Still, his response had told me something. Not much, but something. I’d probably have to talk to the nurses a bit, question them a little to cement some of it down, but I had a hunch I knew what I was looking at already: A very weak, very old ghost, the kind that was just barely clinging on. Probably from around the founding of the town, or maybe a bit later, though I was mostly basing that off of the brief glimpse of the clothes his transparent form had been “wearing.” I wasn’t sure how recent bowler hats were, but I knew few wore them anymore, so that had to date him at least somewhat. Though he’d had a weathered look about him. Maybe a miner, considering where I was?
The phone at my bedside rang, though to my surprise, it wasn’t the high-pitched, electronic trilling I’d expected, the kind that so many phones in the eighties had idolized. Instead it was a calm, almost pleasant electric hum, a sound that tugged at the attention without being overly harsh.
“Hello?” I asked as I picked it up.
“Mr. Rocke?” It was the nurse. “I saw Doctor Morris was finished speaking with you, so I can connect you with your friend now, if you’d like.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Thanks.” There was a faint buzz on the other end of the line, and then a click as the call connected, followed by ring. I had to admit, I wasn’t a fan of hospitals, and even lying there in the bed I felt uneasy, but it certainly wasn’t the fault of the staff.
The phone rang twice before someone picked up. “Hello?” A familiar voice asked. “This is Hawke.”
“Hey, Hawke,” I said, grinning despite the pain the motion put my face in. “Sorry I missed our appointment. I was kind of tied up.”
“Hello, Rocke,” he said. I could hear the relief in his voice. “You wouldn’t believe how glad I am to hear your voice.”
“Likewise,” I said. “Sounds like you need to get me up to speed on … a few things, at least. Can I expect you soon?”
“I’m already on my way,” he said, and I heard an engine rev in the background. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Good,” I said. “See you in a bit.” I waited long enough for him to say likewise and then hung up. The trip would be short enough that I wouldn’t have long to wait. And in the meantime … Well, I could spend some time thinking about the hospital’s unknown spectral guest.
* * *
As it turned out, I hadn’t had as much time as I’d hoped to think through things. Less than a minute after I’d spoken with Hawke, local law enforcement had shown up in the form of the two of the city’s local police, who were handling the investigation of my disappearance and injuries. My mind had cleared a bit by then, and I answered their questions as best as I could while relating what I remembered of the night I’d gone missing and the haze of events afterwards. It was a little jumbled, but I was starting to put things together in my head well enough by the time they were almost done that when Hawke arrived, I was able to give him an even more complete version of events. We talked for a while, me getting caught up on everything that I’d missed and adding his experiences to what I knew, while he offered suggestions that ranged from possible connections he’d been trying to form to concern about the safety of my job.
The last one I shut down in pretty short order. I’d never backed out a job before because it had almost killed me. I wasn’t about to now. In fact, I wasn’t even certain how many times I’d come close to death thanks to my vocation. Regardless, I wasn’t about to let another close call stop me, especially when I wasn’t even certain it was related to our current mystery.
Once we were both mostly back on the same page I sent Hawke off to check up on a few of my clients and let them know I was all right, as well as pick up some of my stuff from my hotel room. I was confined to a bed, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make the most of my time and skills. Morris probably would have disapproved slightly, but rare was the case I let an injury slow me down.
Except at the moment, where I had neither information nor the tools to access said information. Until Hawke returned with my stuff, rest was pretty much my only option, unless I wanted to sleep. That was right out, too. Which left me with little to do.
Well, almost, I thought as I tapped my fingers against the bedspread. I hadn’t done much thinking on the ghost I’d seen during my discussions with the police, though I had mentioned it to Hawke, but now that I was left on my own, there really wasn’t much else I could see myself doing.
Which meant gathering information. It wasn’t hard to get one of the nurses bring me some water to drink, and while I took my time finishing the glass I managed to get her talking about her job at the hospital. What it was like, who she worked with, interesting stories she’d heard. The place must not have been that busy for the day, because she didn’t seem to mind spending a good half-hour regaling me with tales of her job. And while most of it was interesting and some certainly amusing, I found nothing that pointed to any evidence of the specter I’d seen earlier floating along behind the doctor.
I switched the topic up, working the conversation towards the doctor himself, in hopes that maybe the ghost was related more to him than to the hospital, but I hit a dead-end there, too. Yes, Morris had grown up in Silver Dreams, but his family had moved there when he was young. So there went the partially formed theory of the ghost being attached to him somehow. Or at least, the best reason for it.
I didn’t consider the time wasted. But the time the nurse left, taking my cup with her and promising to come back later to check on my concussion—I might have yawned a few times during our discussion—I’d already ruled out a few of the more dangerous ghosts. She’d mentioned feeling cold chills every once in a while, but explained it away as being part of being in the older part of the hospital where there were a lot of drafts.
Of course, an older portion of the hospital made sense. If the building had been around for a while, and the ghost was the type that was somewhat bound to one location rather than free to wander where he wished, than an old part of the hospital was logical. It happened more than most people realized. Someone died someplace, and in their desperation not to pass on, associated themselves with the location they’d died in, rather than with a family member or just with our physical existence in general. Their final thoughts in death became their fixation, subconsciously chaining them to a single area or place.
