared in those nightmares. This was new, this horrific vision in his own bed. This assailant, who seemed somehow less than human. Other.
Christina’s head flopped to one side, turning to face him, her eyes open but they were blank and without emotion. Her lips parted, as if to speak and something dark crept out. A common housefly.
He jerked awake, every muscle coiling in a spasm that left his limbs aching. The air felt hot and the sheets were damp with sweat. He lashed out a hand for Christina but the bed was empty. She wasn’t there.
“Christina?”
He sat up and something moved in the mirror over her dressing table. It didn’t make sense. In the reflection, he saw himself in bed but still asleep. Christina was there. And slithering on top of her was the dark assailant. Doing things to her.
Turning his head, he saw that the real bed was empty, the sheets wrinkled, and when he looked back to the mirror, the image had vanished. He saw only his own reflection, pale and terrified.
“Christina!”
Silence. He stumbled to the bathroom on creaky legs but she wasn’t there. He went downstairs, gripping the railing hard to keep from falling, and checked the living room and the kitchen. Both empty. A glow of light from the hall where the studio was.
She stood before the easel in her studio. She was naked but she hadn’t gone to bed that way. The big sketchpad was propped on the easel and her arm muscles flexed hard as she worked a piece of charcoal against the page.
“What are you doing?” he said. “Why are you up?”
She didn’t respond. Her hand worked harder, stabbing and slashing at the page like she was working out a vendetta against the fine paper.
“Chris. Stop.” He circled around and saw the look in her eyes. Glazed and wet, seeing nothing but the paper. She was sleepwalking. Or sleep-sketching. His brain too muddled to think straight. She was still asleep, caught in the grip of some somnabulist spell.
“Easy,” he cooed as he took hold of her wrist and slowed her hand. Speaking gently, he told her to stop and let go of the shard of charcoal. She fought him at first but her movements slowed until the dark chalk fell from her fingers and she staggered suddenly. He caught her before she collapsed, cooing that it was time to go back to bed and led her gently from the room.
He gambled one quick glance back at the easel before killing the light, even though he already knew what she had been rendering in her sleep. The ghastly face that she had sketched before stared back at him. Despite not having seen the face of her attacker in his nightmare, he knew in his bones that it was the same man. If it was a man at all.
By the time they reached the bedroom, Christina was falling back to sleep quickly and he had to propel her limp form back into the bed. Covering her with the sheet, he stepped back and for a second time he felt his blood run cold.
The crucifix was back. Hung upside down on the wall above the bed. The same one he had tossed into the trunk of his car.
At that point, detective Raymond Mockler became very scared.
The bleeting ringtone of his cell snapped him out of it. Calls this late meant only one thing. Work. A body had been found and he was needed at the scene. Sighing heavily, he snatched up his phone from the nightstand.
“Mockler,” he hissed.
“Ray? It’s Gille. Sorry to wake you, man.”
“That’s all right.” He turned away from the bed, trying not to look at the inverted cross but the thing drew his eyes like a sun. “What’s going on?”
“This might be nothing but I know you’d kill me if I didn’t let you know. We got a call from an informant. He just spotted your boy. Down on Sherman.”
“Who?”
“Gantry.”
Mockler became still. “When was this?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“Stay put. I’m on my way.”
30
MERCIFULLY, THE CHURCH was unlocked. Billie slipped inside and when the massive oak door clicked shut behind her, she felt safe. Whether the shadow thing that had invaded her home would follow her onto consecrated ground was still open to debate. Nothing about this made any sense, none of this ghost business seemed to follow any kind of logic.
The interior of the church was dark, the lights in the nave turned low. Alongside the south wall glowed dozens of tiny votive candles lit before a statue of the Virgin. The familiar smell of burning wax and wood polish filled her nose, almost comfortingly.
One lonely congregant occupied a pew up near the transept. His feet were propped on the back of the pew before him. He didn’t move, catnapping inside the church. Something about it offended her, the disrespect, but at least he wouldn’t bother her.