Or at least, that was how I’d always thought of it. I was sure someone at the NSAU had a more technical explanation, probably involving a number of words that were at least five or six syllables long, but for me, my explanation had always worked.
Of course, there was a chance I was wrong, and that the ghost I’d seen earlier had been from somewhere else around the town, just out for a float to see the sights. But as weak as its appearance had been, I didn’t think it was likely. I’d need more information to be certain, but for the time being I was content to call it bound.
It also didn’t appear to be much more than a basic specter. Had it been a poltergeist, a banshee, or even one of the other, more unique and sometimes dangerous types of ghost, doubtless the hospital would have had stories about it. To have none at all, well, that implied some pretty low capabilities. And since it appeared that even the ghost’s echoing laughs—which I’d heard none of since I’d so pointedly spotted it—weren’t audible to anyone other than myself, it seemed it wasn’t strong enough for even the most basic of ghostly abilities, namely being that whisper in the corner of the room that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
Which admittedly didn’t leave me with much more than the most basic of hauntings: The kind that most were never even aware of. The kind that, left to itself, would eventually fade out into obscurity as the spirit lost its hold on the physical plane and passed on. It wasn’t anything I needed to concern myself with; it would take care of itself.
But on the other hand, I was bored and disinclined to watch television. Which—sans a book or some sort of access to the internet—left me with little else to do but stew on what Ha
wke had told me or talk to the nurses. And at the moment I didn’t feel like doing either of those things.
Maybe it was my pride. Maybe I’d been a little bruised by whatever run-in had put me in the hospital, a chance brush with death that left me wanting to prove I knew what I was doing. Whatever the reason, I wanted to talk with that ghost and see exactly what was going on.
I closed my eyes—a bit risky, but I had no intention of falling asleep—and focused myself inward. Then, with a mental outward push, I sent out a faint pulse of life, a small wave of magic that moved in all directions, bouncing off of anything that had a life signature—positive or negative—and back towards me. It was a bit like sonar, an active ping of life force that would resonate with everything nearby. But, like sonar, it was also an active indicator of where I was relative to everything else. I could feel my small pulse radiating outward, sending back strong signal after strong signal—swaths of golds and reds inside my mind that represented other patients, visitors, or hospital staff.
But no void. My pulse ran out of energy without finding a single, empty, blank spot. Such would be a clear sign of something that was no longer putting out life but pulling it in—my mystery ghost, in other words. Or, if I found more than one, possibly a recently deceased individual. I was hoping that didn’t end up being the case. While those who aren’t sensitive to my particular brand of magic won’t notice it pass by, those that are will—and would immediately know what direction and how far away it had come from. Letting out a pulse in a hospital was risky, but … It was a small town.
What can it hurt? I thought, sending out a larger, more powerful pulse, one that would cover a much greater distance than my last.
I got a result almost immediately. From somewhere off to my right side, about fifty feet away and what felt like a floor or two down, I felt it. A sudden nothingness in my mental “sphere,” a void that soaked up the energy of my wave like a hole in the universe. The sudden blind spot in my ability might as well have been a brilliant beacon.
Of course, the same could be said for me. As my wave faded out, finding no other voids, I waited. Just as I now knew where my target was, it—or he—now knew where I was. And since I couldn’t get to him, not while stuck in my bed, I was counting on the uniqueness of my ability to draw him to me.
I wasn’t worried. The void he had left had been small enough that I was confident I wasn’t going to need any of the tools I would have normally been carrying. Even if I did somehow make him hostile or angry, I doubted he’d be able to do much more than shout at me, and though I wasn’t exactly the strongest magic-user—far from it, in fact—I didn’t expect an “attack” would be worth warranting an actual response.
So I waited, my head throbbing a little in the wake of my expenditure of life energy. It probably hadn’t been the best idea, but short of spending the time to make a rune, it was the best method I had of contacting anything out of the ordinary. And I wasn’t even sure I could think of a rune at the moment that wasn’t either defensive or aggressive in some fashion. Since I didn’t need either of those, there wasn’t much to do but wait.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long. He drifted into the room, his spectral figure shimmering a dull, dim blue. There was a pensive look on his face, and I could see his lip twitching upward, the beginnings of some expression that wasn’t being given the full time to form. Not that it wasn’t the only thing partially-formed about him. His arms and legs were wispy and insubstantial, barely holding their shape. In fact, I couldn’t even make out if his feet were bare or covered in some approximation of what he’d worn when he was alive. There was simply too much blur about him. His feet were mere shapes, fog-like forms without clarity or precision.
The same effect was replicated all across his body. I could see the shape of his body, see the folds of the old-time clothes he’d likely worn in life, but it was all hazy. Coming apart. Fading away to ill-kept mist rather than holding any solid definition.
He was barely hanging on. No wonder I hadn’t felt a chill. This was a ghost that was the absolute lowest on the totem pole, a spirit with the barest ability to be what he had become.
I’ve heard some debate on why that is. Some have argued that it’s something to do with how you live your life, or what purpose you had in death. But me?
I disagree. I think it’s just like anything else Unusual-related: Luck of the draw. Some people are born able to talk to animals, others the ability to move and shape water. Some of us can talk with ghosts, and others … well, they can become ghosts. Maybe it’s genetic, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just part of some cosmic lottery we can’t understand yet, and those who know haven’t bothered to tell the rest of us.
Regardless, a ghost was a ghost, and now that I’d drawn him to my room, I had a job to do. “Hello,” I said, nodding. Best to start simple. “I’m Jacob Rocke. Call me Rocke. Like the stone.”
The ghost’s eyes widened, and he spun, checking behind him to see if I was speaking to anyone else. Then a wispy hand drifted up to tap himself in the chest, as if to ask “Are you talking to me?”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “I can see you.”
The figure let out a little chuckle but didn’t say anything. Instead he just lowered his hand and continued to stare at me with wide eyes.
It was time to take the initiative again. “I’m Jacob Rocke,” I said. “I’m a professional spook.” I had no idea if he knew what that meant or not, based on his clothes, but I decided to elaborate. “It means I deal with—” A look of worried shock came across his face, and I decided to revise my statement mid-sentence. “—strange happenings,” I said, trying to look calm. “People that need help.”
Again, silence, though the alarmed look faded from his face. Still, he wasn’t talking, and the occasional giggle wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I needed to push a little harder, maybe.
After all, I thought, it’s not like he could harm me. Not as weak as he is. The most he could do is bug me, and I could make that very unpleasant for him in short order. Or I could just have Hawke come in and give the ghost a whack with his staff. That would work.
Still, best to try the ordinary approach first. “So,” I said, lifting one eyebrow. “Who’re you?”
The ghost opened and closed his mouth, gaping silently like a fish, and I started to wonder if the entire exercise had been a waste of time. Maybe I was just going to need to give the guy a forceful eviction.
“…”
It wasn’t words. Not really. It was more of a creaking drone. But it was a start. The ghost’s eyes widened a little, and then he opened his mouth again.
“I …” Even the ghost seemed surprised by his success, eyebrows lifting in an expression of equal parts joy and shock. “You …?” There was an odd cadence to his words, a strange accent that didn’t sound like anything I’d heard before.
I nodded, waiting as the ghost tried again. How long has he been floating around here without help if he’s almost forgotten how to speak? It certainly explained why the laughs I’d heard earlier had sounded so off.
“You … made …” The ghost appeared to be struggling to get the words out, his face contorting. “… that …?” He waved his hands.
“The energy wave?” I asked. The ghost’s eyes snapped to me. “The strange feeling?”
“Yes …” he said, drawing the word out slightly, his eyes darting about. “Yes,” he said again, a bit more quickly, as if sure of his answer. “The … wave.”
I nodded. “I did. It was the best way to get your attention.”
“How?” This word came smoother and cleaner than the others. He was gaining confidence.
“It’s complicated,” I said. “The best explanation I can really offer you is that I can, and just tell you to go with it. What’s your name?”
“My … name?” He let out another little giggle as he gestured at himself.
“Yeah.”
“James,” he said, moving forward and extending his hand. I
didn’t bother to try taking it, I knew I couldn’t. Hopefully, he wouldn’t view it as much of a slight. Assuming he knew what was going on. “James … McLellan. People call me Jim.” He frowned. “Or they did … When they talked to me.”
“Right, Jim,” I said, nodding. “Do you know where you are?”
“Silver Dreams.” Speech was returning to him quickly, though the intonation was still a little odd. “Silver Dreams, New Mexico, these United States of America!” He gave a genuine smile at that proclamation.
“Right,” I said, nodding. “What about specifically?”
That seemed to catch him a bit, his face turning into a frown. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I think it’s the Doc’s old house … but I think I might have been blotto last night. This place is a dilly of a home.”
I didn’t blink at the out-of-time colloquialisms, though they did give me some clue as to how long Jim had probably been wandering the halls of the place. Not much of one, since I had no idea what “blotto” meant, but still.
“It’s actually a hospital now,” I said, gesturing at my bed. “Though I’ll agree it’s a nice one.”
“A hospital?” Jim asked. “Old Doc got his’elf a hospital?” His transparent brow wrinkled in confusion. “When did that happen? And where’d Doc go, anyway? I’ve been waiting.”
“If I had to venture—” I began, but then I caught myself before I said something too unpleasant too quickly. “Away,” I said. “Waiting for who?”
“For the doc,” Jim said. “Plus Isabella, my wife. Old Nick told me he was going to find her, but …”
“Ah,” I said. I was getting a clearer picture of what was going on now. “Something happened. You were injured.”
Jim nodded. “My …” His face twisted as he tried to remember. “My legs … I think? It’s all so fuzzy. I must’ve been really punch-drunk. Isabella … she’ll be so mad … I told her I’d lay off of the whiskey …” He cupped his head in his hands, his face falling.
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