Better still, there were no dead people skulking about inside the church. Maybe it was too late for them, she wondered, imagining them tucking themselves back into their coffins after a long day of haunting.
Slipping silently into a pew, she turned back to look at the big church doors, wondering if the undertaker man had followed her here. Could it pass through those oak doors or was it waiting for her outside? There was a term for hiding in a church for safety, wasn’t there? A claim one could make where the church was honoured to protect you, even from the law. A frame from an old movie came to mind; a deformed bell-ringer barricading himself inside a cathedral. What was the word?
“Sanctuary,” she said aloud. The word echoed up into the vaulted ceiling overhead.
The man upfront stirred, woken from his nap by her outburst. Billie scowled, hoping the stewbum wouldn’t turn around and see her. She was in no mood for some lonely parishioner in his ‘coming-to-Jesus’ moment.
There was a click and then a plume of smoke billowed into the air, bubbling up into the chancel. Billie’s jaw dropped at the audacity. Not only was he napping, the man was having a cigarette.
“All right, luv?”
Of course it was him, Billie sighed. Who else would it be? “What are you doing here, Gantry?”
“Rescuing you, apparently.” Gantry let his feet drop and he rose up, sauntering down the aisle to the back row.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she sputtered. “We’re in a church for God’s sakes.”
“That’s funny. Scooch over.” He dropped into the pew next to her. “I like churches. Listen. Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Absolute quiet. Peaceful too, if the Jesus people stay away. Good spot to kip.”
Gantry opened his mouth and blather just seemed to fall out. Half of it made no sense to her. There couldn’t be any coincidence to his being here. She turned to him. “How did you find me?”
He stuck a finger in his ear and wriggled it like there was water trapped inside. “You damn near blew my eardrum out from screaming so loud. What happened?”
She was going to ask how he could have possibly heard her but whatever answer he gave would just be another riddle. “I was attacked,” she said.
“By what?”
“I’m not sure. I thought it was one of the dead but I don’t know. It’s different.”
Gantry watched her slink down in the pew. He took hold of her elbow, examini
ng the purple bruises on her forearm. “Did it do this?”
“Yes.”
“Strong one. Where’d you find it?”
Billie pulled her arm back. “It’s the one I told you about. The one haunting Mockler. I went to his house, tried to get rid of it. I failed.”
“Jesus, Billie. Didn’t I tell you to forget that one?” He looked up at the ceiling above them. A fresco of the afterlife, dimply cherubs and haloed saints. “What happened?”
“It sort of kicked my ass. Then it followed me home.”
“What did it look like?”
She related what she was able to put into words. The dead man’s appearance, how she reminded him of an undertaker from some other era. About the hollowed out eyes and the mass of flies that swarmed around him like a cloak. How it had thrown her into the walls and how the flies seemed to do its bidding. How it showed up in her home later that night.
Gantry dropped his cigarette and stomped it. “Christ.”
“I saw it eat another ghost,” she added.
“Pardon?”
“The one that attacked you. The boy with no legs. This thing just opened its jaw and swallowed him whole. It was awful.”
Gantry’s face darkened and he massaged the bridge of his nose as if exhaustion was creeping over him. “It’s not a ghost.”
“Then what is it?”
“Hard to describe,” he said. “It’s a shadow entity. But it was never human to begin with. It’s like a black hole of negativity.”
“Then why does it look like a man?”
“This thing, it swallows up energy. Other ghosts, particularly the nasty ones. Sometimes they can take on the memory or soul of someone powerful. It’s a shadow that thinks it was once human.”
Staring up at the large cross hung in the altar, Billie tried to sort out what Gantry was saying. It sounded ludicrous to her ears but her gut nudged her the other way. The spirits of the dead that she had encountered so far were disturbing and unsettling but there was something recognizable about them. Emotion. She could feel their anger or outrage or utter despair. With the undertaker, there was nothing even close to emotion. She groped for a word that would describe what the undertaker felt like. Evil. It was imprecise but it was the closest she could get.